17 comments/ 13989 views/ 18 favorites Zwylliger By: JimBob44 Chapter 1 The water was a sickly green color from the rotting vegetation and the bed was soft mush. Paul Zwylliger tried not to put too much pressure on his feet, tried to simply hang by his wrists, which were tied to the bamboo bars at the top of his river cage. Ernie had tried to stand, had tried to lift the river cage; there was no bottom to the bamboo structure. But Ernie had sunk down in the muck and his weight pulled the river cage down, trapping him underwater. The soldiers stood around and laughed at his frantic struggles and laughed at the men that cried out for them to help their comrade. Moments later, when the North Vietnamese soldiers were sure Ernie was dead, they pulled the cage out of the murky river, used his lifeless body for their amusement, then simply threw him into the river and let his body drift downstream. The afternoon sun beat down, blistering Paul's face. He ducked his head under the water for as long as he could hold his breath, then rose up again. Moments later, the searing heat again forced him to stick his head under the water again. Lieutenant David Glass started screaming and Paul looked to see the three NVA soldiers pulling his cage from the river. "Mother fucker! No! I told you everything I know!" the man babbled and screamed. Paul had no doubt that the spineless officer had done just that; spilled his limited knowledge to the NVA before they even struck him once. He also had no doubt that the Army, in their limited scope of vision, had told the Lieutenant very little of their mission. Other than standing around, screaming inane orders that had the eight of them wandering around in circles, Lieutenant Glass seemed to have no idea what they were to do, or what the Army had hoped they would accomplish. "Fuck; I'm not even supposed to be here," Paul Zwylliger had confided to Ernie Bell, right before the huge explosion and the ensuing blackness. X.X.X Carl entered the trailer, carrying a desk. Sister Angela looked up from her notes, nodded curtly to the retarded giant and pointed to where the desk would go. Paul Zwylliger looked up with interest as Carl lumbered down his aisle, carrying the heavy cast iron and wood structure as if it did not weigh nearly fifty pounds. "What you got there, Mr. Carl?" Paul asked. Sister Angela put her finger to her lips; there were others still taking their tests. "It's a desk," Carl responded. "Oh, okay," Paul smiled as Sister Angela made a 'shh' sound. "Got a new girl coming," Carl confided to Paul. Carl liked Paul. Carl knew he wasn't too smart; his Daddy told him all the time he wasn't too smart, but that was okay, because God made him strong. But it bothered him when kids made fun of him. Paul didn't make fun of him; Paul was always polite. "A girl?" Paul asked, ignoring Sister Angela's growing agitation. "She cute?" Carl almost dropped the desk when he started laughing hysterically. "Paul, you so bad!" Carl giggled as he put the desk down at the end of the aisle. "I'm going to tell that girl she better keep an eye on you!" "If you two don't stop..." Sister Angela warned. "Now look, you getting me in trouble!" Carl said, truly frightened. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carl," Paul apologized. With a 'thunk' Carl put the desk behind Paul, then quickly left the classroom. A few minutes later, the door of the mobile building opened and in stepped a rail thin girl. The twenty five students looked up with real interest as the tall girl approached Sister Angela's desk. "Class, this is..." Sister Angela said, and then looked at the card the girl handed her. "Sheila Zubecky; am I pronouncing it correctly?" "Yeah, She La," Sheila said with a straight face. "No, no, I meant..." Sister Angela sputtered, confused. Paul stifled his laughter. "Oh!" Sheila said, small smile playing across her lips. "Yeah, Zew Becky, pretty much like its spelled." "Okay, the desks are in alphabetical order," Sister Angela said, pointing down the aisle where Paul sat. "Um, hey retard, Bubecky? I get the last seat," Sheila sneered as Paul began to move his books to the last desk. "Um, hey retard? Z W comes after Z U," Paul smirked. "Oh!" Sheila said, and then brightened. "You mean I finally won't be the last one called?" "Nope, that'll still be me," Paul gave a rueful smile. "Far out," the girl smiled and took her seat. Sheila Zubecky stood at five foot ten inches, looking Paul eye to eye. She possessed a twenty nine inch chest, a twenty eight inch waist and a twenty nine inch rear. She had a buck toothed grin, wiry brown and red hair that did not behave, and thick coke bottle glasses. To Paul, she was perfect, though. She possessed a sense of humor that rivaled his own, an outspoken nature, and wasn't afraid of getting dirty or sweaty. Their dates usually consisted of going fishing on the Basin, which were largely spent swapping spit, drinking the beers and smoking the cigarettes she'd stolen from her father. "Next time Foghorn there farts on me, I'm punching her in her head," Sheila threatened. "What's that girl eat? Nothing but beans?" "Yeah, well, Ginger Young's been sitting in front of me for eleven years now; I'm just glad she's farting on someone else for a change," Paul admitted and cast his line out. "Hey um, I got something to tell you," Sheila said and flipped her cigarette into the brackish water. "Yeah?" Paul asked and took a sip of the hot beer. "I love you," Sheila said and looked away. "I love you too," Paul admitted. X.X.X On the west bank of the river, the villagers went about their daily lives. The children played, the braver ones even coming close to the prisoners and mocking them. The adult men toiled in the fields and the adult women tended to the small gardens in front of their huts, or tended to their wash. The children were unmanned, yet none dared stray too far from the safety of their mothers' eyes. The three soldiers looked from cage to cage and Paul tensed as they looked at him. They jabbered to each other then came to a consensus. "Fuck!" Paul barked as they approached. One NVA held the AK-47 trained on him while the other two grabbed the cage and pulled it out, lifting Paul out of the brackish water. He continued to complain bitterly, cursing them and their mothers. "I don't think he's happy to be coming with us," the one holding the rifle said and the other two laughed as they untied his wrists. "Oh, that's a shame," one of the soldiers laughed. "We will have to change his mind, right?" "Commander Nguit will make him very happy," the one with the rifle said and the three laughed as they shoved him toward the grass hut the commander occupied. Paul stumbled, winching as his water-logged feet stepped on the stones and twigs that littered the ground. The stones and twigs cut into his already mottled flesh, making each step tortuous. "Hurry, we wouldn't want to keep the commander waiting," one of the soldiers giggled. Paul suddenly realized, the men were speaking Vietnamese, but he understood their every word. The air inside of the hut was hot, dank. There was no air circulating and made the interior quite suffocating. The one soldier kept his weapon trained on Paul while the two other soldiers tied him across a bar. Commander Dat Nguit was a harsh faced man, his face still bearing the scars of teenage acne. He stood in front of Paul and harshly screamed questions at Paul. "What was your mission? Were you looking for me Is that why you were here?" he asked in heavily accented English. Paul did not answer the man's questions, just staring at him. The reason they were in the vicinity of the enemy encampment was because of Lieutenant's incompetence. Paul wondered how the man had earned his stripes; he had no idea how to read a map's coordinates, had no concept of patrol protocol or formation. The only thing Lieutenant Glass knew how to do was scream useless orders. Paul screamed as one of the soldiers brought a rattan reed down across the back of Paul's thighs. "Answer me!" Commander Nguit screamed. "Yes we were looking for you," Paul wheezed, tears coursing down his face. "We heard you suck cock almost as good as your sister and your mother and grandmother." Commander Nguit took a moment, digesting Paul's comment. When the translation became clear to him, he screamed in rage. "Beat him until he is dead!" the man screamed at the three giggling soldiers. "Beat me until I'm dead?" Paul questioned and screamed again as the rattan reed was brought down again. "But then how will I fuck you up your ass? You like getting fucked up the ass, don't you?" He screamed as the reed slashed into his water softened skin again. And then you and these other faggots like licking the sperm out of each others' asses, right?" Paul gasped out. Paul was awakened when they put him back in the river. The brackish water immediately began stinging his cuts and welts. X.X.X Stanley Monroe, Alphonse Marcoloni, and Samuel Bordelon each approached Sheila and asked her to the St. Thomas Aquinas Homecoming Dance. With a sneer, she turned each of them down; she was going with her Paul. Stanley was the only one that was actually attracted to the flat chested eighteen year old girl; Al and Sam only asked her out because they didn't like Paul Zwylliger. Al because Paul made better grades and Sam because Audrey Kessler, his girlfriend, had let it slip that she thought Paul was cute. "Oh, so you're one of those, huh?" Sheila mocked Paul as Paul prepared to put on his helmet. "One of what?" Paul asked. "Zwieback, get out there!" Coach Norman yelled at him. "Oh, one of those idiots thinks it's all fun to hit on each other," Sheila sneered. "Zwieback! Now!" Coach Norman screamed. "You're a goof, Sheila," Paul laughed and trotted out. "Thirty nine," Coach Norman commanded. They ran play number 39 and Paul caught the ball that Sam flipped out to him, even though Sam purposefully threw it off target. Al got knocked on his ass when he tried to plow over Paul, but Paul didn't give an inch. Chapter 2 Paul listened as the soldiers discussed an upcoming ambush they would be performing; a division of U.S. Marines had been spotted traveling north east. If the battalion continued on their trajectory, they would be less than three miles from the encampment in twenty four hours. In preparation, the NVA had built up for the past week and instilled a new commander and additional troops, swelling the number of soldiers to nearly one hundred. The new commander was very young, and is wont with most youth, very arrogant. His arrogance manifested itself in his cruelties toward not only the P.O.W.s under his jurisdiction, but in his treatment of his soldiers and the villagers. Paul did feel sorry for the villagers. They were a simple folk, industrious, hard-working, and devout. They just happened to be caught in the middle of a conflict between two opposing forces. They cared nothing for politics, only wished to be left alone to toil in their fields, hunt for the occasional game that wandered close by, fish their river, and provide for their families. Paul watched the sneering commander as he marched to and fro, preening and posing for the children of the village. The commander seemed especially fond of one young boy, often seizing the boy, and tickling him. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly and Paul ducked his head underwater again. When he could hold his breath no longer, he popped back up. The commander and the boy were no longer in sight. The children played, running and shrieking; the mothers and older children tended to their chores, the soldiers marched back and forth. At twilight, one of the village men stood and called out 'Toi!' He called it out several times and a young woman spoke with some of the few children that had not been called in to the evening meal. "He is with the Commander," Paul thought, watching as the man and woman search around for their child. Some of the soldiers took notice of the mother and father and offered to look beyond the village for their child. "Toi!" mother and father called out. Paul wanted to tell them where their child was but he knew if any of the soldiers found out he spoke their language, he would be executed. He felt a gnawing in his stomach, a gnawing that was even more powerful than his hunger. X.X.X Michael Zubecky worked seven and seven for Bayroid Hydraulics, an oilfield company. This left Sheila at home alone to care for her younger brother, MJ, Michael Junior, who was eight years of age. Doris Zubecky, Michael's wife and Sheila and MJ's mother, had been in Delphi's Diner when a man driving a large Cadillac came in, loudly and brashly demanding service. The man let it slip that he was a movie producer and was looking for potential starlets. Doris gave no thought to Michael, Sheila, or MJ as she got into the man's car and left Bender, Louisiana behind. Within twenty four hours, she was sucking and fucking the man and within forty eight hours, Doris was fucking and sucking many men in front of the Bell & Howell 16mm cameras in the hotel room. MJ gave no thought to answering the knock on their trailer door; he just assumed it was either Paul Zwylliger coming over, or Joey, his friend that lived three trailers closer to Highway 52. "Hey, shrimp, your sister here?" Stanley Monroe asked, shoving the boy aside. "Yeah, she home?" Sam Bordelon giggled Despite the doctor's affidavit and Sheila and MJ's testimony, there was no indictment forthcoming from Judge Dan Robertson and no arrest for the rape of Sheila Zubecky. Graham Johnson, the lawyer for the three boys also produced some film that starred Doris Zubecky as evidence in his clients' innocence. Paul Zwylliger was heartbroken when the Zubecky clan abruptly moved, and had that gnawing in his stomach when he looked at the smirking faces of Stan, Sam, and Al. X.X.X "I know where you can find your son," Paul hoarsely called out to the mother as she frantically held the lantern, searching close to the cages at the river's edge. "Yes? Please, please tell me," she cried in anguish. "The commander; he has him in his hut," Paul said, pointing as well as he could with his restrained hand toward the commander's hut. The woman ran to find her husband Obviously, someone alerted the commander; he quickly marched out of his hut, clutching a small bundle wrapped in cloth. The woman and her husband saw the commander and with loud shrieks, stopped him. "Toi!" the father screamed, clutching at the bundle. A soldier beat the father away with the butt of his rifle, but not before the mother managed to uncover the face of her child. "You monster! You are dragon!" the woman screamed. The commander callously threw the body of their child at them and marched back into his hut. "Man, that is some fucked up shit," Dwayne Jefferson, a large black man said. Lieutenant Glass laughed and taunted both the soldiers and the grieving parents. "Man, that is some fucked up shit," Dwayne said again, this time referring to Lieutenant Glass's behavior. "Think he's finally snapped," Paul agreed. "No talk! You no talk!" their lone guard screamed, pointing his rifle at them. "Fuck you, slant eyed cock sucker," Dwayne said. "I say no talk!" the guard shrilled. Dawn was close to breaking through the trees on the east bank of the river when Paul saw the father slink from the hut where he and his family slept. The two guards slept soundly, having drunk some of their very potent wine hours earlier. The father stealthily made his way to the commander's hut and crept in. Moments later, he reappeared and Paul watched as the man frantically wiped at something in his left hand. "Hey," he hoarsely called out. The father froze his fear quite apparent on his young face. "Here, over here," Paul called out in the man's dialect. The man looked, but did not move. "I am the one that told her wife where your son was," Paul again called softly. My son!" the man moaned. "I cry my own tears for your loss," Paul assured the man. "He was a child," the man cried. "You killed the commander?" Paul asked. "He killed my son," the man sobbed, coming closer. "If they find you have the knife, they will kill you," Paul said. "I do not care," the man said defiantly. "But what of your wife?" Paul said. "She is young and she needs you to be there to protect her." The man looked at the hut where his wife, his parents and his two sisters slept. "Give the knife to me; I will let them kill me," Paul cajoled. The man looked at Paul and nodded. "Thank you," he said and pressed the knife into Paul's hand. "No, thank you," Paul thought as the man hastily scurried back to his hut. The knife was a short blade; the knife that the villagers used to harvest rice. Paul was grateful that his thumbs were double-jointed; he could not reach the cord that secured his left wrist, so he sliced first through the cord that secured his right wrist, and then cut the left wrist free. Immediately, he sank into the mud, but was able to kick his way back up. He cut away the cord that secured the top of the cage, and pushed himself up onto the bank. "Far fucking out," Dwayne hissed. "Shh, fuck man, keep it down," Paul hissed as he tried to get to his feet. He managed to wobble to where the two guards slept and sliced through their throats. . The pain in his feet was intense so he gave up and crawled back to where Dwayne was. "Here, man," Paul wheezed and cut the cords of the cage, then cut the cords that secured Dwayne's wrists. Dwayne nearly screamed as his own raw feet touched the stone and twig littered ground, but managed to go to the third cage and cut it open. "I'm going back; fuck, can't believe I forgot to get those fucking guns," Paul hissed. "You're in charge of getting them out of them fucking cages." Lieutenant Glass roused himself as two more P.O.W.s were freed and began screaming for them to free him. "Shut up!" Paul hissed, shoving the man's head under water. "Please!" Lieutenant Glass blubbered. "We will! Just shut up, ass hole!" Paul hissed, slicing through the cords. The moment he was freed, Lieutenant Glass tried to run. "Sit on that dumb ass mother fucker, huh?" Paul ordered two of the men. "Can't we just fucking kill him?" Dwayne asked. "No, man, he's an American," Paul said. He scurried as best he could to the villager's huts and stole the larger of the sandals that the men left outside, as well as a few of the garments that still hung in front of the huts. "What the fuck we doing with them dresses?" Peter Slovenik asked as Paul shuffled back. "Rip them up for bandages if we need them," Paul said. "And to gag this mother fucker," Bennie Ford said, thumping Lieutenant Glass on his head. "Come on; battalion's about five hours away," Paul hissed, gesturing. "Man, how the fuck you know that?" Dwayne asked. "Heard them talking; that's why they brought in all them extra soldiers," Paul said as the eight men scurried southwest. "Heard...? Since when you speak Vietnamese?" Dwayne asked. "Languages was my bag; had a full scholarship to Loyola if I hadn't gotten arrested," Paul said. "I'm in charge, not you; I say we go that way," Lieutenant Glass demanded, pointing southeast, following the river. "What is your rank?" Dwayne asked. "Lieutenant David Glass, United States..." David said, throwing out his chest. "Well, mother fucker, this here's Colonel Paul Zwylliger, United States Army and I say he's in charge, not you, you piss ass mother fucking Lieutenant," Dwayne sneered. "Since when is he a Colonel?" David shrilled as they continued to scurry as best they could in the pitch black darkness. Zwylliger "Field promotion; promoted him tonight," Dwayne Jefferson laughed. X.X.X Stan, Sam, and Al were exiting the McDonald's in DeGarde, Louisiana and happened to see Paul filling up a customer's truck at the gas station. "Hey, Paul, heard from Sheila lately?" Stan asked. "Yeah, you hear from her, tell her I'm kind of wanting a little more of that pussy," Al taunted. Paul put the nozzle back onto the pump, ignoring the three louts. "Now, y'all boys just go on about your business, you hear?" Marlon Huvall, the owner of the Texaco ordered. "And I'm kind of hoping for a little more of that sweet mouth, man could she suck a..." Sam laughed. Sam's shin cracked as Paul drove the heel of his boot into it. Sam screamed as the bone tore through the leg of his jeans. Stan clutched at his face as Paul's fist slammed into his sneering mouth. Al charged Paul and Paul sidestepped him, slamming him face first into the side of the pick up truck. Mudder funker!" Stan sobbed, swallowing two of his teeth. "Now, you just quit that," Marlon demanded and Paul quit kicking the prone Al. "I'm goin' shue you!" Stan screamed Judge Dan Robertson was very quick to indict Paul Zwylliger and Sheriff Herman Vidou read Paul Zwylliger his rights in front of his sobbing mother. Marlon Huvall did testify that the three boys had taunted Paul but also had to admit that Paul had been the one to throw the first punch. "The only punch," he conceded. "Shit, three big bullies, and one average sized guy and he took care of them, no muss, and no fuss." Mrs. Zwylliger screamed and cried when Judge Dan Robertson handed down his sentence; Four years in the United States Armed Services, or ten to twelve in Angola. "But he has a scholarship! He's going to college!" she begged the smirking judge. "Well, isn't that nice? And if he survives Vietnam, maybe he can still go to college," the Judge said. X.X.X Paul continued to lead them through the jungle toward the battalion, ignoring the pain in his feet, in his atrophied legs, in his back. "Hear them? He asked as they broke through the jungle. "Hear what? I don't hear..." Lane Neiman asked. "I hear them!" Lieutenant David Glass screamed happily. "And so does half the fucking Viet Cong, cock sucker!" Paul hissed, slapping his hand over the man's mouth. "Convoy ho!" Major Don Brady called out as he saw the eight men staggering toward them. A Huey was called in to transport the men and Paul and Dwayne were unashamed to hug each other cry tears of relief. Paul gave Major Brady the coordinates for the NVA encampment. He knew that the villagers would also be casualties of the conflict and did feel some sorrow. There was a wedding planned three days hence, a young, not very attractive girl was betrothed to a young man from a nearby village and the families had slaughtered a pig for the wedding feast. He knew there would be no wedding and no feast. As they were hoisted into the belly of the helicopter, Paul saw the three jets streak overhead, then heard the loud 'whump' of 1,000 pound bombs striking the ground. No, there would be no wedding and no feast. "Godspeed, Colonel," Major Brady saluted Paul. "But I'm not..." Paul protested as the large bird lifted up and Major Brady's face disappeared from the open door. Dwayne and Lane and Peter chuckled at Paul's consternation. X.X.X Paul had celebrated Christmas on base, sharing with a few of his buddies the tin of cookies his mother sent. He celebrated his eighteenth birthday, crammed in the bowels of the USS Sam Houston. As dank and miserable as the interior of the USS Sam Houston was, it was nothing compared to the misery of the jungles of Vietnam. It seemed that it rained constantly, and even when it wasn't raining, the very air itself was still wet and soggy. Because of his high grades in school, and his high test marks in both boot camp and basics, Paul was made the radio man for his platoon. But even so, he was still expected to shoulder his share of grunt work. He had been a smoker when he began his four year stretch, but after the third week of trying to light a sodden cigarette, Paul decided to quit the habit. Lieutenant Bob Dow was rotated out at the end of Paul's first tour and Lieutenant David Glass was rotated in. Under the new commander of their platoon, it went from intolerable to excruciating. Chapter 3 The eight of them were put on a hospital ship that sailed to Manila. In Manila, they were treated at the military hospital. Paul's injuries and illnesses took nine weeks to treat; Lieutenant Glass's injuries took nearly twelve weeks. With their unending compassion, Paul was shuttled right back to Saigon, then to another platoon under a Lieutenant that seemed to think if he was everyone's buddy, then they'd all have a much easier time of it. The problem with Lieutenant Jarvis's strategy was that none of the men under his command respected him. Paul had no respect for Lieutenant Jarvis when he arrived, and had even less after they walked into an ambush. Lieutenant Jarvis began screaming and crying and even dropped his rifle. Paul was not going to be taken prisoner again and walked directly into the fray, rifle burping shot after shot as he slaughtered the NVA combatants. He spotted movement in the bush to his right and tossed a hand grenade into the bush, while still squeezing off shot after shot at the attacking force on his left. "God damn, mother fucker, you one crazy ass white boy," Boyd Waters laughed when the jungle was again silent. : Uh huh, come on, let's get Lieutenant Nancy home and get him a new tampon for his pussy, huh?" Paul said. Instead of congratulations or thanks, there was a member of the Judge Advocate General's staff waiting for Paul Zwylliger at their barracks. "Corporal Zwylliger?" the man barked. "Or should I say 'Colonel' Paul Zwylliger?" "Uh no, no, it's Corporal," Paul said, confused. While being held in the stockade in Saigon, Paul found out that Lieutenant, now Captain David Glass, in an effort to cover up his own incompetence, had lodged complaints against Paul. Among his complaints was impersonating an officer. The JAG office appointed an attorney that listened to Paul's side of the story. "Well, if that's all there is to it, then I'm sure we'll be able to just have you demoted down to Private first class and..." the man said. "God damn it, pencil neck mother fucker; you're not even listening to me!" Paul yelled at the man. "I did nothing! Nothing except for save his useless fucking ass! And now I'm being demoted?" "Well, um, these are some um, pretty serious charges and um," the man said, shuffling through the papers. "Get Dwayne in here; he'll tell you just how brave good old Lieutenant Glass was," Paul sneered. "Yes well um, Corporal Dwayne Jefferson was um, he was killed in action, um, Twenty eight, August, Nineteen Seventy three, I'm afraid," the attorney said. The other five men, however, did testify on Paul's behalf in front of the military tribunal and all charges were supposedly dropped. But Paul knew that he would never advance any further in the United States Army; it would forever be in his dossier that a commanding officer brought court martial proceedings against him. X.X.X Graham Johnson, knowing that he was on the inside track to becoming the next District Attorney for St. Elizabeth Parish was loathe taking the Zwylligers' case. Paul's parents were struggling financially and put a mortgage on their modest home; but they were desperate to have Paul's exceptionally harsh sentence overturned. He did charge them a hefty five hundred dollar retainer, put the money in his pocket and forgot all about Paul Zwylliger. Judge Dan Robertson did ask Sheriff Didou and his officers began a campaign of harassment against the Zwylligers. Mr. Sam Zwylliger found his car tail lights smashed, and then found himself being given a ticket for driving with smashed tail lights. "But I'm going right down to the gas station have them fixed!" he protested. After that, Sam parked the car in his garage. Still, he found himself with a police escort every time he or Alice left the house. "Wheels of Justice Turn slow," was Graham Johnson's answer whenever Alice or Sam would call to see if there was any progress being made. X.X.X Paul was waiting for his next deployment and decided to see some of the sights of Saigon. A hooker helped Paul get rid of his virginity and also introduced him to the joys of penicillin (although it would be a few weeks before he would find out about that). A bar promised to have some of the most beautiful women in all of Saigon and Paul decided that he had seen very few beautiful women in Vietnam so he paid the ridiculous five dollar cover charge and entered the bar. A girl danced very badly to Jefferson Airplane's 'White Rabbit' and peeled down her short skirt to reveal filthy cotton panties. A second girl, wearing only a long blonde wig gyrated and jiggled her rear end very close to a drunken soldier. Paul found it all oddly stimulating and depressing at the same time. But since he'd blown five dollars to enter the dismal place, he decided to have a beer or two. "Five dollars I suck you cock, I like suck cock," a girl offered as Paul approached the bar. Paul shook his head no and ordered a beer. The beer was lukewarm but it tasted great to Paul. "Come on, you fucking whore!" Paul heard someone scream at the girl that still wore the filthy panties. Paul squinted through the darkness and haze of cigarette smoke and saw Captain David Glass seated at the stage area. "Thank you, Jesus," Paul smiled. "God damn it, five fucking dollars I better see some God damned pussy, you fucking..." David screamed then squawked as a sharp pain slammed into his back. "Should have left you to die in that river, you fucking backstabbing shit," David heard someone hiss in his ear. David staggered to his feet, and then collapsed to the filthy floor of the bar. Paul went to the restroom, emptied his bladder, and then washed his knife in the sink. Paul returned to his seat and was not surprised to see that his beer was already gone. He ordered another and watched, with amusement, as two portly Vietnamese men dragged Captain David Glass out of the bar. "Had too much, huh?" Paul asked the bartender, nodding with his head toward Captain David Glass as the bartender put the foaming glass in front of him. "Yes sir happens all the time," the man shrugged. "Five dollar, you fuck me ass, I love cock in ass, feel so good," the girl offered Paul and frowned when Paul shook his head no. "Four dollar?" the girl bargained. "Mui, you stupid girl," the bartender yelled at her in Vietnamese. "Four dollar? You need twenty dollars tonight, you never going make twenty dollars!" "Five dollar up the ass, huh?" Paul asked, pulling David's wallet out of his pocket. "Yeah, five dollar," the girl agreed happily. "I like in ass, feel so good, you good lover, yeah?" Paul peeled a ten dollar bill out of the wallet and showed the girl the ten dollar bill. Her eyes gleamed. Paul held onto the gill tightly. "Where?" he asked. "Here, come sit table," the girl said and pulled him to a dark corner of the bar. She unzipped Paul's trousers, spit on her hand, then smeared her spittle on the head of his cock, then sat down on his lap, facing away from him. Paul wasn't sure if he really was in her ass or not, but really didn't care; it was David that was paying for this. Even though he'd just ejaculated less than two hours earlier with his first hooker, Paul did not last too long and the girl sighed happily. "Here, keep the change," Paul said, slapping the ten into the girl's hand. "No change," the girl barked all business now. "Fine, fine, don't care," Paul said and, after pulling all the money out of the wallet, dropped it on the floor and kicked it under the table. Stepping out of the bar, he could see four Vietnamese men stripping David's body of his clothing. One of them looked at Paul and nodded when Paul smiled ands shrugged his shoulders. It would be morning before David's body would be picked up by the United States Army and they would discover the two stab wounds in David's back. An autopsy would reveal that both kidneys had been sliced through. By the time of the autopsy, Paul Wilier was fifty miles away, under Major Brady's command. X.X.X "State Attorney, Ziggler speaking," a bored man intoned into his telephone. "Uh huh, uh huh, I see, okay, we'll look into it," John Ziggler promised, hung up and called Sheriff Herman Vidou to check into Alice Zwylliger's complaint. A second phone call to Graham Johnson's office yielded even less information. John Ziggler wrote out the complaint, wrote out the responses he'd gotten, and stuffed it all into a manila folder and forgot about it. "No shit?" Sheriff Herman Vidou snapped when Judge Robertson call about the call from the State Attorney's Office. "Take care of this, NOW," Judge Robertson demanded. X.X.X "Ready, Colonel?" Major Brady asked. "Don't start that shit," Paul smiled. "Still cannot believe that little piss ant turned fink on you like that, Major Brady laughed and lighted yet another cigarette. "Yeah, well, takes all kinds, huh?" Paul said and moved forward, eyes never ceasing their search of the jungle. "Down!" he suddenly screamed and the eleven men did exactly that. A millisecond later, the eerie twilight of the jungle was lighted by a barrage of flashes, and then the flashes of return fire began. Paul instinctively tossed a hand grenade toward where he had seen the movement that had alerted him. He felt the concussion a split second before he heard the bang and then there was total silence. They did not move for several minutes, until Major Brady ordered one of the black men to survey. "Fuck, why you always sending me?" the man grumbled, but crawled on his belly toward where the gunfire had come from. Ten minutes later, the man returned, walking upright. "Was three fucking kids," he said, voice thick with emotion. "Didn't even look ten years old. This is just some fucked up mess, man. Just some fucked up mess." He elbowed Paul. "Was your grenade got them, Colonel; they was in a pit. Our bullets wasn't nowhere near them." "Don't call me Colonel; it's Corporal," Paul wearily said. "Uh huh," the man said, and then turned to Major Brady. "Give me a cigarette, huh?" Chapter 4 The cause of death was listed as 'accidental' and the St. Elizabeth Parish M.E. did not need to perform an autopsy on Sam or Alice Zwylliger. Their mangled bodies left no doubt to the cause of death. Sheriff Vidou did not waste any manpower searching for the hit and run semi that had run into the couple as they left St. Richard's eleven o'clock mass. Graham Johnson, as the newly appointed District Attorney, did promise to find the driver responsible. The bank foreclosed on the Zwylliger home and Judge Dan Robertson bought it for his mistress, Pamela Smith. The thirty five year old black woman was very appreciative to finally have a house for herself and her three teenage daughters. X.X.X "Good luck, Colonel," Major Brady smiled, saluting Paul Zwylliger. "Fuck; quit calling me that!" Paul hissed, afraid some upper brass might overhear the man's jest. "Son, I, and our men? We weren't following my orders, we were following yours," Major Brady said seriously. "Still, man," Paul complained. "Good luck at home, son; real sorry for your loss," the Major said, saluted again and marched away. The flight over the Atlantic took several hours and Paul found that while the USS Sam Houston had not been built for comfort, the transport aircraft was even more miserable. But it was quicker by days. Even though he had slept a few hours during the flight, Paul was exhausted when the craft landed. Another, smaller plane, equally as uncomfortable, took him to the San Francisco airport. "Hey, man, fucking baby killer, man," a bearded man sneered at him. Paul looked through the man and his two younger female companions. He was exhausted, hungry, tired, and just wanted to get a meal, a shower, and some sleep. His flight to Baton Rouge's airport was not until the following morning so Paul's first priority was to find a motel with a restaurant. A confrontation with three filthy hippies was not a priority with him. "Fucking rapist," one of the girls sneered and then the bearded man spat on him. Paul's fist connected solidly with the man's mouth. "See, man? That's what's wrong with you, man! Everything's about violence, man! Can't even sit down and talk about it man! No, man! Got to hit! Got to shoot! Got to kill, man!" the man sobbed as blood spurted from his lips and gums. "I served our country and did nothing to justify your spitting on me," Paul said, grabbing the man's face and using the man's filthy hair to wipe the spit from his uniform. He then shoved the man backward, toppling the man and his two companions. Some people applauded Paul as he marched out of the airport. Two hours later, just as he was leaving a greasy spoon diner, Paul spotted the man and his two companions. The man approached a second man, slipped the man some money, and accepted a small package from the man. His blood boiled with rage; the man and the two girls had not been content with their harassment of him at the airport. The three had followed Paul, shouting insults and one of them had even thrown some rotted fruit at him. Of course, they ran whenever he gave chase. The greasy spoon staff had not helped his mood at all; the waitress curled her lip at the sight of his fatigues and the cook scowled at him from the rear of the diner. Several customers glared hatefully at him as well. Leaving the waitress a one cent tip had done little to improve Paul's mood. Paul followed the trio until they entered a crumbling brick building. He gave the three of them twenty minutes then entered the building. Their apartment was easy to find; the stench of marijuana mixed with cheap incense was overpowering. So were the strains of Joan Baez through poorly constructed speakers. "See, man, it's like, you know, I'm looking at those stars? And I'm just looking at them and it just comes to me, man!" the bearded man was babbling as he pumped his cock in and out of the blonde girl's pussy. Next to them on the filthy mattress was the brunette; the bearded man's semen still oozing from her slit. "And I'm like, far out, man! I am a part of this, you know? The stars? I mean, they exist because I'm looking at them, and I exist in their circle, man!" the man babbled as the brunette let out the marijuana smoke she was holding in. "Far out," the brunette sighed. "And I'm like, man! I'm part of the stars man!" the man went on. "Fuck man, how much acid did you drop, man?" the blonde asked, enthralled with the man's monologue. Paul picked up a large knife from the counter of the kitchenette. "And this planet men!" the man said. "I mean, look at like Jupiter! And Saturn! No one owns those, man! No one owns them, you know? So how can anyone say they own this planet, huh? Like, who gave them the right to say 'I own this piece of the Earth,' huh? Where'd they get that right, man?" Paul noticed that the brunette was staring at him, but did not comprehend that he was really there. To her, he was just a part of her hallucination. She let out the marijuana smoke then stuck a finger into her nose. "I mean, they can't say they own this; no one owns this, it's free, man," the man went on. "Wow!" the blonde said. Paul slashed through the man's throat, ending the man's drugged rambling. The blonde looked at the red blood that was splashing onto her with fascination. Zwylliger A brief second of realization came to her just before Paul severed her head from her shoulders. "Wow, man, that's not cool, man," the brunette said, trying to focus on him. "Uh huh, here, why don't you play with this?" Paul said and handed the knife to her. He then left the apartment, walked briskly to his motel room and cleaned himself up. The murders of the two weigh heavily on Paul Zwylliger's mind, but not heavily enough for him to turn himself in. After a restless night, Paul ate breakfast at a different greasy spoon diner, getting basically the same unfriendly service, and then boarded an airplane bound for New Orleans, Louisiana. A five hour Greyhound bus trip followed, and Paul Zwylliger got out of the bus at the DeGarde Inn, the Greyhound Bus Terminal for DeGarde, Louisiana. Chapter 5 "That Zwylliger boy's back, asking all kind of questions," Judge Dan Robertson said. "Uh huh, seen him," Graham Johnson agreed. "Really thought he'd been killed by now, little hot-head punk," Dan said, sipping his inevitable cup of coffee. "Hell, don't say that," Graham complained. "Man, my brother's over there! Jinx them, talking like that." "Yeah, heard from Jesse lately?" Dan asked in what he hoped was a compassionate voice. "Yeah, get letters from him about every other week," Graham said, face tight. "Said it's a fucking mess over there; we ain't got no reason be there, ain't shit to be gained out of it." "Yeah, fucking Nixon said he'd get our boys home in time for Christmas; shit, Christmas done come and gone, where are they?" Sheriff Herman Vidou agreed. "But back to the Zwylliger boy," Dan said, getting to his feet to refill his coffee. "That little n*gger you got living in the Zwylliger house? She got any sisters?" Graham asked. "Don't know and don't call her n*gger; she don't like that word," Dan said. "How about that girl of hers?" Graham asked. "Delilah? Yeah, she's eighteen or nineteen," Dan shrugged. "Why? You thinking you might like a little...?" "Hey, it's all pink on the inside, huh?" Herman snickered. "Uh huh, and how you think Sally would like it, you playing around with a little j*ggaboo?" Dan asked. "J*ggaboo? What? I can't call your girl there a n*gger, but you8 can call them j*ggaboos?" Graham laughed out loud. "But getting back to the Zwylliger boy..." Dan said, taking a sip of the too-hot coffee. "I'll take care of him," Herman promised. "Been hanging out with that retard Carl." X.X.X Paul shook his head at the sight of his boyhood home. Pamela had painted the door a garish maroon color. His mother would have hated the color immediately. He bore no rancor; the woman did not kill his mother and father. The three girls that lived there, presumably sleeping in his old bedroom had nothing to do with his parents death. Still, his mother would have taken won look at that door and screamed for Sam to march himself right down to the Pointe Coupee Hardware in Lafayette and pick up a five gallon bucket of white and make damned sure that hideous color ever came back again. "Ever seen such an ugly color before?" Mrs. Hilda snapped, coming to stand next to the boy. "No, ma'am can't say that I have," Paul agreed. "Alice and Sam wasn't even cold in the ground and they was just moving on in," Mrs. Hilda went on. "Any idea what they did with my momma's stuff?" Paul asked. "Far as I know, they still got it all in there; did see them throw out a couple of boxes, hardly big enough hold anything in them," the woman said. "DeGarde National Bank had the mortgage on it," Mr. Schnauder, Hilda's husband grumbled. "Told that snake Gimelli, as disgraceful they treated them He could whistle Dixie he's getting any more of my business, that's for sure." "You eat yet?" Mrs. Hilda asked, putting a matronly hand on the boy's arm. "No ma'am," Paul admitted. "You come on; I got me a couple of them stuffed peppers," Mrs. Hilda said. "Ain't going to be as good as your momma's but..." "Hilda, after eating nothing but Army food? It'll be a feast fit for a king, I promise," Mr. Schnauder said, putting a fatherly arm over the boy's shoulders. "Come on, boy, you don't eat them, I'll have to and you can just look at me and tell I don't need to be eating on them." "Yes ma'am, thank you," Paul said and let the older couple lead him across the street. X.X.X Stan smirked as he zipped his pants up. The prostitute took a tissue from her purse and spit into it, then dropped the tissue out of the car window. "Now, Mabel, don't let me catch you out there again," Stan said. "Shit, wasn't even doing nothing," Mabel complained as she got out of the police car. "They let that piece of shit mother fucker run around with a badge and a gun, huh?" Paul said to himself, and then burped loudly. Mrs. Hilda's stuffed peppers were killing him; she put an obscene amount of tomato sauce on them. He suspected it wasn't really even tomato sauce; suspected Mrs. Hilda 'cheated' and used ketchup instead. "Hey, Soldier boy," Mabel smiled. "Hey there," Paul agreed and prepared to enter the Dead End bar. "You ain't going to see nothing in there," Mabel said. "I can show you a whole lot more then them girls." "Yeah, but can you pour me a beer?" Paul countered. "Get your beer, then come and see old Mabel, huh?" the prostitute offered. "How much for around the world?" Paul asked. "Around the... a hundred," Mabel said. "Plus the room. Room's twenty." Paul drank three beers, effectively drowning Mrs. Hilda's attempt of cooking, then found Mabel still standing in front of the bar. "Already got a room at the DeGarde Inn," Paul smiled. "Eighteen a night; you can forget about me paying you twenty for your room." He found out from Mabel that Stan liked to 'arrest' her at least once a week, usually on Thursday nights. In exchange for not taking her in, he would insist on a blow job. "Right out front, right where you was tonight, huh?" Paul asked. "Uh huh," Mabel grunted. X.X.X Alphonse Marcoloni backed the large dump truck up, and then flipped the bed, pouring the gravel out. Again, he looked around. All day long he'd had that uneasy feeling that someone was watching him. Again, there was no one watching him. The crew was already loading the gravel onto their wheelbarrows; others were waiting to start spreading it out. The foreman waved him on and he lowered the bed of the truck and drove away again. The Dead End Bar served an excellent hot lunch and scantily clad women. Alphonse took his seat, ordered the plate lunch special of the day and a sweet tea. Again, he felt someone's eyes boring into his head and looked around nervously. Most of the patrons were idly watching the emaciated blonde dance to 'Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves' or were arguing with the bartender about a recent football game. "If Joe had thrown that ball it would have been intercepted, sure as I'm sitting here! He had no one around to catch it!" one man loudly protested. "Yeah, but to just take a sack like that? Pushed them back nine yards, way out of field goal range!" the other man responded. Al whirled around just in time to see someone exiting the bar. He couldn't tell much, the glare of the mid-day sun blotted out the image. X.X.X Sam Bordelon locked the door to his office, looked around carefully, and then pulled the small vial out of his jacket pocket. Carefully, he tapped the white powder out onto the glass top of his desk, formed it into a line with a business card a hopeful vender had left on his desk, and then snorted it. He held a finger over his nostril and waited for the mild burning and the urge to sneeze dissipated. "Drugs are bad for you, you of all people should know that," Paul said from behind him. "Fuck!" Sam screamed, nerves already writhing and twisting from the cocaine. "Hi Sammy," Paul smiled. "Fuck man, thought you died!" Sam sputtered, reaching for his .38 snub nose. "Nope," Paul said. "Well, my uncle Herman will be happy to know where to find you," Sam said, still feeling around for his pistol. "Oh, I plan on telling him 'Hi,'" Paul said. "Plan on telling all y'all mother fuckers 'hi.'" Unable to find his pistol, Sam decided he didn't need it. He was an up and coming middle weight boxer and the owner slash manager of Sam's Gym. He swung at Paul but Paul side-stepped the punch. Another swing met air and Paul smiled. Cocaine, fear and adrenaline converted into rage and Sam charged Paul. In the cramped office, there was very little room to navigate, but Paul managed to step to the side of Sam's onrush, managed to place the palm of his hand under Sam's chin and his heel behind Sam's knee. A vicious shove and Sam crashed through the thick glass top of his desk. "Bye bye, Sammy," Paul said and toppled the remaining shards of the glass top into Sam's chest. None of the patrons of the gym noticed Paul as he left through the rear door of the gym. Chapter 6 Alphonse sat in the rear of his parent's car. Next to him, Joey, his younger brother, was playing with his Hot Wheels cars, spreading them out over the seat. "Oh, but that girl sings like an angel," his mother was going on and on about Elizabeth Bernard. "Damn shame's she's about the ugliest kid I've ever seen," his father agreed. "Momma and Daddy tied a pork chop around her neck so the dogs would play with her." Joey bumped him with one of his cars and Alphonse swept all of the eleven year old boy's cars onto the floor of the car. "Hey!" Joey cried and clambered down to retrieve them. The Dump truck Smashed into the side of the automobile, tilting it onto its side, then toppled it onto its roof. The driver ignored the screams of the people that were leaving St. Richard's parking lot; just pushed the crushed automobile out of its way and drove away. X.X.X "What a fucking mess; kid's only one survived," Herman sighed as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "Yeah, pinned down underneath the seat like that," Dan agreed. "Any of y'all look at where this happened?" Stan asked, looking at the grisly photographs on Sheriff Herman Vidou's desk. "Yeah, in front of the church," Herman shrugged. "Uh huh, right where the Zwylligers got hit," Stan said. "Exactly where they got..." Dan murmured, looking at the photographs again. "I mean, I believe in coincidences just like anyone else, but..." Stan said. "And Al had been the one driving that..." Herman mused, and then clammed up when Judge Dan Robertson shot him a warning look. "I do believe I need to have me a little talk with Mr. Paul Zwylliger," Herman said, putting the cup of coffee down. "You ain't seen him around, huh?" Dan asked Stan. "No, no, been keeping my eyes peeled," Stan said. "How's your sister holding up?" Dan asked Herman. "Still pretty upset about her boy's accident there, Herman grunted. "Wonder if it really was an accident," Stan mused aloud. "Had to be," Herman sneered. "No one else in the room with him; all wired up on coke, what else could it be?" Herman rapped his knuckles on his heavy wooden desk. "Give me a good old solid American wooden desk; not one of them fancy ass Eyetalian jobbies," Herman said. "Any idea what he paid for that glass thing? And all it was was four legs and a piece of glass." "Swedish," Dan said. "Huh?" Herman asked. "The desk was Swedish, not Italian," Dan said. "Hey, Officer Monroe, you out on patrol?" Herman asked, nudging the young man. Herman hated when anyone knew something he didn't, hated to be corrected, especially hated being corrected in front of a subordinate. X.X.X Paul paid for his stay at the DeGarde Inn and left. He didn't have a destination in mind but he did know that sooner or later, Sheriff Herman Vidou was going to put two and two together. He had no home; the bank had seized his parents' home and sold it. He had no living relatives. Paul didn't want to be at the DeGarde Inn when Herman finally figured out to look for him there. Mr. Carl, the retarded handyman had offered Paul the use of his couch, but Paul didn't want the Sheriff causing any trouble for the gentle man. Marlon Huvall, his former boss did have a cot in a back room of the gas station. So Paul decided to pay the old man a visit. "Vidou been by looking for you," Marlon greeted the young man. "Oh yeah?" Paul asked. "Yeah, said some crap about you doing drugs; knows I got a thing about that," Marlon said and pointed to the sixty four Ford Fairlane he was working on. "Hose is busted," Paul commented, looking at the engine. "Know that, damn, boy I can see," Marlon lied. "What you going to do about it?" "Give me the wrench," Paul said. "Seriously," Marlon said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Stay out of sight, huh? Cot in the back, okay?" "Still got that boat?" Paul asked, realizing that the garage, one of his old hangouts, was not a secure location. Sooner or later, Sheriff Vidou would have to double back around, asking questions again. And, he could tell that Marlon would expect him to work and work twice as hard as the people he was paying to work for him. "Yeah, just finished tuning the inboard," Marlon said and nodded his approval as Paul managed to change out the hose and not get any grease on himself, or the exterior of the automobile. "Mosquitoes eat you alive out there, though." "What they make spray for," Paul said, nodding to the rack of bug repellant the gas station sold. "Okay, boy, you make a mess you clean it up; no leaving the boat looking like a n*gger been on it, huh?" Marlon said. X.X.X Graham Johnson studied the photographs of the Marcoloni accident and came to the same conclusion that Stan had. He also studied the photographs of the accident at Sam's gymnasium. "Hey Dan," he said into the telephone. "Need you to put out a warrant for Paul Zwylliger." He listened for a moment, shaking his head, as if Dan could see him. "Fuck, what we need to keep a lid on this for?" he finally interrupted. "Herman's already on it; if we could get everybody looking for him..." "Trial?" he laughed. "What trial?"" "Oh, yeah, forgot about that," Graham agreed when Judge Dan Robertson reminded him that there was already an inquiry lodged with the State Attorney's office and a second inquiry would possibly raise red flags. "Why I'm a judge and you're just an ass-kissing D.A.," Dan muttered when he hung up the telephone. Chapter 7 The slap, slap, slap of the water on the side of the boat woke Paul out of a fitful sleep. He was back in the cage, barely able to keep his head above the rising river. He could hear the insects buzzing around him. He could smell the rotted stench of the river, could smell the fires of the village as they prepared their evening meals. He could feel the cords around his wrists, cutting into his tender flesh. A possum scurried away as it heard the man's agonized screams. An alligator grunted and slipped into the brackish waters. Paul finally woke up from the nightmare, but was unable to get back to sleep. X.X.X Mabel sighed and got out of the patrol car. "You know, wish you'd give lessons to my wife," Stan chuckled. "Bitch wouldn't know what end of my dick to put in her mouth." "Uh huh," the prostitute groused and lighted a cigarette. Stan jerked slightly when there was a rapping on his cruiser's window. Looking up, he could not see the face of the man; a streetlight was directly behind the figure. He rolled down the window, glaring up at the dark figure. "Hey Stan, still afraid of snakes?" Paul asked and dropped two water moccasins and a rattlesnake into his lap. "Hi girl, how's it going?" Paul asked and sauntered into the Dead End bar. Mabel stood, frozen and watched the screaming man flailing wildly at the three snakes. The three snakes did what comes naturally to them when something or someone flails at them; they bit. X.X.X Paul smiled as he walked out of the bar; there were two more police cars parked on the street. One of the Deputies had Stan Monroe on the ground and was trying to comfort him as the man lay dying. "Hey!" Herman called out to the man he spotted walking out of the bar. "Yes?" Paul smiled. Herman's eyes got large as his quarry stood right in front of him. Because of Deputy Charles Villeaux's presence, he could not do anything, though. "You know anything about this?" Herman asked, indicating Stan. "No, you?" Paul asked. "Don't get smart with me, boy," Herman growled. "You asked a question, I answered, and now I'm going back to St. Richard's. Father Benny's letting me stay in the shed behind the school," Paul snapped and walked briskly away. "I didn't tell them nothing," Mabel whispered as Paul walked past her. "Thanks," Paul smiled. "Hey, um, you still got that room at the..." Mabel asked. "No, still got that room for twenty?" Paul asked. He didn't want sex; he wanted sleep. If Mabel offered sex, Paul wouldn't refuse it, though. She wasn't a beauty, but she wasn't too hard on the eyes. "No, got a room for one hundred and twenty; I remember, you like it around the world," Mable smiled tightly. "Okay," Paul smiled. X.X.X It was Good Friday so St. Richard's was closed. Sheriff Herman got out of the car and ambled to the shed. It stood behind the cafeteria of the school, door facing the back door of the school structure. He was out of his jurisdiction, but Herman wasn't worried about the legalities of his presence; he wasn't there on legal business. The door to the metal shed was slightly ajar as he approached it and he put his hand on the butt of his service revolver. He nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe and quickly peered in then stepped out of the open doorway again. There was no one visible in the dark shed, just various tools and gasoline cans and propane tanks visible. There was also a fairly new lawn tractor. Herman stepped into the structure, looking around for any signs that someone had been sleeping there. There were no signs that anyone had been in the shed recently. He heard hissing and tried to locate the source of the sound. Suddenly the door slammed shut and Herman heard the unmistakable sound of the outside lock being snapped shut. "Open this door right now," he ordered. Silence. He banged on the door with his fist. "Damn it, open this door, boy; this ain't no fucking game," he bellowed. There was no room to take a run at the door but he did try to force it open with his shoulder. The door did not budge. "God damn piss ant..." Herman thundered, pulling his service revolver out. He took aim of where the letch for the lock was. Paul laughed when the shed exploded in a ball of flame, hurling sheets of Tim upward and outward. "Fuck, might have wanted to turn off them propane tanks first, dumb ass," Paul laughed and walked away. Chapter 8 He could hear the 'whump' as the bombs struck the earth. He could hear the screams of the dying. He could smell the stench of death all around him. Paul sat up, wide-eyed. In the distance, he heard an owl's scream and a reply from another owl. Water slapped against the side of the boat. The boat rocked gently but it was not soothing to the man as he tried to get back to sleep. X.X.X Dan Roberts sat, staring at the glass of whiskey. His wife ignored him; Ethel was very good at ignoring him. Ethel laughed at something the television show blared and Dan looked at her. She was a stunning beauty, standing six feet tall, with white blonde hair and ice blue eyes. She still had the physique of an Olympic swimmer, which is what she had been before defecting to the United States. At the 1964 Olympic Games, Ethel Sarnokova had stumbled when the starter gun was fired. That half stumble prevented her from getting a good push-off and she lost, coming in fifth place. Zwylliger Her coach and lover, Angela Grindle, had been killed, shot dead in a supposed botched robbery attempt. Before her government could kill her for losing, Ethel ran to the United States swim team captain, begging for asylum. Now she was married to a pig of a man, a brute that demanded she do disgusting things to him with her hands and mouth. Her only happiness was the American television shows and the large swimming pool her savage of a husband had put into the back yard for her. Dan finished his drink and held up the empty glass. Ethel ignored him, watching the television intently. "Damn it, woman, get me another drink," Dan ordered. "Good for you there is the commercial," Ethel groused and got to her feet. She quickly fixed his drink then thrust it into his hand and laughed at the television commercial as a man groaned, 'I can't believe I ate the whole thing.' Dan winced at the sound of her cackling laughter. He put the drink down and got to his feet. Ethel did not look up from her television show. X.X.X Mabel shrugged her shoulders in resignation; pointing to the motel. Paul smiled tightly and preceded the prostitute to her room. He did not want the sex; he wanted sleep. But every time he closed his eyes, he was back in Vietnam. "How much too just, you know, just sit here and talk?" Paul asked. "Man, what? You want to talk about why I'm fucking for dough?" Mabel asked, eyes flashing anger. "No, no, I guess not," Paul sighed. "I mean what? Now you fucked me a couple of times, you think I got to tell you my life story?" Mabel shrilled louder. "Got anything drink around here?" Paul asked. "Bottle of Jack right there," Mabel said, closing the door to the filthy bathroom. "Like a soda water or something," Paul said. "Coke machine down at the end of the hall," Mabel said from behind the flimsy door. He returned with the soft drink; Mabel was already in the bed, nude. X.X.X Sally read in her Bible, ignoring her husband. He lay in the bed next to her, sulking after another rebuffed attempt. "Seriously, Sally, men and women do it all the time," he weakly offered. "Sex is for procreation and procreation alone," Sally snapped. "And since I am not fertile, there is no reason to..." "Wait a minute," Graham snapped. "Wait a cotton picking minute here! You mean, ten, fifteen years from now when it's not possible to even have kids, you're going to be cutting me out altogether?" "Well if we can't have kids, what would be the point?" Sally asked, placing her bookmark in her Bible and putting it on her nightstand. "I do not believe this," Graham yelled. "We made it through the Swinging Sixties, the Sexual Revolution and I am still married to the most frigid bitch this side of the Mississippi!" Sally ignored him, applying a heavy coat of moisturizer to her face. "What are you doing?" Graham asked nastily. "Putting on beauty cream," Sally answered. "Why? What's the point?" Graham asked. Chapter 9 Graham prepared to pull out of the parking lot of the church, then slammed on the brakes and looked around frantically. The car that had almost rear ended him honked. "Go, what's your problem?" Sally snapped. "Pardon me," Graham snapped at her. "Remember that car got hit last month? I didn't want to wind up like them, all right?" Graham again checked all around, and then pulled out into the street. "Father gave a beautiful sermon," Sally commented. "Uh huh," Graham said, still cautiously checking all around. "Watch it!' Sally screeched as Graham nearly ran into the rear of the car in front of them. X.X.X "And then the Reverend says 'And then Jesus appeared to them' and..." Josephine was babbling to Dan. "Jo, leave him alone," Pamela smiled at the thirteen year old girl. "Why don't you go on to your room?" "Yes ma'am," the girl said. "Think I'm going to have to keep an eye on her; she's got a little bit of a crush on you," Pamela said, sitting down next to him. "Oh, I got you some of that Jack Daniels you like." "Thank you," Dan smiled. He leaned over and kissed her. "They um, you mind if we..." he whispered. "I can send them out," Pamela said. She got to her feet. "Give me five bucks," she said. "Five bucks? For what?" Dan asked, already pulling his wallet out. "Send them down to Early's," Pamela said. "Girls!" she yelled out. She sends the three girls down to the grocery store for milk, bread, eggs and bacon. "There's any change, y'all can have it," the Judge offered magnanimously. Afterward, the Judge Drove home, belly full and head pleasantly buzzing from the meal she fed him and the alcohol she poured for him and the sex she gave to him. "Ethel!" he called out as he entered the house. "Ethel!" he called out, searching around. "Ethel?" he asked, searching through the upstairs. Eth..." he called out as he saw her in the swimming pool. She floated face down, blonde hair fanning lazily in the gently moving water. "Operator, how may I assist..." the pleasant female voice chirped when Dan dialed 'zero.' X.X.X "Indict..." Graham said, looking over the police report. "Surely you can't be serious." "Hey, she's a former Olympic swimmer, drowns in her own swimming pool?" the young acting Sheriff said tightly. "He's the only one with opportunity, can't offer any kind of alibi for his whereabouts during the time of the drowning. Just looks real suspicious you ask me." Charles Villeaux looked at his notes again. "Next door neighbor calls in, says he heard an argument early that morning, then sees the Judge leave the house, driving at a high rate of speed; three hours later, the Judge himself calls in her death; looked mighty suspicious to me," the man said. "Uh huh," Graham said dourly. "Of course, when I went next door to ask the neighbor about calling it in, he swears he never made any call," Charles went on. "Well then..." Graham said. "So, I guess we can add 'Witness Tampering' to the premeditated murder," Charles concluded. Judge Irwin Goldman signed the writ to convene a Grand Jury, and even with Graham's lackluster presentation, the men of the jury decided to indict Judge Dan Robertson and charge him with the death of his wife. At the arraignment, Graham did not fight the request for a low bail amount. He smiled tightly at his friend as Judge Goldman demanded one hundred thousand dollars bail. X.X.X "Dan, just have Pamela tell them where you were," Graham whispered into the telephone. ""Have my black lover tell everyone that, instead of being home with my white wife, I was fucking her black pussy?" Dan hissed into the telephone. "Fuck, might as well buy them the rope to hang me with." "Don't have to tell them you were fucking," Graham said. "Mr. Johnson; your three o'clock appointment's here," Mrs. Bass interrupted. "I'll see if I can get someone else on this," Graham offered. "Are you nuts?" Dan yelled into the telephone. "Get who? Steve? He's just dying to make a name for himself and nailing my ass to the cross would suit him just fine!" "Sir?" Mrs. Bass said, annoyance creeping into her voice. Graham nodded to indicate that he had heard her. X.X.X Sally joined the four other women in the vestibule. A moment later, Father Damien joined them and the weekly 'Catholic Family' study began. As usual, Father Damien focused on the importance of the household to have children. He used Scripture to back up the teachings of the Church, as well as quoting the Second Nicene Council. Sally felt uplifted and wished that it was her fertile time; the desire to procreate was indeed quite strong. X.X.X "Aw, Jeez, it's her fucking dumb ass meeting again," Graham complained as he pulled the cold meatloaf out of the refrigerator. "Really ought to lock your door; never know who'll just walk in," Paul Zwylliger said. "Son of a..." Graham screamed, dropping the plate to the floor. "Hi; remember me?" Paul smiled. "Uh, no, no, can't really say..." Graham lied. "Shipped me off to Vietnam, took my parents' money to try to get my judgment overturned, didn't try too hard, there was no appeal filed with the St. Elizabeth Courthouse and going to stand there and say you don't know who I am?" Paul scoffed. "No, I uh," Graham said, sidling over to where the telephone hung on the kitchen wall. "Go ahead," Paul smiled, nodding with his head toward the telephone. "Reach for it." Graham did and Paul shot his hand. "Going to give you the chance to pray; more than you gave my mom and dad," Paul said calmly as Graham stared at his bloody hand. "You're, you're going to kill me?" Graham said, more of a statement than a question. "Yep," Paul said and squeezed off three shots. The first bullet struck Graham in the shoulder, the second tore off a good chunk of his left ear, and the third struck him just above the right eye socket. Chapter 10 Judge Dan Robertson stared in disbelief as Sheriff Charles Villeaux read him his rights. "Mur... He was my best friend!" Dan sputtered as the Sheriff pushed him into the rear of the squad car. Judge Irwin Goldman revoked Dan's bail and remanded him to the DeGarde Police Department's holding cell until a trial could be scheduled. Assistant District Attorney Steven Hill smirked as Dan protested his innocence. "Whoever killed Ethel must have stolen my gun!" Dan heatedly argued as his handgun was entered into evidence. X.X.X "Mr. Ziggler?" Paul asked the man. "Yes?" John Ziggler smiled pleasantly. The smile faded as Paul harangued him about his lack of follow-through with the Zwylliger complaint and especially the lack of follow-through after the untimely demise of his parents. "I intend to file an official complaint with the State Attorney General and with the Governor, Mr. Ziggler," Paul promised. "My parents expected better of you when they called you." John Ziggler was perturbed, but not terribly worried. The wheels of Justice ground slowly and one complaint would do very little to slow his political rise. He ushered/ordered the man out of his office, pulled the Zwylliger file out of the cabinet and stuffed the folder into his briefcase. After his work day, John brought the file folder home, took it into his back yard, and burned the file folder in his barbeque pit. "We having hot dogs?" his next door neighbor teased, peering over the fence. "Nope, sorry to get your hopes up," John joked back. X.X.X "Lucky son of a bitch," Buddy Rowan smiled as John Ziggler stepped off the elevator on Wednesday morning. "Oh?" John asked the red-faced man. "Been trying to get my office painted now for three years, nothing," Buddy went on, mashing the 'Down' button for the elevator. "You got your office being prepped right now, you dog." "Uh huh," John shrugged. He stepped into his office, noticing that there were drop cloths on the floor, and the plates for the two electrical outlets were on his desk. His foot came down into a puddle of water and he reached out to turn on the overhead light. John's bare finger made contact with the two wires that stuck out; his light switch and light switch plate were on the desk, next to the two outlet plates. X.X.X Paul smiled as he could see the sudden burst of light through the third floor window. He turned and began walking down the steps of the Capital Building. Paul stopped abruptly as a cobalt blue limousine suddenly stopped at the curb in front of him. A young man, dressed in a cobalt blue military uniform exited the front passenger side of the limousine, gave Paul a sharp salute, and opened the rear of the limousine. "Colonel Zwylliger, please get in," the young man said. "I uh," Paul stammered, looking around for an escape route. "Don't try to run, Colonel," a harsh voice ordered from the rear of the limousine. "Please get in, Colonel," the young man urged. Paul nodded and got in. "Please move over," the young man said and got in behind Paul. "Well, Colonel, we meet at last," a man, also dressed in a cobalt blue uniform said. Paul could see that the man had two General's stars on his uniform. The young man on his right had the bars of a Major. "I uh," Paul stammered. "Colonel Zwylliger, I'm General Ambrose Brady," the older man said. "Please, my rank is Corporal," Paul protested. "Field Promotion, son," the General smiled tightly. "That was just some bull shit we made up!" Paul laughed in spite of the fear he felt. "We took it seriously," the General said, smile still tight. "So, um, where are we going?" Paul asked as the limousine sped toward Baton Rouge's airport. "Got a transport waiting to take us to base," the General said. "Base? Aw no, don't tell me I'm going back!" Paul cried out. "You're not going to Vietnam, if that's what you're worried about," the Major said, smiling reassuringly. "No, where you're going makes Vietnam look like playing patty cakes," the General said. "Suppose I refuse?" Paul asked. "Then we can let you fry for Sam's murder, Alphonse's murder, not to mention the parents' murders, Stan's murder..." the General ticked off on his fingers. Paul sat, mouth open in shock. "Not to mention San Francisco," the Major threw in. "Yeah, I mean, Patty Snowden's already in custody for that; bet she'd love to finger you for killing her two friends," the General said as the limousine pulled to a stop next to a cobalt blue jet. "By the way, you're an expert with a handgun; why'd it take four bullets to kill Graham?" the major asked. Paul's first instinct was to clam up but obviously they knew it was him that had squeezed the trigger. "Make it look like someone real nervous, someone like a judge did it," he admitted and the Major smiled in appreciation. "Smart, that's using that noggin for something other than a hat rack, huh?" the young man said. X.X.X "When that horse's ass Lyndon Johnson declared war on poverty," General Brady growled. "Like that would ever work," Major Thompson snickered. "We convinced him that part of the problem was drugs," General Brady went on. "The more you do for some people, the less they'll do for themselves," Major Thompson said. "So, he agreed to set aside two billion dollars for our Agency," General Brady said. "Billion? With a 'B'?" Paul asked, mouth open in shock. "Yes sir," Major Thompson agreed. "We do covert operations; in the United States and abroad," General Brady said. "Gentlemen, care for any beverages?" a slender blonde in a cobalt blue jacket and skirt asked. The three men ordered coffee. Paul watched the blonde's shapely rear as the young officer went to the galley of the jet. "That is my niece," the General growled at Paul. "Sorry," Paul said sheepishly. "You were highly recommended to us; your grasp of languages, natural leadership, ability to make snap decisions..." the Major said. "Recommended? By who?" Paul asked the young man. "My son, for one," General Brady smiled as the blonde served them their coffee. "Damn, this is good," Paul sighed as he sipped the hot beverage. "No one knows how to make a good cup of coffee like the military does," the General agreed. "So um, your son is Major Brady?" Paul dared to ask. "Affirmative," the General said. "Good man to serve under," Paul complimented. "Affirmative," the man growled but Paul could see the pride in the man's eyes. X.X.X "Gentlemen, we'll be landing in twenty minutes," the blonde said and collected their coffee mugs and dinner trays. "Thank you, Lieutenant," Paul said. "Sir, yes sir," the blonde smiled. Twenty minutes later, the sleek aircraft touched down on an unmarked airstrip. Even through the tinted windows, Paul could see the mid-day's heat coming off the New Mexico desert. "Let's go, Colonel," the General said, motioning toward the door of the aircraft. Paul walked down the steps, sweat already popping out on his forehead from the oppressive heat. A lone figure stood twenty feet away, holding a smart salute. "Dwayne?" Paul asked as the smiling black man dropped his arm. "Dwayne Jefferson? But I thought you were dead!" "Them two mother fuckers using our platoon smuggle their fucking hashish sure the fuck wish I was," Dwayne laughed and hugged his friend. "Turned their fucking asses in then joined up with the Agency." "But, but," Paul sputtered then burst into tears. "Aw come on man!" Dwayne laughed, a few of his own tears coming out. "Come on! Be a soldier man! Soldiers don't cry!" "Oh, and Colonel Dwayne Jefferson also recommended you," Major Thompson said. "Gentlemen, it is hot out here," General Brady said, gesturing toward the limousine. The End. Thank you for reading my stories.