Body of Immorality (37 page)

It was art only
she
could create. How long had this taken? How long and arduous to paint this canvas?

The sight did not sicken him. He was bound to be a part of it in time.

Richard looked at the opposite wall. He smiled at the “Swim At Your Own Risk” sign.

He looked to the body parts again where various appendages descended from the top. A man’s head—a mat of black hair—tumbled and collided into the wall to Richard’s right.

His life’s tormentor came into view. She’d been housing herself at the bottom of these severed limbs. Her dead, limpid gaze locked onto Richard’s.

He was a child again. He was eight-years-old, but it wasn’t terror he felt. It was…
love.

A hatchet dangled by her side. She’d moved up in the world.

Richard studied her, head tilting, not quite comprehending…

She crawled out from the mound of body parts, standing at the edge of the pool. She looked the same, exactly how he remembered: pale blue skin, thighs like cottage cheese. Her hair was stringy, wet, and black. She smiled—mouth coated in ink—and stepped toward him.

“So mad, my little lamb.”

Her voice was a haunting melody, somehow intermingled with that of an old hag.

Richard slipped into another realm and time. Something reached into his brain and flicked a switch. He was very comfortable all of a sudden. He had no reason to be afraid. This was familiar. He was safe.

“
Crazy love, like death. The best place in the world. You know I love you, don’t you, Richard?”

Richard put his hand to his mouth and giggled, as though being introduced to her for the very first time.

“I love you, too, apple of my eye,” Richard said, his voice no longer that of a forty-six year old man. He
sounded
eight-years-old. “Heart’s divine. Will you…
marry
me?”

The woman cocked her head, smiled, and studied him.

At that moment, as if answering an age-old question, Richard uttered a single word, one that connected him to his fate, an age-old question he’d never found the answer to:

“Pieces?”

“
Yes, Richard,”
she said. “
And all the songs you can pack in that briefcase, my little lamb.”

“Think I’m in
looove
with you,” he said. He cupped his hand over his mouth and giggled.

“
My heart’s divine for you,”
she told him, and smiled. Black ink poured over her lips.

Richard nodded and sat Indian style in the water.

Blood poured in from the cracks, the gaps in the doors. It dripped from the ceiling.

He looked at his lost love and smiled.

“...pieces...” he repeated.

Richard locked his eyes onto those of a decapitated woman, the cloudy gaze of one of her many victims. He cocked his ear at something only
he
could hear, as if the head were speaking to him and him alone. He did not acknowledge his tormentor. He was fine with the way things turned out.

The murderess raised the hatchet.

Richard nodded, telling himself ‘pieces’ was definitely the
right
decision.

Not wasting a moment, the woman swung the blade onto Richard’s skull. The sound made a dull, recoiling,
crack!
Blood sprayed like a fan in two directions, splitting his brain in half. Richard’s body sagged, the life going out of him, and he fell to his side in the bloody water.

Her
work, however, had only just begun…She laughed, dancing around him, driving the hatchet into his flesh…

Pieces…

Reveling in her life’s work, however, this villain could not perform without song.

For Richard, the time for music was over. How could he sing with blood congesting his lungs? How could he dance if he were drowning?

None of it mattered to the slaughtered lamb. He was happier joining the rest of them.

When was the first time she came to you?
he might ask.

They—these mangled souls who’d built her enterprise—shared common bonds.

Being crazy like a fox hadn’t granted peace. Richard wasn’t a colored demon or a drowning man. He did
not
fall in love. He was merely another voice singing in the shower. Perhaps his song echoed from the drains…

The murderess—this naked, fetid thing—continued to bury the hatchet into Richard’s flesh, as if pieces—simply, to
her—were not
enough.

…And the beast?

At the end of the hallway, it smiled in its complacency. It ingested shadows into its lungs and gained power…

Behind the Curtain…

Gordy Paladin did not believed in fate.

Life is what you make it,
he thought.
You get memories, nights of intoxication
,
and beautiful women.

Fate wasn’t part of it. Luck, maybe. Luck, he believed in. Luck was nothing like fate, however. He wasn’t a man made by destiny, but he was building it, whether he knew it or not, constructing and putting destiny together piece by piece. Life was
not
a mystery. It was simple. You played the game of life to win and for no other reason.

Once discovered, the strategy was simple. Life was a game for tyrants and champions, a tournament for kings, not something Gordy took lightly. Life was, in fact, no laughing matter, especially when tyrant and kings were involved.

For Gordy, his brother Kendall, and their good friend, Domingo, the tournament of life had become a tradition.

The game was
Risk
by Parker Brothers, ages eight to adult. The price on the sticker said, $21.99, virtually a steal to conquer the world. Gordy would’ve paid
$49.99.

On that Friday summer evening after work, Gordy drove his green ’79 Ford pick-up into the parking lot of the Toys ‘R’ Us a bit
too
recklessly. The tires squealed over the asphalt. A man with his wife and two kids scowled at him through the window of their Pontiac. Gordy didn’t see them. He was too excited.

Since Kendall had lost his board in a recent move to Miller Street, Gordy finally had an opportunity to purchase one of his own, something he’d always wanted. Domingo could have brought
his
game over, he supposed. Gordy had been the only one without a game. Now, however, he had the perfect excuse.

The sun was setting to the west behind the Rockies in that part of Lakewood, Colorado. Smiling with more excitement because it was the end of the work week—and he’d just gotten paid—Gordy put the Ford in park, turned off the engine, and hopped outside. He shut the door behind him and hurried toward the entrance of the Toys ‘R’ Us. It was a warm evening without a single breeze.

It’s been a long, hot day, forever trusted to the saints and souls of summer,
Gordy thought.
You couldn’t ask for a more splendid moment.

Taking a moment to admire the deep plush apricot and rose to the sky, Gordy hurried to the entrance. The doors parting automatically. A blast of cool air met him when he stepped inside. A large, blonde girl wearing too much make-up stood behind one of the cash registers. She wore a red polo, the standard Toys ‘R’ Us uniform. She eyed him, smiling, trying to get his attention, but Gordy was too preoccupied. He moved quickly to the far right side of the toy store.

His brother, Kendall, and his friend, Domingo, didn’t have to worry about work the next day, either. They could get as intoxicated as they wanted and have the entire weekend to recuperate. Until the sun came up, if that’s how long it took, Gordy thought. Whoever inherited world dominance, it would be worth it.

Here along the wall was every board game imaginable, longed for by every player of games the world over. Taking a deep, appreciatory breath, and shoving his hands into his pant pockets, he smiled, feeling ten again.

He eyed the games carefully, moving farther to his left, to the more mature, adult games. Not wanting to scruple over each one separately, his brows came together. He laughed.

Tonight, they would play on Kendall’s turf. Since it would be a virgin board and his own, Gordy felt victory shift in his favor.

Fate,
Gordy thought.
No.

Luck was on his side.

Risk
, the game of world conquest, sat by itself on the shelf, the reason for his laughter. It was the only one there. Taking a moment to soak in the sight, the bold letters, the fabricated war of men on horses, cannons blasting, Gordy thought about luck.

Not feeling his twenty-eight years, Gordy Paladin smiled, reached down, and plucked the game from the shelf.

Last one,
he thought.
Last one!

If it wasn’t luck (fate), he didn’t know what it was.

He giggled, shaking his head. They were meant to play!

For a second, his mind went blank. Did something happen when his fingers caressed the cellophane?

Gordy blinked several times, trying to clear his head. He looked both ways down the isle, making sure no one was there to witness his sudden bout of lunacy. Seeing no one, he put the game under his arm, fished for his wallet to see how much cash he had, and started toward the checkout.

What he didn’t see was the electric blue charge leaping from the game. The electricity had nipped his fingers when he plucked the game from the shelf, the reason for the blankness in his mind.

The overweight blonde smiled when Gordy put the game on the conveyor. He paid in cash. The girl smiled too sweetly, but Gordy ignored her. He had other things on his mind.

“Don’t bag it,” he said.

The girl didn't appreciate this. She frowned at him, handing him his change: six dollars and fourteen cents.

Hurrying like a child through the parking lot with a sack full of goodies, Gordy jumped into the truck, and threw the game on the seat beside him. Like a good dog, he patted it lovingly, hoping and wishing for luck.

Much as he’d entered, he exited the parking lot in the same fashion, tires squealing over the asphalt. As he made his way onto Wadsworth Avenue, turning north, Gordy Paladin thought about provincial victory. He steered the truck toward Kendall’s apartment. He wasn’t thinking about fate, let alone, luck. World domination occupied his thoughts.

*

“Let us indulge,” Kendall said, when Gordy arrived.

The apartment was on the top floor of a five-story complex made of beige brick. Kendall lived in 7E.

Gordy’s brother was a tall lanky scarecrow. Fiery red hair and bright freckles more pronounced than Gordy, defined him as the uglier, more cursed of the two. While Kendall was unsuccessful in the dating arena—being shy and repulsive—he prided himself on being an artist, somewhere between poet, painter, and musician. He liked all three.

Kendall ambled to the kitchen cupboards, retrieved a glass and a bottle of Windsor Canadian. He poured a healthy dollop.

“Why don’t you wait ’til Domingo gets here?” Gordy said.

“Don’t put me on the firing line, brother. I’ve had a rough day. I need an early tranquilizer.”

Gordy smiled. Kendall
always
needed an early tranquilizer. He seemed to enjoy these moments more than Gordy and Domingo because of the tranquilizers. Kendall never minded losing; he just wanted a reason to get high.

Kendall raised his glass and toasted. “To world domination,” he said. “I’m going to have a good night. I can feel it.”

Gordy smiled, keeping his earlier premonitions to himself.

After the shot, Kendall rifled through Gordy’s compact disc case, looking for some appropriate music.

“The stars are too easily obtainable,” Kendall said. “It takes no effort to grasp them. You and I are worth much more than that.”

“You smoked before I came over, didn’t you?” Gordy asked.

“Lon Chaney Jr. doesn’t live here anymore.”

Gordy shook his head in bafflement and went to the telephone to order a pizza.

“When’s Domino coming?” Kendall asked. He never pronounced the ‘g’ in Domingo’s name. It was always Domino.

“Should be any time,” Gordy said.

Getting an answer on the other end, he ordered two large pizzas with everything on them. He put the phone down and Kendall pressed ‘play’ on the stereo: Eric Clapton’s,
Behind the Sun.
Unable to resist, Gordy went to the kitchen, and poured a shot of his own.

“Thought you wanted to wait?” Kendall said.

Gordy shrugged.

“Rough day?” Kendall asked.

Gordy smiled, and the doorbell rang.

“Domino!” Kendall said, getting excited.

Gordy downed the drink and winced, shaking his head. Fire spread through his belly.

Kendall went to the door and opened it. A short, portly man stood on the porch, wearing large round glasses, dark wet hair combed straight back from a balding head. A thick mustache, like a carpet, took up the space under his nose. Each arm cradled two twelve packs of Budweiser. Domingo wore a white tank-top and long, tan-colored shorts with flip-flops.

“Aloha!” he said.

Kendall returned the smile and opened the door wider for Domingo. Domingo went to the fridge and put the beer inside. He exhumed three cans before closing the door.

“Kendall has some
gange?”
he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Like a magician, Kendall held up a joint.

“Let’s start a fire before we drink,” Domingo said. “It’s better that way.”

Kendall lit the joint and passed it around. Gordy readied the game; Kendall was red, Gordy yellow, and Domingo was blue.

The marijuana numbed the edges of Gordy’s brain, working into him after they smoked. His eyes turned bloodshot, and he squinted. In minutes, he was red-eyed, relaxed, and giggly.

“Ah,” said Kendall, taking another drag from the joint. “You do realize I’ve never won at
Risk
before? Tonight will be different. Victory is in the hands of the artist.”

“I think the color you’ve chosen has depicted your fate,” Gordy said.

“We might be able to get in a couple of games before the night’s through,” Domingo said.

“We’re waiting for pizza,” Gordy said. “But we might as well set up the board.”