Chapter 17 "Option C"

She was snoring lightly in my face and we had our legs wrapped around each other. I removed myself from her body, her bed. It broke my heart. I delicately unentwined our extremities one at a time and got my bearings by darting my head about her room every now and then. In hindsight, if she was awake yet pretending to be asleep, I must have looked and felt like I was escaping like a supreme douche bag. Still she snored lightly. Her breath smelled like brandy, sweet and fruity. I pushed a heavy breath from my nose as I remarked to myself that if I smelled anyone's morning breath ever again, it might as well be hers. Shit.

I stood up at the side of her bed, close to the door, and looked at her curled up on her side. She was drooling on the extra long body pillow thing at the head of her bed. She was such a beautiful and tragic work of art. Looking around her room, I noticed she must not have been here in her apartment too long. The walls were bare and the furniture was spartan. She had box springs and a mattress as a bed. No headboard or bed frame. If there's one thing I know about chicks, they love their goddamn bed. It's the first and most awesome thing they own.

(No joke! You newly single ladies with the spartan bed. I'm talkin’ to you with your dreams of awesome sheets and throw pillows! Then you get a headboard and a frame, perhaps with some kind of mosquito netting apparatus! I know you! After all, this is where the magic happens...)

I'm sitting there rubbing my eyes with one hand and feelin’ up my pockets with the other. We never turned off the tiny light next to her. It was obviously some lamp that she had owned from her childhood. Well, the lamp could have possibly been a kitschy piece of bullshit she had bought from a thrift store. It was a porcelain lamp with snakes curled around the base. Cartoonish snakes with smiling faces. It let out a brownish light, with its cheap black lampshade. I took her body in. I remember her walking around the room in her panties as I was telling her what had happened at some point. I wish I remembered to watch her take her pants off. She had also put on a black hooded sweatshirt at some point.

I believe I missed all this by being enthralled with my own telling of the story of the past night. Shit.

She had a big snake tattoo on her right leg. Fat and also, very cartoonish, with big white fangs. It was orange and gold and striking against her pale thigh. I traced my eyes up and down her thigh and calf once before I walked out the door. For some reason I remembered a dream I had during my fitful sleep of the early morning hours.

I was trying to fight and kick and shoot a handgun. I had many enemies and was kicking ass. They kept getting up. I was fighting and fighting until I felt like my hands were made of lead. My punches became these glancing blows off of enemies that seemed to never tire. The silver handgun was highly accurate, but it might as well have shot grains of sand for all the good it seemed to do. By the end of the dream, I would punch these heavy arms at these tireless, indestructible foes and when I connected, it was almost as if they were reacting as if I hurt them, but they were lying. I knew it. It was only a matter of time until they dropped their charade and destroyed me.

I walked out her door and down the steps, snorted and spat on the front porch. I started walking towards 1238 Humboldt St. The light was just starting to get blue and little chickadees started to chirp in the trees. I imagined myself in her arms again before 7 AM. I couldn't wait. To spite everything, I wanted more.

The sub morning air was getting blue with the anticipation of dawn. It was slightly moist and dewy outside, and it had crossed my mind that depending on how complicated things got, I might be late for work. I decided to leave the weed and simply just take the Mylar. It was my greedy after thought that caused this little disaster, and I was content to admonish myself and cut bait. I knew better and absolutely had no desire to be involved with a murder investigation.

There was a part of me that felt remorse for the fact that I didn't want to report the murder, or even be remotely close to any sort of investigation, but the decision not to report was the best one. First, I did not really want to have to explain why Jaime and I were in the house to begin with. The crimes that come to mind that could be ascribed to us include trespassing, vandalism, evidence tampering, and breaking and entering. All bad.

Secondly, and more importantly, I wasn't sure how many of my particular fingerprints have been lifted from various crime scenes over the years. I have been fingerprinted in jail for drunk in public, and a fight. Typically, there isn't a reason to run fingerprints in the FBI database, for minimal crimes like that, but I really didn't want to give them a reason to start connecting the dots between the guy who stumbled upon a body by breaking and entering, and the criminal who’s MO is sometimes breaking and entering.

I was walking by King Soopers, and heading north towards the house on Humboldt St. I saw Gerard, the store manager walking into the front of the store upright and stiff, combed and shiny. He's an early riser, I remarked to myself. Dean's little Toyota was in the parking lot. I could only imagine Dean sniveling and whining to Gerard about how insubordinate and rude I was yesterday in the midst of Dade's dog attack.

I thought about how yesterday was quite possibly the most insane day I have ever been involved with. It was obscenely random and without pity. My thoughts were stained by the image of the dead body. I couldn't remove the image from my head, the gore and stench and utter oddness of the posed position were unforgettable, and also...

That headband. The gruesome Buddha was wearing a headband. It had a chevron on it. Hand stitched. Tiny. Nelson's card. The chevron on his jacket. Could this be related? What is Nelson in to? What did Jaime and I stumble upon?

We definitely need to stay the fuck away from that organization, or swingers club, or whatever the fuck it is, because I have seen enough in the past couple of days to scare me straight.

Just one last grim task to complete.

I was lost in my head as I walked through the park and strolled out onto Humboldt St. thinking even the strangest things that go on in these clubs isn't enough to elicit such a bizarre killing. I imagined ancient rituals, and bloodletting of Stone Age proportions. I became aware, at that point, that I was less than a block away from the house and pulled my eyes up from the sidewalk and out of these dark thoughts and was greeted by the vision of an even more disheartening and inhumane tragedy.

There were six emergency vehicles outside of the final resting place of the gruesome Buddha.

Three cruisers, one unmarked sedan, a fucking police van, and a fire truck. The firemen always get there first. Fuck me. I went icy, my feet and knees felt numb and wobbly. I'm quite sure all of the color had left my face. In the grey light of morning, I'm sure it was hard to tell. Good thing, because I'm about to walk right by the scene.

I pretended that I was out for a stroll, or some shit. I think I even put my fingers up to my neck and glanced at my watch as if I was taking my pulse, and quickly stopped, because it was ridiculous. While walking by, I glanced up and could see somewhat into the house. It seemed like everyone in the police force had decided to drop by. I counted at least six officers inside, and there was another half dozen or so milling around outside.

I instinctively popped a cigarette into my mouth. My mouth was so dry; I was doing the complete opposite of salivating. Somehow my tongue had become this spongy piece of sandpaper in my mouth. I lit the cig, walked past the house, and quickly turned right at the end of the block. Out of curiosity, I cut right into the alley behind 1238 to see if I could tell what else was going on, and lo and behold, I caught sight of old Cleetus next to his Animal Control truck struggling with the giant iguana from the room full of pot. He had it at the end of one of those choke collar sticks that dog catchers always carry around. I jogged up next to him and said, "What do you know Clee...um, Carl?

"What's up there, Dogslayer? Fuck this job! Ah need a desk job, I'm too purty for this sheeaht!” Cleetus was trying to corral the surprisingly strong iguana that was rolling and flopping its body around like an alligator halfway into the alley and the backyard.

"Dude. Just hold on a sec." I sprung over to the iguana and reached down and pushed its shoulders down on to the pavement like I've seen the Crocodile Hunter do hundreds of times and grabbed the hind legs and pressed them down against its tail. I nodded to Cleetus and he released the choke stick and I scooped all five feet of squirming lizard in one motion. I pressed the iguana against my body and had both its arms and legs immobilized. I surprised myself and was smiling at Cleetus with a cig dangling out of my mouth as the lizard had calmed down and was slowly looking around blinking and tasting the air with its pink tongue.

God bless Steve Irwin. May he rest in peace.

Cleetus was less impressed with me than I was and regarded me with some modicum of disgust. "Ya know, those things'll give you salmonella," he mumbled. I thought of the little bits of flesh that had been the iguana's last known dinner and was ready to be rid of the beast. I looked at Cleetus pleadingly and he opened up a small compartment in the side of his truck.

"Well it's quite a coincidence to see you twice in week like this," I remarked as I shoved the iguana into the side of his truck, gracefully spooling its tail which was 3/4 of the length of the beast, around and into the compartment. I think it liked me. It became a chill-ass lizard in my hands. He slammed the door closed.

"Yep."

"So what's goin’ on over here?"

Cleetus looked at me with some distrust and then motioned to me for a cigarette. I pulled the pack out of my pocket and went to grab one, "Ah HELLLLL NO!" He pulled the pack out of my hand and said, "Don't touch my smoke with your goddamned lizard fingers!” He dug into my pack with his grubby dirty fingernails and pulled a smoke out and handed the pack back to me. I leaned against the fence opposite 1238 and stared at the backyard. I could see police heads bobbing up and down and back and forth through the windows. Cleetus took his time lighting the cigarette with a silver Zippo and exhaled grandiosely.

"On the other side of that wall over there is a nasty crime scene," he said, indicating the house.

"Really?" I said.

"Yep."

"Dead animals or what?" I said this to bait Cleetus into thinking I may have thought he was the most important person at this particular crime scene. He snorted, and half choked on some smoke.

"What do you think this is?" He smacked his truck on the side. "A rendering truck?"

"What does that even mean?"

"Nope. You got a certified, dead human body in there. Looks like some kind ah murder. Sex game gone wrong. People dabbling in the dark arts. Voodoo shit, the dark side." He crossed himself and rubbed the small gold crucifix he was wearing.

"Wow. So, do they know who did it?"

"I 'spect not. They seem to be workin’ pretty hard in there, don't they?"

"What's with the iguana?" I asked casually.

"Huh?" He looked at me puzzled.

I sighed, "The lizard."

"Oh! That thing was reigning supreme in a basement full of pot!"

"No shit?"

"No shit. That cold blooded fucker in there is EVIDENCE!" He screamed that last word at the little door we shoved the iguana in to.

"Don't forget to check the droppings."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

"As far as I can tell, somebody might have been tryin’ to steal some of that fine weed, and got caught or interrupted and stuff, cuz there's some of it upstairs as well as downstairs." Sweat broke out on my brow, and I felt icy.

"Interesting."

"Yep. What you doin’ runnin’ around this dewy morn, Dog Slayer?"

I laughed to spite my nervousness, or maybe because of it, "I was out last night drinking. Just going home, I gotta get to work in a bit."

"Yep. Well thanks for the help, Red. Warsh yer hands when ya get home..."

"It's not Red, it's...oh...OK I will. See ya, Cleetus."

"Carl."

"Heh. Yeah. You know I met your brother yesterday too?"

"Yep."

"Small world."

"Yep. Smaller than you think."

Nice Cleetus. Nice and chilling, you inbred bastard. I strolled away as casually as possible and mulled over my options.

The options looked like this: I could turn myself in or I could stay cool and hope for the best. Staying cool didn't seem like a bad idea. Then again, there's probably an Option C. Jaime and I had not committed murder. Pot is practically legal. Also, the Denver Police aren't necessarily Scotland Yard in their investigative endeavors. So, chances are we will be fine. The important thing is not to panic.

On the other hand, Cleetus, with limited access to the crime scene and most likely, limited intelligence, had discerned our attempted theft of the weed, so god help us. Option C, oh why do you elude me?

Well, the next thing I should do is talk to Jaime.

AAAAAHHHHGH! Why are you writing chapters out of order?!

Dear Reader,

Ok. Relax. Breathe. Chapter 12A is sort of a rewrite, or addition to the original Chapter 12. You know, the Chapter where our plucky protagonist and Wyatt are fumbling about in the Little Worms Day Academy day care.

It was mentioned to me by the beautiful and talented Elizabeth C. that she was reading that whole chapter just to get to the point where we meet the kid, and she was disappointed that it never happened.

In the original version, they weren't able to pick up Chloe and it turns out that they didn't have to anyway, because her aunt was on the way already. Weak. In this version, they actually are able to pick up the kid and I think it makes for a funnier scene, with much more character development. It also gives me an excuse to introduce a couple of other characters and use The Park Tavern as a backdrop.

So, look back in the archives. Click on the previous blogs from 2009 on your right. Find Chapter 12 and read it, or re-read it, and continue on to Chapter 12A and experience the beauty of the written word in it's infancy...Experience the evolution of ideas and whatever other crap you get out of reading this.

Much love,

Myk

Chapter 12a "Chloe"

Cut to this strange little scene….

Wyatt and I are sitting at the bar in The Park Tavern. Even though there is a bright orange light blasting down the street and illuminating everything outside in a cheery orange glow, there is a dank, beer drenched, woody and incandescent pall upon us. Chloe is sitting in between us on a bar stool and is sucking down Shirley Temples like nobody's business. Wyatt and I haven't even touched our Stellas. They sat like two sentinels of foamless piss before us. We, bookends to this tiny child, who was having more fun in the bar than anyone who was currently in attendance, watching three televisions and indulging in more sugar than she had seen in months. Wyatt and I were staring expectantly at his cell phone which was placed directly in front of Chloe between the two Stellas. Both of us were either scratching or rubbing our own heads, looking stupid, weary and a little creepy.

Johnny had given us Dade's ex-wife's number. There was always this suspicion of mine that had indicated that Johnny had more than a passing interest in Dade's ex-wife, but since Johnny knew everybody, I didn't press the issue. He eventually found her number as he rummaged around his apartment and gave it up.

When I called Faith, I tried to be evasive and cunning, but Dade's ex-wife was amazingly persistent and probing. Faith had gleaned the whole story from me before I had known that I had spoken a word, and while I was talking, Chloe let out a wail while I was telling the dog mauling story in somewhat gruesome detail. Wyatt punched me hard in the shoulder while he was driving. After hearing her child scream like that, Faith was becoming inconsolable. I could tell that Faith was drunk or something, and I successfully convinced her not to try to pick up Chloe, and just to give me Auntie Laura's number.

Here we were, waiting for Auntie Laura. A weary crew of a toddler, and her dirty, ad-hoc uncles, no doubt traumatizing her for the ages.

Chloe: relishing a Shirley Temple.

Wyatt: turns to me and whispers, "You're a fucking idiot, man."

I pick up my full beer and glurp on it, "Fuck you."

Chloe pipes up, "This is fucking GOOOOOOOD!" Indicating her Shirley Temple and crunching on a cherry. The bartender and a waitress that were in earshot recoil in horror. I put my hands up to my head and mime pulling out chunks of my hair as I glare at Wyatt and take two fingers and cover my lips. SHUT THE FUCK UP, WYATT.

I threw a twenty out on the bar and said, "Check!" The bartender just regarded me with disgust, Wyatt started to chug his beer when fucking Faith walked in looking all cracked out and weird. Upon seeing her, I grunted towards Wyatt and we both turned away from the door and leaned on the bar. We three, Chloe, Wyatt and me, all of a sudden were chugging down our drinks, begging for anonymity.

How anonymous can you be while hanging out with a 4 year old at a bar?

Faith screams, "CHLOOOOOEEEEEEEE!!!"

"MOMMMMMMYYYYY!!!"

They run across the entryway to each other. Wyatt and I hunch our shoulders over the bar, and stop breathing for a moment. I know that Wyatt is hoping that our mission is now accomplished. Child reunited with family member. BAM! Done. I am hoping the same thing until I hear Faith say, "So where the FUCK is Dade!?" Again, the good staff of The Park Tavern recoils in horror, and expectantly waits for some kind of white trash opera.

I get offended for Chloe. I get embarrassed about the whole situation, and fling myself from my barstool, I feel Wyatt’s fingers just barely graze my neck as he tried to horse collar me back into my seat just a little too late. I scoop up Chloe in one hand and grab Faith by the arm and wheel her out the door of the bar. Just as I get eye to eye with Faith, I hear a familiar voice behind me. It was one that I had heard on some rather calm beer drinking nights that made up a good majority of a summer about two years ago. It was a summer where I sat on the porch with Dade and a sprinkling of his family members and neighbors. We used to play cards all night and drink Dos X. It was Auntie Laura.

She waddled across the street from the Whole Foods parking lot and was cooing and calling the whole way as if to distract me from the tirade that I was about to unleash on Faith. I gritted my teeth at her, and she arched an eyebrow at me that looked like a defiant, yet sexual challenge. I just snorted at Faith and handed Chloe to her.

"Ohhh! Ohhh! Ohhh! Sooooorry! I'm soooo late, "Auntie Laura says. She comes over to grab Chloe and there is a little bit of a Mexican standoff between Laura and Faith. Wyatt swings through the front door and belches. He looks at all of us and shrugs, and grabs me by the arm as he passes merrily into the street. Laura turns to look at me, and pleads with her eyes. She starts to speak, but I cut her off with a motion of my hand and succumbed to Wyatt's tug and we walk arm and arm into the street without a word.

Mission accomplished. Fuck off.