Halow Effect

The Nile's Edge
2004-05-12 07:25:13 (UTC)

Halo Effect--ch. two (revised)

2
I didn’t like ego. I suppose I still don’t. Archedean
had an ego bigger than some, but he delivered it better
than most. He didn’t bother me with his over-powering
genius or his infinite ability to gather up a point and
spit it in your face; instead, he rubbed me the right way
and allowed me inside for the ride. Him and I made a good
team. The artist in him insisted on perfection in chaos and
at the same time, he preferred polite excitement to daring
mischief, making him an interesting addition to my nightly
buzz that followed me from the bar.
He held a lit cigarette in between his thick sandstone
fingers; flicking it every few seconds even though there
were little to no gathering ashes. His leather coat swung
from side to side in his jaded pace back and forth in front
of Victoria’s statuesque stance.
“All right…” Archedean chimed.
“All right, what?” I groaned watching the lit ashes melt
away on the stone walk.
“Here he comes.”
“Who?”
“Rodney…Fucking bastard.”
“What’re you planning to do?”
“Fucking bastard. Fucking me over. Fucking fat ass cheat”
he groaned through his lips, the cigarette glowing in front
of his mouth. “Mother fucking, ass rimming, slime drinking
fuck.”
“Charming.” I crossed my arms. “Are you”—
“Shh! Here we go.” Archedean didn’t even give it another
five seconds. He was in front of this—Rodney, staring and
grinning. Rodney turned the corner and gasped, his breath
frosting in the air.
“Mr. Mathers, you startled me.” Rodney regained his
composure, wiping his sweat mustache with the sleeve of his
blazer. “What are you doing on Monte Plaza at this hour?”
“I amuse myself.” Then, without missing a beat Archedean
continued, “I was wondering, Mr. Grant—Rodney, if I may—
how did the sale go this morning?”
“Sale? I’m not sure if I know what you’re talking
about.”
“The hell you don’t.” Archedean leaned closer. Rodney
set his weight in his left leg, taking a note pad from his
inner breast pocket never taking his eyes off Archedean.
His guilt began to paint itself on his chubby, brash face.
“Let me see…. the last sell I foresaw was on Tuesday at
twelve thirty sharp. It was in the Plaza Décor Studio, with
Chas, don’t you remember signing for that one?”
“Check your other book.” Archedean groaned.
“I have no”—
“Four in the morning, Thursday, November 12, 2148. Again,
how did the sale go this morning?” Archedean reached for
the cigar resting on Rodney’s bottom lip, being careful
not to touch too much of it with his fingers. “I think I
have record of that…Victoria.”
“Tanner Regis, a Sears Tower desk manager, bought a 15x20
diamond encrusted frame enclosing an oil on canvas wrapped
in sheer shipper’s binding and stamped using an Archedean
Tran Mathers original seal. Something that was up for sale
but sold without proper permission or, should I say profit.
And this-being the fourth time, Rodney. I know it’s rude
to stare and I do apologize for that, but I think it’s a
bit shady to sell originals for twice their value and give
only 10% to its artist.” Victoria tugged at her
collar. “Shall I recite sales one, two and three?”
“You have me mistaken.”
“I did.” Archedean tossed the cigar behind him, then,
reached for the steel blade at his side. The sound of the
steel sliding out of its case sung through the street until
it dulled on the buildings. Silence circled the four of us
but it didn’t thicken until I heard the rhythmic tramping
so distant yet so dangerously close.
“Archedean, the Chargers are marching…quick, we leave
now.” I whispered. As I said that, Rodney leapt to make a
run for it but Archedean’s blade was waiting for him at
his throat; gently resting on a small fold of skin.
“Wallet…NOW!” Archedean demanded; Rodney delivered most
earnestly in the hopes of that knife lowering from his
neck. “I trust the money is in here, because you wouldn’t
dare leave a paper trail of checks and bank deposits for me
to follow would you? No…you’re smarter than you look.”
The Chargers—I heard their drilled, droning voices now…
it was making me nervous.
“Archedean, lets go.” I moaned.
“This is where two wrongs make a right.” Archedean tucked
the wallet away in his coat, then as fast as one blinks, I
saw Rodney’s throat fall out of his neck, splashing on the
street for the dogs to lick up come dawn.
***
I wandered back to my room dragging my sock-covered feet
across the soft, eggshell carpet. The unmade bed and the
cold from my open window illustrated the isolation that was
my room. Tucked away in the far corner of the apartment, it
was the only room on that side of the home and was never
occupied by anyone other than myself.
I sat in my chair, a black, thickly upholstered lounge
resting by my wide but only window. I sat in it to allow my
mind to relax and untangle the maze of stereotypical
feminine thought that collected daily. During the day, I
found amusement in curling up to a book and periodically
looking out of the window, making up inner monologues for
the tiny people passing under me.
“Mercy?” a voice was speaking through my door. It
blended with the heaviness, melting and oozing slowly into
my ears. By now, I was neatly situated in the chair, my
hands were folded upon my knee, and my ankles were crossed.
Again, the voice called my name, softer this time.
“Nicole, you can come in.” I said. The door creaked open
and in popped a tiny head along with shiny, blond ringlets.
“Mercy?”
“Yes, come here” I said softly as Nicole treaded lightly
and quickly until she climbed on my lap. She was quiet; her
eyes darted all over. “Did you have something to tell me?
Are mother and father in yet?” She shook her head as she
fingered her stuffed cat tight in her arms. “They’re not
home?”
“Nope. It’s cold in here.”
“You’ve been here alone? Still not asleep?” my voice
ached and rose a tiny bit. My hand found its way to her
cheeks, cold they were but still feverishly frightened. I
had to take her to me, to hold her in my comfort. I felt
guilty to a tremendous degree; I left her alone this long
thinking our parents would not be far behind my leaving. As
I held her, she relaxed and her head sunk into my shoulder.
Her tiny arms reached as far around me as they could. This
stung me.
“I’m here and I am not leaving you alone again, you hear
me?” I mouthed into her ears. My words seemed to calm her
but she knew I was lying. Finally, her face lifted and she
dug the top of her wrist into her eyes to dry her tears.
“Mercy, can I sleep in your bed tonight?” Her eyes lifted
to me to meet my adoring stare. Her eyes were blue like
mine, and had the same spark in it, except hers appeared to
be wet, therefore, not on fire as mine were.
“Dearness, you may. I’ll fix you some warm milk to help
you sleep.” I rose to do so and she immediately followed.
I paused and so did she. For a short instant, I feared
someone was in the house and she truly hadn’t been alone.
But my senses would’ve told me that when I unlocked the
door. “Why do you follow?”
“I don’t want to be alone, I’m scared. Take my hand?” I
did so with a pained smirk and led her to the kitchen. Both
of us were exhausted and it shown on our faces.
“Mercy, this man came to the door while you were away.”
“My God, you didn’t let him in, did you?” I knew who it
was.
“No, I didn’t answer the door,” she scratched her cheek
as she sat high on a stool, most of her lively nature now
returning with the lights switched on. “But he dropped his
blanket outside. I took it after he left. It looks too
small.” She finished pointing to an indigo handkerchief on
the counter. I stood still for a moment, feeling the burn
spread from my stomach to my face; the kind of burn you get
when you’re caught stealing or in bed with your lover—
embarrassment. Placing a small mug of milk in the waver, I
recovered from realizing what luck this was, that she
hadn’t answered the door.
“What does he want when he comes here?” I took the silken
cloth in my hands, tucking it away in my pocket.
“He has to test me.” I said into the warmed milk, tasting
it for her comfort. “He likes to check up on me, but he’s
not nice. Don’t you ever answer the phone or the door.” I
handed Nicole the warm milk.
Benjamin Van Fellows was my Advising Officer ( for
criminal rehabilitation), given to me by the Courts back
when I had my hearings in late ‘46. I was only sixteen and
was still too young to receive major jail time for theft
and assault. Instead, I was assigned an AO for five years.
Probation’s a mother fucker. The dance I have to do to get
around him entertains me, but it’s stressful. Fancy
needle dicks pay him out the ass to practically stalk me.
Well, I seemed to get around Fellows just fine, but now he
was starting to come to the house unannounced. This I was
not fond of.
He said to me once that he didn’t buy a moment of my
cock and bull, he “knew” I was guilty—yeah, like
I “knew” he was thin. So I told him he smelt like pig
shit. And in return, his ‘Excellency’ expressed how I
was “a disgrace to the great conservatives of Chicago”.
But my dears, the fat fuck did smell like pig shit.
He’s hell bent on catching me in the act. I can feel him
sniffing everything I touch. He’s a
jackass.
***
The next day, I sat alone in my living room in the late
evening hours of that next day, reading, as it might be, a
book of the ultimate mischief and dread. Backed by 260
years of mystery and fear, Victorian London was never the
same after Jackie mulled down the hopes and security of
dozens—or— if he was as good as me, maybe even hundreds.
The Ripper reflected the mild time of a genius. I’m not
that heartless to murder prostitutes of the like, but I
think of the sheer chivalry desired of such an awesome
crime! Some wonder if I am crazy, but Jack the Ripper, I
think, would appreciate the things I feel; vengeance by
surprise or justice by proxy.
I had since reached my turn down for the day, knowing I
was to be home the whole nightlong. I fixed a glass of slip
straight from the bottle. I could’ve taken a nap, or maybe
even taken Nicole to the park near the Civic-Metro border.
The crime rate was low there and the swings were fun
enough. But it seemed that I was always, in some form or
another, incomplete without reading. The clock in the Study
chimed away the three o’clock hour and startled me.
My book though, spoke of London in the 1880’s and gave me
the view inward that I secretly longed to be a part of.
Even though time travel wasn’t even an option, I still
fantasized about the prospect of the visit to the
nineteenth century. This tale of mystic adventures and
virtuous vivacity sprung excitement from my detailed
imagination. Fictitious as the story was and still is,
there was truth to its inside plot (morals lost but gained
again) and I doubt it was nearly anywhere near the truth.
But I was drawn in by it; that says something about me. I
was into the vocabulary and speech, for it was rising in
use again. Swampy streets, the English manner,, Big-Ben,
incessant dampness soaking everything from smocks to
morals! It was all so magical.
In my reading, the sounds of outside were muted from me.
I heard nothing but the whisper of the heating unit in the
utility closet, then a loud bang. The door vibrated with
determined knocking. I sat for a moment, seeing if mother
would be kind, enough to answer the door, then remembered
she was at the spa with the Duke of Valium. Again, someone
knocked, dad wasn’t home, and it was up to me to answer
the door and interrupt my reading (despite the ungodly
effort).
My fingers met the metal of the doorknob but I hesitated
to turn it. I stepped back, almost cautious. Bang-bang-
bang! It sounded hurried. I knew it was Fellows; I could
smell the bastard from outside. The knocking continued on
an almost exact pattern. Tap-tap-tap, then ten seconds
later, Bang-bang-bang!
My parents, dear as they were to me, were not smart
people. They blinded themselves from the disgrace that was
their daughter, had another one in the hopes of
improvement, and scared her to death with facts and
statistics on murders, rapes, and kidnappings. They knew of
my guilt back in Seattle and moved here to Chicago to free
me by using the Zone Act, passed in 2095. It said that the
globe was to be divided into its time zones, no longer
solely by states. San Diego was not in California but it
was now San Diego, Alpha. Dallas was now Dallas, Beta,
Chicago, Delta, and New York, Iota.
See, when I mutilated the bastard in Seattle (in 2146),
the Alpha zone was my domain. If caught and rendered there,
I’d be executed. Once my parents found out my crimes, they
were first, rightfully furious. Soon, they could not take
the humiliation or fear of losing a child, so they
relocated under a new name (Bennett) here in Chicago—the
Delta zone. After they settled, I was committed to a year
of rigorous mental therapy and five years of AO recovery.
You see the time of the crime in Seattle was different from
the time here in Chicago, two hours difference in fact.
Therefore, I was not guilty in Chicago, for in all essence
I never committed the murder according to their clocks and
records. Understand? It’s all very ridiculous and overtly
unjust but that’s where society is now. It all started
with celebrity crime and society’s desire to keep them
pure, then transcended into the population as a whole.
Since “justice” was so swift, crime was actually deterred
by 90% over the course of 25 years.
Mr. Fellows had his suspicions the second he saw me in
his office. I suppose my feet on his desk didn’t create a
great first impression. To further things along, I wasn’t
satisfying his therapy sessions or his community service.
So ever since then, he has been steadfast in finding me in
the act of any crime whatsoever to be rid of me. If he
could catch me in the act here in Chicago he’d for sure
have me dead.
So I figure I’ll be too careful for him. I finished the
required therapy with no trouble and a clean record of
metal health a few months ago so he cannot hold that
against me. And when or if I’m accused, I am certain of my
impeccability that all I have to do is send in a report of
prejudice and have Mr. Fellows himself punished for being
so idiotic in his bigotry. Simply questionable of me on a
suspicion or a look is ground for dismissal from any
ranking position and/or esteem. I played on that, for I
knew Mr. Fellows was a well known Professor and
businessperson. Not to mention a retired (but still
remembered) Justice Guard (Charger Sergeant to General in
the city of Detroit.). We could destroy each other but
never without severe risks to our own lives, I was careful
of him and he for I.
Mindful and thought out, I sat my body back on the couch,
waiting for the vexatious, old man to go away out-side. He
did so after a few more minutes to my relief, although, I
knew he’d be back. Neither Nicole nor I could keep
misleading him, eventually; mother or father would answer
the door to meet him. Mr. Fellows would be cunning in doing
so, but he’d plant blame inescapable and have me hunted
for my head. God Bless Nicole too, she had no idea what
danger I was in when Mr. Fellows showed up, yet she found
the strength in that fragile being of hers to help me out.
All she knew was that Mr. Fellows meant trouble to me and
all she knew was that she loved me.


[property of author c.2004]




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