Authors: Oldrich Stibor

The Black Chronicle

The Black Chronicle:

Part One

Oldrich Stibor


Copyright 2015 by Red Right Hand Publishing - All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopy, recording or any other electronic methods without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Contents

Excerpt from The Black Chronicle: Part Two.

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CHAPTER 1

Fifty-three.

As silent as death, Mister sat in the darkness of his car, one number pounding over and over in his head in nauseating repetition.

Fifty-three.

Fifty-three
.

Endlessly, the neural pathways of his brain fired it – a ghost haunting his skull.

He looked up at the numbers on the house. Fifty-three. The address of the family he was about to touch with his holy wrath. Maybe they had children. That would be a real treat. But it was too much to hope for so he pushed it out of his mind. Best not to build up hope.

His vanilla latte had long gone cold; he’d regretted purchasing it almost immediately. He was jittery enough as it was, caffeine now made as much sense as throwing a bucket of sand on the beach. Still, it had amused him to walk into the local Starbucks and order such a decadent beverage on his way to a killing. He walked past the pseudo-intellectuals typing away on their laptops. He imagined they were all most likely distracted from what they were there to do by Facebook or Youtube; watching cute little videos of kittens and puppies who became the most unlikely of friends or self-important 'vloggers' chatting ceaselessly about some pointless thing. These were amongst the most embarrassing examples of the no-men.

For a brief blissful moment he could picture the aftermath of the rage he’d bring down fully upon these pitiful no-men. Behind chained shut doors, man woman and child would lie wonderfully expired where he struck them down. Their entrails and organs strewn about like ghoulish Christmas tinsel and their rheumy dead eyes watching, their rigor mortised mouths agape as he sat amongst them and gingerly sipped a lactose free low-fat americano miso. Smacking his lips, he would reach for the creamer and salivate with unsatisfied hunger as warm frothy blood poured from the container into his cup.

No. It was not time for such indulgence. Perhaps someday, once his powers were full.

He approached the cute Starbucks girl, a taut little morsel, blonde, deeply tanned, the posture of a dancer. He briefly considered forgetting all about the home at fifty-three Hillside Lane and waiting for her in the parking lot instead. A little rope, a little lube. He could make this one malleable, he knew it. But she wasn't relevant enough to his purposes and so he pushed the thought from his mind.

“Grande vanilla latte, please,” he said, barely able to squeeze the words out without laughing. The sweet little bitch smiled and handed him his change, never suspecting how close she had come to the unveiling of utter horror.

With his coffee in hand he proceeded to number fifty three like it was the most normal thing in the world. Just another day at the office. And wasn’t it normal? Didn’t terrible, violent things happen all the time? Isn’t ‘normal’ simply a matter of how frequently a given event occurs, as opposed to involving any sort of moral judgement? The thought was an interesting one but he didn’t have time to ponder it. There was work to do.

He rolled down the window for air and began to slowly unbutton his shirt. He felt like a lover disrobing for the act. Fucking was like killing in many ways, wasn’t it? The act of possession, of exerting control over another. The idea of taking gratification from the forceful contact with another's body. In sex as in killing, everything else must melt away. All that exists in those moments of fucking and murder is the singular desire – the
only
desire – for life. More specifically, the
possession
of life. They were the purest of all social interactions. The very pillars of existence. Life and death, the negative and positive, the one and the zero of the great cosmic program, the existed only in their duality.

The French had a very poetic term for an orgasm, “la petite mort.”
The little death
.

He glanced up at the bedroom window, the only lit room in the house, and wondered if he’d get a ‘petite mort’ inside. The wife was long and slinky, and he could imagine her contorted into delightful shapes.

Shirtless, he grabbed the perfectly clean and pressed white dress shirt hanging in the back of the car. He slipped it on, appreciating the coolness of the cotton against his warm skin. Calmly and delicately he buttoned up the shirt, careful to not wrinkle it.

From the glove compartment he removed a white tie. Instinctively he began to tie it in a four-in-hand knot but quickly undid it. It was a special occasion; a full Windsor would be more appropriate.

He wrangled off his jeans, one leg at a time, and grabbed the white slacks folded neatly on the passenger seat next to him. It took a little manoeuvring to get them on but he had become good at it.

Mister exited the car into the summer air, cool and sweet with the scent of someone barbequing nearby. He took a quick peek around the row of trees he’d parked alongside before strolling to the trunk and taking stock of his props and instruments laid out neatly on a plastic liner.

Looking up again at number fifty-three he wondered what the wife was wearing and hoped she wasn’t on her period.

Sara Whinner. Such a funny name. How had children used that name to tease her? Sara Whinner dine-her, sixty-nine-her, perhaps? Then he realized she would have had a different last name before she married. Did they have little Whinners up there, sleeping peacefully in bed?

No, no. Best to let it be a surprise.

***

Gregory Whinner had had a bad day. He’d had little sleep the night before, as a dream of his ex had woken him early and made it impossible to turn his thoughts from her again. He’d run into her at the mall down the street from his house.
His
mall. A place he had been a thousand times and had never seen her there before. He and his wife Sara were exiting a shoe store when he practically walked right into Amanda.

They had ended things as all intensely passionate lovers do: on bad terms with both of them at their worst. There was a brief moment of awkwardness as they both considered how to proceed.

She managed to gain composure of herself first. “Greg? Oh wow . . . How are you?”

“I’m great!” Greg exclaimed, trying his best to seem calm and happy. “It’s great to see you. How have you been?”

“Oh you know. I’ve been good. No complaints. This is my husband Trevor.”

Trevor was a tall, sophisticated-looking man. The kind of guy you would imagine was into the stock market and sailing. Greg took his hand with all the confidence he could muster.

“Pleased to meet you Trevor. This is my wife, Sara.”

It was uncanny how much Sara and Amanda looked alike. A fact he was sure everyone else had also noticed.

They both greeted Sara warmly, but he felt the air around him go cold when it occurred to him that this might be the guy Amanda had left him for. He could feel Amanda watching him watch Trevor, sure that she knew what he was thinking. He forced himself to stop staring.

He did have to admit, Amanda looked incredible. Greg wondered if she was as wild with Mr. Fancy Pants as she’d been with him. Had she let him tie her up for a night and slap her around and abuse her until she cried then begged for more? He doubted it. They probably kept dental dams and wet wipes in the night stand.

“–teaching Greg?” was all he caught of Susan asking him something.

“Pardon me?”

“Are you still teaching?”

“Yeah. Only part-time though. I mostly do consulting now.”

“Good, good. I remember you always saying that’s what you’d rather be doing.”

He felt as though it was now his turn to ask how she was doing, what she was up to. If she had children et cetera, et cetera. Tedious questions he didn’t care to ask, which would only reveal facts he didn’t care to know. He was sure that she and Mr. Khaki Silver Fox were living a happy little life, insulated comfortably with means well beyond his own. They probably had darling little children who were child prodigies in tennis and math, and potty-trained at birth. She didn’t deserve to have a life like that. The only solace he ever took from the cold and calculated evisceration she’d performed on him, was that he was going to “win at life,” as he put it.

It was only seven years ago but it felt much longer. In those days he had dreams of being a hotshot marketing exec. The path had seemed so clear; it was only a matter of time before’d be was living the dream of a corner office, island retreats and a six-figure income.

That was when he’d still had the ambition of a young man. Before he’d become a father and gotten married. Before the second mortgage. Before the two at-fault car accidents which raised his insurance to extortionist heights. Before the realities of life slowly devoured his dreams.

So fuck her. He would have loved her. He
did
love her. She deserved to get fucked over like she’d done him. But here she was, happy, still hot, and with a tall, handsome, well-to-do man.

He just couldn’t play along with the charade.

“Anyways. We’re in a bit of a rush. Take care,” he said taking Sara by the hand and leading her away. Not the most graceful exit but he didn’t care. Fuck her.

Of course that prompted Sara to inundate him with prying question after prying question about who she was and the nature of their relationship. How and why did they break up? Why did he seem so angry? He fielded all her questions like a politician, answering plainly only when it was wise to do so and lying for the same reason. He had to force himself to remain calm it. Amanda was the last thing he wanted to discuss, period, let alone with Sara. He knew, of course, that if he seemed too upset about running into her it would suggest he still had feelings for her. Otherwise, why still be angry after all these years? Why, indeed?

As he sat in bed, pretending to read a trade journal, he wondered if the dreams would return to him that night. Perhaps if he had a go with Sara first they’d be avoided.

He looked over at her from the corner of his eye. She was a beautiful woman. The type of woman that made you proud to be seen with her. With her wild brown curls, pouty lips and voluptuous breasts, she made even her plaid pyjama pants and old Mets t-shirt seem erotic. She made him feel like a lucky man every time he looked at her. It didn’t bother him that she wasn’t sophisticated, or opinionated, or even generally curious about anything that he found interesting. Not that his wife wasn't intelligent. She just didn't feel the need to prove it. He had dated smart ass, insecure woman in the past. Women who were articulate and persuasive and enjoyed a battle of the wits. Women like Amanda. It was his experience that women like that tended to be a pains in the ass. Always struggling for control. Sara was not like that at all. She was secure enough to allow him to be in the driver’s seat. She let him be a man and he loved her for it.

She didn’t notice him watching her. She was too engrossed in her book. Some trashy novel about love smitten vampires, or was it werewolves? Her hair was tied back and she had her reading glasses on, which always seemed to turn him on for some reason.

He could imagine the mock innocent smile she always used whenever he grabbed her around the waist in such a way as to make his intentions clear. A little loving would definitely do him some good. His breath felt a bit sour though, so he thought it best to brush and take a quick piss before trying to make his move.

“Where are you going?” she asked as he got out of bed.

“Just to the bathroom, love. Your book have you a little spooked?” He laughed.

She simply smiled at how well he knew her, and buried her face back in the pages.

Greg was not in the bathroom two minutes when he heard the phone ring. He instinctively looked down at his naked wrist where his watch usually was. He wasn’t sure exactly what time it was, but it was late.

He brushed his teeth and emptied his bladder, since it was difficult for him to maintain an erection if he didn’t. Not one step out of the bathroom Greg realized there would be no sex. Sara was in hysterics. Streams of tears soiled her pretty face. Greg’s first thought was that someone had died.
It must be her mother.
He knew this call would be coming soon.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

She struggled to get the words out several times, but each time a big wet sob choked her.

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay baby,” he said, wrapping one arm around her and wiping the tears from her face. He then took the phone and hit ‘last call’: Unknown.

“It’s okay. Take your time,” he said, then added with as much delicacy as he could, “Is it you Mother?”

“What?! No! It was some fucking guy.”

The relief of not having to deal with the death of her mother barely registered over his confusion. No name? Just “some guy”?

“Some guy? What guy?”

“I don’t know. Just some . . . guy!”

“Who was it?”

“Greg I don’t know!” she snapped, wiping the tears from her bloodshot eyes.