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The Reagan Murders
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Chapter One:
“Don’t. For the love of God, I’m just an actor!”
“I really liked your film, don’t get me wrong. The one where you play… You know, the guy, the one who eats people? “
“You’re the president. This… This isn’t happening! “
Reagan thrust his fist into the man’s chest, tearing out his still beating heart. His jaw unhinged, a thousand gleaming teeth waiting to tear at flesh..
With one gulp, he consumed it. The man rapidly expired.
“Isn’t this a bit ironic, Mr. Hopkins?” He asked rhetorically to the deceased actor’s slowly cooling corpse. Reagan had enjoyed the man’s performance in playing that cannibal in… His memory faltered. He struggled to think of the title. It would come to him in time. All that mattered to him was the man’s relationship to the people he wanted to send a message to.
He crossed a name off of a list, one of a dozen or so, all actors. They seemed to have common films between them, and there was a reason he singled them out to kill them. He thought about the one man who had stood up to him, nearly put an end to his existence. Then, it all came back to him. He would capture the woman who had captured his assailant’s heart. That was what this whole ordeal was about. Making his would-be killer suffer.
“Honey, kids… Dinner time!” Reagan called to his family. Nancy rushed to the body, tearing into the liver like a raven. The kids picked at the extremities. Soon, the body was reduced to little but cartilage and bone. The Reagan family ate well that night. Still, Reagan did not sleep easily. He was on edge. His blood lust was constant, despite his attempts to quiet it.
He thought back to the good old days, when he was still president. He was a god, back then. Now, he felt his age catching up with him. He was forgetful, absent minded. But he was still the Gipper, still the man responsible for an economic golden era. The man responsible for the Star Wars missile defense program, for an unidentified string of transient murders, for negotiations during the darkest of times with the Russians. He had left his mark on history, but still, he felt driven. There was a man who had drawn his blood, and lived. He aimed to correct that. To make him regret the day he was born.
Elsewhere in the asylum, Johnny paced back and forth in his meager quarters. He was used to the place, and they treated him okay. They allowed him to read the news, limited phone calls. But even with those priviledges, he was unnerved. He kept up with current events as much as he could. His anxiety got worse with every paper he read. It seemed that actors were dropping like flies. Not of the routine overdoses, though. They were being butchered. He knew if he spoke up about what worried him, he’d be sedated. They wouldn’t believe what he had to say any way.
All he could think about was Jodie. He needed to get out, to warn her. Those who had been killed had shared films with her. He could see the pattern. But he was stuck in the Westwood Institute For The Criminally Insane. No one left Westwood as themselves. Sure, every now and then, some stumbling husk of a man was declared sane, and released to a life of staring at wall paper. But for those who still possessed the capacity for thought, there was no way out. Just the passage of time, watching yourself grow old in the limbo that is a padded cell.
He wasn’t crazy though. He was sure of it. He knew insanity very well. He had become an expert in the subject after years of incarceration at Westwood. Worse than any prison, here, he was surrounded by a thousand lunatics. People who believed they were Jesus, or Napoleon. He had spoken personally to the first Roman emperor, Julius Caesar, before the emperor removed his robe and began digging at his own flesh for tracking devices. He couldn’t decide who was worse. The lunatics who couldn’t leave or the ones that came here as a trade. The orderlies and psychologists that were meant to watch over him. He had to get out of this place.
He thought back to that fateful day, so many years ago. It seemed like another lifetime, almost. He was a young man. An idealistic sort of person, with hopes and dreams. But then he stumbled onto something bigger than himself. He thought of his brother, and his lust for politics. If it hadn’t had been for his brother, he’d have never been in this mess to begin with.
“Don’t. For the love of God, I’m just an actor!”
“I really liked your film, don’t get me wrong. The one where you play… You know, the guy, the one who eats people? “
“You’re the president. This… This isn’t happening! “
Reagan thrust his fist into the man’s chest, tearing out his still beating heart. His jaw unhinged, a thousand gleaming teeth waiting to tear at flesh..
With one gulp, he consumed it. The man rapidly expired.
“Isn’t this a bit ironic, Mr. Hopkins?” He asked rhetorically to the deceased actor’s slowly cooling corpse. Reagan had enjoyed the man’s performance in playing that cannibal in… His memory faltered. He struggled to think of the title. It would come to him in time. All that mattered to him was the man’s relationship to the people he wanted to send a message to.
He crossed a name off of a list, one of a dozen or so, all actors. They seemed to have common films between them, and there was a reason he singled them out to kill them. He thought about the one man who had stood up to him, nearly put an end to his existence. Then, it all came back to him. He would capture the woman who had captured his assailant’s heart. That was what this whole ordeal was about. Making his would-be killer suffer.
“Honey, kids… Dinner time!” Reagan called to his family. Nancy rushed to the body, tearing into the liver like a raven. The kids picked at the extremities. Soon, the body was reduced to little but cartilage and bone. The Reagan family ate well that night. Still, Reagan did not sleep easily. He was on edge. His blood lust was constant, despite his attempts to quiet it.
He thought back to the good old days, when he was still president. He was a god, back then. Now, he felt his age catching up with him. He was forgetful, absent minded. But he was still the Gipper, still the man responsible for an economic golden era. The man responsible for the Star Wars missile defense program, for an unidentified string of transient murders, for negotiations during the darkest of times with the Russians. He had left his mark on history, but still, he felt driven. There was a man who had drawn his blood, and lived. He aimed to correct that. To make him regret the day he was born.
Elsewhere in the asylum, Johnny paced back and forth in his meager quarters. He was used to the place, and they treated him okay. They allowed him to read the news, limited phone calls. But even with those priviledges, he was unnerved. He kept up with current events as much as he could. His anxiety got worse with every paper he read. It seemed that actors were dropping like flies. Not of the routine overdoses, though. They were being butchered. He knew if he spoke up about what worried him, he’d be sedated. They wouldn’t believe what he had to say any way.
All he could think about was Jodie. He needed to get out, to warn her. Those who had been killed had shared films with her. He could see the pattern. But he was stuck in the Westwood Institute For The Criminally Insane. No one left Westwood as themselves. Sure, every now and then, some stumbling husk of a man was declared sane, and released to a life of staring at wall paper. But for those who still possessed the capacity for thought, there was no way out. Just the passage of time, watching yourself grow old in the limbo that is a padded cell.
He wasn’t crazy though. He was sure of it. He knew insanity very well. He had become an expert in the subject after years of incarceration at Westwood. Worse than any prison, here, he was surrounded by a thousand lunatics. People who believed they were Jesus, or Napoleon. He had spoken personally to the first Roman emperor, Julius Caesar, before the emperor removed his robe and began digging at his own flesh for tracking devices. He couldn’t decide who was worse. The lunatics who couldn’t leave or the ones that came here as a trade. The orderlies and psychologists that were meant to watch over him. He had to get out of this place.
He thought back to that fateful day, so many years ago. It seemed like another lifetime, almost. He was a young man. An idealistic sort of person, with hopes and dreams. But then he stumbled onto something bigger than himself. He thought of his brother, and his lust for politics. If it hadn’t had been for his brother, he’d have never been in this mess to begin with.
edit on 4-11-2013 by Grifter42 because: Clarity
Chapter 2:
It was a beautiful day in March. The birds chirped, and the bees buzzed, and the world carried on like it ought to have. He was free. He had the right to go where he wanted, and enjoy the sweet fruit of liberty. More often than not, though, he spent his days in his apartment in solitude. His family was well off, and he lived comfortably. He didn’t worry about making rent, or paying the bills. In fact, he was as close to care free as most men ever come. But it wouldn’t last.
Johnny liked to watch television. He loved film, and cinema. If it was on celluloid, he ate it up. And that day, he tuned into a live speech by the big man himself, the President. The Great Communicator, Ronald Reagan spoke of economic progress, of creating jobs and new revenues. But something was wrong. There was something off about the broadcast. It came in distorted, grainy.
He fiddled with the cable, trying to get a better connection. There appeared to be nothing wrong with it. He stared at the screen, trying to make heads or tails of what was happening. Through the static, he could see the form of Reagan. But it wasn’t right. It was grotesque, agape with a thousand gleaming teeth. His eyes didn’t look human. The thing that took the shape of Reagan stared into the camera, still performing it’s speech to the nation. But Johnny could see. He saw through it’s glamour, to glimpse at the maddening reality. It had to be stopped.
At the height of his growing disbelief at what he saw, Scott walked in without knocking. Scott had his own key to Johnny’s apartment, after convincing Johnny he meant well. He regretted such a decision, as Scott very rarely meant well for anyone other than himself. His brother, the up and comer. Scott was a man of mocking skepticism, an eternal doubter in the world. Johnny wanted to ask him if he saw what was on the screen. He had to. But he’d think him crazy.
“Hey, bro. You watching the Gipper? That isn’t like you. You know as much about politics as I do about being a loser. Which is to say very little.” Scott spoke with his usual tone of disapproval, of barely concealed mockery. Johnny just kept watching the screen.
“You… You see him? Do you see what he is?” John’s voice was shaky. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe it was stress related. A break from reality was possible. But it seemed real enough.
“Of course I see him. What’s wrong with you? Didn’t get your daily dose of… What’s her name again?” Scott sized up his brother’s expression. He didn’t much care about John, screw up that he was, but he could tell when there was something wrong with him. And today, he seemed genuinely disturbed.
“Leave Jodie out of this! Can’t you see his eyes? He’s… He’s not human.” Johnny’s voice cracked as he spoke. He was shaken to the core by what he had seen. Still, there was no way he’d be able to convince others that he was telling the truth.
“I’d say I was surprised, but I’m not. You and your crackpot obsessions are a liability for me. I’d put you in an asylum if I could, you son of a bitch.” Scott’s judging eyes looked over him. John had made a mistake, telling his brother. His brother, who claimed to have everyone’s best interests in mind. When in actuality, the only person he cared about was himself. A politician if he ever saw one.
“Scott. You know people. Haven’t you ever seen anything weird? Out of the ordinary?” Johnny pleaded, tried to reason, but Scott only laughed.
“Weird? Like a lunatic brother claiming that Ronald Reagan is… what, exactly? Some sort of space alien? Oh, sure. I see someone weird every time I come to visit you.” He chuckled at his brother’s expense. At the gibberish about the president he was spouting.
“You’ve got to believe me. There’s something terribly wrong with him.” Johnny tried to convince him, but had no luck. It was like speaking to a very skeptical brick wall. Scott popped a stick of gum in his mouth, and chuckled.
“You know what I talk about when I go to dinner with the Bush’s? They love to hear about you, John. You’re almost our most popular topic of discussion. Your bizaare obsession with that actress. Your complete disconnection from reality! You’re a joke, Johnny boy! A disgrace to the family name. Nobody’s gonna remember who you are in twenty years. You’ll just be one of the multitudes of people in an asylum, my brother.” Scott railed against his brother, highlighting his flaws and peculiarities. He became malice, for a few brief moments, he became Caine destroying Abel through the art of verbal humiliation .
“Scott… For the love of god, for once, just keep your mouth shut. If you tell the Bush’s what I saw, you’ll be killing me. They’ll bring me before him, and… That’ll be the end of it. If you have any respect for me as a brother, you” John thought to himself about the consequences of his brother running his mouth to the vice president. How soon Reagan would know that he knew. They’d kill him, he knew for sure. But what about Jodie? She was important to him, and they knew that. Johnny was running out of options.
“I gotta run, Johnny. I’ve got sane people stuff to do.” Scott walked out the front door into the morning air. Soon, he would tell the others what his crazy brother had said to him. And then it would be over for him. No… John had to act quickly. To stop Reagan, while he could.
First, though, he had a few errands to run. He couldn’t leave Jodie without warning her. She might have been ignoring his hundreds of phone calls, and enough unread letters to fill a book, but he had to warn her, regardless. They would come after her, he thought. He had to pay his dues.
“Dear Jodie… I write to you on this occasion with a heart burdened by worry. There’s something terrible inside of Reagan. The Commander in Chief is not who he seems. I know you think I’m crazy, but I love you, Jodie Foster. My fate is already decided. I’m a dead man. But you can still survive. Thrive, even. Get out of town, and trust no one. –Johnny.” He wiped tears from his eyes as he finished up his dire warning. He ate a small breakfast of toast, and orange juice, and put the letter in his pocket. He began taking possessions out to his car.
It was a beautiful day in March. The birds chirped, and the bees buzzed, and the world carried on like it ought to have. He was free. He had the right to go where he wanted, and enjoy the sweet fruit of liberty. More often than not, though, he spent his days in his apartment in solitude. His family was well off, and he lived comfortably. He didn’t worry about making rent, or paying the bills. In fact, he was as close to care free as most men ever come. But it wouldn’t last.
Johnny liked to watch television. He loved film, and cinema. If it was on celluloid, he ate it up. And that day, he tuned into a live speech by the big man himself, the President. The Great Communicator, Ronald Reagan spoke of economic progress, of creating jobs and new revenues. But something was wrong. There was something off about the broadcast. It came in distorted, grainy.
He fiddled with the cable, trying to get a better connection. There appeared to be nothing wrong with it. He stared at the screen, trying to make heads or tails of what was happening. Through the static, he could see the form of Reagan. But it wasn’t right. It was grotesque, agape with a thousand gleaming teeth. His eyes didn’t look human. The thing that took the shape of Reagan stared into the camera, still performing it’s speech to the nation. But Johnny could see. He saw through it’s glamour, to glimpse at the maddening reality. It had to be stopped.
At the height of his growing disbelief at what he saw, Scott walked in without knocking. Scott had his own key to Johnny’s apartment, after convincing Johnny he meant well. He regretted such a decision, as Scott very rarely meant well for anyone other than himself. His brother, the up and comer. Scott was a man of mocking skepticism, an eternal doubter in the world. Johnny wanted to ask him if he saw what was on the screen. He had to. But he’d think him crazy.
“Hey, bro. You watching the Gipper? That isn’t like you. You know as much about politics as I do about being a loser. Which is to say very little.” Scott spoke with his usual tone of disapproval, of barely concealed mockery. Johnny just kept watching the screen.
“You… You see him? Do you see what he is?” John’s voice was shaky. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe it was stress related. A break from reality was possible. But it seemed real enough.
“Of course I see him. What’s wrong with you? Didn’t get your daily dose of… What’s her name again?” Scott sized up his brother’s expression. He didn’t much care about John, screw up that he was, but he could tell when there was something wrong with him. And today, he seemed genuinely disturbed.
“Leave Jodie out of this! Can’t you see his eyes? He’s… He’s not human.” Johnny’s voice cracked as he spoke. He was shaken to the core by what he had seen. Still, there was no way he’d be able to convince others that he was telling the truth.
“I’d say I was surprised, but I’m not. You and your crackpot obsessions are a liability for me. I’d put you in an asylum if I could, you son of a bitch.” Scott’s judging eyes looked over him. John had made a mistake, telling his brother. His brother, who claimed to have everyone’s best interests in mind. When in actuality, the only person he cared about was himself. A politician if he ever saw one.
“Scott. You know people. Haven’t you ever seen anything weird? Out of the ordinary?” Johnny pleaded, tried to reason, but Scott only laughed.
“Weird? Like a lunatic brother claiming that Ronald Reagan is… what, exactly? Some sort of space alien? Oh, sure. I see someone weird every time I come to visit you.” He chuckled at his brother’s expense. At the gibberish about the president he was spouting.
“You’ve got to believe me. There’s something terribly wrong with him.” Johnny tried to convince him, but had no luck. It was like speaking to a very skeptical brick wall. Scott popped a stick of gum in his mouth, and chuckled.
“You know what I talk about when I go to dinner with the Bush’s? They love to hear about you, John. You’re almost our most popular topic of discussion. Your bizaare obsession with that actress. Your complete disconnection from reality! You’re a joke, Johnny boy! A disgrace to the family name. Nobody’s gonna remember who you are in twenty years. You’ll just be one of the multitudes of people in an asylum, my brother.” Scott railed against his brother, highlighting his flaws and peculiarities. He became malice, for a few brief moments, he became Caine destroying Abel through the art of verbal humiliation .
“Scott… For the love of god, for once, just keep your mouth shut. If you tell the Bush’s what I saw, you’ll be killing me. They’ll bring me before him, and… That’ll be the end of it. If you have any respect for me as a brother, you” John thought to himself about the consequences of his brother running his mouth to the vice president. How soon Reagan would know that he knew. They’d kill him, he knew for sure. But what about Jodie? She was important to him, and they knew that. Johnny was running out of options.
“I gotta run, Johnny. I’ve got sane people stuff to do.” Scott walked out the front door into the morning air. Soon, he would tell the others what his crazy brother had said to him. And then it would be over for him. No… John had to act quickly. To stop Reagan, while he could.
First, though, he had a few errands to run. He couldn’t leave Jodie without warning her. She might have been ignoring his hundreds of phone calls, and enough unread letters to fill a book, but he had to warn her, regardless. They would come after her, he thought. He had to pay his dues.
“Dear Jodie… I write to you on this occasion with a heart burdened by worry. There’s something terrible inside of Reagan. The Commander in Chief is not who he seems. I know you think I’m crazy, but I love you, Jodie Foster. My fate is already decided. I’m a dead man. But you can still survive. Thrive, even. Get out of town, and trust no one. –Johnny.” He wiped tears from his eyes as he finished up his dire warning. He ate a small breakfast of toast, and orange juice, and put the letter in his pocket. He began taking possessions out to his car.
edit on 4-11-2013 by Grifter42 because: Clarity
edit on 4-11-2013 by Grifter42 because: clarity
Chapter 3
He took a drive down to his local Pawn & Gun, a fine establishment. A veritable vanguard of the capitalist system, the Pawn & Gun would buy practically anything from anyone. Johnny was counting on this. Trailing co-axial cables, carrying a bundle of electronics, he stumbled into the store front. The cashier, a jowly rural looking sort, silently appraised him and his cargo.
“I’m looking to sell this VCR equipment. How much will you give me?” Johnny stood there, waiting. And wait, he did, as this gawking hick stared him in the eye. Finally, he spoke.
“That there is one of them new fangled tape players? I’ll give yer a hundred bucks for it.” He scratched under his neck, a dried out, flaked desert of skin. He ate what he could pick off himself, paying no mind to Johnny’s presence.
“I bought this brand new, for seven hundred and fifty dollars retail. And quit picking at yourself, that’s revolting!” He was beginning to get mad. Here, this common rube was in charge.
“Yer free to leave, yankee, iff’n you don’t like my pricing.” He spat out a mouthful of black saliva into a soda can. His lip bulged with chew, and as he spoke, if you timed it just right, you could see the blackened nubs that were once teeth.
“Yankee? This is Washington! This is the heart of the Union. You’re the outsider, here. You come up to my state to open up a rip off joint like this? It’s like an act of war, all over again.” His eyes became dark. Something changed in Johnny’s posture. He seemed like a different person, one capable of almost anything.
“Whoa, whoa, relax, boy. There ain’t no need to raise’n your voice. I can see yer need some money, a’hum. I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll pay you two hunnert dollars and not a penny more.” The Hick always wondered what situation drove people to his establishment. To accept pennies on the dollar for their possessions. Desperation, he figured. There were more of them every day.
“You’re not being fair to me. I paid seven hundred fifty bucks for the thing, you’re gonna try and gyp me like that? I know where you work. All you know about me is that I own a VCR. I could make life difficult for you. Or you could treat me square, and pay me three hundred dollars. “ Johnny hinted, insinuated, wrapped threats in a thin veil, but the hick seemed oblivious.
“Three hunnert dollars? Fraid I can’t make up the profit on that one. Sorry, mister. Can’t see why I’d shell out so much cashola for yer fancy player.” The Hick stared his slack jawed stare, and offered his putrescence filled soda can to Johnny. The Hick couldn’t see seething fury, right in front of him. Johnny was at that moment, a man on the edge.
“Three hundred dollars! Or I come back, right around closing time with a can of gasoline and a baseball bat.” Johnny’s face was locked into a grimace, his mind whirring out of control.
“Alright, mister. But you might as well rob me at that point. You’ve got you some real anger issues, you know?” The Hick spoke with uncharacteristic intelligence. Still, Johnny had a mission, and a reason for the things he was doing. As the Hick counted off three hundred dollars, he eyed Johnny with disbelief. This yankee was crazy, he thought.
“I’m not a crook, like you! I just want what’s owed to me. I don’t want to be ripped off by shysters, trying to exploit the common man. The world’s full of people like you. Greedy, willing to cheat the less fortunate. I appreciate the transaction, you fat freak. Now, show me the reason this place is called the Pawn & Gun, and not just the Pawn. ” Johnny spoke for a while, venting his frustration with cheats and swindlers as the Hick led him to the partitioned area of the store that served as a gunshop.
“Alright. You’ve gotcher choice of shooting irons. Yer not gonna rob me, are you?” The Hick was unsettled by Johnny’s threats and demeanor. He seemed to have principles, and that could make him dangerous.
“I’m not gonna rob you! Didn’t you listen to a word I just said?! Now… How much for that there rifle?” Johnny was sick of dealing with this rube, but had no other choice.
“That’s a fine gun. Mini-14, costs three hunnerd and fifty dollars. You made a good choice. You got the cash?” The Hick grinned, having his fun with him.
“Can’t you cut me a break? You know all I have is three hundred. Like I said, I could come back later, when you close. I could burn you and your place to the ground, you pig.” Johnny ranted.
“Yep. You could shoot me, too! You know, if you had a gun. You could just take the gun, though. I mean, it would be theft, which you so honorably stated as being incapable of. Morally speaking, you’re not too consistent, man. If you can’t afford the gun, and you’re threatening to burn my place down, just take it!” The Hick was beginning to grow frustrated with Johnny, as well. The man’s yankee logic was flawed, but he seemed perhaps just crazy enough to do what he said he was going to.
“I’m not a thief, you southern fried piece of trash. What can I get for three hundred?! Just tell me that!” Johnny insulted the southerner who had irritated him so much. Johnny knew in his heart he wouldn’t burn down the Hick’s shop, but the Hick didn’t know that. Still, he was shrouded in ignorance thick enough to smear on bread. The Hick pointed to a pistol, a revolver. It was cheap, nowhere near worth three hundred dollars. But the Hick took Johnny as a mark, and in certain ways, he was.
“I’ll give you this one here and a box of ammo for yer three hunnert. It’s a good deal, man. Would I lie to you?” Yes. Johnny’s mind finished the Hick’s sentence in his head. He was being ripped off, that was for sure. But he was also running out of time. The President’s public appearance was at two, and it was already one. The Washington Hilton was a distance away, and he was cutting it close.
“Fine. You’ll get yours, one day. Maybe not from me, but from karma. You know what that is, you three toothed lump headed coot? You’re lucky I’m in a hurry. I have to shoot the president
.”
“Oh, sure, friend. Sic semper tyrannis! Long live the south! You didn’t strike me as a member of the confederacy, I’ll tell you that.”
“I am not part of the Confederacy! I’m doing this for my own reasons, you idiot! He’s a monster, he’s not human, you know!”
“Wow, mister. You’re crazier than I thought. I’m afraid iff’n you don’t want to shoot the president for the same reason as I do, I’ll have to report you to the secret service. You ain’t stealin’ the glory of the hunt from the hounds of the Confederacy!”
“Relax. I’m just kidding. I need this gun for huntin’ poor people.” Johnny hoped that the man would just shut up, and let him leave. Finally, he did.
“Well, that’s perfectly alright then. Come back any time, now, you hear?” The Hick had gotten one over on him. Johnny felt a twinge in his gut, and a deep sense of pawner’s remorse. As he inspected his shoddy firearm, he felt a dark urge manifest inside him. He found he suddenly would like to shoot the Hick. He loaded his pistol.
“You fixin’ to shoot me? Typical yankee act of aggression on an innocent southerner. You know what? I hope you screw it up! You look like a yellow bellied city boy who ain’t never seen fresh blood in his life! You’ll just be perpetrating a cycle of union hostility against the South. Go on, Doc Holiday, I bet you miss every shot!” The Hick’s speech effected Johnny, who didn’t want to perpetrate a cycle of union hostility against the South.
He took a drive down to his local Pawn & Gun, a fine establishment. A veritable vanguard of the capitalist system, the Pawn & Gun would buy practically anything from anyone. Johnny was counting on this. Trailing co-axial cables, carrying a bundle of electronics, he stumbled into the store front. The cashier, a jowly rural looking sort, silently appraised him and his cargo.
“I’m looking to sell this VCR equipment. How much will you give me?” Johnny stood there, waiting. And wait, he did, as this gawking hick stared him in the eye. Finally, he spoke.
“That there is one of them new fangled tape players? I’ll give yer a hundred bucks for it.” He scratched under his neck, a dried out, flaked desert of skin. He ate what he could pick off himself, paying no mind to Johnny’s presence.
“I bought this brand new, for seven hundred and fifty dollars retail. And quit picking at yourself, that’s revolting!” He was beginning to get mad. Here, this common rube was in charge.
“Yer free to leave, yankee, iff’n you don’t like my pricing.” He spat out a mouthful of black saliva into a soda can. His lip bulged with chew, and as he spoke, if you timed it just right, you could see the blackened nubs that were once teeth.
“Yankee? This is Washington! This is the heart of the Union. You’re the outsider, here. You come up to my state to open up a rip off joint like this? It’s like an act of war, all over again.” His eyes became dark. Something changed in Johnny’s posture. He seemed like a different person, one capable of almost anything.
“Whoa, whoa, relax, boy. There ain’t no need to raise’n your voice. I can see yer need some money, a’hum. I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll pay you two hunnert dollars and not a penny more.” The Hick always wondered what situation drove people to his establishment. To accept pennies on the dollar for their possessions. Desperation, he figured. There were more of them every day.
“You’re not being fair to me. I paid seven hundred fifty bucks for the thing, you’re gonna try and gyp me like that? I know where you work. All you know about me is that I own a VCR. I could make life difficult for you. Or you could treat me square, and pay me three hundred dollars. “ Johnny hinted, insinuated, wrapped threats in a thin veil, but the hick seemed oblivious.
“Three hunnert dollars? Fraid I can’t make up the profit on that one. Sorry, mister. Can’t see why I’d shell out so much cashola for yer fancy player.” The Hick stared his slack jawed stare, and offered his putrescence filled soda can to Johnny. The Hick couldn’t see seething fury, right in front of him. Johnny was at that moment, a man on the edge.
“Three hundred dollars! Or I come back, right around closing time with a can of gasoline and a baseball bat.” Johnny’s face was locked into a grimace, his mind whirring out of control.
“Alright, mister. But you might as well rob me at that point. You’ve got you some real anger issues, you know?” The Hick spoke with uncharacteristic intelligence. Still, Johnny had a mission, and a reason for the things he was doing. As the Hick counted off three hundred dollars, he eyed Johnny with disbelief. This yankee was crazy, he thought.
“I’m not a crook, like you! I just want what’s owed to me. I don’t want to be ripped off by shysters, trying to exploit the common man. The world’s full of people like you. Greedy, willing to cheat the less fortunate. I appreciate the transaction, you fat freak. Now, show me the reason this place is called the Pawn & Gun, and not just the Pawn. ” Johnny spoke for a while, venting his frustration with cheats and swindlers as the Hick led him to the partitioned area of the store that served as a gunshop.
“Alright. You’ve gotcher choice of shooting irons. Yer not gonna rob me, are you?” The Hick was unsettled by Johnny’s threats and demeanor. He seemed to have principles, and that could make him dangerous.
“I’m not gonna rob you! Didn’t you listen to a word I just said?! Now… How much for that there rifle?” Johnny was sick of dealing with this rube, but had no other choice.
“That’s a fine gun. Mini-14, costs three hunnerd and fifty dollars. You made a good choice. You got the cash?” The Hick grinned, having his fun with him.
“Can’t you cut me a break? You know all I have is three hundred. Like I said, I could come back later, when you close. I could burn you and your place to the ground, you pig.” Johnny ranted.
“Yep. You could shoot me, too! You know, if you had a gun. You could just take the gun, though. I mean, it would be theft, which you so honorably stated as being incapable of. Morally speaking, you’re not too consistent, man. If you can’t afford the gun, and you’re threatening to burn my place down, just take it!” The Hick was beginning to grow frustrated with Johnny, as well. The man’s yankee logic was flawed, but he seemed perhaps just crazy enough to do what he said he was going to.
“I’m not a thief, you southern fried piece of trash. What can I get for three hundred?! Just tell me that!” Johnny insulted the southerner who had irritated him so much. Johnny knew in his heart he wouldn’t burn down the Hick’s shop, but the Hick didn’t know that. Still, he was shrouded in ignorance thick enough to smear on bread. The Hick pointed to a pistol, a revolver. It was cheap, nowhere near worth three hundred dollars. But the Hick took Johnny as a mark, and in certain ways, he was.
“I’ll give you this one here and a box of ammo for yer three hunnert. It’s a good deal, man. Would I lie to you?” Yes. Johnny’s mind finished the Hick’s sentence in his head. He was being ripped off, that was for sure. But he was also running out of time. The President’s public appearance was at two, and it was already one. The Washington Hilton was a distance away, and he was cutting it close.
“Fine. You’ll get yours, one day. Maybe not from me, but from karma. You know what that is, you three toothed lump headed coot? You’re lucky I’m in a hurry. I have to shoot the president
.”
“Oh, sure, friend. Sic semper tyrannis! Long live the south! You didn’t strike me as a member of the confederacy, I’ll tell you that.”
“I am not part of the Confederacy! I’m doing this for my own reasons, you idiot! He’s a monster, he’s not human, you know!”
“Wow, mister. You’re crazier than I thought. I’m afraid iff’n you don’t want to shoot the president for the same reason as I do, I’ll have to report you to the secret service. You ain’t stealin’ the glory of the hunt from the hounds of the Confederacy!”
“Relax. I’m just kidding. I need this gun for huntin’ poor people.” Johnny hoped that the man would just shut up, and let him leave. Finally, he did.
“Well, that’s perfectly alright then. Come back any time, now, you hear?” The Hick had gotten one over on him. Johnny felt a twinge in his gut, and a deep sense of pawner’s remorse. As he inspected his shoddy firearm, he felt a dark urge manifest inside him. He found he suddenly would like to shoot the Hick. He loaded his pistol.
“You fixin’ to shoot me? Typical yankee act of aggression on an innocent southerner. You know what? I hope you screw it up! You look like a yellow bellied city boy who ain’t never seen fresh blood in his life! You’ll just be perpetrating a cycle of union hostility against the South. Go on, Doc Holiday, I bet you miss every shot!” The Hick’s speech effected Johnny, who didn’t want to perpetrate a cycle of union hostility against the South.
edit on 4-11-2013 by Grifter42 because: Clarity
Chapter 4
He lowered his pistol, and swallowed his pride. He would save his bullets for Reagan.
Johnny left the pawn shop with a cheap revolver of dubious reliability, and a deep feeling of frustration with society. Why did things have to be so difficult, he wondered. Why did people have to be so greedy? Ultimately, he couldn’t think of an answer. It was inherent in the system. There was no solution available to the common man. The president was some sort of monster, and they were drafting new anti-stalking laws that bore Johnny’s namesake. The eighties, Johnny thought, were not turning out for the better. He wished he could live in a better world, one without the horror of the putrid, gelatinous shape that hid in the form of Reagan. He fantasized about the parallel universe where he could live in wedded bliss with Jodie. But every time he got into the fantasy, the abject wrongness of what he had seen on television came to mind. He still wasn’t sure exactly what he had seen, but in the name of all that was decent, it wasn’t human. It was time to do what he had to do.
The Hilton Hotel was crowded with throngs of onlookers. Cheering multitudes had amassed outside the building to catch a glimpse of the president . The Secret Service bandied about, half-heartedly looking around. Who would shoot such a beloved actor such as Reagan? They wondered about all the blood, though. The job of guarding the president wasn’t exactly easy, especially Reagan. Very recently, they had arrived just in time to find the chief executive thwarting an attempt on his life by savagely disfiguring the man. Reagan explained to them that he had invited him in to teach him how to pull himself out of poverty. He hadn’t just carved his face up for no reason.
The Men in Black who were meant to protect him had become increasingly paranoid. Something just seemed off about Reagan. He wasn’t acting right. He never drank or ate in front of them, and he smelled constantly of slaughterhouse. Still, he was the president though, and they were duty bound to serve him. They watched over the crowd, scanned it once. Just a bunch of normal, every day Americans. They waved gun shaped American flags as they ate deep fried anything. They were piggish, without any teeth. There was no real threat from them.
Johnny made his way through the crowded with a loaded gun. He could hear only the roar of the crowd, and his own pounding heart as he grew closer to his target. This was it, his one chance. He saw the President. He looked human enough. Could he have been wrong? Was he just crazy? No. Johnny was sure that what he had seen was real. He might have been unhealthily fixated on Jodie Foster, but he had never suffered visual hallucinations before. He wasn’t that crazy. He had a loaded gun, ready to kill the president, sure. But he didn’t want to start second guessing himself.
He drew his revolver, and took aim. A shot rang out, and missed Reagan. The shot hit an unsuspecting officer in the head, dropping him. Johnny cursed his luck, and fired again. As the weapon rang out, a shot pierced the throat of another non-Reagan target. He fired again, veering off wildly into a window. He became worried. He fired at the group that now had surrounded the president in an attempt to shield him from the gunfire. As the bullet hit another police officer, Johnny felt a pang of remorse. He had to finish the job, though. He fired his fifth bullet. Dear God, the Hick was right, he thought to himself. He focused. He had one last shot. They were charging him, and it was unlikely that they’d be willing to politely wait while he reloaded. He had to make it count. The sights of the gun were unaccurate, and where they pointed had little relation to where the bullet aimed to vacation. He compensated for this, took his best shot, and hit the leader of the free world.
Black blood spewed from the president, as shocked onlookers watched the carnage unfold. The crowd was comprised of mostly average Americans, who weren’t used to seeing a man shoot several cops and then the president. Panic and confusion prevailed, as people reacted, first to the initial round of gunfire, and then to the sight of the downed president. He was bleeding copiously, a stinking jet black spray of what was akin to blood. The crowd became nauseated, as an indescribed stench overwhelmed them. It smelled like cadaverous, rancid death. It was of meat that had liquefied in the summer heat on the side of the road.
As the crowd choked and gasped, Johnny made a run for it. He had shot the president. The next part was going to be the hard part though. Now it was time for his getaway. He made a desperate run from the scene, tripping and falling after a few feet. Sickened secret service agents piled on to him, subduing this most dangerous gunman.
He lowered his pistol, and swallowed his pride. He would save his bullets for Reagan.
Johnny left the pawn shop with a cheap revolver of dubious reliability, and a deep feeling of frustration with society. Why did things have to be so difficult, he wondered. Why did people have to be so greedy? Ultimately, he couldn’t think of an answer. It was inherent in the system. There was no solution available to the common man. The president was some sort of monster, and they were drafting new anti-stalking laws that bore Johnny’s namesake. The eighties, Johnny thought, were not turning out for the better. He wished he could live in a better world, one without the horror of the putrid, gelatinous shape that hid in the form of Reagan. He fantasized about the parallel universe where he could live in wedded bliss with Jodie. But every time he got into the fantasy, the abject wrongness of what he had seen on television came to mind. He still wasn’t sure exactly what he had seen, but in the name of all that was decent, it wasn’t human. It was time to do what he had to do.
The Hilton Hotel was crowded with throngs of onlookers. Cheering multitudes had amassed outside the building to catch a glimpse of the president . The Secret Service bandied about, half-heartedly looking around. Who would shoot such a beloved actor such as Reagan? They wondered about all the blood, though. The job of guarding the president wasn’t exactly easy, especially Reagan. Very recently, they had arrived just in time to find the chief executive thwarting an attempt on his life by savagely disfiguring the man. Reagan explained to them that he had invited him in to teach him how to pull himself out of poverty. He hadn’t just carved his face up for no reason.
The Men in Black who were meant to protect him had become increasingly paranoid. Something just seemed off about Reagan. He wasn’t acting right. He never drank or ate in front of them, and he smelled constantly of slaughterhouse. Still, he was the president though, and they were duty bound to serve him. They watched over the crowd, scanned it once. Just a bunch of normal, every day Americans. They waved gun shaped American flags as they ate deep fried anything. They were piggish, without any teeth. There was no real threat from them.
Johnny made his way through the crowded with a loaded gun. He could hear only the roar of the crowd, and his own pounding heart as he grew closer to his target. This was it, his one chance. He saw the President. He looked human enough. Could he have been wrong? Was he just crazy? No. Johnny was sure that what he had seen was real. He might have been unhealthily fixated on Jodie Foster, but he had never suffered visual hallucinations before. He wasn’t that crazy. He had a loaded gun, ready to kill the president, sure. But he didn’t want to start second guessing himself.
He drew his revolver, and took aim. A shot rang out, and missed Reagan. The shot hit an unsuspecting officer in the head, dropping him. Johnny cursed his luck, and fired again. As the weapon rang out, a shot pierced the throat of another non-Reagan target. He fired again, veering off wildly into a window. He became worried. He fired at the group that now had surrounded the president in an attempt to shield him from the gunfire. As the bullet hit another police officer, Johnny felt a pang of remorse. He had to finish the job, though. He fired his fifth bullet. Dear God, the Hick was right, he thought to himself. He focused. He had one last shot. They were charging him, and it was unlikely that they’d be willing to politely wait while he reloaded. He had to make it count. The sights of the gun were unaccurate, and where they pointed had little relation to where the bullet aimed to vacation. He compensated for this, took his best shot, and hit the leader of the free world.
Black blood spewed from the president, as shocked onlookers watched the carnage unfold. The crowd was comprised of mostly average Americans, who weren’t used to seeing a man shoot several cops and then the president. Panic and confusion prevailed, as people reacted, first to the initial round of gunfire, and then to the sight of the downed president. He was bleeding copiously, a stinking jet black spray of what was akin to blood. The crowd became nauseated, as an indescribed stench overwhelmed them. It smelled like cadaverous, rancid death. It was of meat that had liquefied in the summer heat on the side of the road.
As the crowd choked and gasped, Johnny made a run for it. He had shot the president. The next part was going to be the hard part though. Now it was time for his getaway. He made a desperate run from the scene, tripping and falling after a few feet. Sickened secret service agents piled on to him, subduing this most dangerous gunman.
Chapter 5:
“The President’s been shot. This is the guy who did it. I’m taking him into custody. You two, stay with the president. Get him to a hospital.” A stern no-nonsense man barked out orders to his colleagues, as he loaded Johnny into the back of a car. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was thankful to be the man tasked with bringing in the shooter. The President had smelled of sickness, of a mass grave. He wasn’t a religious man, but what he had seen made him wonder if he had just seen the Devil. But he soon dismissed these thoughts.
“So what’s your name?” Johnny considered the situation. Here he was, in a car with a federal agent, after shooting the president. He had shot a human being. Not just one, even. Multiple people. As he thought about his unique position, the man spoke.
“I’m Agent Nameless. You’re in a lot of trouble, boy. You shot the President. Do you even realize what that means?” He glanced back at him in the rearview mirror.
“They’ll kill me? I was already a dead man. I know his secret! There’s no sense in lying about it. He’s not human, you know. Didn’t you see his blood? That wasn’t the blood of a human being. It was so noxious, disorienting. Some sort of defense mechanism, probably.” Johnny knew he sounded crazy, but it was the truth. What other than the truth could he use to explain his strike on Reagan? Honesty would set him free, he thought. Maybe there was a chance he could pull this around.
“You’re out of your goddamned mind. You shot the president of the united states! Human or not, your future doesn’t look too bright.” The Agent wondered if the man was telling the truth. He had seen the peculiar effect that the blood had caused among the crowd. Even if he was right though, there was nothing he could do. Johnny’s story was so crazy no one in their right mind would believe it. The only thing the Agent could do for Johnny would be to paint his as a complete lunatic at trial. He would be safe there, safe to live his life as a crazy person. Generally, lunatics were left alone once inside the asylum.
“I shot him for a reason, man. There’s something not right about him. It was for the good of the whole country. He’s fooled every one into thinking he’s human. I saw him though. For one brief moment, whatever keeps him in a man’s shape failed, and I saw what he really was.” Johnny gasped out his story to the skeptical agent. Still, the agent thought about the numerous times he had found the President covered in blood with no wounds of his own. He flashed to a repressed memory, of when he had made a desperate run for the restroom, finding an obscure bathroom in an alcove of the White House. He had wondered why the bath tub was full of partially dissolved meat and quicklime, but as he finished his business and flushed, the president calmly explained that the meat was not human. He never mentioned what it was, or why. Slightly suspicious, he thought.
“I’m an agent of the secret service. My job is to protect the president, no matter what.” He pulled into the parking lot of the police station that would hold him. It was the first of a long line of holding cells for Johnny.
Johnny snapped out of memory lane. He had faced trial, been sentenced to mental treatment, and sent to the nuthatch at Westwood. That was then, and this was now. He had to leave, to get out of this awful place. He had dwelled on the past for far too long, and it was time for him to move forward. He was ready this time. He had dealt with his demons, and he knew in his heart that he wasn’t crazy. So he knew it was time for him to escape. Few at Westwood knew of the abandoned wing of the asylum that had been left to the forces of nature. But Johnny did.
There were certain priviledges that even a model patient is not allowed, of course. The doors of the wing were locked, and forbidden, but Johnny wasn’t about to give up just because some shrink told him to. He had lifted a key off of one of the asylum guardsmen and had all intention to use it. During exercise, he slipped back inside. He made his way to the partition between the living asylum, and the darkness that faced him in the next wing. He unlocked the door, and stepped inside. As he closed it shut behind him, he felt all hope seem to blot out along with the light. He knew the appropriate lengths of each wing, their lay outs, and this one ought to be no different. But doing practice runs in the light didn’t exactly prepare him for navigating a wing in absolute darkness.
“The President’s been shot. This is the guy who did it. I’m taking him into custody. You two, stay with the president. Get him to a hospital.” A stern no-nonsense man barked out orders to his colleagues, as he loaded Johnny into the back of a car. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was thankful to be the man tasked with bringing in the shooter. The President had smelled of sickness, of a mass grave. He wasn’t a religious man, but what he had seen made him wonder if he had just seen the Devil. But he soon dismissed these thoughts.
“So what’s your name?” Johnny considered the situation. Here he was, in a car with a federal agent, after shooting the president. He had shot a human being. Not just one, even. Multiple people. As he thought about his unique position, the man spoke.
“I’m Agent Nameless. You’re in a lot of trouble, boy. You shot the President. Do you even realize what that means?” He glanced back at him in the rearview mirror.
“They’ll kill me? I was already a dead man. I know his secret! There’s no sense in lying about it. He’s not human, you know. Didn’t you see his blood? That wasn’t the blood of a human being. It was so noxious, disorienting. Some sort of defense mechanism, probably.” Johnny knew he sounded crazy, but it was the truth. What other than the truth could he use to explain his strike on Reagan? Honesty would set him free, he thought. Maybe there was a chance he could pull this around.
“You’re out of your goddamned mind. You shot the president of the united states! Human or not, your future doesn’t look too bright.” The Agent wondered if the man was telling the truth. He had seen the peculiar effect that the blood had caused among the crowd. Even if he was right though, there was nothing he could do. Johnny’s story was so crazy no one in their right mind would believe it. The only thing the Agent could do for Johnny would be to paint his as a complete lunatic at trial. He would be safe there, safe to live his life as a crazy person. Generally, lunatics were left alone once inside the asylum.
“I shot him for a reason, man. There’s something not right about him. It was for the good of the whole country. He’s fooled every one into thinking he’s human. I saw him though. For one brief moment, whatever keeps him in a man’s shape failed, and I saw what he really was.” Johnny gasped out his story to the skeptical agent. Still, the agent thought about the numerous times he had found the President covered in blood with no wounds of his own. He flashed to a repressed memory, of when he had made a desperate run for the restroom, finding an obscure bathroom in an alcove of the White House. He had wondered why the bath tub was full of partially dissolved meat and quicklime, but as he finished his business and flushed, the president calmly explained that the meat was not human. He never mentioned what it was, or why. Slightly suspicious, he thought.
“I’m an agent of the secret service. My job is to protect the president, no matter what.” He pulled into the parking lot of the police station that would hold him. It was the first of a long line of holding cells for Johnny.
Johnny snapped out of memory lane. He had faced trial, been sentenced to mental treatment, and sent to the nuthatch at Westwood. That was then, and this was now. He had to leave, to get out of this awful place. He had dwelled on the past for far too long, and it was time for him to move forward. He was ready this time. He had dealt with his demons, and he knew in his heart that he wasn’t crazy. So he knew it was time for him to escape. Few at Westwood knew of the abandoned wing of the asylum that had been left to the forces of nature. But Johnny did.
There were certain priviledges that even a model patient is not allowed, of course. The doors of the wing were locked, and forbidden, but Johnny wasn’t about to give up just because some shrink told him to. He had lifted a key off of one of the asylum guardsmen and had all intention to use it. During exercise, he slipped back inside. He made his way to the partition between the living asylum, and the darkness that faced him in the next wing. He unlocked the door, and stepped inside. As he closed it shut behind him, he felt all hope seem to blot out along with the light. He knew the appropriate lengths of each wing, their lay outs, and this one ought to be no different. But doing practice runs in the light didn’t exactly prepare him for navigating a wing in absolute darkness.
reply to post by Grifter42
Hopefully you guys like this, but if it's terrible, let me know and I'll stop at once and never deliver the conclusion.
Hopefully you guys like this, but if it's terrible, let me know and I'll stop at once and never deliver the conclusion.
Chapter 6
He wasn’t scared. He had stood in the darkness of the human soul for several years, dwelling on what he had done, and the woman he so deeply cared for. But he could dwell no longer. He stepped into the heart of darkness within the asylum’s forgotten privates, and he knew he could overcome it. In the back of his brain, he could see Reagan, his grotesque true face leering at him. It wasn’t real, he knew. The only living inhabitants of Wing-22 were the vermin. He had no fear of them, scurrying about in the darkness, living their lives and having their rodential families.
As he walked through piles of rat droppings, he paid no mind to the filth that surrounded him. Freedom was on the other side of this asylum. Freedom, and the natural beauty of the outlying woods. He would escape, there was no other choice. He could wallow in Westwood, play dumb, and appeal to the doctor’s sense of pity. But that was no realistic option. The doctors had no pity, only cold and clinical analysis of the men before them. He had made his choice in his mind, right or wrong.
“Johnny… It’s me. I… I love you. But you’ve got to stop. Reagan is an innocent.” He saw her. An angel. His one love, Jodie. But he knew it wasn’t her. Not truly. He closed his eyes, counted to ten. When he opened them, his love had changed. A blackened husk of a being was upon him. A loveless monster with a thousand eyes lurched towards him, all the while, declaring its love for him. He was repulsed, yet a part of him wanted to believe it was her.
“Johnny… I got your letters. No man has ever spoke to me like that. You… You truly love me, don’t you? I love you too. I was wrong, John. I thought all men were only interested in sex, but you care about me. I.. I don’t know how to say this, but I love you too.” ‘Jodie’ spoke to John, her voice ethereal, from another world. It seemed heavenly, even. John blinked, and his vision flickered. Jodie’s form turned to something else, a hag-faced illusion, and he took off running, It wasn’t her. And if it caught up to him, John knew it would feed on him. Each time he blinked, he could see the thing for what it truly was. And it was approaching him. Beckoning and calling out to him, the thing claiming to be Jodie attempted to lure Johnny in. His heart ached. He wanted to believe it was her. He’d have cut off his pinkie to have Jodie, but this thing, what ever it was, wasn’t her.
He rushed past, ignoring her claims of love while he fought his own emotions and desires to turn back, to embrace her. He knew in his heart that this Jodie-Thing would end him, kill him, damn him to ruination. He made a break for the door to the outside, fumbling to open the lock. He could hardly see, and his heart was beating so fast he thought it might burst. He found the keyhole, and thrust the key into the lock. The thing in the darkness crept ever closer, as he struggled to unlock the door. He jiggled the key back and forth, but the lock simply would not turn.
“Johnny… What’s the matter? Don’t you love me anymore?” The abomination spoke in a voice of an angel, his angel. Every word it said was like a dagger in his heart. He knew it was lying, that it’s outstretched arms did not intend to hug him. It was almost upon him. He struggled with the lock, hoping, praying. Finally, it turned, and he forced open the door to the outside. The only thing separating him from freedom was a chain link fence. He scaled it, and fled into the woods. He knew what he had to do. He had to finish what he had started so many years ago. It was time for him to fulfill his destiny.
He wasn’t scared. He had stood in the darkness of the human soul for several years, dwelling on what he had done, and the woman he so deeply cared for. But he could dwell no longer. He stepped into the heart of darkness within the asylum’s forgotten privates, and he knew he could overcome it. In the back of his brain, he could see Reagan, his grotesque true face leering at him. It wasn’t real, he knew. The only living inhabitants of Wing-22 were the vermin. He had no fear of them, scurrying about in the darkness, living their lives and having their rodential families.
As he walked through piles of rat droppings, he paid no mind to the filth that surrounded him. Freedom was on the other side of this asylum. Freedom, and the natural beauty of the outlying woods. He would escape, there was no other choice. He could wallow in Westwood, play dumb, and appeal to the doctor’s sense of pity. But that was no realistic option. The doctors had no pity, only cold and clinical analysis of the men before them. He had made his choice in his mind, right or wrong.
“Johnny… It’s me. I… I love you. But you’ve got to stop. Reagan is an innocent.” He saw her. An angel. His one love, Jodie. But he knew it wasn’t her. Not truly. He closed his eyes, counted to ten. When he opened them, his love had changed. A blackened husk of a being was upon him. A loveless monster with a thousand eyes lurched towards him, all the while, declaring its love for him. He was repulsed, yet a part of him wanted to believe it was her.
“Johnny… I got your letters. No man has ever spoke to me like that. You… You truly love me, don’t you? I love you too. I was wrong, John. I thought all men were only interested in sex, but you care about me. I.. I don’t know how to say this, but I love you too.” ‘Jodie’ spoke to John, her voice ethereal, from another world. It seemed heavenly, even. John blinked, and his vision flickered. Jodie’s form turned to something else, a hag-faced illusion, and he took off running, It wasn’t her. And if it caught up to him, John knew it would feed on him. Each time he blinked, he could see the thing for what it truly was. And it was approaching him. Beckoning and calling out to him, the thing claiming to be Jodie attempted to lure Johnny in. His heart ached. He wanted to believe it was her. He’d have cut off his pinkie to have Jodie, but this thing, what ever it was, wasn’t her.
He rushed past, ignoring her claims of love while he fought his own emotions and desires to turn back, to embrace her. He knew in his heart that this Jodie-Thing would end him, kill him, damn him to ruination. He made a break for the door to the outside, fumbling to open the lock. He could hardly see, and his heart was beating so fast he thought it might burst. He found the keyhole, and thrust the key into the lock. The thing in the darkness crept ever closer, as he struggled to unlock the door. He jiggled the key back and forth, but the lock simply would not turn.
“Johnny… What’s the matter? Don’t you love me anymore?” The abomination spoke in a voice of an angel, his angel. Every word it said was like a dagger in his heart. He knew it was lying, that it’s outstretched arms did not intend to hug him. It was almost upon him. He struggled with the lock, hoping, praying. Finally, it turned, and he forced open the door to the outside. The only thing separating him from freedom was a chain link fence. He scaled it, and fled into the woods. He knew what he had to do. He had to finish what he had started so many years ago. It was time for him to fulfill his destiny.
Hundreds of miles away, Reagan stood, facing himself in the mirror. He practiced his expressions. First, he practiced what a human does when it
smiles. Then, he practiced a show of remorse. He cycled through a variety of emotions and facial expressions, as he did every morning. It kept him
prepared in case of an event in which a human would normally feel emotion.
Oh, he wasn’t completely incapable of feeling. He felt hunger, if that counted. A sense of pack mentality with the other things which he called his family. And he most certainly could feel hatred. For years, he had kept an eye on Johnny in the asylum. He watched, wishing that he could kill him, snuff out his life like Johnny had tried to do to him. But Johnny was under constant watch at the asylum. It would cause too much suspicion to kill him while he was in psychiatric custody.
Soon though, he’d flush Johnny out. Right now though, he had more pressing matters to deal with. He turned away from the mirror, and walked into the next room. He had a film on. It starred Joe Pesci, and as a bit part, a certain actress that Reagan was thinking about. Foster’s connection to the film was tenuous, but he had always wanted to meet Joe Pesci. And to kill him, he would gain his strength.
He arrived at a doorstep of a well-built sub urban home. He knocked on the door. He heard no answer. He knocked harder. Through the door, he could hear footsteps.
“Yeah?! Who is it!” Reagan reasoned that Pesci would allow him to enter. He was Reagan. There was no refusing him, of course. The door swung open, and Reagan entered uninvited. Then, he went down like a sack of bricks. This was not supposed to be happening, he thought.
“You think I’m some lousy mook?! That, what, I’m like, stupid or something? I watch the news, pal. What, you think you can make me into a victim?” Pesci’s eyes blazed as he secured Reagan to a chair. Somehow this man had gotten the better of him. Simple cattle had turned the tables.
“Let me go. Do you know what they’ll do to you if they find out what you did to me?” Reagan attempted to persuade the erratic actor. But there was no convincing him. Pesci began digging in his closet, and found a toolbox.
“You know who you’re talking to? I’m the man who’s going to pull out your fingernails.” Pesci wasn’t a liar, either. He had with him a pair of pliers and he had intent to use them. With Reagan restrained, he began the arduous process of pulling out each and every fingernail that he had. Reagan never screamed though. He only stared at Pesci. Soon, the stench of Reagan’s blood filled the air, and Pesci began to choke.
“Did I forget to mention that my blood was toxic? I know, I ought to have warned you about it, but I’m self conscious. Did you really think it would be that easy?” Reagan watched as Pesci twitched and jerked. He had absorbed a large dose in a confined space.
“That’s… not… fair.” Pesci collapsed on the floor, dead. Reagan calmly broke free of his restraints. On the television that Pesci had left on the news channel, he found something of interest. Johnny had escaped. Reagan smiled, genuinely this time. He intended to make sure he found Johnny before the cops. When he did, a thousand creative and exquisite tortures would face him. He looked towards Pesci’s corpse. He had died quickly from the effects of the viscous black blood that filled Reagan’s veins. A shame, Reagan thought. He had wanted to show him how ineffective his torture methods were, and teach him some unique ones he had invented.
Ultimately though, Reagan knew it was time to finish the final stage of his plan. He knew where Jodie Foster was. Logically, Johnny would go towards her. He would deal with them both together. He left Pesci’s house, and got in the car. He began his journey towards the actress’ residence.
Oh, he wasn’t completely incapable of feeling. He felt hunger, if that counted. A sense of pack mentality with the other things which he called his family. And he most certainly could feel hatred. For years, he had kept an eye on Johnny in the asylum. He watched, wishing that he could kill him, snuff out his life like Johnny had tried to do to him. But Johnny was under constant watch at the asylum. It would cause too much suspicion to kill him while he was in psychiatric custody.
Soon though, he’d flush Johnny out. Right now though, he had more pressing matters to deal with. He turned away from the mirror, and walked into the next room. He had a film on. It starred Joe Pesci, and as a bit part, a certain actress that Reagan was thinking about. Foster’s connection to the film was tenuous, but he had always wanted to meet Joe Pesci. And to kill him, he would gain his strength.
He arrived at a doorstep of a well-built sub urban home. He knocked on the door. He heard no answer. He knocked harder. Through the door, he could hear footsteps.
“Yeah?! Who is it!” Reagan reasoned that Pesci would allow him to enter. He was Reagan. There was no refusing him, of course. The door swung open, and Reagan entered uninvited. Then, he went down like a sack of bricks. This was not supposed to be happening, he thought.
“You think I’m some lousy mook?! That, what, I’m like, stupid or something? I watch the news, pal. What, you think you can make me into a victim?” Pesci’s eyes blazed as he secured Reagan to a chair. Somehow this man had gotten the better of him. Simple cattle had turned the tables.
“Let me go. Do you know what they’ll do to you if they find out what you did to me?” Reagan attempted to persuade the erratic actor. But there was no convincing him. Pesci began digging in his closet, and found a toolbox.
“You know who you’re talking to? I’m the man who’s going to pull out your fingernails.” Pesci wasn’t a liar, either. He had with him a pair of pliers and he had intent to use them. With Reagan restrained, he began the arduous process of pulling out each and every fingernail that he had. Reagan never screamed though. He only stared at Pesci. Soon, the stench of Reagan’s blood filled the air, and Pesci began to choke.
“Did I forget to mention that my blood was toxic? I know, I ought to have warned you about it, but I’m self conscious. Did you really think it would be that easy?” Reagan watched as Pesci twitched and jerked. He had absorbed a large dose in a confined space.
“That’s… not… fair.” Pesci collapsed on the floor, dead. Reagan calmly broke free of his restraints. On the television that Pesci had left on the news channel, he found something of interest. Johnny had escaped. Reagan smiled, genuinely this time. He intended to make sure he found Johnny before the cops. When he did, a thousand creative and exquisite tortures would face him. He looked towards Pesci’s corpse. He had died quickly from the effects of the viscous black blood that filled Reagan’s veins. A shame, Reagan thought. He had wanted to show him how ineffective his torture methods were, and teach him some unique ones he had invented.
Ultimately though, Reagan knew it was time to finish the final stage of his plan. He knew where Jodie Foster was. Logically, Johnny would go towards her. He would deal with them both together. He left Pesci’s house, and got in the car. He began his journey towards the actress’ residence.
Johnny was at her house. He had done things to get there, begged, robbed, borrowed from any one he could. A large wrought iron gate surrounded it,
lined with signs demanding that intruders stay out. He made his way to the intercom on the side of the gate, and buzzed the buzzer. From a
surveillance camera, Jodie saw him. Against her better judgement, she opened the gate. Johnny ran to the door, and knocked. She opened the door.
“Jodie. I need to talk to you about something very important.” Johnny’s face was beet red. Here was the love of his life, right in front of him. But there was no time for romance.
“I already told you, we could never be together. I am not attracted to you, John.” Jodie didn’t know why she had let him in. She assumed he was here to profess his undying love. But during these times when her colleagues were dropping dead all around her, Jodie would tolerate Johnny’s obsession in order to take advantage of his devotion. She knew he would fight to the death if the killer attempted to strike at her.
“Jodie… It isn’t about that. I’ll always care about you, but there’s a killer on the loose, and I’m not going to let you become another headline in the newspaper. I’m here to protect you.” Johnny was stoic. He had dealt with his excessive feelings towards Jodie in therapy, but he would never be able to live with himself if she died. It wasn’t right to let a lady die so horrifically, to fall victim to whatever twisted monstrous death that Reagan would choose for her.
“John.. Do you know who’s doing this?” Jodie was scared. She tried to be brave, to put up a courageous façade, but fell short of being convincing.
“It’s Ronald Reagan. I wouldn’t believe it either, if I hadn’t see him with my own eyes. He was killing people connected to you, so that…” Another voice cut Johnny off.
“You would break out of the asylum, and come to protect her.” It was him. Reagan was there, in the flesh. Without making a sound, he had somehow entered the room.
“Leave Jodie alone, Reagan! She had nothing to do with any of this! This is between you and me. I’m here now. Just… Let Jodie go, and you can kill me.” Johnny spoke, as Reagan eyed him.
“I can kill you, and her, John. This isn’t a one or the other sort of deal.” Reagan’s eyes gleamed as he looked over his next intended victims.
“Let her leave or I’ll burn us all alive. I swear to God, I’ll do it.” Johnny held up a glass bottle filled with a murky liquid, the opening stuffed with a rag. He flicked a zippo lighter. Reagan stepped back.
“You wouldn’t burn the woman you love to death.” Reagan glared at him. He wondered if he really had the guts.
“It’s a better death than what you have planned for us. I’ll do it, Reagan! Let her go! Then, it’ll just be me and you. Let the girl go, and I’ll put the Molotov down.” Johnny’s hands quivered. His zippo was growing increasingly hot. It was beginning to be painful. Reagan sighed, and nodded his head.
“Ms. Foster, you may leave. Consider every day that I allow you to live to be a gift from me.” Reagan grinned, and Jodie fled out the door. Now it was just Reagan and Johnny. Johnny began to grimace, the zippo scorching a rectangular branding into the flesh of his hand.
“What’s your plan, John? You think that I haven’t accounted for every single possible option you could devise? You’re a dead man.”
“And so are you.” Johnny’s face contorted as the lighter seared his hand. He lit the wick, and threw it at Reagan as hard as he could. With a whump, he ignited, and charged towards Johnny. The flames spread through the house, following Reagan who pursued Johnny. It was an inferno, thick smoke clouding the halls of the Foster residence. He finally made his way to the door, Reagan quick on his heels, still ablaze. As the chase expanded to the lawn, the house went up like a torch behind them. Reagan slowed from a run to a walk, Johnny outpacing him. Then, he came to a stop, just standing there, burning. From his mouth came a noise unlike any on Earth, a grotesque gurgling cry of pain. He collapsed, and continued to burn.
Jodie observed the series of events from the bushes, Reagan’s seemingly inhuman pain tolerance, the way he had just kept on going while on fire. But it was over now. Reagan had fallen. She ran to Johnny and embraced him.
“Jodie… What?!” Johnny was confused. He was in love with her, but he never expected her to feel the same way. But her she was, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Johnny, you saved my life. All this time, I thought you were crazy… But you were right! The way I treated you… I feel so bad. You were just trying to save me. I realized something, Johnny. I need you. I need you to stay in my life.” She was enamored with him, her knight in shining armor. But Johnny knew it wouldn’t happen.
“I’ll always love you, Jodie. But we can’t be together. They’ll never stop hunting me now. I love you too much to put you in that much danger. Reagan’s dead now. But I’m a wanted man. You’re a beautiful and talented actress. You’ve got a future ahead of you. Me, I have no future. I have to go now.” Johnny made his way to the car he had borrowed without permission and got in.
“Johnny?” Jodie watched him drive away. In four days, he was across the border, living his life in quiet anonymity. He’d never forget her though.
THE END
“Jodie. I need to talk to you about something very important.” Johnny’s face was beet red. Here was the love of his life, right in front of him. But there was no time for romance.
“I already told you, we could never be together. I am not attracted to you, John.” Jodie didn’t know why she had let him in. She assumed he was here to profess his undying love. But during these times when her colleagues were dropping dead all around her, Jodie would tolerate Johnny’s obsession in order to take advantage of his devotion. She knew he would fight to the death if the killer attempted to strike at her.
“Jodie… It isn’t about that. I’ll always care about you, but there’s a killer on the loose, and I’m not going to let you become another headline in the newspaper. I’m here to protect you.” Johnny was stoic. He had dealt with his excessive feelings towards Jodie in therapy, but he would never be able to live with himself if she died. It wasn’t right to let a lady die so horrifically, to fall victim to whatever twisted monstrous death that Reagan would choose for her.
“John.. Do you know who’s doing this?” Jodie was scared. She tried to be brave, to put up a courageous façade, but fell short of being convincing.
“It’s Ronald Reagan. I wouldn’t believe it either, if I hadn’t see him with my own eyes. He was killing people connected to you, so that…” Another voice cut Johnny off.
“You would break out of the asylum, and come to protect her.” It was him. Reagan was there, in the flesh. Without making a sound, he had somehow entered the room.
“Leave Jodie alone, Reagan! She had nothing to do with any of this! This is between you and me. I’m here now. Just… Let Jodie go, and you can kill me.” Johnny spoke, as Reagan eyed him.
“I can kill you, and her, John. This isn’t a one or the other sort of deal.” Reagan’s eyes gleamed as he looked over his next intended victims.
“Let her leave or I’ll burn us all alive. I swear to God, I’ll do it.” Johnny held up a glass bottle filled with a murky liquid, the opening stuffed with a rag. He flicked a zippo lighter. Reagan stepped back.
“You wouldn’t burn the woman you love to death.” Reagan glared at him. He wondered if he really had the guts.
“It’s a better death than what you have planned for us. I’ll do it, Reagan! Let her go! Then, it’ll just be me and you. Let the girl go, and I’ll put the Molotov down.” Johnny’s hands quivered. His zippo was growing increasingly hot. It was beginning to be painful. Reagan sighed, and nodded his head.
“Ms. Foster, you may leave. Consider every day that I allow you to live to be a gift from me.” Reagan grinned, and Jodie fled out the door. Now it was just Reagan and Johnny. Johnny began to grimace, the zippo scorching a rectangular branding into the flesh of his hand.
“What’s your plan, John? You think that I haven’t accounted for every single possible option you could devise? You’re a dead man.”
“And so are you.” Johnny’s face contorted as the lighter seared his hand. He lit the wick, and threw it at Reagan as hard as he could. With a whump, he ignited, and charged towards Johnny. The flames spread through the house, following Reagan who pursued Johnny. It was an inferno, thick smoke clouding the halls of the Foster residence. He finally made his way to the door, Reagan quick on his heels, still ablaze. As the chase expanded to the lawn, the house went up like a torch behind them. Reagan slowed from a run to a walk, Johnny outpacing him. Then, he came to a stop, just standing there, burning. From his mouth came a noise unlike any on Earth, a grotesque gurgling cry of pain. He collapsed, and continued to burn.
Jodie observed the series of events from the bushes, Reagan’s seemingly inhuman pain tolerance, the way he had just kept on going while on fire. But it was over now. Reagan had fallen. She ran to Johnny and embraced him.
“Jodie… What?!” Johnny was confused. He was in love with her, but he never expected her to feel the same way. But her she was, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Johnny, you saved my life. All this time, I thought you were crazy… But you were right! The way I treated you… I feel so bad. You were just trying to save me. I realized something, Johnny. I need you. I need you to stay in my life.” She was enamored with him, her knight in shining armor. But Johnny knew it wouldn’t happen.
“I’ll always love you, Jodie. But we can’t be together. They’ll never stop hunting me now. I love you too much to put you in that much danger. Reagan’s dead now. But I’m a wanted man. You’re a beautiful and talented actress. You’ve got a future ahead of you. Me, I have no future. I have to go now.” Johnny made his way to the car he had borrowed without permission and got in.
“Johnny?” Jodie watched him drive away. In four days, he was across the border, living his life in quiet anonymity. He’d never forget her though.
THE END
reply to post by Grifter42
I know this is a bizarre request, but is it possible that I could get this thread deleted when I'm finished with the second draft? The version on here, I'm unsatisfied with. It's missing thousands of words of plot and characterization that I added in after thinking it over. I'm rewriting the whole last act, which is pretty significant, and is pretty anticlimactic in this version.
I got a much better draft in the works, and I think I'm going to change the title. The Reagan Murders was more of a work in progress of a title anyway.. Stay tuned, folks, if you're interested.
I know this is a bizarre request, but is it possible that I could get this thread deleted when I'm finished with the second draft? The version on here, I'm unsatisfied with. It's missing thousands of words of plot and characterization that I added in after thinking it over. I'm rewriting the whole last act, which is pretty significant, and is pretty anticlimactic in this version.
I got a much better draft in the works, and I think I'm going to change the title. The Reagan Murders was more of a work in progress of a title anyway.. Stay tuned, folks, if you're interested.
I've read it. Actually one more chapter but by the time this posts it'll be read.
It's awesome as well as funny and disturbing .
For some reason because of the way you wrote it,
I almost picture Reagan as a hybrid between
himself and Bill Hicks version of Jack Palance in the skit
where he says "pick up the gun".
www.youtube.com...
Call me if it turns into a movie and you need a casting
director not muddied up by little things like experience.
Speaking of Hollywood, you are a very kind artist to release this
all at once the way you did.
However, if I were your manager without nuisances
like experince to cloud my judgement , I'd advise on the second draft
to release one chapter and don't say a word for 3 days.
ATS can't stand that sort of thing. I wish you could do all caps..
Small bites seem to work better for many peoples attention spans.
Me being one of them.
The title is hard to top, but on your second thread maybe
simply drop the word "The" from the title. That's truly the only
change I'd say for you to maybe think about. Mostly because it would convey
the double meaning of your lead character. There are murders
and he does it.
I'll be back in 15 min.
It's awesome as well as funny and disturbing .
For some reason because of the way you wrote it,
I almost picture Reagan as a hybrid between
himself and Bill Hicks version of Jack Palance in the skit
where he says "pick up the gun".
www.youtube.com...
Call me if it turns into a movie and you need a casting
director not muddied up by little things like experience.
Speaking of Hollywood, you are a very kind artist to release this
all at once the way you did.
However, if I were your manager without nuisances
like experince to cloud my judgement , I'd advise on the second draft
to release one chapter and don't say a word for 3 days.
ATS can't stand that sort of thing. I wish you could do all caps..
Small bites seem to work better for many peoples attention spans.
Me being one of them.
The title is hard to top, but on your second thread maybe
simply drop the word "The" from the title. That's truly the only
change I'd say for you to maybe think about. Mostly because it would convey
the double meaning of your lead character. There are murders
and he does it.
I'll be back in 15 min.
Yay ! What I hoped had happened happened!
It's really funny. My favorite line of all is the last line
of Chapter 4 . Brilliant .
Its possible you might slightly offend a southerner or two.
I'm one, but not one, if you know what I mean...
Think about what I said and make'em wait.
One bite at a time.
Hopefully the ModGods will smile down and delete this one before
the next one is out.
It's really funny. My favorite line of all is the last line
of Chapter 4 . Brilliant .
Its possible you might slightly offend a southerner or two.
I'm one, but not one, if you know what I mean...
Think about what I said and make'em wait.
One bite at a time.
Hopefully the ModGods will smile down and delete this one before
the next one is out.
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