by James Hammell

Created on: October 31, 2009   Last Updated: November 01, 2009

Nov. 30/2008

Creedence Clearwater Revival's; Run Through the Jungle, echoes off of the thick, moss draped trunks of the giant Douglas Firs that guard a small clearing in Vancouver's Stanley Park.

Ronny Beeres kneels in the center with his hands bound tightly in front of him, watching a tall thin figure, dressed in a long black rubber raincoat stride around the perimeter with his knee high, red rimmed rubber boots stomping upon the nettled ground. A black cowboy hat is pulled down so that the front brim sits low on the maniac's forehead, as he swirls and slashes the misty air above his head with a three foot saber gripped loosely in his gloved right hand.

Ronny tries to stand; he grimaces with the excruciating pain that emanates from his severed Achilles tendons and sinks back down on to his cold, damp, denim clad knees. It wasn't very sporting of me to cripple you like this, was it Ronny? hisses the frightening attacker, like a venomous serpent.

Everything is a blur; Ronny is on the wrong end of this. Why is this happening? he hoarsely whispers, I am the intimidator. Tears blur his vision as he feels the warm dampness in his lap, the final indignation; this is not the way I am supposed to die, he cries softly to himself. Then he does something that he hasn't done since he was six years old; other than wet himself that is; he prays.

Homeless and chilled to the bone by the cold damp air; Carl stumbles through the dense brush towards the music that has wound its way through the forest to him. He hopes to find more treasures. He proceeds more cautiously as the music grows louder, woods, monsters, he whispers.

A small boom box sits on a stump in the clearing, Run through the Jungle ends and Sheryl Crow takes over, providing the background music to the second act of this macabre little play. Her gravelly voice resonates from the vibrating stereo, filling the air in the small, leaf strewn, mossy arena, oozing past the tall trees, until it is drowned out by the drone of the thousands of cars idling bumper to bumper, creeping over nearby Lions Gate Bridge, during afternoon rush hour.

The defenseless biker shakes with fear as the murderous scarecrow moves in closer, with that gleaming silvery saber held high in the air. Sheryl Crow sings: The first cut is the deepest! The choreography is perfect as the razor sharp blade hurtles, towards the nape of Ronnie's neck. There is a sudden intense searing pain as the knife passes clear through skin, flesh and bone, the red-heat

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