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 of the moment of impact fades into a blue-coldness that slowly takes over as the blood drains from his disembodied head. Through the blurred film of watery eyes; seconds before his vision clouds and fades into eternal blackness; he watches his own shimmering, wavering, headless body hesitate and then fall, slow motion-like; from its knees onto the soft, damp, mossy ground.
It wasn't his wasted, miserable short life that passed before his eyes; it was the wonderment that it took so long for his brain to register the fact that it was no longer connected to his life's engine; his heart was pumping blood that no longer served its prime purpose; it was spurting redness out of his stump of a neck into the damp misty air, like some cheap Wal-Mart garden fountain.
Stuttering, troubled, orally challenged Carl is frozen in fear as he witnesses the grisly scene. An ice cold chill runs up his spine, as the monster bends over the prone headless body; picks up the severed head by the hair, suddenly looks up and stares deeply into his eyes.
Regaining mobility in his petrified limbs, Carl turns and slips and stumbles his way through the clutching branches of the dense bush; chased by an invisible evil, with the hair on the back of his neck standing on edge, he finds his way back to the comfort of his back lanes and dark alleys.
Overflowing garbage bins, hard brick walls, cardboard homes and self medicating junkies welcome him, as he stumbles along muttering; Clearwater, Crow, Highlander, Depp, Ickabob, monster.
Katie reaches out to greet her friend Crazy Carl, but she can see that he is agitated, so she pulls back and silently watches him pass. As she draws the thin tattered blanket around her bony shoulders, a bitterly cold breeze scoots up the alley and her cardboard walls do nothing to protect her from it.
As she stares at the thin rubber tubing in her left hand, a lone tear seeps out from the corner of one of her startling green eyes and rolls down her pale, stone cold, acne covered cheek. The quivering salty droplet clings to the bottom of her chin, hesitating; as if in anticipation of the drop to the cold, hard, wet asphalt below. Daddy, why did you leave us? she whispers, as the teardrop falls.
Soon heroin induced ecstasy will muddle up her thoughts, but not just yet. In this rare moment of clarity; memories of the three photographs on mommy's dresser invade her thoughts.
In the first picture; a newborn chubby Katie is being held lovingly against her mommy's naked breast, tears of happiness water mommy's eyes.
In the second photo; a three year old Katie, with blond ringlets and dressed in a pretty red dress is sitting on Santa daddy's knee, hugging her brand new baby doll against her tiny chest. Her baby doll was dressed in a similar red dress and had matching blond curls, but with one green eye and one blue. What are you going to name her? Daddy had asked.
Diarrhea, was Cute Katie's answer.
Daddy had laughed, and said that is such a pretty name for such a pretty baby doll.
The last photo was of a twelve year old Katie already starting to develop; enjoying her last summer of innocence, at the police picnic. She was in her red one piece suit, splashing in the ice cold glacial water of Alouette Lake with daddy standing ankle deep, on one foot, trying to avoid getting wet. A few months later daddy left.
It wasn't long after he left them, that mommy started drinking more and more and bringing home new man friends. Then Edgar moved in, Katie hated Edgar right from the beginning. It wasn't long before he was coming into her room late at night with his disgusting tattoos, rough calloused hands and boozy breath. She wanted to scream; but she couldn't, she was so ashamed.
When she was alone in the house, she would sneak into her mommy's room and lie on the bed looking at the photographs. She would also go into the closet and sit on the floor hugging daddy's favorite sweater tight against her chest, breathing in his essence.
A few months later she ran away and ran and ran, wearing daddy's baggy oversized sweater and carrying her baby doll.
As daylight surrenders to the darkness of the night, Junkie Katie; light years from the little girl in the photographs, now sitting on the cold wet asphalt with her back against the hard damp brick wall; pulls up the long sleeve of the large, dirty, ragged sweater and wraps the tubing around her left arm just above the elbow. She holds one end clenched between her teeth and with the other end in her right hand, she deftly ties it, pulling it tight.
At the same time; beat cops Helman and Schwartz enter the alley. Gees; look at that scank shooting up against the wall over there. Helman growls with disgust. I'll never get used to seeing that. Hey! he shouts, shaking his baton, at the startled girl, you stick that needle in your arm in front of me, and I'll smack you with this club!
A ranting, Crazy Carl, with his oversized, expensive, grey Nike cross-trainers flopping on the cold hard asphalt, attacks the two monsters. Clearwater, Crow, Highlander, Depp, Ickabob, monster! Schwartz's taser puts him on the ground convulsing as they cuff his hands behind his back.