Knock, knock...

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       While writing “Nekked” I started thinking about where I was going to go next. I mean, how could I top a nude werewolf? I have a couple of Taser stories (which I might get into later), but I wanted to do something that you can’t get from your favorite morning radio talk show. I wanted to follow up with something unique, something that nobody else has written about or would think to write about. It had to be something with a bit of excited tension but funny as well…

          How about doors?

          You heard me, I said doors.

        But Graham, I thought you were going to write “cop” stories. What do doors have to do with police work?

    Well, a lot actually. For starters, there’s that whole “Fourth Amendment thing” that rambles on about searches, seizures, warrants…blah-blah-blah. Not to mention the fact that every day, cops are faced with situations in which their lives and careers hinge (sorry) upon the existence of doors.

       So what is a door? According to the World English Dictionary, it’s defined as a movable barrier used to open and close the entrance to a building, room, closet, or vehicle, usually a solid panel, hinged to or sliding in a frame.

         I think we can all agree on that, right?

        What if I told you they are also malevolent entities sent forth from the netherworld whose sole purpose is thwart the efforts of certain people wishing to traverse their sphere of influence?

         That got your attention, didn’t it?

         But Graham, how can you say that? A door doesn’t have malicious intent... does it?

       Ok, maybe not actual intent, but in my opinion; doors are dangerous. When they’re closed, by design, you can’t see beyond them. When they’re open, that’s a possible indication that you might be walking into some bad shit. In SWAT, we even had a cute little name for them; “the fatal funnel”, for obvious reasons. Whether a situation might call for a dynamic or slow and methodical entry, tactical teams train for hours on how to navigate these potentially lethal chokepoints as quickly and safely as possible.

        All that being said, there’s a bit of a “pucker factor” when dealing with doors; at least in my experience. Maybe that’s what makes the next couple of scenarios so amusing…

      Patrol, the basis of law enforcement. The frontline of justice separating society from the dregs of humanity, all for less money than your local street sweeper. Anything can happen out on the streets and oftentimes does. That’s the life of a cop, that was my life. My name is Saturley and I (used to) carry a badge… dah-ta-dun-dun.

         St. John Louisiana, Andouille capitol of the world. A suburb of New Orleans, it’s the only place along the Mississippi River where shit runs up-stream and settles.

     On xx/xx/xxxx at approximately 1435 hours, I, Deputy G.E. Saturley along with Corporal Joseph A. Shmoe were dispatched to 1234 South Rat-hole Avenue in response to a domestic disturbance. Upon arrival, both myself and Cpl. Shmoe heard the sounds of a physical altercation taking place within the residence in question.

    Approaching the front door of the residence, Cpl. Shmoe knocked and, in a loud voice, announced the presence of Law Enforcement. At that time, I observed an unidentified male subject pull back the curtains of one window which he promptly replaced and then (apparently) returned to “smacking his bitch up”.

  Originating from a location inside the residence, Deputies heard a woman scream “he’s got a gun”, which drastically changed the dynamics of the call. At that time, both myself and Cpl. Shmoe felt that exigent circumstances had created a need for immediate action.

    I maintained cover on the front window of the residence as Cpl. Shmoe attempted to breach the front door with a kick. At which point Cpl. Shmoe’s foot passed through one of four panels in said door, causing him to become stuck in the opening up to his thigh and leaving him balancing on one leg.

  (Trying not to laugh) I proceeded to Cpl. Shmoe’s position where I began dragging him from the door and deposited him securely on both feet. Cpl. Shmoe then turned back towards the door and prepared to kick again…

          (Now think about this. There’s already a hole through the door, (In other words Hole: 1. cavity: a hollow space in a solid object or area.) and this guy was getting ready to kick it again.)

      Seeing my partner’s intentions, I instructed him to wait. At which time I was informed by Cpl. Shmoe that the woman inside needed our help and was abruptly reprimanded for cowardice in the line of duty and ordered to step aside as I was wasting precious time…

          Wait, I was wasting precious time?

     After pushing Cpl. Shmoe to one side, I reached in through the hole in the door and unlocked the deadbolt from inside. I then swept a hand towards the now open door so that (the heroic) Cpl. Shmoe could save the day. At that time, I observed a look on Cpl. Shmoe’s face which is difficult for this officer to explain.   

    (Long story short) Upon entering the residence, it was determined that there (thankfully) was no weapon and the woman involved was intoxicated and had initiated the disturbance. EMT was dispatched to treat the male subject for minor lacerations. The female was then advised of her rights per Miranda, placed under arrest and transported to corrections for booking.

        If this had gone a little differently, it could have been a bad situation. Fortunately for everybody involved we can now look back at it and laugh.

          Another incident that comes to mind also involves my time on patrol but, for the sake of inconsistency, I won’t write it in pseudo-report form. As was often the case, I was out looking for something to get into. On this particular occasion I had parked off in the alleyway of a high crime area and observed what I suspected to be a hand to hand  transaction involving illegal narcotics.

          Gunning my vehicle, I drove right at the offenders, screeching to a halt some five feet away from them and jumped out screaming “Stop, in the name of the law!” (or something along those lines) Much to my chagrin and, as was to be expected, my suspects took off like bats out of Hell in opposite directions.

         This is where I should tell you, I don’t like running. I mean, not at all. I’m just not built for it and I find  that whole heavy breathing thing to be objectionable at the very least. But the one thing I disliked more than running was having a possible suspect get away (see “The Water-Lizard and the Buffalo” by Graham E. Saturley). So I ran after the slowest of the two.

          I chased that little bas... Excuse me. What I mean to say is that I pursued the subject in question, from the sidewalk where the alleged crime had taken place all the way to his house. Which, in retrospect, was approximately forty (excruciating) feet from the edge of the street.

          My suspect swung his front door open and looked back where I was still in the process of rounding my vehicle’s front end (did I mention that I’m also kind of slow?) He then waited the fifteen minutes it took for my foot to hit the front porch before slamming the door right in my face.

         Rawwwrrrr! Graham no like slammed door! Graham smash! So in a fit of frustration I pounded my fists once against opposite sides of the door jamb…and watched in horror as the entire thing fell inwards and landed on top of my suspect and his mother.

         Leave it to me to find the one door in the projects framed in balsa wood.  And to make matters worse, it turned out the guy had nothing on him. So, after the department promised to fix his momma’s door in lieu of her filing a formal complaint against me, I opted not to pursue charges. Benevolent of me, I know.

          I wish I could tell you that every door I came across was as easy to break down, but I can’t. Take for example the case our Narcotics Unit did with the DEA a few years back. It was meant to be a simple “rip”. In other words, we were using an undercover agent to purchase dope from a bad guy and planned to swarm the suspect once the deal was done. Afterwards, we would execute a search warrant at the suspects house and get the rest of his supply.

          At least, that was the plan.

         Without getting into to many details, the bust went off without a hitch with everybody keeping all their fingers and toes. However, what we soon discovered was that one of our primary targets was not on scene. What’s worse, it appeared that the bad guy on the set had shot a call to his partner who was still at the house with the rest of the stuff.

         This is a perfect example of what is sometimes referred to in the business as an “Oh shit” situation. And yes, that is the technical term.

        A small cadre of about six of us broke off from the main party and high-tailed it to the suspect’s residence where, upon our approach, one of us saw somebody peeking through the window. (I don’t know why they do it, but you’d be surprised how often it happens)

          As our team exited our vehicles and stacked up on the front door somebody yelled, “Get the ram! Get the ram!” which, from where I was standing in front of a barred window, sounded like a great idea me. I worked on controlling my pulse, which beat like a Tommy Lee drum solo and eagerly awaited what I knew would be a burly, Federal Juggernaut equipped with all kinds of cool breaching gear, to round the corner and flatten the door. Going over my own diagnostic check, I press checked my weapon for the fifteenth time, slowed my breathing and waited…

           And waited… and waited…

       When our master key didn’t arrive as quickly as I would have liked, I thought maybe I was experiencing some kind of tunnel vision. I looked around from my place in the stack and realized everybody else was looking around at each other. 

         “Did you hear me?” one of their agents asked one of our agents. “Get your ram." 

          “Our ram?” we asked as one,

        “Wait, you knew we were going to hit a house and your forgot the ram?” the indignant DEA guy asked.

          “Hey, we rode with you.” one of our guys said, “This is your operation.”

          Here came that “Oh shit” feeling…again.

         We now had six narcotics officers armed to the teeth and decked out in full entry gear standing in the front yard of a house where a known mid-level and possibly armed  drug dealer was holed up and not one of us had a battering ram. On top of that, we were now arguing amongst us as to who’s fault it was.

          Great.

          I looked to both sides hoping one of the senior guys on the scene would make a suggestion. Instead all I saw was discontent. I mean, I could understand both sides; the Feds, thinking we were a bunch of local yokels considered us amateur. We, on the other hand, figured the all powerful DEA would come prepared for anything. But standing there bickering wasn’t solving anything. We still had a job to do.

          Wait a second, maybe I could somehow use this to my advantage. I now had the opportunity to show off my gift for quick thinking and problem solving to my commanders. At the same time I’d help our motley band of Narcs save face in the eyes of our federal big brothers, who in turn would be so impressed with my ability they would instantly accept me into the fold, rewarding me with a position in Miami or some other similarly bitchin locale. That was it, I would single handedly deal with the situation at hand and in doing so, guarantee my position as the real Sonny Crocket.

            But how?

          Then, as had happened in the lair of the Rougarou a few years before, something inside of me took over and I immediately recognized the solution to our dilemma in the form of a metal garden bench situated in a flower bed next door.

          “I got it,” I said and dashed over to my impromptu battering ram.

       Wrenching the bench’s legs from the overgrown St. Augustine “grass’, I hefted it, noticing in my adrenaline infused state that the thing was far lighter than I had expected. I had obviously tapped into some primal attribute akin to the strength a mother experiences when a car lands upon their child. I could feel my now unbridled powers coursing through my veins and the fire within me stoked to a white hot. Nothing, let alone a flimsy house door, could stand in my way.

         Running back to the door I prepared myself for the first blow, noticing the approving looks and nods from my peers along the way. Ha-ha, I had them right where I wanted. All eyes were upon me and I basked in thoughts of the eventual praise that would surely be heaped upon me after my foray against the offending portal.

        Taking a deep breath, I grasped my unwieldy battering bench by one armrest and a leg and reared back. With a fearsome battle cry originating in the reptilian part of my brain, I drove forward, slamming my metallic bludgeon full force into the door...

      This is where I need to pause and discuss the fundamentals of metallurgy. Unlike cast iron, cast aluminum, as in the type of metal from which my ram was forged, is light and brittle.

          Extremely brittle.

         So brittle in fact, that when I slammed it into the door, there was an initial accordion effect as the whole thing folded upon itself and then shattered, disintegrating in my hands… right before I plowed headlong into the closed door.  

          To their credit, nobody said anything at the time. Even though I swear I heard somebody snort once.

          But I was undaunted. This little setback would not prevent me from achieving my goal of getting inside that house and securing my transfer to super-cool, pastel jacket and sunglass wearing status. I still felt strong and so, with years of martial arts training under my belt, I cocked my leg back and with the force of a pneumatic hammer, lashed out at the door with my best front kick. Which resulted in me bouncing off the door and landing squarely on my ass.

          By the Gods! Would that I attempted to force entry to Valhalla itself I should not meet such resistance. Oh dark citadel, you and I shall do battle until one of us falls… I mean, other than on my ass.

          Again I fell upon my inanimate adversary, this time utilizing my ever faithful mule-kick. Once, twice, thrice my foot found its mark and three times my best efforts went unrewarded.

          But hark, what is this? Another warrior urged by my actions had sprung forth with his own fierce battle cry and together we lay our assault upon the stronghold’s entrance as if battling our way into Hell. But, I could feel my own strength ebbing and knew that my newfound abilities would soon be exhausted. At this pace we might be forced to bring in petards or sap the walls.

           It was then that I felt a hand on my shoulder and spun, readying myself for what I assumed to be an enemy combatant. But there was no enemy, just another member of our rag tag outfit, relieving me from my spot before the castle gate. He too set into the door with wild abandon and he too was soon exhausted by the effort

          That’s when I looked across the street and saw the old man laughing at us. He was wearing a faded “Coors” T-shirt and a pair of old sweats, with a coffee mug in one hand and spitefulness in his heart. I’m not sure if it was a rage brought on by embarrassment at being heckled or… no, strike that “or”, it was definitely the embarrassment.

          I felt my ears turn red hot and I ordered the other two would be breachers to back away. Once my path was cleared, I ran towards the door, jumped into the air and in true “beard-having, Texas Ranger” (I dare not speak HIS name) manner planted my foot in its center, driving my entire weight to an imaginary point about three feet behind the barricade. This time there were unexpected results. A loud crack echoed through the neighborhood, but I could not discern any damage on the door‘s facade. And then I saw it, the door itself had not been damaged, but its threshold had begun to give way.

          Three of us now worked together in a blitzkrieg of fury and slowly, but surely, the jamb began to peel away. Then, with a final shove, we watched as the entire doorframe gave way and fell inwards, tearing five inch long wood-screws from the 2x4’s of the main structure in the process…and slamming into the 72” plasma television which in turn fell off its stand and smashed into the 30 gallon tank filled with exotic fish.

          Well, anything worth doing is worth doing right I guess.

         Wading through a living room reminiscent of an early 1990’s music video (bonus points if you can name it), we searched the house but it was empty. After hearing unusual movement above, and administering a healthy dose of OC/CS gas through the access hatch, we eventually located our suspect gasping for breath beneath the attic insulation. He was taken into custody with no further incident and we came out okay as far as dope, money and guns.

          So, as you can see, doors (and I didn’t even get into fences) can be fun.    Not.

        While looking back at stories like these are funny now, conditions were ideal for an 80% chance of fecal precipitation. Thankfully, the Fates chose not to snip any threads short on those days.

         I will leave you with these parting words. Thomas Fuller once said that “All doors open to courtesy” and Helen Keller was quoted as saying “Mah na gaaah nanaba ga bana” which, when translated, means, “When one door closes, another one opens”. But I’m pretty sure that neither Fuller nor Keller ever stood outside a building in which a wanted person was holed up behind a reinforced door with a hostage, two handguns, a fully automatic weapon and a propensity for violence resulting from three years in prison and a two week bender on Methamphetamines.

          Not that something like that could ever happen, I’m just saying.

         

“Interest of Conflicts”

Ignorance is bliss,

But knowledge? Now that’s  power.

And we’re taught to never throw a rock;

Lest it be from ivory towers.

An eye’s considered payment,

For another's plucked out eye.

However, “thou had best not kill”;

Is a law we’d best live by.

While we’d never judge a novel,

By the cover that it wears;

Still, we terrify our children, with

“That’s a strange person. Beware.”

When we hasten we make waste,

But he who hesitates is lost,

And while a silent man is sagely;

One without words has no thoughts.

Beginners are thought lucky,

Although practice makes just right.

As for fools? They seldom differ;

But great minds? They think alike.

We look before we leap,

Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

And we’re always told to do our best;

Though, perfection can’t be attained.

Two heads, I’ve always heard it said,

Are far more better than just one,

But to make sure that the job is right,

You alone should get it done.

The fields, they're are always greener,

If they’re ones we’ve never plowed,

But good fences make good neighbors,

Please, no trespassers allowed.

Also, please don’t slice your nose off,

In a spiteful hissy-fit;

Because, twenty-thousand surgeons,

Make their living out of it.

               

To give until it hurts,

Is far more better than to get,

Unless “Trigger” gives you something,

Then you’d best not refuse it.

The weak, it has been said,

possess the keys to heaven’s door,

But onward Christian soldiers,

continue marching off to war.

I know that all these lessons,

Are meant to clear and not confound;

But, it seems to me, we’d better shed more light
on all the sayings we pass down.

And, as a whole, be careful,

With which adages we choose;

Lest the generations years from now all end up quite confused.

By Graham E. Saturley

Nekked 2: A Rougarou in Boots

I hope you’ll understand that, for the sake of good conscious (as well as the fact that I bruise quite easily), I cannot in good faith divulge the names of the people involved in this next incident. I thought about using the names of the Musketeers but for some reason that didn’t quite fit. So I decided to go with Larry, Curly and Moe…which means, under these circumstances, you may call me Shemp.

It was the last day on shift for three of my co-workers, two of which (Larry and Moe) were moving on to investigative positions within the department with the third (Curly) being promoted to Sergeant and taking over as the assistant shift supervisor on another rotation. I was the “gung-ho” and newest member of our Department’s Special Operations Response Team, of which the other three guys were also a part, but I would stay on with Patrol for a few months longer as one of our team’s representatives in the field.

During out tour together, our group prided ourselves with the knowledge that because of the aggressive outlook towards proactive police work we shared, the four of us pretty much had the streets on lockdown while we were on duty. But in our blind admiration for our own uncanny abilities, we had forgotten to take into consideration the legend of “The Rougarou”.

For those of you who don’t know, tales of the Rougarou, or Loup Garou as it is sometimes known, have been handed down in Cajun folklore for generations. The creature is described as having a human body and the head of a wolf and it is said that it prowls the swamps of Louisiana in it‘s eternal quest to slake its insatiable thirst for human blood. In the one documented sighting I know of…ahem...it also has an affinity for shrimp boots. In other words, it’s a coon-ass werewolf.

As all stories like this one are prone to begin, the day had gone off without a hitch. And as cops are apt to do, we had spent the day ribbing each other about the fate of sappy GI’s in every other war movie when it’s their last day “in country”. Perhaps those jests were a premonition on our collective part or possibly the universe was providing an omen of things to come, either way, our failure to read the signs of our seemingly innocent joviality would be the first of many faults we exhibited on that day.

The call came in fifteen minutes before shift change and it was a hot one. The district deputy, dispatched to what he thought was the standard, run-of-the-mill disturbance (anybody on the job who’s worth their salt can tell you, there is no such thing), had run into “a situation”. What I remember of the actual high pitched request for assistance sounded something like a recording played in fast forward. So, after waiting for our cool-headed dispatcher to decipher and repeat his interpretation of the frantic call for help, we learned that an unidentified subject was chasing neighborhood kids around with a tire tool in one hand and his pecker in the other…or maybe it was the other way around.

A perverted, pecker pulling, pedophile pursuing prepubescent persons in progress? As a group of knuckle dragging special operations types, that sounded right up our alley and so…we were off!

Setting our Crown-Victorias to warp speed, we began our fifteen mile trek across the Mississippi River towards the rural portion of our Parish. Time ceased as we passed through the Code-2 wormhole phenomenon most cops experience when too far away to help a comrade in need and we drove with clenched teeth and white knuckles in anticipation of things to come.

Finally, after decelerating out of light speed we arrived on scene where the initially dispatched officer reported directly to the senior member of our group (Moe) who also happened to be our SWAT Team Leader. The deputy explained in a Mickey Mouse on Red-bull voice that the suspect had retreated into his home where it sounded like he was barricading the windows and doors.

Our eyes gleamed collectively and I saw the lupine grins of my compadres as I felt the involuntary twitch of my own smirk beginning to spread. A barricaded subject? Ho-ho, this was our bread and butter baby. Apparently this guy had no clue what shift was on but we were about to show him.

We set about prepping our gear and began to gather information on the suspect: approximate age, height, gender, but that’s when the deputy faltered and advised us that, other than gender (of which was fully erect), he couldn’t really explain what it was that he saw. Then, with an extended and shaking digit, he pointed us to a copse of trees set back some distance off the country lane and explained that the offender’s lair lay within.

A sense of unease fell upon our group. While none of us wanted to admit it out of a legitimate fear of immediate and certain ridicule, the thought of pursuing an unidentified suspect with any number of unknowns involved was a tactical no-no. We needed cold hard facts to formulate the proper plan. We needed to follow protocol and call for the rest of the team. We needed a schematic of the residence drawn to scale with all possible points of entrance and egress along with any potentially fatal funneling point. We… oh, fuck it. Let’s go.

After sneaking a peek inside the wooded area, I saw what I assume had once been a single story house designed, like a good many of homes down here, on a raised foundation. Vines covered the entire structure and the ceiling was caved in from an oak tree branch that had fallen sometime in the early Paleozoic Age. The window panes were broken and their frames were boarded up. But there was definitely someone inside as I could hear the frantic “thump, thump, thump” of our suspect hammering nails into one of the two, surprisingly sturdy, doors leading into the hovel.

The plan was simple, Moe, slight of frame but as wiry and tenacious as a junkyard rat-terrier, would utilize a Taser to incapacitate and subdue the suspect. Curly, an expert marksman and D-cell flashlight aficionado (see “Things that go Thwack in the Night” by Graham Saturley), would act as his cover with a “less-lethal” shotgun loaded with bean-bag rounds. Larry, the largest of our group who was the size of a professional football player and had a penchant (and damn near the ability) for pulling people’s arms off and beating them into submission with their own appendages would be “hands on”. As far as me, well, with my particular set of skills, I had the distinct privilege of both “hands on” duty as well as providing lethal cover, should it get to that point.

But first we had to get inside. Not a problem, we had made four man entries all the time and we knew just what to do. I would create a diversion on one side of the house to draw the suspect away from his impromptu carpentry project as the other members of the team mounted the front porch, breached the door with a ram, zapped the bad guy and, in less time than it takes to microwave popcorn, we would all go grab a bite to eat.

Easy enough, right? Ever hear of Murphy’s law?

The diversion went off with a “bang” as one of the two concussion grenades I carried sailed in a perfect arc and landed exactly as planned… that was about the extent of things that went right.

I double-timed around the corner, expecting to fall into my position at the back of the stack as the other guys made entry ahead of me. What I encountered was something quite different. Curly was off the porch, his shotgun cradled in his arms and yelling encouragement to Moe who had the front half his body inside the top portion of the front entrance while Larry chopped on the middle of the door with a battering ram less than eight inches from Moe’s head. (The underlying issue was that our suspect had obviously never read our SOP for breeching doors and instead of the typical deadbolt midway up the door like we were used to, he had opted to secure the bottom with what I can only assume were three foot long railroad spikes. This in turn allowed for only a partial opening and one hell of a stonewall.)

With every one of Larry’s strikes, Moe was slammed with the rebounding door and he grimaced in both aggravation and in pain. Apparently, when the grenade went off, the omniscient thing inside was not fooled by our ruse and did not move from behind the cover of the partially breached door where he began swinging wildly through the gap and striking Moe about the head and shoulders. Moe, in turn, had reached through the opening and fired off a shot with the Taser, striking his target who retreated further back in the house, ripping the probes from his body in the process. My God, what kind of creature were we facing? No mere mortal could resist the power of a 50,000 volt ride of the lightning.

Moe then wrenched himself out of the doorway, but I could tell by his face that his brief encounter with the beast within had changed him. He had the look of a man who has seen something he instantly wished he had not, and he stood there, a crazed grin snaking across his face and gibbering like a mad man as he loaded another cartridge into the Taser.

I stood there stunned for a heartbeat thinking, “I don’t remember going over this in training”, but then instincts took over and I did what came naturally. I ran. No, not away… give me some credit here. I ran full on at the door, striking it with one shoulder, prying my body into the gap and yelling “over me” at the top of my lungs. Which the team promptly did, crushing fingers and limbs in the process; but, as trampled as I was, I felt like Gunny freakin’ Janson taking on the Kaiser single handedly at Belleau Woods.

With the rending of nails from doorframe, I pulled myself up and out of the doorway, hearing the second “pop” and “sizzle” of the Taser as Moe fired again in the poorly lit room beyond. I then heard Moe yell “Shit”, (which is never a good sign during a tactical situation), as he fell through the rotten, raised floor up to his groin. An unearthly scream of defiance which sounded horribly like “They’re in!” echoed through the house as the, as far as I was still concerned, unseen wild-man turned and fled. Once again, the Taser had failed us.

But training, and a strong desire to shoot something, took over and Curly didn’t skip a beat as he fired off a round. He was rewarded by the resounding “thwack” of a bean bag projectile hitting its target at 250 feet per second. But, in the dim light, I could tell by the look on Curly’s face that his shot did not have the desired results. So, of course, he fired once again; with the same ineffective results.

I have been told that even before their bravest warriors took the field of battle, ancient Anglo-Saxon “berserkers” were released to cut a swath through enemy lines. I don’t know if Moe’s Irish heritage somehow channeled one of these fearsome shield gnawers on that day or if it was just a lust for the bust, I cannot say. I do know, however, that before Curly’s shotgun dropped for the second time, Moe ran ahead and, once again, fell through the floor and out of my line of sight.

In his defense, where there should have been solid footing, there was only empty cans spanning the entire area where the floor of the adjoining room should have been. And while I understand that it is common practice for some authors out there to take certain liberties when searching for metaphors to explain their literary visions, let me assure you, I am in no way exaggerating when I say that Moe was completely submerged in a sea of aluminum. It seemed that our Wildman was as wily as he was resistant to pain, for the only path across the adjoining room was a narrow 2x6 plank, obviously rigged as a snare to thwart the advances of adrenaline charged and heavy booted SWAT team members.

Seeing our leader go down, Larry leapt in after him and bogged down instantly as the cans around his thighs threatened to suck him under in a rip-curl of recyclable refuse. I too jumped in, but unlike Larry who was built more like a finely tuned performance vehicle, I am more of a bulldozer and with my lower center of gravity I plowed my way to the middle of the room.

To my left, I watched as Curly stepped one foot gingerly onto the plank and maintained long cover across the room, giving me a look out the corner of his eyes that I read instantly; he only had one more less lethal round left. If his next shot failed to do its job, the next person to shoot would be me…and they don’t make a .45 caliber bean-bag.

Then, directly in front of me, Moe resurfaced, gasping for breath as he spat out pop tops and a mixture of stale beer and soda-pop. He had managed to swim submerged across the room and was now behind the pile of broken furniture blocking our access to the next hallway. Larry was growling and still fighting against the cylindrical tide, creating a six foot wave in the corner of the room which threatened to break at any minute. Curly was patient as he looked over the sights of his readied weapon…

For the life of me I couldn’t shake the feeling. It was all so familiar, like some surreal déjà vu that’s not just a little off, but completely “out there”. And then it came to me; we had somehow slipped from our universe and into the trash compactor scene in Star Wars…Larry was Chewbacca gargling at the air, Curly was Han Solo blasting away, Moe was Luke Skywalker after the monster drug him under. So that would make me…
Okay, bad analogy. But now that I had a point of reference to go off of, I could deal with the situation at hand. So I breathed a sigh of relief, fixed my cinnamon bun braids and knew that, at least for the time being we were all okay.

And then the Rougarou emerged from behind our only point of cover. He was short and sinewy with a broad face and maniacal eyes with black pupils set into pools of dark crimson. His mouth was drawn back in a snarl and, though I could not quite tell from my vantage point, I knew that cavernous maw held four inch long fangs dripping with some acidic and poisonous secretion. Curly, black hair stuck out at angles that would make Paul Mitchell cringe in terror, and that was just across his bared chest and leathery arms. The stuff on his head looked like a cross between a mop used to tar a roof and clumps of steel wool with large chunks of it missing. But it was what he held in clawed hands that made my skin crawl.

You remember those tacky chairs from the eighties? You know what I’m talking about, trendy chrome and wood with wicker lattice work woven in intricate hexagonal patterns between the frames of the back rest and seat? Well, you remember how they had those curvy metal legs that looked like a question mark? That’s what he had…But in his hands it might of as well been Death’s Scythe and it was the perfect shape to swing over the pile of crap in front of us. Which of course he did, narrowly missing planting the edge of it in Moe’s head by fractions of an inch.

Moe was oblivious as to how close he had come to having his head caved in as he was busy ducking out of the way of the assault. When the were-man reared back to swing again, I reached out, grabbed Moe by the collar and tried to drag him back. That’s when he spun around, slapped at me several times like he was some chick in a fight and squealed, “Aaaah, don’t push me.”

Seriously.

I heard the shotgun go off again and heard Curly say, “I’m out.” Behind me Larry was still bellowing in Wookie and then Moe ordered me to, “Shoot him. Shoot him.”

Shoot him? From where? I couldn’t even see the son of a bitch. But I had to do something. I vaguely remember hearing the words “Flash-bang”, but if I popped it off where I was, I stood the chance of blinding us all. That wouldn’t be any good at all.

After Curly’s last shot, the Rougarou had backed up into the last of two rooms. I could hear his rummaging about, screaming the eerie words “They’re in. They’re in.” as he scrambled around apparently looking for some other piece of Hell’s furnishing with which he would end us all.

Refuse to the left of me, and no where for me to advance without exposing myself. The room was beginning to spin. Think Graham, think. What is it you do best?

I break stuff...

I looked at the wall to my right and saw sheet rock and I knew what I had to do. Unfortunately, this was an old house made long before sheet rock was invented and what I drove my hand through repeatedly was lathe and plaster, which is considerably more dense and I don‘t suggest you try it. But, it made no difference as I felt no pain as my own blessed, rage took over and I became a one man wrecking crew, creating a hole in the wall through which I spotted my target who, of course, was bare assed naked. That is, except for a pair of white, rubber boots.

But I had no time to ponder the presence of this odd footwear. Pulling the remaining grenade from my thigh holster, I yanked and twisted the pin, remembering to squeeze the spoon tightly lest I blow my own hand off. Peering through the hole I said, “Hey”, and saw the figure turn towards me. I then said, “Catch”, and tossed the device right at him.

I guess maybe in that instant he must have regressed to a happier, simpler time; playing fetch with fellow were-children as a breeze wafted the scent of Magnolias and decomposing human carcasses through the sultry, swamp air because he did… Catch it that is.

Right there in the ol’ pocket ol’ boyo. The look on his face was an almost comical state of startled bemusement as he realized what he was holding, but by that time it was too late. The grenade went off in his hands and I felt the concussion through the wall before being rewarded with a mouthful of powdered plaster dust. My ears ringing, I cleared my eyes and looked up to see Curly toss his weapon aside and Larry pulling himself out of the cans and into the hallway. Moe was right behind them and I staggered after him, bringing up the rear.

The Rougarou had staggered towards the pallet he used as a bed, I assume at the urge of some primordial instinct to find security. My companions were closing in on him, cornering him there in that sad little room where they prepared to restrain and take him into custody. That’s when Moe jumped back as if bitten by a snake and said, “What the hell is THAT?”.

At hearing Moe’s tone, Curly and Larry followed suit and jerked far enough away for me to see. What That was, to this day I still do not know the clinical term, but what it looked like was a midget’s head being squeezed in a figure four leg lock, the offending “smack-down” being performed by the Rowdy Rougarou upon himself… and by himself, I mean his own testicles. It seemed our werewolf suffered from elephantiasis of the nuts as well as lycanthropy. No wonder he was so...wait for it...testes.

After restraining and leading our captive in a perp walk (and what we would later refer to as our walk of shame) back to our awaiting patrol cars, we were met by an extremely perturbed SWAT Team Commander who was accompanied by a relative of the Rougarou. Granted there was no family resemblance, but based on the circumstances we could only take the guy at his word. I mean, who would lie about something like that?

It turns out that our “monster” was a Vietnam Veteran suffering from a severe case of PTSD on top of an addiction to crack cocaine and prone to violent bouts of paranoia, which might explain all the “They’re in” chatter in response to our explosive entry. It would also have been a nice bit of information to have had prior to our making his acquaintance.

No one knows exactly what happened to the Rougarou after that day. I heard they admitted him to the VA hospital for a spell where he was diagnosised with cancer and later released to his family and allowed to return to a real home to die with some air of dignity. Beyond that, I cannot say.

Afterwards, I heard a collection of accounts from other deputies who had run across the old crazy guy who collected cans on the West-bank of the Parish. Some believed he had bags of money hidden in the old house and most said that he only came out at night. I even heard that some years before, the old bugger had fired a shotgun of his own at a crop duster that had inadvertently buzzed the airspace above his shack. (Granted, in his state of undress, it would have been kind of hard for him to conceal a shot gun; but that still might have been a nice tidbit of information to have had before entering his domain.)

I was surprised when, some months later, I overheard an officer claiming to have caught a glimpse of something in his headlights as it ran across the river road. He described it to those who listened as being almost human, but being he could not locate any indication that anyone had passed through the tall grass along the river levee, he admitted that it might have been a lack of sleep playing tricks on his eyes; but a part of me knew that the sighting was true.

But no matter which account you might hear in regards to the Rougarou of St. John, the one thing that remains consistent between the tellers of said tales is that he is always quite nekked…except, of course, for his white, rubber, shrimp boots.

Nekked (Episode IV: A Nude Beginning)

          During my time as a patrol officer in a suburb of New Orleans, it seemed like no more than a month or so would pass by without my having to see some stranger's bared ass. Maybe it was something to do with the lunar calendar, or maybe Venus was in retrograde. Then again, maybe it had something to do with Uranus, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, for awhile there it seemed to me like the extent of my crime fighting career was destined to be centered around wackos being naked…or as they say down here in the bayou: “Nekked”.

          It wasn’t that the calls involved were anything one might consider particularly lascivious and, unfortunately, most of the parties involved were anything but arousing. In fact, for the most part, it was all pretty standard stuff, especially around Mardi Gras when everybody gets at least partially nekked round these parts. However this wouldn't be much of a story if there weren't at least a few others that stood out better than most.

          For example, there's the nudity typical of the occasional drunken sot who, while urinating in public, has lost the ability to unzip his (or her) fly and who’s saturated trousers eventually succumb to the laws of gravity. Then there was the homeless man (a regular) with the habit of defecating behind the dumpsters of a local supermarket and who oftentimes wandered about with pants around his ankles trying to find a piece of newspaper, or wood, or a squirrel to aid in his quest for alimentary hygiene. (I know what you’re thinking and, I too, often wondered why he did not prepare beforehand; but when the replies to your inquiries end up being a string of Thunderbird infused vowels, you eventually stop asking).          

          We had one guy jump out of a window when his girlfriend’s husband came come unexpectedly and in his haste to beat a speedy retreat, forgot his pants. He eventually got the nerve to flag down a passing vehicle from behind the cover of a bunch of garbage cans, however the blue-haired motorist wanted nothing to do with him and called 911...go figure.

          One that still gives me an acute case of the heebie-jeebies involved a flustered and quite overweight prostitute (think Nell Carter with a weave, after Zumba class and you're not even close). The way she explained it, she had been forcibly ejected (which is the part I could never buy into) from her “John’s” vehicle without her skirt and or panties and left wandering the side of the highway. I felt bad for her of course, but based on the unpleasant odor emanating from her lady parts, obviously an adverse reaction to a lifelong Sitophilia fetish involving moldy cottage-cheese, I can understand why he split. The guy probably didn't know what he was getting himself into at first and thought better of it... or maybe he was lactose intolerant.

           From time to time I was fortunate enough to be dispatched to remote locations around the Parish, only to find a lone vehicle parked in the shadows along the lane. This normally led to the discovery of windows fogged caused by the enthusiastic efforts of a couple's amorous activities taking place within said vehicle and whose occupants were often only identifiable by either palm prints or dainty little feet pressed against the inside glass of both the back and side windows. (It was considered an unwritten departmental policy for any deputy observing such behavior to immediately request backup on a “Code 69”, which was followed shortly thereafter by the rapid response of any and all law enforcement officer within hailing distance of said request… including State Police, Wildlife Agents, Weights and Standards, Wal-Mart loss prevention and the occasional Mall-cop).

          One of the more entertaining incidents I personally observed occurred late one hazy, fall night when several of us were dispatched to a signal 107 (suspicious activity) occurring in a field behind a local middle school. Upon arrival, we saw nothing out of the ordinary, in fact, other than the clean, white sock next to the trodden grass at the edge of overgrown lot, everything looked normal…Well, being we were all trained investigators, it didn’t take us long to deduce that something was obviously afoot and that foot was apparently hiding somewhere out in the tall grass.

          The veteran K-9 officer on scene sauntered over to his vehicle and casually rolled down the back window where his four-legged partner waited with all the patience of a Tasmanian Devil on Crystal-Meth. Grabbing the PA system from it’s cradle he pressed the side, blew across the spit guard to ensure that it was on, and, in his most pleasant voice, advised that it would be in the best interest of anybody that might be listening to show themselves. He then held the mike next to his dog who translated the message, just in case the individual listening was fluent in rabid demon.

          For a moment, nothing happened. Then it was as if I was back in school watching one of those stop motion films in the study of night blooming fungi. One by one, heads began popping from the cover of the low lying mist covering the overgrown field, until we were looking upon the bare torsos of approximately fifteen, extremely pale, young men. I suddenly felt a little like Dr. Livingston locating a never before seen tribe of suburban aborigines of the white-bread clan. Their nether regions partially covered by night fog and cupped hands, the group of lost-boys looked to each other for support. Finally, the bravest of the bunch and obviously their leader, poked out a scrawny chest  like a malnourished pigeon and, in the Queen’s English no less, proceeded to inform us with some bravado that they were all in fact completely naked and legally had the right to be so. I'm not sure which was more profound, our stunned silence or the rest of his crew's obvious embarrassment.

          Speculation was thrown about our own group at once: Were these young men brain washed victims of the Armenian sex trade? Had we disrupted some kind of bizarre sex cult? Maybe aliens had returned them in some kind of cosmic group rate, after finishing some kind of weird alien sex thing with them. Why is everything always about sex with you Joey? And most importantly, who in the Hell was going to handle this report?

          Long story short (in their defense it was chilly that night) we eventually learned they were all Loyola underclassmen (which explained their leader's skewed interpretation of the law) pledging a fraternity. Apparently one of their would be frat brothers had been kind enough to drop them off without their clothes and then called the local authorities about some suspicious characters as he pulled away. What a pal. I’m just glad we missed the whole vinyl-clad sheep thing.

         As is usually the case, I have kept the best for last. This next one has it all, action, violence and, in keeping with the theme at hand, nekkedness. But, for the sake of keeping these posts short and your attention span focused, this is where I will confound you as I unexpectedly leave you with what is known in the business as a cliff-han…

         (Oh damn... I cut it off too soon. I'm never going to get the hang of this)

Be advised...

When I set out to write about my experiences in law enforcement, I vowed to do something edgy. Something hard-hitting that would set the world on its ear, as I single-handedly exposed the trials and tribulations endured throughout a career behind the badge. I alone would be the champion of police officers everywhere as I broke down barriers and raised awareness to the plight of those men and women in blue. The God fearing members of society sworn to protect and serve while braving the elements day in and day out, only to find their investigations stymied by bloated politicians, or suffering the abuse of misdirected wrath delivered at the hands of ungrateful citizens all while dodging the pitfalls of alleged corruption and the morass of departmental politics...

But then I thought better of it.

I mean really, what’s the point? There is nothing I can possibly say that hasn’t already been said a hundred times over. And there’s no possible way that a hack like me can compete with the likes of Deborah Locke, Peter Maas, Robert Graysmith and Graeme McLagan. Seriously, have you ever read any of their stuff? I mean, C’mon it’s all so…so clear, so concise, so revealing.

If you’re familiar with the ramblings of my work, you know that clear and concise ain’t my style.

So I started doing some thinking. Out of character, I know, but be that as it may, those thoughts began to ricochet around inside my brain housing group, narrowly missing neurons and dodging grey matter before eventually impacting with some serious soul searching. Once the smoke cleared, I realized that in my years acting as a “high-speed, low-drag”, narcotics investigator extraordinaire I had experienced some “stuff” and I had seen some “things”. Maybe nothing as ruthless as The Shield, but not quite as wholesome as Mayberry R.F.D. either.

Hadn’t I cut my teeth in the back alleys and ghettos of Southeast Louisiana’s reptilian underbelly? Hadn’t I had my fair share of brushes with Death’s cold, clawed grasp? Hadn’t I accumulated some pretty cool stories in the process? Yer darn tootin’ I had…The problem I was now faced with was how could I share my daring deeds in an innovative style, packaging them in such a way as to make myself look really, really cool in the process all while maintaining the integrity of the incidents in question by describing them in complete honesty?

It could be done, couldn’t it? Nah… probably not if I wanted to keep that whole “honesty” thing.

Then, out of the blue, it hit me…after I located and identified what it was, I picked the damn thing up and sent the kids to bed. A few minutes later, after calming down and nursing a sore head, I had an epiphany.

Of the stories that I can share in mixed company, my favorites usually involve those things a cop would never speak of outside “the circle of trust”. I’m not talking about anything that could possibly land anybody in federal court (at least I don’t think so…hmm… No, no I think we’re good). I’m talking about all those stories that we claim “happened to a guy I know”. You know the type; embarrassing, oftentimes ludicrous incidents that a good partner would promise never to divulge (or at least have the common courtesy to hold over your head until after retirement), only to have them resurface after a couple of rounds at the local FOP lodge, exaggerated and colorfully narrated blow by horrible blow to fellow cops who guffaw at your pain. We’re talking about the good stuff that makes it all worthwhile.

Contrary to popular belief, Law Enforcement Officers/Officials (hereafter LEO’s) are like every other cybernetically engineered mega-human out there. And, while most share the "us versus everybody else" mentality typical of other demigods throughout time, those of us lucky enough to have been a part of that brother/sisterhood don't think we're really all that much better than everyone else...except for firemen. Fortunately for me, most LEO’s, (unless of course they’re one of the few practicing a strict regimen of regularly administered 2x4 enemas) have wonderful senses of humor, with this caveat; most of the stuff they find funny might seem a little disturbing to most. Like the “tombstone” humor of ER nurses (most of which are absolutely nutso) and trauma surgeons (add intellect to insanity), cops have their own brand of offbeat wit… let’s call it “Slap (you-with-a-night) stick” comedy.

Shows like Reno 911 and movies like Police Academy are perfect examples of what I’m talking about. And while most people think they’re Hollywood’s way of discrediting law enforcement, most of those movies have former police officers on the payroll as consultants. If you were one of the few people unfortunate enough to drop ten bucks seeing Super Troopers, chances are, the big guy seated against the back wall of the theater laughing his head off was probably packing a concealed weapon and (hopefully) carrying a badge.

Don’t get me wrong, movies like Training Day, Serpico or The Departed are still considered by many to be the preferred method of getting ones self pumped up prior to a weekend on duty; but, if you were to ask your local flatfoot what their favorite cop flick is, nine out of ten times it’ll be a comedy. Humor is a known psychological defense mechanism and most cops use it in order to cope with the pressures built up after a shift of dealing with the dregs of humanity. Trust me when I say that kind of stress is not easily relieved by anything short of laughing hysterically or sobbing uncontrollably… and, sans the presence of a lone bagpipe wailing on a distant hilltop, cops seldom cry.

(Side note: speaking from personal experience, no cop, other than a rookie, will ever admit to watching Cops. It’s the equivalent of a plumber heading home after a hard days work and watching “This Olde Septic Tank”. You could literally transpose any of your local Sheriff’s Office or Police Department’s frequent flyers into any episode over the last twenty years and they would fit right in…mullets, bandanas and parachute pants included. And while it does have a certain Jerry Springer-esque entertainment value to it, it is more or less a tutorial in what not to do in law enforcement.)

So, (all) that being said, a lot of the guys and gals out there patrolling a district have some real doozies that they may, or may not, be willing to share, depending, of course, on how well they know you and whether or not you’re buying the next round. Fortunately for you, good reader, I’ve decided to let the crime scene tape droop a bit and allow you to toe the thin blue line as I share a few of my favorite stories with you. The first one I call “Nekked”…which I will post shortly after this teaser.

The Thief

                                                                                                                                                                                          

THE THIEF

By Graham E. Saturley

The cloth wrapped grapnel burst through the cover of the low lying clouds and arched through the night, the long, thin rope in its wake cutting through the damp air with a hiss. After landing with a muffled thump, the device skipped once, sliding back toward the ledge where the tip of one hook caught hold and bit into the mortar at the base of a leering, lichen-covered gargoyle. The stone creature seemed not to notice however as it continued to impassively study the darkened city streets below; its carved eyes aglow in the dull orange light of refineries that lay just outside the city walls.

 The knotted cord fastened to the eye of the treble hook continued alongside the building, melding with the darkness and eventually ending in a coiled loop around the arm a lithe, swarthy figure perched on a narrow ledge three stories below. With a quick snatch, the hook above was properly set and the line tested as the dark-clad man began the arduous task of climbing.

With the ease of an acrobat, the shadowy figure ascended the rope hand over hand, the toes of his soft-soled shoes nimbly locating the nearly indiscernible nooks and crannies of building’s façade. In less time than it would take most people to walk the same distance he reached a niche beneath a balcony where he paused to listen for any indication that his approach had been detected. Of course, there was none, and he flashed a dashing smile in appreciation for his own cleverness.

Chinning himself eyelevel to the bottom of the stone balustrade, he surveyed the scene from behind the cover of the railings. Beyond lay a gardened terrace, subtly illuminated by an arrangement of cream-colored glass spheres affixed to poles strategically placed around the perimeter of the piazza. Meticulously manicured topiary and flowers in sculpted planters lent the cloying scent of their exotic blooms to the stench of the refineries below. An effective means of screening the urban outcropping from prying eyes, the foliage also aided in concealing the squalor of the city below from the delicate sensibilities of any distinguished persons that might be a guest of the rooftop garden.

 In the center of the patio, a tall, wrought-iron latticed sculpture sat atop a dais in the middle of a reflection pool, the top of the spire decorated with a large metallic orb. Beyond the miniature tower, he could see a set of heavy French doors situated directly across the balcony from his vantage point; and exactly where his benefactor had said they would be. In fact, most of the information gleaned from the strange old bugger was proving to be spot on thus far. Strangely, for someone who alleged to have never set foot in the city, the old codger certainly seemed to know this location intimately.

With a heave, the uninvited guest mounted the banister and crouched in the shadows of the surrounding shrubbery. With a flash of white teeth he pulled back the folds of his dark-grey cowl and stroked his pencil-thin moustache before slipping a hand into the pouch at his side. Retrieving the strange device the old man had provided, he carefully unwrapped its protective swaddling of soft cloth, before donning the contraption and adjusted the head straps as instructed. For a moment he saw nothing out of his left eye and he feared the device had been damaged in transit. Then, slowly, his surroundings became visible through an amber haze. With deft fingers he manipulated the toggles to focus the device, flipping through the monocle’s multi-colored lenses while scanning his surroundings.

 If he did not see it for himself he would never have believed it. There, on a flagstone at the base of the reflection pool, was a strange glyph throbbing with a malevolent energy undetectable to the naked eye. The eerie light continued along the conduit of moss filled grout lines, connecting with two other symbols in an intricate web of pulsating luminosity.

Intricate indeed, he silently agreed with the old man’s description of the alarm system. In fact, he had never seen one quite like this and with his expertise in the field, he felt the notion slightly vexing. Still, there appeared to be no other wards or security measures and the path before him was easily negotiated.

Having submitted his route to memory, he removed the cumbersome device from his brow, ensuring it was properly tucked away. With a deep breath to steel his nerves, he sprang into the air, landing gracefully upon the closest safe spot. With nary a sound, he then skipped to the next and the next in a series of light-footed leaps not unlike the movements of a dancer. Midway across, he paused for a heartbeat, considering his next move; two up or three? Then, feeling confident, he bounded toward the next stone in the sequence.

With a final leap, he alit upon the granite threshold of the garden doors. Again his toothy smile flashed in self-appreciation as he turned to examine the door’s lock. An uncomplicated mechanism, to say the least, he speculated that any novice footpad could defeat it given time. Reaching out, he jiggled the handle between leather clad fingers.

 Curious, he thought at finding the clasp secure, exactly who would feel the need to lock their doors so far above the city?

Strangely, whether by error or by design, the old man had failed to provide one bit of information on the apartment’s owner. Even the thief's own sources had been unable to say. All he was able to learn was that the building had been constructed by some pompous, Industrialist swine nearly a hundred years before. Being that was the case, the identity of the architect and the identities of any current tenants were not considered public knowledge to someone of his caste. Still, his network of spies should have been able to come up with at least one name, but instead, it was almost as if the tallest building in the center of Olde Town did not exist at all.

Unknowns like that gave him an uncomfortable feeling. However, the thought of the handsome payment the old man had fronted, and his promise to double the amount, quickly allayed the thief’s normally cautious nature.

Aided by a twisted implement designed for such endeavors, the simple lock snapped open with a flick of the thief’s wrist. Easing the door open slightly, he reached through the crack and caught hold of the heavy fabric inside, pulling the drapes taunt to prevent any movement. Slipping inside, he closed the door behind him and, separating the curtains slightly, stuck one eye to the opening to peer around the chamber beyond.

A circular room, the walls were of polished mahogany panels accented with gold filigree and lined with shelves containing an array of ancient looking tomes and a number of curious, and obviously valuable, bric-a-brac. Framing the massive iron-bound, oak door across the small library, a pair of surly looking alabaster busts overlooked a floor of red-veined, marble tiles laid out in a dizzying arrangement. Directly before him, the back of a large and decoratively carved chair loomed over a matching desk, both pieces of furniture seemingly hewn from the same, ebon wood.

While the lavish décor might be considered opulent to most, the glow of the oil lamp sconces and lingering scent of sandalwood incense did little to thaw the mausoleum like chill of the chamber. Not to mention the unwavering gaze of the busts, both of which gave him an uneasy, almost queasy sensation.

Still, there was a commission at stake. If the old man was correct, and he had no reason to believe otherwise, he would be in and out in less than a minute, as the item he sought was contained within a secret compartment beneath the desk less than a yard away.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, he drew the curtains wide enough to stick out his head before stepping from his place of concealment and grabbing the chair to move it aside…

It didn’t budge.

Leaning back slightly, he inspected the seat. It was large, that much was certain, but he could see no obvious reason why it could not be moved. Again he pulled against it, straining himself as he did so.

 “Must be lined with lead,” he muttered, finally conceding with a disgusted gasp.

 Scratching his head at the peculiarity he ducked down and squeezed past the chair to slip into the considerable recess beneath the desk. Running his hands along the smooth floor, he located the star shaped indention exactly where the old man had said it would be and pressed down. The polished tile gave way under the pressure with a click and then rose under its own power to reveal a void beneath.

The thief grinned as he retrieved the velvet bag from the bottom of the compartment. Loosening the drawstrings, he poured the contents into the palm of his hand and shook his head.

“All this for a bloody pocket watch?” he asked aloud. 

Furthermore, I his opinion, it didn’t even seem like a particularly nice watch and while the chain seemed to be of gold, it had a clunky, iron key for a fob. Pushing the release button on the side, the hinged cap sprang open, revealing a series of complex looking inscriptions on the interior face of the cover. Whatever language they were in, he could not read them. In fact, like most of the common folk of Olde Towne, he could barely read at all. Not that he was ignorant mind you; it was just that literacy was considered a luxury only afforded to certain higher ranking Academs and members of the Industrialist party.

Obviously some kind of sentimental value to the old man, he thought. Probably the only thing of worth the old bugger ever owned.

An evil thought crossed his mind, something that was not beyond his nature. Seeing how he was currently in possession of the item, maybe he could sway the old man to re-examine the details of their previous contract. Say, for an additional twenty percent of the agreed upon amount?

 Clicking the watch shut, he let it fall back into the purse and began preparing to crawl from beneath the desk when he heard the heavy oak door open with a creak. The thief slowly moved his hand to the hilt of the long-knife sheathed at the small of his back and held his breath as he leaned over to see a pair of slippered feet shuffling across the marble floor toward him. Directly above, he could hear the sound of items being moved on the desk top and then, a satisfied grunt as whoever it was located whatever it was they had come for.

Once again he heard footsteps and the thief bit his lower lip to keep from smiling at the sound of the door closing. Heaving a sigh of relief he tucked the bag containing the watch into the fold of his shirt and began working his way out from under the desk.

“May I assume you found what you came for?” a pleasant voice asked behind him.

The thief froze, caught between the massive desk and chair. Turning his head he flashed a good-natured smile towards an older gentleman who lounged against the far wall, idly thrumming his fingers on the carved pate of one of the busts.

“Osiris sent you,” the gentleman stated more as a matter of fact than as a query.

The thief managed to shimmy his body around to face the newcomer and offered up his hands in a shrug.

“Never got his name,” the thief said.

“Nevertheless, it was he who sent you Mr. Smythe… or would you prefer that I call you Alonzo?”

The thief attempted to hide his surprise, “Alonzo will be fine, Mr.?”

When the older gentleman failed to respond Alonzo said, “So, what do we do now? Wait for the authorities I assume?”

The gentleman snorted once in amusement, giving Alonzo a moment to consider his host. Wearing an oversized night-shirt, the old man’s tuft of white hair stuck out in all angles, as if recently roused from his bed. A few inches shorter than the thief, who also had the advantage of both age and weight, the gentleman did not pose much of a threat physically and with the soft features of a high-bred he had probably never sweated through an honest day’s work in his life. Given his appearance, and the fact that he did not appear to be armed, Alonzo felt that once the opportunity provided itself, he could easily best the old man.

“My dear boy,” the gentleman began, “there is no need to involve the city watch.”

This time, Alonzo failed to contain his surprise. “And why is that?”

As the old man smiled, Alonzo was once again overcome with the same uneasy sense he felt upon entering the chamber moments before. Suddenly he felt the irresistible urge to be as far away from the room and its unnerving occupant as possible. Thinking first of his dagger he dismissed it. As good as he was, from his off balanced position he could not risk throwing the knife. His other option was the single shot, percussion cap derringer tucked beneath the cuff of his right sleeve. He did not necessarily want to kill the old man, but the sound might be enough to create an opportunity to escape.

“Tut-tut, we’ll have none of that,” the gentleman said. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“I’m fine,” Alonzo answered, wondering exactly what it was they would have none of.

“But I insist,” the older man said and flicked the fingers of one hand in a curious gesture.

Alonzo heard a screeching noise behind him and tried to turn before the edge of the heavy chair struck the back of his knees, forcing him to take a seat. His hands reflexively fell onto the carved arm rests where they stayed, no matter how much he tried to move them.

“Wh-?” Alonzo began, but then remained silent so as not to reveal his growing alarm.

His quarry sufficiently trussed, the old man leisurely crossed the room to stand before the desk. A wry smile crossed the older gentleman’s face as he picked up a slender, metal-tipped rod and tapped it in a quick staccato upon the desk pad. All the while, his eye boring into Alonzo as a hawk’s into a field mouse.

“What exactly did Osiris, and his band of Utopian miscreants, tell you about the item he sent you to fetch?”

“Like I said before, I don’t know any Osiris,” Alonzo managed as he struggled against his bonds.

The gentleman chuckled, yet his eyes remained hard as stone. “I see, well perhaps the old adage concerning honor and thieves was mistaken. You are a thief aren’t you Alonzo?”

Alonzo’s shoulders shrugged, his arms remaining adhered to the chair. “I consider myself more of a specialist in acquisitions,” he quipped.

The gentleman openly laughed now, “Well then, it seems we have something in common Alonzo, as I too am somewhat of a specialist.” The emphasis the gentleman placed on the word “specialist” made it seem quite unlikely to Alonzo that they were talking about the same profession.

“You are correct Alonzo,” the gentleman said, “My expertise is in a far different field than your own.”

Alonzo felt confusion at first. Had he spoken aloud? How else could this befuddled looking old man known what he was thinking? Obviously, this was no typical, elitist mark ripe for the picking but... he felt the icy tendrils of fear closing about his chest. For years he had heard the chilling tales of cults operating within the city. It was said they practiced arcane rituals of unspeakable evil, influencing the actions and possibly even controlling the highest members of the Industrialist Party from the folds of their shadowy cabal.

“I’m afraid they are not all rumors my boy,” the gentleman stated conversationally as Alonzo‘s head began to spin. “Which, I’m sure you understand, puts me in a delicate situation. Not to mention the ramifications of your recent fraternization with the Utopians, which I’m afraid, many members of parliament might misconstrue as treasonous. So you see why neither one of us can truly afford to involve the law in this little… how shall we say, intrusion? I mean, we can’t have a bunch of flatfoots asking difficult questions to what there can only be unpleasant answers to, now can we? That being the case, I’m afraid our current dilemma is what exactly we should do with you.”

“May I suggest we let me go?” Alonzo asked, trying his best to remain calm as he flashed his most charming smile.

“What a splendid idea,” the gentleman said. “And seeing as you have more than proven your capabilities and resourcefulness tonight, I might even consider utilizing your skills in a manner that might be fortuitous to us both. But first I’ll have what you’ve stolen from me.”

Alonzo considered before saying, “Sir, I hope you understand how difficult this is for me, being that my reputation, not to mention my pride, hinges upon my ability to fulfill my contractual obligations to my clients.” At seeing the old man’s eyebrow raise he quickly added, “But under the current circumstances, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

“I’m sure,” the gentleman said, his crooked grin returning.

Without notice, the chair beneath Alonzo slid backwards and he found his arms free.

“Now, if you’ll please?” the gentleman held out one slender hand towards Alonzo.

Alonzo reached out as if to give the old man back his property but at the last second he flicked his wrist and produced the small pistol from beneath his sleeve.

“Oh dear,” the old man said, his eyes widening in feigned surprise.

“Change of plans,” Alonzo said, his voice shaking slightly.

“Now Alonzo,” the gentleman admonished, “I thought we were friends. There’s no need to resort to violence is there?”

“Not once I’m safely on my way, there isn’t. Now stand aside.”

“I see,” the gentleman said, his voice dry and seemingly unimpressed with Alonzo’s attempt at intimidation. “Do what you must, but I assure you, you will not be leaving here with my property.”

“I’m serious old man,” Alonzo began, the tremolo now evident in his voice as he presented the barrel of the small caliber weapon.

“So am I,” the old man said with an evil grin.

Alonzo laughed once, shook his head and flashed his smile. Then his eyes narrowed dangerously as he aimed and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening in the confines of the small room and the cloud of noxious smoke that followed obscured Alonzo’s vision momentarily.

“Oh dear,” the old man said softly and Alonzo felt a twinge of regret that his hand had been forced.

As the smoke cleared, the old man was still on his feet, a bemused look upon his face. Alonzo scanned for the tell-tale sign of blood on the man’s nightshirt, but there was none. Then he saw the spherical projectile suspended in midair directly in front of the old man’s chest.

“It appears that you missed,” the gentleman stated as the expended ball round fell to the tile floor with a click and then rolled away.

Alonzo snapped out of his fleeting stupor and balked, throwing his derringer at the old man, who merely sidestepped the poorly thrown weapon. The thief then drew the wicked looking long-knife from its sheath on his back.

“Not another step closer old man,” Alonzo stammered as he backed towards the balcony doors. “I don’t know how you did that, but I guarantee you’ll not survive a foot of steel through your gullet.”

“And here I assumed we would be well beyond all this inane posturing,” the gentleman stated sadly. Then, raising the slender rod as if preparing to conduct a symphony, he took a step forward.

Alonzo squawked and his eyes widened, his mind filling with a myriad of indescribable horrors that innocent looking gesture might suggest. Taking a step backwards, he spun and burst through the garden door, running full speed towards the gargoyle and thinking only of his rope. Only when the air around the latticework sculpture began to crackle did he realize his mistake.

Something slammed into Alonzo’s chest with the force of a lightning bolt, knocking him backwards and depositing him squarely on his back. Stunned, he struggled to get back to his feet, spying one of the now glowing symbols beneath his hands as an energized nimbus grew around the sculpture's orb and lashed out to engulf his body in an eldritch flame.

Indifferently, the gentleman drew the curtains to the terrace back and stepped out, patting his chest while breathing in the sultry air. In the distance, the glow from the massive furnaces reflected off the fading mists of morning, revealing the soot spewing smokestacks of factories at the edge of town. His factories. His town.

Hiking up his shirttails he squatted, using the metal tipped rod to sift through what was left of Alonzo’s smoldering clothing and the charred velvet bag. Twirling the tip of the wand around the gold chain, he scooped up the watch and blew off the ashy remains of what had once been the thief.

END