Block Telesales Calls NOW
Receive no more
telephone calls
from telemarketers
selling junk.
www.coldcallblocker.com
Rio's Attic: Celebrating the Life and Times of a Dearly Missed River Phoenix

  God Damn a Potato E.C. Kasalivich  

        As those thoughts went through Nathan's head, the monster finished a bowl of Cornflakes and placed the bowl in the dishwasher. Leaning over the kitchen sink, Harry Bixby saw the sun bouncing off the windshield of his old Cadillac - not so much 'bouncing' really, more like 'glancing'. All the fault of that damned pump-boy who wouldn't clean his windshield or sell him a piece of tail even though it was so damned obvious he was out for rent. Never mind, thought Harry. He'd learn. It would be his last lesson on earth, but would he learn it good!
        Harry Bixby had a mission in life, given to him by God. The whys and the wherefores had all got kind of mixed up in his head, but he trusted in the Lord - and anyhow, he got a kick from the work. His mission was to rid the world of evil, and evil was found aplenty inside the scum-drifter-trailer-trash boys that seemed to fill the world. Now, Harry knew he couldn't rid the world of every one of them, but he at least could do his bit.
        Hettie Wilbur would have called Harry a damaged soul who needed love and understanding to lead him from the brink. Harry knew most everyone else would agree what he really needed was an ounce of lead and a suitable means of delivering it into the center of his brain - that's if they knew of his mission. But nobody did, except Jimmy and Billy Ray Williams and one or two other very trusted ex-servants of The Church.
        Yes, Hettie would try to help him, even if she knew how much Harry Bixby hated her. She and her stupid ox-head husband had dried up a ready supply of - shall we call them sacrificial offerings - when they'd steamed in and closed down The Church. "Crazy Cult Busters" the press had called them. They had only wanted to rescue one of their filthy brood. Nobody suspected murder, but The Church shrivelled and died in the light that was caste upon it. Unconstitutional. Quasi-religious conditioning. The Church was labelled thus, and much else - but nobody ever suspected the true mission of its acolytes.
        Well, revenge is a dish best served cold, and it had taken Harry a long while to cool down. Now he was like an iceberg. Now his altar-boys all came to him by way of the Wilbur's - and he wasn't nearly so careful with the bodies. He did not want to make it too obvious, but he wanted them found. He wanted the Wilbur's to suffer.
        Harry decided to check out his garage, except now it was known as The Temple. Hadn't been a car inside of it for eight years. Inside, it was dark. There were candle holders, some affixed to the walls, and some on the table where Harry had arranged various instruments of 'release'. At the heart of The Temple was the altar, and here Harry Bixby carried out the Lord's work in that special way he alone had been ordained to serve.

 
 
Page 39


Previous Page

Next Page
Phoenix Fiction Rio's Attic Home Page