From wyckoff@ag.arizona.edu Wed Mar 19 22:58:38 1997
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From: Hank Wyckoff <wyckoff@ag.arizona.edu>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Mr Jeckyl-Hyde (1/4) [m/f, nc, existential, surreal]
Date: Wed, 19 Mar 1997 20:58:38 -0700
Organization: The University of Arizona
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Mr. JEKYLL-HYDE (the extended version)
by Henry Wyckoff
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
This is an original work of fiction written by myself. I retain
all rights to this work. If anyone would like to archive this
or post it elsewhere, please do so, but all I ask is that you
do it in its entirety and give me credit where credit is due.
SUBJECT SUMMARY: (violence, existential, m/f, nc, surreal)
---------------------------------------------------------------
PART ONE --
I'm not sure what it is that brought me here to this pass. I
stand on the edge of the cliff, looking down. I can't see the
bottom. I want to jump, but I can't.
There's nothing to keep me on the high ground, and everything
to push me over the edge, but for some reason I can't.
I'm frozen. So frozen.
I can do nothing but shake my head in defeat. I can't do it.
I turn away from the metaphorical cliff and put down the
knife. Though I can barely bring myself to kill a scorpion
that might catch me in the middle of the night, I could
probably have a better chance killing someone else than taking
my own life.
***
"So, how's it going?" says the woman.
Her name was Beth, but you might as well call her 'Perky' if
you wanted to be descriptive. I swear that she must be on
some kind of intravenous espresso drip. I don't know of
anyone who has more energy than her.
Maybe not. Maybe it's just cause this is a coffee place. Go
figure.
"Ok, I guess," I mumble. It's a lie, of course. I'm nowhere
near being all right. But why let her know? I mean, what's
the point?
I don't think I saw any expression change in those happy eyes
of her. I wonder if there's anything that ever caused her
concern. Beth must truly be an innocent.
Innocence to match that almost pure-blond hair, so immaculate
without even the faintest hint of chemical assistance.
I should know it's damn hard to have perfect long hair, cause
I never had it. When I used to have long hair, it was more
than long enough to keep in a ponytail, and hairs would still
leak out.
Her skin was perfect. I mean, no visible blemishes of any
kind. Not even signs of the hot desert climate drying her
skin, and she'd been out here all of her twenty-four years.
I sipped some of my iced mocha. Espresso, milk, ice, and
whipped cream. And Hershey's chocolate syrup. Why can't I
taste it?
She's drinking coffee, and she can taste hers.
Why does even taste elude me?
"What's wrong?" she asks me directly. I think I notice some
steel in those eyes. Did she read something in my eyes? I
usually pride myself in having a blank mask.
"Nothing," I lied. "Nothing at all."
She took the hint and changed the subject. We ended up
talking about nothing at all, really. Quite dull, though she
seemed to find it interesting. Something about what's on tv.
Whatever. I don't really give a damn.
***
"Hi!" the bartender smiled. A pretty young woman, I admitted
to myself. Jamie, her name was. Maybe that's why I came by
for a few hours every day and drank a hell of a lot. Not her
name, though it did fit her. I came because I found my heart
gripping my throat every time I saw her. "Guinness?" Such a
look of happiness in her face. Open happiness without
judgement. She didn't judge me.
Her ancestors must have been Irish. That helped. I had a
soft spot for women with a touch of Ireland. Even those with
a tongue sharp enough to slice a softly-falling silk scarf
gently falling through the air.
Her co-workers hated her cause they claimed that she was a...
something that I just don't call women. I don't call anyone
names. Let's just say that if the stereotypes about red hair
were true, then they'd fit. I simply thought that her flowing
red hair fit her well. I couldn't see anything 'wrong.' No.
I saw someone who was just right. I sighed inside.
"Nope," I said, "I'll start off with some scotch." I looked
at the bottles on the shelves. "How about some of that
Glenmorangie? Haven't tried that yet." Maybe I even smiled a
bit?
She pulled down the bottle and let me have a free sample. I
liked it. "I'll have a doubleshot."
That was the beginning of yet another afternoon. They trusted
me, cause they didn't ask me to pay for each round as it came.
I was always good, even when I was really plastered. I always
tipped forty percent too.
How much did I drink when it happened? Let's see... I went
through five double-shots of Glenmorangie, two pints of
Guinness, and an "Irish Kegbomb," which is a Black-and-Tan
after you pour in two shots of Absolut vodka into a pint
glass. It mixes, no matter how well you pour it. It looks
like a Guinness without the foam, and is so smooth it could be
a Scottish ale. Now Scottish ale... that brings back some
good memories.
I could remember downing many a pint of St. Andrew's. Good
ale.
But I wasn't back then, at a place that closed down. I was
here, now, drinking something of my own creation, somewhere
else.
"Everything all right?" Jamie asked me, her eyes full of
worry.
"Of course." I was drunk, that could not be disputed.
However, I was holding it quite well, which couldn't be
disputed either. I could walk in a straight line, my reflexes
were good, and my mind was sharp as a razor.
The one telling difference that I was drunk was because the
pain was gone. My negative emotions were dead. You could
have told me anything, and I wouldn't have cared.
A lot of anti-drinking and anti-drugs types wonder what it is
that would make someone want to be in a perpetual haze of
altered-consciousness. The lack of the pain is a good reason.
If anyone tells me that I'm just thin-skinned or have a
fragile ego (and they have), I'd like to teach them just what
it's like to feel pain. Unless you feel the pain, you can't
judge someone who does feel it. Maybe you won't be as quick
to pass judgement, wearing those spotless clothes, standing in
that high, white tower.
***
I was stumbling out of the bar. Good thing I was walking,
cause I was so hammered that I wouldn't be able to open up an
unlocked car door. I could walk, though. It just took a lot
of effort to walk in a manner that didn't hint at my
drunkenness.
I still felt pretty good, but I drank so much hard shit that
the faint pre-dawn glow of a hangover was beginning to show on
the horizon.
When I reached an unlit street, I heaved out the contents of
my guts. It felt good when my guts emptied.
"You all right, man?" asked some old guy from behind me. His
voice sounded gravelly.
A strange senation came over me. I felt angry. It was a
familiar anger. All the frustrations and sorrow that I felt
had always been with me, unable to escape. I suppose every
pressure pot has to let out steam.
Apparently, my critical pressure had hit, but without any
known reason. In the back of my mind, I knew that this was
wrong and crazy, and the guy wasn't doing anything bad to me.
In fact, he was putting himself out on a limb.
It didn't matter.
I needed to pound something, and no thought was too irrational
at the moment. It seemed to me that the fact that he was
truly innocent made things even better.
I howled wordlessly, turning around with a jolt. Something
gripped me. I don't know what it was, but it felt good. It
was like I was in a dream, observing something
dispassionately. Though I was the actor, I felt nothing,
physically or emotionally.
In the faint moonlight, I saw the fearful eyes of an old
homeless man wearing a large cross around his neck. "It's
cool, man!"
He'd repeat that again and again as I pounded into him into
the ground with my fists. As I observed myself senselessly
beating this man to death, snarling and yelling senseless
gibberish, I noted mentally that I must have been pretty
strong, cause the guy was no weakling himself, and I was
throwing him around like a piece of popcorn caught in a
popper. That was what made this scene seem really dreamlike,
cause I knew I had only mediocre strength.
That's exactly what it was like. One punch, and his body
would move one way. Another punch, and his body would move
another. His face snapped around wildly as I hammered punches
onto his jaw. Maybe I broke it. I don't know.
When it was over, he lay on the ground, bleeding in a lot of
places. "Shows you right, old man. Trust in God, and he
won't save you when the Beast is putting your God to the test.
All that time giving your ten percent, going to church every
Sunday, and evangelizing, and where the hell does it get you?"
He didn't even twitch. "ANSWER ME, GODDAMNIT!"
When he didn't answer, I kicked at his motionless body. I
think he was still alive when I was done. Almost, but not
enough.
Did I want to get caught? It must have been the reason, cause
when I got to a payphone close by, I wrapped my hand in cloth
and called 911.
"Hello?" I spoke in a convincing Irish accent. A native
Irishman would have sworn I was Irish. Where in Ireland?
Somewhere else in Ireland.
"911," spoke the nasally voice.
"I found a man severely beaten. Homeless. Some maniac beat
him with his fists and left him for dead. I've found him, and
I'm keeping him alive, but he needs help."
"Please stay on the line, sir."
"I can't! Someone has to keep him alive!" I told her where
we were, and hung up.
I did stay with the old man. Why did I beat the crap out of
him? I don't know. Why did I stay with him and make sure
that help came? I don't know. What I did know what that in
some odd way, I felt better. I was happy.
***
"So you were just stumbling your way home at midnight," said
the detective in a flat voice. "You saw this lone guy
pounding into the old man, and the lone man ran off. No
robbery. Didn't finish it off. You didn't report it either."
"No," I mumbled, the hangover obvious. "There was someone
else there. An Irishman who came from the other direction.
He was closer to the phone, and well, your officers can
testify to my drunkennes. There was no way I could have even
opened a car door, let alone dial a phone. I was having a
hard enough time walking straight."
The detective nodded. "That much is backed up. What happened
to the Irishman?"
"I passed out, so I don't know. Maybe he moved on? The next
thing I remembered was that the paramedics were shining lights
in my eyes."
"That's backed up." He sighed, putting down his notepad.
"I'll be honest with you. You disturb me, and I don't know
why. You're right: I have no case against you, so I have to
let you go, but don't be surprised if you're being watched."
I shrugged, genuinely uncaring. "If that's what you want,
there's nothing I can say against it. Let your eyes and ears
know that they're welcome to the coffee after I leave. By the
way, how's the old man doing?"
"He's in critical condition, but he's all right. We tried to
get him to id you, but he said that it was too dark. He also
said that wasn't you, because he'd remember that face for the
rest of his life, and he said that yours wasn't it."
He didn't say anything as I made my way home from the
emergency room. Two hundred smackers that I paid with a
check, since I didn't have the money on me.
I finally made it back home, and flipped on the tv. The
morning news. They were talking about the beating in a bad
part of town. A police sketch artist had put together a
composite, and it didn't look anything at all like me. The
guy had a hat that I wasn't wearing either. And a scarf over
the mouth, with sunglasses.
Maybe the old man was a bit loopy? Or was he afraid of
fingering me? That was two I owed him now.
==
Continued in part 2.
If you've missed any parts of this, please do not ask me to repost. It's
a one-time only posting.