The Book of Herrig: Helene & daughter, Sheila Sunday, 12 January 1992, 16:35:21.4590 The Man Called "Billy" William Reese Smythe, Billy, as he was usually called, or 'Reese,' by his male friends, at 6 foot one, was movie star handsome, and atypically, an expert lover. Uncultured and lanky, an impure man, Billy's translucent blue eyes and dirty blond Robert Redford hair left most women on first meeting dazed and uneasy. He was what you might have called in the 1950s, the universal white trash ladies man: muscular and fit, but not too much; intelligent and a good liar, but not formally educated; and while he seemed, at first, athletic, assured, robust in his manners, and just down home white boy arrogant, he was also doubtfully "vulnerable." and used crude, profane and vulgar language (when he knew better) to get under your church going mother humping nigger loving skins, so he said, smiling, picking a scab from his arm. I ain't no church man, but either are yo'all. You're all fucken queer for Jesus, he said. Well I'm a better pervert, and if I had cause, I'd take it up the ass before I prayed in or out of church for your forgiveness, Shit, I should forgive yo'all. You sure have fucked up rules and nothing's fair. The biggest liar is the law man. Man, if I were a nigger, I'd burn his ass and then his fucken town before I'd ride in the back of the bus or go to second rate schools. I'd never kiss his ass, that's fez sure. Shit, I know I ain't educated, but I is smart, and can at least read and write better than most white folks who didn't go to a Yankee college or half a dozen southern schools taught by southern gentlemen. They're the worst assholes. They lost the fucken war gave into the Yankees. Now, they lost their niggers, and instead of fighting back, they whine like drowned rats. Shit. Fucken genteel shits. What can a mother fucking southern good old boy do with the likes of yo'all, when you kiss white ass, and pray to a nigger loving God. My grandmas would have rather slit their own throats than kiss a nigger man. Now, I sees it everywhere up north in the cities. Shit, it'll be here soon. It's all right for white men to fuck niggers, always been done, got to improve the fucken race, but there ain't no need or excuse for any white woman to fuck a nigger. Shit, you fucks are crazy listening to the rich folks and their fairy tales. Don't you know, they want you to kiss their ass for a dime, and let them fuck your ass for a dollar- that kind of shit keeps you down on the fucken farm so you can't fuck up Paris or white Charleston. Shit, they even wrote a screwed up song about it when my Daddy was 'cross the sea fucking up the Huns during the war to end all fucken wars; what a fucken laugh, my pappy used to say. What assholes, we become, daddy, you fucken misbegotten sons of a bitches; ain't got any pride. If you did, you wouldn't let those northern do gooders fuck ye up. Like cheap cologne, Billy lingered too long in the cuts and bruises, and his insufficient disguises dull murmur to what passed for the spirit of the good old southern gentleman and the parsimony of the tired southern soil and the madness of share cropping slavery. Well, air conditioners, fertilizers, women's rights and those more general civil rights that protect men and children as well as cripples, faggots and women, opened the southern highway to the Yankee white boy come home back to Mama lately southerner who liked the way old black folks knew their place. These old guard didn't complain as they knew that this mostly white migration, south, was matched or a response to black migration, north into the cities New law cured the southern gentleman of any lingering notions of the white man's burden and his absolute racial hegemony. And Billy like the good old boy farmer was a clich‚, a piece of shit clouding up the past with a dreary after taste and finally a sad flowery funeral without godliness or gentility. When Billy spoke at large at a picnic, or in the pulpit, as a lay preacher in The City of God Pentecostal and Reformed Church, or to one person, although what he said, was usually racist and ignorant, when you really listened, there was nothing but loose air and not even a false front of camaraderie for a solid buttress. When Billy spoke, it was like watching former President Regan doing his favorite fast walk shuffle new conference, just an "off the cuff" briefing to the press that was as confused as CIA policy in Russian at the time of the fall of the Berlin wall. Life was seemingly like a failed play, when Regan or Billy in drag explained El Salvador or the Iraq-Iran war. Billy spoke in a cloud as did Regan before the Alzheimer's disease stopped his memory and cut off his lies. A question we might have asked of the nearly dead, sometimes, are we dead before we die? Is that possible given the political plans and agenda as set forth by Knewt. Is that an amphibian, Grandma. No, that's you wang, son. Old bad joke, sad to know. Why dost thou snicker, dear Knewt we might ask. Really, Billy's an actor after all. You know true speaker is dead; He suffered a miscarriage last year, and the fetus aborted was raised up to fulfills the creed of all good white men and born again niggers. But at curtain calls, all you heard about the play or the playwright were rude comments or some bluster about how some of the actors fumbled the dialogue. And who is that director? He did a terrible job, what boring blocking, and the back lighting was too dark, dismal, but that actor, what's his name, the one with the cleft in his chin, he had such a sexy mouth, one woman said, putting on her own deep red lipstick, rubbing her instrument into her lips, pushing, penetrating each pore, fucking the skin, making it shine and blush, exposing nostrils as vulva and tongue as clit. Women notice my mouth first, Billy said, then my ass, followed by my luminous eyesores I know some good words. My teacher taught me that one. She said look into my cunt, Billy, and smile at your reflection, that's a luminous cunt, dear boy. Billy often told friend and foe alike that the curves and flutter of his soft mouth stirred women like the lines of a woman's hip, or the upsweep of a firm breast stirred him. And when Billy's mouth opened, usually under a haze of cigarette smoke, flicking his ash, as men did, the cigarette cupped backward inside their yellow stained fingers, most women took two steps forward, one back, startled by how Billy made them wary and yet, strangely intimate, and although he didn't intentionally pose; it just appeared that way, and for those who had no imagination, well, they suffered because Billy said that bravado of love poetry was insulting and demeaned that pure southern woman and her good works for the suffering children and their impoverished parents. Overheard at the Gainesville, Fl. diner, where H‚lŠne Mae Herrig worked, after the terrible fire that killed two of her children and maimed another, a slightly plump, big titted middle age, three time divorced cashier, said, after running down the woman for her choice of men, drinking, excused Billy in an off hand way, that was certainly not complimentary, "you could call Billy almost a Donald Hall, you know, the Academy Award winning actor who was convicted last year for the statutory rape of an eleven year old girl, and then was himself raped with a broom stick and then murdered by prison guards. Remember how the guards claimed there was a prison escape, and the actor was shot taking a female officer hostage. All bullshit, man. The slob was executed by a deranged screw who blamed the actor for his daughter's rape and pregnancy. The man was in prison. Get it. The only way the pedophile could have fucked her was if the Guard brought the slut to the prison, and set them up in the infirmary. Pure and simple. All bullshit. A curious allusion, for Billy like Donald Hall had spent several years in prison before and after the 1964 fire for selling drugs, burglary, car theft, pandering, child molestation (sold pornographic photographs and movies of children having sex with adults and other children), and contributing to the delinquency of minors. In a sense, what the rotund waitress had said, could have been taken as prophecy, for Billy would also, many years later, die in prison, in 1982, when a jealous inmate and Billy's former lover (a raging Queen), stuck a shim in his gut and then cut the fuckers throat, because Billy had sucked some black dude's cock (reportedly for protection) one summer evening while armed guards watched from the parapet that extended over the prison yard. Most women, and some men, who knew Billy (in prison or out), would have done anything to keep the man's affection. Others like teachers, principals, cops, prison guards, army sergeants, uncles, husbands, mothers and the boy friends of his victims wanted to kick the shit out of him, and then fry him in old Sparky. -I want to really fuck him up, one woman said, when she learned Billy had gotten her fourteen year old daughter pregnant a second time. Not that Billy was responsible for the first grandchild. That didn't matter to the woman, who should have known that first grandchild was by way of her own much younger brother, who while visiting two summers ago, had fucked the child, paying her for sex, one ice cream cone for a blow job. Two 45 records for half and half, and a new sweater earned an over night stay and at least three good fucks if he could handle it. The old guy practically croaked making the attempt, but the girl didn't care. My fucken grandfather popped me when I was ten. Shit, you'd think I would mind. I hope the guy settles in Florida. I'll fuck him any time. Too bad I got pregnant. Shit, I don't really care, after all. He said I could stay with him, if I liked. Nah, can't do it, I told him. Don't want no prison guards, I said. You just another fucked up daddy hoping to pop his daughter's cherry. Shit, I got you beat, and I didn't have to fake it, pretend to sleep. I jump your mother fuckin bones right in front of your sister. She pretended to be sleeping. I saw her eyes open at least three times, and I was only looking for a minute. The cunt knew I was fucking you. She must have got off on it. Shit, you got to love me. I want to settle in Florida by Miami Beach and be a rich Jewish whore, fucking the Mafia to death for a diamonds, pearls, and rubies. Shit, I got my great dreams too, you know. I hate fucken Brooklyn too. Think I want to go back up there with all the other niggers. We sure are a lost fucken race, right. What else could the little girl think, Billy said. She sat on my lap and openly played, rolling her ass against my thing while her Mama and I watched Mr. Dillion on black and white Gun Smoke tip his hat and smile to Miss Kitty. A righteous whore if there ever was one, I told the little girl, Sheila, as she rocked against my hardon while I fondled H‚lŠne's breasts as she slept, leaning against my left shoulder while we sat on the large over stuffed couch, pretending to snore. Later, after Gunsmoke, H‚lŠne now slept in our bedroom, after she had staggering through the kitchen looking for ice cubes and more bourbon. She briefly asked if Sheila was sleeping, and I said, yes, and she closed the door, and suggested that she wanted to sleep alone, and I could use the couch, or sleep in Sheila's room. I I doubt H‚lŠne knew that Sheila, wearing only a short dress, and was truly bare ass, pubic pears exposed, legs open, fully asleep in my lap, she shifted under my gentle fingers while I watched TV news about a fucken prison riot and the murder of an inmate in Texas. Who the fuck cares about some slob who went to jail for fucking some eleven year old slut. I shut the TV and carried Sheila to her bed, where I crawled under the covers and yes, I slept cradled with Sheila and assorted teddy bears, and we slept In the morning, H‚lŠne woke about six, joining Sheila and me in the child's very large bed. H‚lŠne noticed that Sheila was bare ass, and she helped the child with her underpants, careful, not to wake her, and then she noticed I was buck naked and sported a half hardon, which delighted H‚lŠne, as she rubbed it, making it stiff, kissing my face, she turned to my neck, kissing my throat, she whispered something curious: "I'm jealous of my daughter's affection for you. I know that now, but its OK as long as you don't ever leave us, and I sat up, fully awake, not wanting to wake Sheila, H‚lŠne and I rocked together, gently fucking side to side while Sheila slept, woke up, leaned closer to us, letting her sleepy head fall on my arm while her mother rose above me, fucking furiously, no secrets, nothing was hidden, as H‚lŠne came, riding my wave, I felt Sheila lean into my neck as she innocently played with her mother's breast dangling and then falling into us, as we collapsed, the child crawled between us, and we rolled carefully around the bed, feeling the heat, open legs, and the wet mouth of her mother's open organs. Years Later, an Inquest, of Sorts: Why did Mama let him touch my body, Sheila asked years later. She wouldn't have believed it, and I couldn't and didn't know enough then to stop it. It was as natural as eating, playing with his thing. Later, I knew it was wrong. But then I didn't really give a fuck only hating that Billy lied and didn't tell Mama that I was his true sweetheart. Fortunately, for most of his women, Billy never stayed around too long. Unfortunately, for Billy, he never faced the shattered glass after the assaults or cleaned up the blood from the mattress after one of his child like sweet hearts bled to death after a botched abortion. Billy's abuse of women and children, sacred and profane, was everlasting, and indelibly fixed in the circuits, and each flaw, each transgression like a broken computer chip or a missed lead, like any computer or human virus, host and object, suffered equally, however, the victims, unaware of the contagion, suffered the possible AIDS like complications in silence, and now Billy wonders how any one can fully isolate potential victims from their predators. I guess, you can't, Billy's smile, genuine, made sense if you looked at the larger horizon accepting cause and result as information and not morality. Like many of us, Billy wasn't just simply a flawed specimen, he spread misery too easily like typhus after a flood inundated the reservoir, mixing septic waste and clean water. More than another typhoid Mary, Billy rattled Bob Dylan's doors, and then when no one answered with the correct musical phrase, Billy walked away to break down one door after another wailing his country music bad lands music until nothing was left of the land but ocean. And nothing was left of space, but space. Nothing in life is sacred, Billy laughed. Philosophy is dead, Man, he spoke the phrase softly, scratching his left nipple blue tattoos and all. News Report: WHYN News, in Austin, Texas reported earlier yesterday, in an exclusive news report, "that one prison guard had gone berserk murdering the Academy Award winning actor, Donald Hall, who was DOA at the county prison hospital shortly after being shot three times in the heart and head by Correction Officers." No guards suffered injury. A brief riot by inmates was contained with tear gas and fire hoses. Two inmates suffered minor wounds and were treated at the prison hospital. Today, State Prison officials and Warden William T. Stallings, 53, at a Press Conference at the prison, took serious exception to the WHYN news report broadcast early yesterday "characterizing the activity at the prison as a police riot." The Warden said continuing, "this irresponsible charge undermines the reputation of all Corrections Officers, and he demanded an immediate retraction and apology. At no time, had any prison guard 'gone berserk,'" Stallings claimed ..."and the report by WHYN is grossly inaccurate. Donald Hall was not murdered during a police riot. The inmate died of gun shot wounds inflicted by a police sharp shooter after the inmate had seriously attacked two prison guard with an exacta style knife seriously wounding them." The News Conference was also attended by the new Texas Governor, Joseph A. Allen, sworn in just last week1. The Governor in a two sentence press release stated this morning: "I am here in support of Warden Stallings and all law abiding State Correction Officers. They serve the people of Texas protecting us from violence, crime and corruption." TV news anchor, Cynthia Rawlings, in an exclusive new report from the Texas State Prison refuted the earlier WHYN news report as inaccurate and misinformed citing what appear to be serious errors made by the newly hired radio station news manager, Fred W. Whissant, 29, who apparently had mistakenly broadcast that a police riot had caused the death of an inmate at the State Prison. The station manger, Cynthia Rawlings claimed, refused to reveal his primary sources at the State Prison. He claimed he had corroborated the riot report and murder of Donald Hall using radio frequency traffic picked up from the State Police and the Prison Radio Stations operated by the inmates but under prison supervision. Three independent and reliable sources corroborated our story, the Station manager claimed. "We often employ prison employees and inmates as stringers," Fred Whissant concluded. "The State prison System is an integral part of our local broadcast community. Out of fairness, the names of the stringers will not be released at this time." Reporting for rival WXST TV Austin, Ms. Rawlings reported that "Lieut. Davis Joseph Hedron, 47, a supervising Correction Officer at Texas State Prison, for the past fifteen years here, and a former Staff Sgt. in the Marines Corps and a two tour much decorated Vietnam Vet had shot and killed the actor in a brief fire fight during a prison escape and lock down. The thirty three year old actor had reportedly wielding a make shift knife and had without provocation attacked two prison guards, Correction Officers John A. Mohr Jr., 28, and Mary W. Rawlings, 25. Sources at the Maximum Security State prison indicated that the actor had refused to be stripped searched (after an earlier apparently unrelated prison escape attempt), and during the struggle with the guards, Prison officials alleged that the inmate Donald Hall had pulled a makeshift knife from off his person, and then after seriously wounding John A. Mohr had taken Officer Rawlings captive, apparently planning to use her as a hostage and bargain for release. Lieut. Hedron, after repeatedly warning the inmate to release Officer Rawlings and throw down his weapon, fired three rounds using a laser sighted automatic weapon instantly killing the inmate, Donald Hall. The two prison guards, injured during the incidents, were treated for cuts and released from the County Hospital this morning. Doctors at the County Hospital in Austin, after being repeated questions by reporters, released the following statement today, " ...prison guards treated at the hospital after the prison escape and riot, yesterday, are being released after medical treatment for 'anxiety associated with work related stress.' We did not treat the Correction Officers for any physical traumas as previously reported. We regret the error Their medical treatment at the hospital Emergency Room was routine and entirely precautionary." It was also reported that the Corrections Officers would not be taken off the duty roster, and would report tomorrow for their scheduled shift. had been sentenced two years ago to ten years to life in state prison for statutory rape and criminal incest. A prison inquest was held this morning. Donald Hall was pronounced dead at 4:12 AM today The Cover Up, not Revealed: Lieut. Davis Joseph Hedron, 47, a supervising Correction Officer at Texas State Prison, for the past fifteen years here, and a former Staff Sgt. in the Marines Corps and a two tour much decorated Vietnam Vet had executed Donald Hall for allegedly raping his fourteen year old daughter, making her pregnant. Donald Hall, in fact, had never met, nor could never have met, Lieut. Hedron's daughter, Patty, 14. Unfortunately, Donald Hall resembled a local Datrix gas station owner, Mitchell Reisen, 38, who was a widower with two daughters, Heather, 13 and Samantha, 11. The three girls, best friends, with each other since first grade, played daily at the pool behind the gas station. Mitchell Risen and Davis Hedron, good buddies, former marines, and Vietnam Vets drank whiskey and soda, resurrecting broken down stock cars as a shared hobby. Last summer, for a long month, when Heather and Samantha were at a Christian camp in Michigan (a gift of the Reisen grand parents), and Patty was not, the young woman, wearing colorful halters and shorts (or a bathing suit and towel), rode her bicycle casually through the gas station islands, while Mitchell worked on cars, or pumped gas. He obviously enjoyed her company, and when it got busy, she helped out, pumping gas, checking oil and water. Mitchell even let her drive her father's car in the back lot knowing the girl wanted to practice for her license next year. Back home, father worked fifteen hours a day at the prison, and Patty's mother, Janice, 30, ran a downtown used clothing store and had a lover on the side. My parents are always busy Patty complained, and Mom's messing around with somebody, Patty confessed to Mitchell, please don't tell Joe, she begged, realizing she may have revealed too much, Patty pulled back, joking about it, but she knew she hadn't fooled anyone. The secret was out for good, and there was nothing I can do about it. Patty was sad, but resigned. Then, Mitch surprised her. Your father knows, he said. Your mother told Joe last year. They like their family, as it is, and neither want to divorce, so they came to an understanding. Your mother has a lover, but your father has one too. Who is it, Patty asked. I know Mom's seeing that Dentist, who just opened a practice on the mall, but who is Dad's lover? You know her, Mitchell said. And when Mitchell told her the woman's name carefully, so softly, it couldn't be heard. He felt lost, and realized he was opening a secret box too big for the child to ignore and also too powerful for the young woman to fully tolerate. After all, its one thing for a daughter to know her mother is fucking around, Patty said later, describing what had happened to Heather, when her best friend returned from camp. But now, with Heather's father, she coyly covered her ears not wanting to really hear, or see the face of the woman who made love to her father. I'll hate her, Patty thought, and then, as if confused, bewildered, unsure, she begged Mitchell again, tell me, Who is it, please, I've got to know. Its the English art teacher at the High School. Georgiana Wells. She taught you last year, that's how your father met her, at your first art show. Then Mitchell looked down, felt the cold room shut behind him, after this confession to Patty, he added, I doubt I would be able to let such a thing pass without challenge, he said. I loved my wife but she's dead not two years. I miss her every day. I've been so lonely, and if it weren't for Heather and Samantha and you too, Patty, I don't know. You and Heather have changed so much. Last year, you were kid, playing in the basement with dolls. Now, we're telling dirty jokes, playing cards, and then he thought, but did not say: -Really Patty, your look, talk, and act like a woman. I know you won't be fifteen until next February. Your my best friend's daughter, how can I ... Patty, looking at the stopped man, at the speech he said, through her mind, if not her ears. What do I do. I can't lead him. What do I know. I care for him. I want to help, and instinctively, she reached up, and did the right or the wrong thing depending on what you consider right and wrong. Patty reached up and touched Mitchell's cheek, letting the tear melt under her finger. She ruffled his hair, and then she caressed his cheek letting her nails run through the grooves of his face, finding each line attractive, each pock mark from ancient acne, a secret cave for exploration. Mitchell let her hold his face, and then taking her hand, he kissed her, letting himself enter her mind, feeling her body respond, she said, I don't know what to do. Not here, he said, we'll go back home, OK. Just until Heather and Samantha return, Patty said. Not realizing what she had said, she spoke it carefully, like an adult planning an outing. These things are considered and these are not. Plans are choices, and imply connection and completion. Lead into the graveyard, running over the mine field, the soldiers died softly, holding their comrades in battle. Mitchell just didn't make love with Patty, he taught her the power of her body, how to move it gracefully under him and then above. He taught her to touch lightly, with staggered pressure, letting her mouth work his penis, making it hard and then powerful, letting him come inside, feeling the richness of the semen as it pushed inside her mouth and wet her throat. Patty kissed him gently, afterwards, mixing come and spit. They did it all. Nothing withheld. They played games. He pretended to be a little boy, and she was the schoolmarm. He was the old man, who needed a nurse, and she was the bashful lady fucking four men, one after another, and Patty told him as they fucked, hard, rolling around, what each man had done that was special even asking forbidden questions. Have you ever wanted to fuck your daughters, she teased him one night, and when he withdrew, Patty became cruel. I am Heather, fuck me she shouted at him. I am Samantha let me blow you, and taking his cock in her mouth she made him come, and she knew he was resisting, and at first, she feared he would run from her, and then suddenly, he joined in, calling her Heather, Samantha, Annabelle. Yes, that's my wife. She fucks us too, and watches now, see her in the ceiling. And what about your father, dear Patty, you want him, that's why your mad about the art teacher. You want him to see us now, to take him to bed with us, to fuck his spirit as he fucks your daughters, Patty laughed, this is a miracle, how can I be so lucky, and when she came, she felt her father's hand on her clit, pushing it, and when he came, he felt Heather's tit, and his wife's hair in his face. Patty was wanton, not bashful, feeling the expansion, the tide, as an artist of images, she loved the possession. In ten days, they made love for a century, and when it was over, they would rest as god did after the last day. I hold him, Patty screamed. I hold him in my hands, and feel that life swollen and fertile, I will breathe with him, allow each short breath to reach higher, and then slower, and finally, as we pass by the other, up and close, down and inside, I feel the other voices, that chatter of fools thinking what he has taught, what we do, as exploitation. No, It is not that. I exploit him as he does. Its equal. Age is irrelevant. I knew what I did, Patty wrote in her diary. Dear Father, I love him, she said. He loves me. We are both single, and could marry with your permission. And in two years, when I am seventeen, I will do it in any case. Nothing will stop us, she wrote not as a defiant school girl, but as a woman knowing what was real, and what was not. There is balance now, in my life, and he is my support, as I am his. Patty and Mitchell secretly made love a thousand times in ten days. Yes, that's an exaggeration, and every day, it was better than most know in a life time. And yes, the one terror. They knew they had to keep the secret. And there was the times when Patty's father came to the pool, and they had one, tow picnic, and then another time, Patty's mother asked Mitchell if he as fucking her daughter. He denied it. You're a liar, but I understand, he couldn't accept it. Finally, when Mitchell's daughters returned, as agreed, they stopped making love, promising to remember, and Patty told Mitchell that she wanted him to find a woman he could proudly love, and not hide. I found her, he said. It's you. No, we can't. Patty didn't know it, but she was pregnant when Heather and Samantha returned. Heather knew immediately when she saw Patty shadow her father's movements, that Patty and her father were lovers. -It's OK Heather told Patty. -What? -I know. -What. -You're sleeping with my Daddy -Not my Daddy. -Don't be silly. I know, and its OK by Samantha as well. -What did you tell your sister. -I told her about you guys at breakfast. -Does she know, you know, about it? -Are you kidding? -Who told her? -At camp that's all you talk about? -I thought it was religious, that's what your father said. -Holy Fucking Christ, and they laughed. You got let me tell about this one guy. He was twelve, and all the ten year old girls loved his ass. He must have had some kind of sex with every fucking one of them. They were wild. -You're full of shit, Patty said. -Got me. OK, I like to lie; sue me. Don't you tell tall tales, sometimes, your self, (pausing) no I guess not. -I love your father, Heather, Ain't no mother humping lie -Does Joe know? -No, but my Mother thinks its OK. She walked into his bathroom at a picnic last week, and I was on the floor sucking your father off. -All Mom said, well, you're taller 'n him, smarter 'n him, and probably a better screw than me, so why not. -Your Mom likes my father. -Have they, do you think my Mom has. Shit, that would be funny. -I won't share Mitchell with her, Heather, and then Patty was light headed, letting blank thoughts collide as well as floundering, and yet she was full of that plenty that helped out with conversation. For what we learned is also hidden. -Who said that? -The Pope -Get serious. -It's a parable: At first there's the subtle manipulation of the flower (clearly out of phase), and then pollen splits, divides again and again.. -You know what I'm thinking, Heather, that sex can't be felt until you're too distant from your lover. You need to miss it, to realize the foundation and its over growth. -Yes, I know, and then suddenly, it's as if nothing could happen, and you feel hands on your breasts, inside your legs, opening your mouth, in your ears, but rationally you know that he's a century or more away, down the pike in the future tense, and here you are lost in some past, but then it shifts again and you are closer and closer, and he is so fucken close but still out of reach, and instantly you are charmed by the intimacy of love, memory and its odd confessions. -You're nuts, Professor, shit, now what can I call you, Patty, I can't call you Mom? -What about sister. -OK, Heather smiled, assured, turning over, holding her pillow under her chin, thinking of that utter nonsense, you know you think when you try to be profound. "Now, that would be incest, but that's OK, its only a word after all"? -What, incest? -No being a sister, and Patty reached out, touched Heather's lips, gently pressing her fingers between them, forcing them to open like raw fruit; let me kiss you like I do your father, Patty said, and suddenly, she was there, kissing Heather, letting her tongue explore, and then, quickly, Heather struggled up and free, out of breath, truly frightened. -I know you're stronger and all, but I swear Patty, if you make another move on me tonight, I'll knock your block off, now stop it, I can't handle incest, too. -"Don't worry, Heather, I won't get you pregnant." -"And I really wanted a baby, pooh." Getting off it. -"I'm carrying your sister, Heather. Now, touch there, and now, here's my tit, feel how I breathe and the tension under my nipples. Now, yes, take it between your finger and thumb, now, push in while you tighten your fingers, then pull out, again, more, feel how soft, now hard, now, lean down, look at it carefully, take it n your mouth, I melt if you stare first. I loved showing off, now that's it, here let me do you, feel where her tiny mouth will suckle. -Good thing, I'm going to get you a breast pump. -I'm not pregnant. -You could be. Wouldn't that be fun, doing it all together. -You said its a girl. You don't know. -Has to be. I have dreamed of daughters. -No, you're crazy, and pushing Patty away, Heather laughed. Now tell me if you're so smart. Who's the daddy. -Who would you like? -Joe. -My father. You got to be kidding. How about, yours? -Why not yours? -Next time, feeling playful. The babies would almost be twins. -Fucking my father. I almost did, you know. When my mother died I slept in my father's arms. Samantha did also. I was eleven and she was nine. Neither of us were very developed. Now, If I had been more experienced, I would have known better how to help him. Anyway, he woke up, just as he was about to come against my leg, and I held him, letting him. He cried, and never let us sleep together. Samantha was real curious. She wondered what he was doing, and then I showed her the stain on the sheet. That comes from men. It makes babies, and the twirp, you know what she did, she rubbed it on her finger, and then lifting up her night gown, she rubbed it on her bare cleft and announced she was having a baby. You know I liked the way he kissed. His mouth was soft, not hard like the movies. I know he kissed her, and I was my mother, come back, for a moment. I wished he had finished inside. -Do it then, with him. But you gotta let me watch, OK -What about Samantha? -What about her? She can hold your hand, if you want more company. -No, I'll hold yours. -Would she tell someone. -Never. -She was the biggest slut at the camp last summer. I could get her boy friend in a lot of trouble. She likes them older, too, you know. -She didn't fuck anyone, as far as I know, but she gave blow jobs out left and right to all the little boy life guards, and the rec. director, and the fart was at least thirty five. My boyfriend told me all about it at camp. He was embarrassed, he said. I told him to fuck off, and I had another guy the next day. I'm experienced, really, Patty. Suddenly without reservation or surprise Heather and Patty cuddled, held the other, while Patty made Heather come, and Heather fucked Patty as she came. I thought you just learned how to do it, Patty was surprised by Heather's fluency. What do you think we do at camp, on those nights. You know they keep boys locked up on the other side of the lake. The brave swim across the lake, but my friends Lynn and Julie, we didn't just mess with the boys, we had more fun with each other, and then we fucked the two adult counselors at the boys camp. I walked right in his room, one night, stripped off my bathing suit, and asked this male nurse if he would treat the poison ivy I had inside my thigh. Don't get me wrong, I like boys as well as men, but I think they are sticky and messy. We don't have that problem yet, do we? Picking up the box, no I use the tissues your father keeps here. -Mother bought a case of them. She didn't like it messy. -I like how it tastes, sometimes, when I am into it. I know that sounds sick. -Can you still taste my father. -Yes, and I like it. -In the back of my mouth. Three Murders, Suicide, and Patty survived. The next day all hell broke lose. Joe Hedron learned that his daughter was pregnant with his best friend's child. Joe accepted death and the mad surgery of murder. I will kill them all including that fuck at the prison. He must have done her too. Looks just like Mitchell. What an asshole, I've been to trust anyone. Fuck my wife and daughter. They're all sluts. I cannot let them hold me back. They know it. Its over. 1 PM First, Joe murdered Mitchell, quietly while they fished on the lake. Joe was surprised by his reserve and control. And when Mitchell finally gave up, allowed the bliss of the end to cover his presence, Joe smiled, cleaned the boat and returned home without fish or tackle. 11 PM All in all, Joe saw it as a mission. Next, letting himself inside Mitchell house, he waited for the children. First, he raped Heather, who seemed to get into it. When she did, he strangled her with a piece of rope, calling her slut and hussy, finally sleeping next to the body, he woke, time to murder Samantha who slept in the bedroom far on the other side of the house. At 3 AM, Reaching Samantha, he held her down, covering her ass, he fucked her raw, and then when he was done, he slapped her, letting they hysteria growl, until she resembled an animal that he simply smothered with one hard hand, letting the spine and the throat meet at the edge where oblivion and the beast devour, swallow the each other's sleep. As a final coup, Joe covered Heather and Samantha' heads with the pillow, making certain, he drowned them in a cover of feathers. At 4 AM Joe buried Samantha and Heather in the deep well behind the lake house. No one knew about it, and Joe resisted the temptation to call the cops when he was done, and give up the ghost, confess all of it. They deserved it. No, I rather die with them. Then 5 AM First Joe slaughtered his wife, who was having breakfast with his daughter. One shot gun blast and she was finished, and then Patty, who was quicker than her father, escaped into the woods. Fuck her, he said, and he left her, took a shower, got dressed, and then drove to work, as if nothing had happened. Patty, and no one believed this later, was crazed by the murders. She cried, and unable to move for hours, she stared at the walls, and shook from head to foot, and then when she learned that her father had murder Donald Hall, taking his own life, shortly after. That last crime made the least sense, and was the most reprehensible. And yet it was the murder of two families that made the headlines, but with no living murdered, it was over before it started. Patty, alone in the world had her baby and suffered with a crazed mania. I can't move without crying, she sighs. I am alive and dead. He's alive and dead. Madness is this possession, the folly and lost of the boundary where the empty sky slips beneath the tide, and then no relief. My child and I are swimmers, she said. Let's fly. Governor replacing former Governor Tits Little, who had recently been removed from office for misappropriation of more than 2 million dollars in State prison Authority funds. Governor Little, currently under indictment, claimed the funds were legally used by his campaign committee under current state law.