Ionic Relapse: Book One of The Doll Man Duology (Volume 1) Read online

  The least, I mean the very least, He could do is let everyone worship from home. Does it have to be here? And with that fat guy with the goiter or that smelly lady with the melting neck skin? It wouldn’t really change anything if I was in a different building, would it? It’s not like this is literally God’s house. He’s not waiting on the second floor for the priest to relay the exciting events of the day to him, is he? Gossiping with Childs over coffee about all the juicy town goings and sinful secrets that we all know Jesus loves to hear. Whether I’m squirming in a varnish-stained pew or in my comfy bed at home, I'm still praying to Him, RIGHT?

  By now, the blood would curdle in Ricky’s veins. The long list of things he’d rather be doing scrolled down in the back of his mind like faded parchment with each passing second. He would watch Reverend Childs dramatically flip through his big gold-lined book, his soul steadily oozing with black hate. Ricky would wish, no PRAY, for the big wooden cross that hung over the front chancel to come crashing down and crush Childs like an ant. His puny little head would probably pop like an overripe honeydew all over the wrinkled old biddies kneeling in the front row.

  If God exists, he's definitely a Gallagher fan.

  Childs’s caterpillar-thin mustache and beady rat eyes only added to the natural dislike that most of the kids in church felt for him. An obvious birth defect on his upper lip that eventually faded to a bright pink scar had cursed Childs with an unavoidable lisp. If the lisp bothered Childs, he did not let it show. The reverend, like most men of the cloth, was a self-propelled man of unlimited rants and lectures. He would sometimes burst into improvisational tears during half-hearted renditions of Bringing in the Sheaves. Limply swaying his stickly arms while dramatically crying at the ceiling to boost the otherwise drab spirits of the parishioners.

  Reverend Childs’s sermons were almost always peppered with bombastic renditions of all the classic hymns. His efforts usually fell flat among the hangover inflicted crowd of red-eyed farmers with their many dirt-smudged children and wives. The off-key sing-alongs were always capped off with a personal Passage of the Day picked by the reverend himself.

  Unlike most Sundays, that morning's Passage of the Day was especially interesting to Ricky.

  “Dear brothers and sisters,” Reverend Childs purred softly over the slowly receding pipe organ that reverberated sweetly from every pointed angle in the high-ceilinged room, “I bring this sermon to a close on a note of warning. A warning to those who choose to ignore the meaning of RESPECT!” His slim fist unexpectedly wrapped the top of the large hardwood podium. Its hollow boom echoed across the rows of silent men and women. “Not respect for me, my friends, nor do I mean respect for anyone sitting here among us today! No, brothers and sisters, I, of course, am talking about respect for the LAHD!” His dark eyes swept across the crowd coldly. The intense expression of disgust on his face suddenly wavered to one of guilty pleasure.

  “I know that a heathen, possibly heathens, is purposely leaving canine fecal matter on the premises of this church after hours. I have posted signs, but have only been met with more DOOKEY!” Childs again roared and pounded on the podium. He was one tiny mustache away from a near perfect Adolf Hitler impersonation. Ricky sat motionless in his pew and desperately tried to blend into the rows of confused, hazy-eyed faces.

  “The passage for you all today is from Rom 1:18 — For the wrath of God is revealed from Heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth.”

  Childs gently closed the giant gold-trimmed book and soundlessly removed his glasses. The face hiding beneath those wire frames was intense and lined with white hate. His quivering lips and squinted eyes fought back the tears of passion.

  “God will not tolerate such disrespectful acts! He will smite you down so fast that... you won’t know what’s what! You think this is some kind of prank on me? You think that because I'm stuck with daily cleanup that it’s just a harmless joke on an old man? Well, my fellow brethren, it is most certainly NOT! What this is, is a blatant attack on GAWD ALMIGHTY HIMSELF! When you intentionally leave steaming rolls of hot lawn cigars out on this church's grass over there, you are pranking JAYSUS CHRIST’AH!” Childs began to foam at the mouth with spiteful vengeance directed at everyone and no one in the deadly quiet room in front of him.

  The urge to roll over laughing at this point had been almost unbearable for Ricky. He managed to suppress it as Childs’s sunken cheeks began to redden in inertial rage.

  “Don’t think for a second that He will let you get away with your blasphemous attempts of silly sacrilegious anarchy! Gawd is and always will be watching you! And you! And you!” Stabbing one boney, ringed finger at the crowd of shriveled faces. “He knows what you've done, and his punishment will be just!” Childs took one last look through the crowd. He looked hard for any shaken souls who might have given away their guilt, but found nothing.

  Disappointed, Childs closed mass with his usual quotation of, “May Jesus be with you all. God bless,” before storming off in a fluster to his backroom study. He normally held the front lobby door and said his thanks to everyone, but today he sat in his office with the door closed. Undisturbed, he sat at his desk and listened for the last patron to leave. An hour later, the reverend grabbed his hat and coat and locked up for the night. Before getting in his car to go home, he did a quick sweep of the lawn to make sure it was still spotless from this morning.

  Ricky was back at church not ten hours later. Like he had been doing almost nightly for the past month and a half, he was there on business.

  Ricky and his miniature poodle Pretzel were there to make a special delivery.

  An unwelcome zephyr, still salty with the distant ocean air hurried along by the Gulf Stream, turned Ricky’s already hard nose to stone. His thin shoulders were hitched up in an effort to protect his flaky, pink face from the bitterly harsh winds blowing in from the east. With one chapped hand shoved deep into the front of his jeans, Ricky tugged annoyingly at the leash and said, “Jesus Christ, Pretzel. It’s the same lawn you shit on last night. Just pick a fuckin' spot so we can go home.”

  Pretzel's kinky black Afro and mittened paws were barely visible as she continued sniffing around the front lawn. She huffed and snorted along the raised flowerbeds that lined the outside perimeter of the church. Pulling Ricky away from the dim spotlight and around the corner to the back lawn, Pretzel’s nose pushed through the cold, wet grass in search of just the right spot to fecally claim. Weary of any nocturnal visitors, Ricky firmly grasped Pretzel’s leash, reducing the slack. The last thing he wanted was to have to take a tomato soup bath with the dog for a week. It would not be the first. Pretzel was smart, but probably not enough to avoid getting sprayed or mauled. Scanning the darkness, Ricky slowly searched the now closing treeline for any signs of life.

  He continued to survey the thick mouth of twisted bark while Pretzel found her drop spot for the night and made the delivery. Ricky didn’t know why, but he felt like he was being watched. He felt the electromagnetic pull of an unfamiliar set of eyes spying on him from a place unseen. Sitting low somewhere beyond the thinly stretched veil of halogen lights. His eyes searched the shadows, but found nothing.

  It’s probably God. He really does know you're the Brown Bomber. Watch out for lightning and locusts! Or fanged frogs infected with the plague raining down from the sky! Oh nooooooo!

  His somewhat sophisticated sense of reason chimed in over the childish babbles of Christ bashing.

  You’re buying into that reverend’s scare tactics. God isn’t watching you or anyone else. You’re just freaking yourself out, dumbass. Grow a pair of nuts and do what you came to do.

  Pretzel, still camouflaged by the Stygian night, continued to squat in the dark. After a few seconds, Ricky felt the familiar back-legged kicking that she always did after a good shit.

  “Good girl,” Ricky said as he blindly reached out and ruffled her dense puff of curls. “Let’s get outta’ here
.” Pretzel in turn sniffed and nibbled at Ricky’s outstretched hand. Her warm tongue lapped at his hardening fingers, leaving a slick wetness that froze over almost instantly. Trying to rub the spittle off on his jeans, Ricky gave her leash a quick tug to help shepherd her back towards the light.

  They turned around to walk back to the front parking lot. Then, the sharp popping of breaking twigs paused everything. Its sound bounced sharply off the tall brick wall behind Ricky before deflecting back into the dark. Perhaps they weren't alone after all. Ricky froze and twirled around back towards the sleeping woods.

  Nothing.

  Same etched treeline trimmed neatly in a big swooping C along the side of the building. The chilled wind gave life to all the swaying limbs and thick shrubs that stretched past them. A line that could only be defined from where nature ended and man began. The freshly cut lawn acted as a visual platform in the sterile moonlight. Its freshly cut blades sparkling in their temporary death cycle. The impenetrable void beyond emitted a natural static that gave the previous sound no point of reference. It could have come from anywhere out there.

  What if I’m right, Ricky frantically asked himself. What if there’s—

  OR, maybe it was a frozen squirrel dropping out of a tree. Or your balls dropping out of the bottom of your jeans… pussy. Stop squirming, and start walking.

  Fresh beads of sweat stung Ricky’s forehead as he turned back and again quickened his pace towards the front lawn.

  SNAPSNAPSHH

  The sound was much closer now. Pretzel's head shot up towards the empty darkness. Huffing and puffing her cheeks aggressively, she pulled at the leash to go investigate, but Ricky did not budge. He knew she also sensed something out beyond the wall of dancing trees. As if whatever was lurking in the darkness was gaining ground every time they turned around. It knew that Ricky sensed its presence. Something was out there watching and waiting patiently for them to make another move.

  The close proximity of the last sound stopped them just as he was at the crest of the lighted brick corner. Ricky numbly turned and once again surveyed the darkness expecting to find nothing. Only this time, he didn’t.

  Standing not even ten feet away, half wrapped in the slight shadows cast by the hard-cornered building, was a clown.

  Dressed in a bright purple and yellow-checkered jump suit, the clown's red-smeared lips peeled upward in a nicotine stained smile. His sharp rows of pointed teeth looked soft and grey in contrast to the powder white skin of his beard-stubbled face. A perfectly round blood-red nose centered the horrifying image in a leaf littered crown of poufy green hair. The clown’s outfit was almost complete except for one missing visual detail:

  His big floppy shoes.

  This clown wore black tennis shoes that blended into the night. Giving him the illusion of floating inches above the ground.

  The mental inventory of the clown's appearance stopped when words came crumbling through its jagged red mouth.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  Pretzel was the first to react. She barked and growled at the sound of an unknown voice. A low, guttural growl hummed from her teddy bear body and soon she was baring shiny white teeth at the strange figure. As she leaped forward, she pulled the leash free from Ricky’s trembling hands. Ricky watched in horror as Pretzel closed the distance between them at lightning speed. Her manicured paws flew out in front of her like a velvet painting lioness pouncing a gazelle. Flinging her entire body forward in a running jump.

  Ricky watched her rise elegantly off the ground before abruptly halting in mid-air. Her back legs and head twitched violently. Jaws snapping, she soon started clamping down on her own drool-lined tongue. Gnawing and grinding loudly. Her mouth started to bleed, spraying drops of blood onto the ink blotted grass. Skinny, fuzzy little legs shuddered and convulsed while still levitating several feet off the ground. Legs dangling, she cried out in high-pitched whimpers and gargled barks while fighting gravity. Losing the fight, she dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes and ceased to move.

  Protruding from Pretzel’s chest was the long black handle of a giant blood-soaked blade.

  The clown had skewered Pretzel in mid-air like a cheap piece of Gouda cheese.

  Terror cemented Ricky’s voice as he helplessly watched the clown bend over and drag the long shiny metal of a one-foot machete across Pretzel’s upturned stomach. Ricky could hear the soft skin of her warm belly pouch rip open like wet cloth. Billows of steam and hot air rushed out of the lengthening gash, mingling with the cold gases before being carried away in the breeze. Pretzel’s cries had grown increasingly weak as the cold steel slowly pureed her insides. It was one long drag from top to bottom. Everything either broke or got pushed along downtown for the ride. Lungs punctured and liver slashed, Pretzel died long before the blade's edge cracked clear through her pelvic bone.

  The clown’s lidless, red-rimmed eyes had never left Ricky during the whole execution.

  Ricky’s subordinate sense of reason screamed at him through the unpreparedness of complete disbelief.

  Sweet mother of fucktarts! Get outta’ here!

  He started to pivot, his right leg already raised in action, ready to run for the not so distant light, when he heard the metal on metal clinkclink of a gun being cocked. Once again, he was glued back in place.

  “Don’t move,” the clown said as he stood back up from the smashed piñata that used to be Ricky’s dog. Even in the dense cover of night, Ricky could make out the shape of a pistol against the fluorescent pattern of the clown’s checkered jumpsuit. “If you try to run, I’ll shoot you in the back. And don’t think for a second that I care about those houses down the road hearing anything. I don't want to kill you, but I will if you don’t listen.”

  Hot tears started to race down Ricky’s numbed cheeks. He was completely clueless of what to do. If he ran or called for help, the clown would surely shoot him. But he also didn’t seem to have any trouble filleting Pretzel open like a Largemouth Bass. What would stop him from doing the same to Ricky?

  His options were few.

  “Listen to me very carefully. You see that window over there?” The clown gestured with the pistol to the brick wall where a single paned window hung six feet off the ground. “Open it up and climb inside. Once you get in, walk to the front and unlock the lobby door.”

  “WWha… What? Why?” Ricky stammered uncontrollably.

  “Stop asking questions, kid. Do what I say unless you want a Texas style lobotomy.” The gun traced invisible dotted lines across Ricky’s forehead. Its glossy wooden handle wobbled slightly in the clown’s oversized gloved hands.

  “Why do you want to go in there?” The command vexed Ricky. None of this made any sense. He knew tomorrow was Halloween, but that only accounted for the costume. This whole thing had the feeling of an elaborate prank gone terribly wrong. Maybe the prankster didn’t mean to kill Pretzel. But...

  The scary clown costume was a good touch, but killing Pretzel? Why? And why is this guy trying so hard to get me into this church? A clearer picture was slowly unraveling with every razor wire gust of wind.

  “Alright, fine. I guess I’ll shoot you in the face and then go to your house to cut up the rest of your family. Sound good?” the clown said, sensing that Ricky was calculating the situation. He needed him thinking of only one thing.

  Obeying.

  “Bullshit. You have no idea where I live,” Ricky finally responded, seeing the holes in the clown's threat. For a fleeting second Ricky pondered the thought that maybe the towering man was Reverend Childs. Had scooping up pound after pound of random dog shit drove the holy man to dress up in a clown suit and murder his dog? It had started to dawn on Ricky that maybe he broke the Reverend’s mind with his constant defamation of the church lawn. What seemed like a harmless prank was now backfiring on him worse than anything. This theory instantly fell apart when he looked carefully. This guy was tall and lanky like Childs, but didn't speak with his trademark effeminate lisp. He didn’t recogn
ize the face behind the paint and ball nose at all. This was not good.

  Stop daydreaming you retard and GET OUT OF HERE!

  Ricky was a fast runner, but maybe this guy was, too. He roughly calculated the distance from the corner behind him as he continued to test the waters a little. If he was going to run, he would need the element of surprise on his side.

  “I’m starting to think you don't even have bullets in that thing.”

  A thin smile unfolded across the clown’s face. White flakes of paint chipped off and drifted to Earth like shedding skin, exposing deep lines beneath.

  The clown slowly bent down and removed Pretzel’s collar.

  “130 Hazelnut Lane? That sound about right to you?”

  … Shit

  Knowing that Ricky finally understood the levity of his request, the clown said, “When you get in there, don’t get any stupid ideas. If you're not at that front door in twenty seconds, I’m heading to your house. If you get the urge to call for help, just think about the cops finding your mother's head boiling in a pot on the kitchen stove.” The clown gestured impatiently to the window. “If it’s locked, smash it open.”

  They stood frozen, looking at each other. Both sizing up the other through the ropes of steam pouring out of their flared noses and stitched mouths. Ricky felt trapped in a simulation; deeply frozen in a black canvas void of depth and dimension. Hot tears caused his vision to swim in a kaleidoscope of dirty rainbows. The blurred colors of the drunken painter’s brush formed the rough shape of the man in front of him.

  “Get crackin, dickface,” the shape said.