The Historian

Dolores stayed away a month, and then, pop, she was home again. That was when she started me going to Doc Earnie's for anti-cholesterol treatments and 'vitamin' shots. Between my friendship with his new nurse—his wife, Helen, having left him, and taken a job at the bank—I was never injected with anything stronger than sterile saline water. Dolores went around with an evil little smile on her face, and then, a week later, she was gone on another 'vacation.' This time for three months.

She came home one more time, for a couple of days, and then disappeared again. I came home to another house disaster, but this time, worse. She'd taken my car—the old Volvo—and drained all the coolant out of the radiator, then jammed a stick from the seat down to the accelerator pedal, and put the car in gear. When I got home, it looked like it has rocketed across the drive way and into the big maple tree, with the engine roaring. The front end was smashed, but the engine ran until it overheated, threw a rod, and seized. She smashed all the windows, and sliced up all the tires, including the spare, and slashed the upholstery. Then she poured gasoline all over the car, inside and out, and lit it.

The fire company never came to put it out.

Apparently, with Hobart's help, she drained our checking account, the savings account, and even ran up the accounts to the limits of the generous overdraft protection. She rifled the safe-deposit box, borrowed money from all over town, and put me in debt so far that the persona that I'd established in town would have been beggared forever.

Dolores went to the college where I was supposed to be working, and fucked her way across campus, screwing with faculty and students, male and female, for the next few days. I'd warned them about her, but no one listened, particularly when she was handing out free pussy.

Then she left, on a 'vacation' that was to last forever. Hobart started right in, though, and bought up all of her debts, with the bank's money, and then sic'd the meanest, most aggressive bill-collection agency in Ohio on me (which, it turned out, he owned a part). If I was the person in town that I appeared to be, I'd have been a homeless bum.

Luckily, I had the assets of my real personality. After a couple of voluntary hell weeks—just to establish a background—I 'won' an out-of-state lottery, which let me pay off Hobart's collection company, and get my life back on track. I only spent about $30K.

Then, acting as the historian and scholarly researcher that I am, I started digging into Hobart's financial life. When I found what I needed, I carefully let him know that I knew—and could document to bank examiners—about a dozen of his shady deals with the bank's money. That shut him up, and made him back off. The same, to the Ohio State Police, with the sheriff and his deputies, who tried to get me back down to their basement playground.

So, Sophie, the letter that you read was delivered about three years after you left. That would have made you about 19 or so, right?

I couldn't get any dates in town, particularly since the local cops were keeping such a close watch on me. Every couple of months, I'd get a 'contract' to do a historical summary, and on the way after the assignment, I'd stop in for a few days with Sylvie, in New York City. Then, she opened a couple of new hotels in Poland, and moved back to her home, there.

So, I started buying porn DVDs, for sessions with Freddy Feel-Goode-and-His-Funky-Little-Five-Piece-Band. I was at a porn shop when my eye fell on a new release by Red Door Productions, out of Las Vegas, Nevada, titled—as I remember—Tittiman #2, starring a certain Lila Peeks. Oh, she was a performer, she was, and she looked so very much like a certain daughter of mine, about three years more mature. So I wrote off to Red Door, and arranged, for a good price, to get every DVD that Ms. Peeks acted in, including the compilations, the girl-girl stuff, that BDSM disk, and even your masturbation-and-fuck-fest 'screen test.'

VII

"Ok, Sophie, that brings us up to about a month or so ago. That's when things got real strange, and why the electricity and the cable TV is off, and why the sheriff is fire-bombing the house, and why the fire company doesn't seem to take any interest."

I continued:

About 12 weeks ago, Dolores wrote that letter and sent it to me. It scared the shit out of me, because I knew she was completely capable of doing exactly what it said. I couldn't move away, because of the local law enforcement and the court system here. I did go to Mansfield, and get a permit to carry a concealed handgun, and took lessons at their range. Right now, I'm a dead shot with a big caliber .45 automatic. But still ....

Then your Mom came back to town. But not to get me. Not right then. I've got this from about a dozen people who were involved, because I was away on one of my industrial consultations.

She came, driving Doc Earnie's car, to rob the bank in town. She and a friend, both dressed in black uniforms, and wearing black boots and long black leather coats, drove up to the reserved parking spot in front of the bank. It was an inside job, of course, because Helen, Doc Earnie's ex-wife that worked there, joined in the robbery. They knew that the bank had, right in the open vault, something over 14 million in bills and bearer bonds.

Both Dolores and her other female companion had shaved their heads off, and applied make-up to make them look like crazy people. In Dolores' case, by that time, she was in a continuous state of sexual rage, and she was crazy. She came in, and her friend chained closed the doors behind them. Then she pulled an ugly AK-47 from under her coat, and sprayed a whole magazine's worth of bullets into the floor, walls, and at the tellers and customers at random.

She shot the Jimmy Miller, the older guard, to death, in that burst. Hobart came running out, and, not knowing who was doing the robbery, tried to push the vault door closed, but Helen had jammed a piece of wood she had into the hinges, and it wouldn't close. Dolores and her friend—I never heard her name—got both vault carts full with canvas sacks full of stacked bills and bearer bonds. While one woman held down the remaining people on the floor, the other two simply rolled them out onto the sidewalk, and loaded them into Doc Earnie's big SUV Hummer.

Then—and this is where it gets really sickening bad, Sophie, but where I know it was your Mom—Dolores pulled Hobart out onto the center of the bank's foyer. Right there, she made him drop his trousers, and she started to give him a blowjob. She must have known every sexual button to push, because, in spite of his fear, and in spite of the situation, she had him erect in a couple of minutes. Then, Dolores laughed and screamed (and this was verified by the people who were there, and the bank's internal camera), "You big-dicked mother-fucker, you tried to thwart me, so this is what you get!" She pulled a kind of hooked-knife out from under her coat, and, in two quick slashes, SHE CUT OFF HIS COCK AND BALLS. Leaving him screaming and bleeding out, on the bank's floor, and with his penis still hanging out of her mouth, clutching his bloody balls in her other hand, she laughed hysterically and ran out the doors to the car. On the way out the door, Bill Hammarus, an off-duty part-time cop, pulled his revolver and got off two shots, hitting Helen, until Dolores' companion mowed him down with another full magazine on automatic fire. They re-chained the doors, and then they roared out of downtown in the big SUV, car full of money.

Now, you might add, where were the town's police during all this? It seems that Dolores had called the sheriff, and offered to fuck him and all the deputies, for the whole weekend, if they could get to her at a local inn/motel ... all the way to the other end of the county. Every police cruiser in town disappeared, 'gumball' lights blazing and rotating, sirens blaring and tires screeching.

The rest of this, I had to piece together from hints and newspaper stories, and TV reports. Apparently, the three women simply drove back to Doc Earnie's house, on the outskirts of town, and put the car away in the big 3-car garage. They hefted the bags of money and bonds into another big SUV, drove down the back driveway, and out into the county, changing wigs and makeup on the way.

Then they drove to the Cleveland Airport's long-term storage lot, re-entered, and put the car back in the same spot where they'd stolen it, a day earlier. They just moved the orange barrels and the caution tape they'd put up, earlier, to 'reserve' the space and just re-parked the car. Helen had bled out and died on the way there, and they simply left her in the car.

At this point, the official trail went cold. I knew this, because, when the businessman who owned the car came back to pick it up, a week later, there was the body of Helen in it, and she'd been decomposing for that whole week, in the summer heat.

But, it's my guess that they transferred the bags into another car, parked right next to their get-away vehicle. Using faked license plates, new wigs and different make-up, they just drove out of the long-term lot, onto the Interstate, and vanished. My best guess is that they drove hard, crossed a lot of state lines, and crossed into Canada, in a car with Canadian plates. Again, I'm guessing, but I think they simply drove to a place there, maybe in the country, where they re-packaged the money, using a common household trash-compactor, and wrapping the bundles in black plastic bags, sealed with duct tape.

After this, of course, it got worse. Dolores had been recognized, and Helen was Doc Earnie's ex-wife. Hobart lived, somehow, because one of the bank visitors, only grazed in the gunfire, applied pressure to his wounds. They took him to the hospital, along with all the others, and, of course, they did blood work. That's when the shit really hit the fan. Hobart, usually running to fat, had gotten downright skinny. He'd really had been hung like a horse, and had fucked his way all over town, but was now completely castrated, and he had an advanced case of AIDS. Not HIV antibodies, but full-blown AIDS, with Kaposi's Sarcoma brown spots right across his chest. He also had a long-standing case of 3rd stage syphilis, which explained his increasingly-erratic behavior lately.

Then, his new wife, who was pregnant, 8 months along, had her blood checked, and she was HIV positive ... and so was her unborn kid.

The Federal authorities, along with the bank examiners, found that the bank was insolvent, even before the robbery, because of a number of bad business deals involving Hobart, and for funding the new hospital's wing, involving Doc Earnie. When it became clear that Hobart and Doc Earnie had been using the town as their own private piggy-bank and the girls as fuck toys, it took about two weeks to determine that both judges, about half the city council, and all the police department's men were HIV positive, and the sheriff and the two older deputies—the one's that had worked me over a couple of decades ago, were 3rd stage syphilitic, as well. Wives, husbands and kids were found infected. The filings-for-divorce rate went into the stratosphere, and so did the tit-for-tat lawsuits.

Every single case was eventually medically traced back to Dolores. I was tested early, and I came out squeaky clean. The FBI searched the house a couple of times, and the local police once, when the mostly smashed things, ripped up furniture, and tried to plant drugs on me. That didn't work, when I came up with video-disk recordings of their trying it.

The bank went belly-up: the FDIC only insured savings accounts, and not checking. The hospital's finances were in a mess. A good quarter of the town was HIV-positive or had active AIDS, and the town's oldest, most respected doctor, Earnie, hadn't done anything to prevent it. He was diagnosed with 3rd stage syliphis, and committed to a prison for the insane.

The police force was—how shall I put it—found to be 'unclean' to a man. The mayor was under indictment, and so were both judges. One committed suicide, and the other tried—and failed—to flee to Brazil. The town's finances were bound up in about a dozen of Hobart's deals, and the whole town went bankrupt. They defaulted on their bonds, and their rating fell to junk status. On and on.

So, when the powers-that-be couldn't get to Dolores, they turned on me, for 'failing to keep my bitch-slut-whore of a wife under control.' Suddenly, I was persona non-grata here. I couldn't buy gasoline, the pumps were always 'broken' when I came to fill up. The stores closed their doors in my face. I was ignored and had to leave, & eat in out-of-town restaurants. I had to shop out of town, too.

Then the harassments stepped up a notch, when I came back from one of my industrial consultation trips, I found two of my front windows shot out. When I called the police, I was told to 'fuck off.' I was followed by police cruisers, lights flashing, whenever I went anywhere in the county. The local cable company cut off my TV reception, and so did the phone company. I couldn't get a cell-phone call out, either, and found the local towers had been re-programmed. You get the picture. It's amazing the kind of shit the police and official powers can exert, when they want to really screw someone, and they think they have nothing to loose.

So, I began to make preparations to leave, but found no one would rent me a truck, or a realtor to sell it. I was being 'shunned' with a vengeance.

About a week ago, I came home to find the front door kicked in. Getting my gun out of the car, I cautiously went into the house, and found a trail of female clothes strewn in a rough line, leading to the bedroom. Following the trail, with the automatic cocked and ready, I found Dolores and her companion, waiting for me.

They were both dead.

I looked around, and saw they'd gotten here the night before, and had a lesbian 'party,' while they waited. There were drug things all over the room. There were still un-used lines of coke on the table. Dolores' friend had a strap-on artificial penis, and she was still 'plugged in' to Dolores, on top of her. It looked as if her lover had a stroke or heart attack, and had fallen on top of Dolores, and she'd died screaming and fighting the weight, probably helped by the ravages of the 3rd stage syphilis to her brain.

In the bedroom, there were about two dozen packages of compactor bags, tightly filled, and wrapped up in black plastic bags and duct tape. Just about the same bulk as the money and bonds they got in the robbery.

I also found a couple of razor-sharp little hooked knives, ropes, a propane torch and spare bottles of gas, coat hangers ... You name it, if it involved castration and torture, they had it. All laying out, nice and neat, ready for me.

VIII

"So you had two bodies on your hands, Dad. What happened next?"

I continued with my tale:

They both were cold. I had to do something with them, because, if I just called the police, they'd come out to kill me. If I called the Feds, they'd want to know why both women were found in my home, and I'd probably spend the rest of my life in a Federal Prison, as an accessory to bank robbery and murder. The objective truth was just too unbelievable.

I collected the drugs and the torture-tools together in a box, and cleaned up the mess as best I could.

I looked around outside, and found they'd parked their car in the garage. I came back inside, and bound both bodies into as tight a fetal position as I could, with duct tape, and I man-handled them into the chest-type freezer we had in the pantry. Then I left for a day, going back to the fake college where I was supposed to teach, and resigned.

Frankly, they were glad to have me go, considering that Dolores' two weeks there had caused a STD epidemic, and some faculty members and graduate research assistants now had the clap.

I did tell them to get the campus tested for HIV, on a regular basis. It wasn't as if I hadn't warned them previously.

I turned in my leased luxury car, too, and bought a little motor scooter, a Honda Helix. It had pretty, red plastic panels. I spent the day roughing it up, breaking superficial stuff, and painting it with half-a-dozen swatches of paint, to make it look like a worthless piece of shit transportation.

I stayed overnight in that college town, and drove back home in the afternoon of the next day, to discover some more windows shot out, and a burned place on the front lawn.

Waiting for dark, after midnight, I pulled the frozen bodies out of the freezer, and, using the hand-truck, got them into Dolores' car in the garage. The one with the Canadian plates. There are advantages about being a newly-minted pariah, because no-one stopped me or even looked in my direction.

I drove to the hospital, which, even at that late hour, was in an uproar out front, because of the State and Federal probes, with charges of document shredding, fraud, mopery and dopery. I drove around back, and there was no one there. I stopped by the large chimney of the old incinerator, which was supposed to be completely disused and sealed. I knew, though, through my researches, that Doc Earnie, as the head of the hospital's board, had been siphoning off the monies use to dispose of medical waste, by having it put into the incinerator.

I rolled the two frozen bodies out of the SUV, and into the maw of the furnace, through the iron door (which moved easily) and into the fire-brick interior. It was already pretty well full of bags of tissue and waste, and had old dry wood pallets in there too. I threw in the bottles of welding gas, the drugs and the knives, in the little box. I left a highway flare burning, and closed the furnace door.

Then I crossed the service road, and walked up to the big tank of liquid oxygen that hospitals have, and disconnected the single alarm. One pull, and the wires easily came free. Then I pulled the lever that my researches had told me was there. Gallons of liquid oxygen poured through an heavily-insulated, completely illegal pipe, running under the service road, which led into the incinerator.

Sophie, there's an Internet website out there, about a group of engineers who wanted to see who could get a pile of charcoal briquettes lit the fastest. They went through lighter fluid, gasoline, and some really inflammable stuff. They finally thought of pouring about a quart of liquid oxygen on it. So they piled up a whole sack of charcoal on a typical grill, and put a smoldering cigarette on top, and poured the oxygen down an iron pipe onto the charcoal.

The article showed a white-hot blast, and when the smoke cleared, there was a 30-food diameter scorched-bare place on the grass. The charcoal was gone. Anything within that 30-foot circle that had carbon in it was gone. Half of the steel pipe was melted slag. The grill had vanished completely. The steel had been vaporized.

I probably poured 50 gallons of liquid oxygen into that incinerator. I shut off the flow, after about quarter hour, and didn't re-connect the alarm. When I drove away, the outside of the firebricks were glowing red. There wasn't even any ash left. I'm sorry, but your Mom is a fine gas, slowly drifting east on the jet stream, by now.

I drove home, took the Canadian plates off the car, and went inside to fall asleep. I was awakened by more shotgun blasts, more window breakings, and by the whoosh-boom of the garage, with Dolores' car still in it, being torched. For good measure, they machine-gunned it, while it was burning. I saw the police cruisers leave, with the occupants shouting and laughing, and waving bottles.

For the next week, every morning, I left on the beat-up motor scooter, driving up the road, with my briefcase and two duct-tape-wrapped packages, which were mailed to an address out west, sent from DHL, Fed-Ex and UPS offices along my usual route. When I came back, in the late evening, I had what looked to be the same packages, but these were filled with some special chemicals I'd bought earlier. It's just amazing what you can buy by mail-order, if you've got an address and a pre-payment money order.