Destroyer
(A Dack Shannon Story)
by Steven L. Shrewsbury

                                              “Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.”
                                                                                         WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
                                                                                         Coriolanus ~ 1608

              Grant Thibodaux was a man of Southern pride, long heritage, good breeding, old money and extreme tastes. He was in such ecstasy in Memphis’ House of 1000 Pleasures, the notorious underground brothel, that he paid no mind to the sharp popping sounds he heard beneath his feet. The thrills shooting down his average body made the rest of the world melt away. He swam in rapture and that is all that was important. Since the silky fabric of the bodysuit and the oiled areas of his nether regions filled his swirling mind with such a torrent he gave no other sounds notice.  Grant loved the incredible show the petite prostitute was putting on beneath him, playing up the role of the Catholic schoolgirl to the hilt…his hilt. The other prostitute was behind him, riding his back, penetrating him, soothing against his frame with black stockings sealing the deal for his brain and body to explode. This all made Grant’s mind float off to another universe and ignore any sounds beneath the bed in the immense old mansion.

              His wild ride of pleasure and Viagra induced assuredness was disrupted by thudding footfalls in the hallway and the door bursting open. Grant's eyes flared, angry at the interruption, but this emotion was quickly replaced by confusion. The person who came in was not Madam Amanda Labelle, a flaming transvestite nearing sixty and “manager” of the brothel. The figure in the doorway was that of a very tall man in black clothing, his face partially obscured by thick sunglasses. Grant stopped his motions as his eyes traveled over the six foot five man who was very thin, but moved like a cat as he stepped into the room, disturbing the air full of candle smoke and incense.

              “What is this?” Grant barked and the prostitute behind him withdrew from his cavity and stepped back. He heard her gasp and gag a little, but paid it no mind.

              The man in black was made to look even more ghastly by the blue neon lights of the tacky hallway. This light framed his lithe form in an aqua halo. The candlelight of the room illuminated the face of the intruder, casting an ethereal glow in the pallid features of the man. This outsider took off his thick, black wraparound sunglasses and showed his eyes to be pink and stark, but par for the course for an albino. He placed the sunglasses in his trench coat pocket, pushed up his black leather fedora a tad and then cracked his knuckles. As Grant saw that his hands were encased in leather gloves, the emotions of worry and horrified panic rippled through his brain. He realized that this man had blood on his gloved hands.

              “Who are you?” Grant demanded as he withdrew from the hooker beneath him.  This prostitute on the bed was staring at the man coming in, stunned and frozen in position, but breathing heavy. Grant seemed to think the hooker was breathing entirely too fast, but banished the thought.

              In a moment the man in black pulled something out of his coat and ran across the room. He seized Grant by the right shoulder and slapped his hand on the forearm of the bodysuit.  It was then that Grant saw the albino held a tiny hypodermic and had emptied its contents into his bloodstream. As he withdrew the needle the man in black released Grant’s shoulder and sharply slapped him across the face. Grant tumbled off the bed and fell onto his left shoulder on the red shag carpet. He fell so hard and rolled, but felt a pain that brought back his high school football days. It was the sensation of a shoulder separation.

              The two prostitutes moved to the opposite side of the room, grabbed each other and panted like ran-out dogs. The man in black casually looked at them as he moved closer to Grant, and then did a double take. The pale albino features of his face twitched a little, then a smile played on his mask-like face. He turned to Grant and said, “You will thank me for that shot in a moment.”

 Grant shivered at the deep, baritone voice that would have made Barry White jealous. “What? Are you mad? Do you know who I am?”

 The man in black nodded as his pink eyes narrowed in on Grant. He ruffled the

edges of his coat lapels, causing the air to part the thin veil of smokey incense. “Yes, I do.”

            Suddenly, the prostitute in the schoolgirl uniform grabbed her sweaty, painted face and squealed. The other hooker gagged, shuddered and started to vomit. A wave of revulsion went over Grant as his eyes beheld the hooker who was in black vomit blood onto the pink satin sheets, then look up. Blood flowed from the painted face at the nose, ears and mouth as long nails snagged in the satin material. When this hooker fell to the carpet the other one vomited blood as well. This one glared at Grant helplessly and then the eyes in the ghastly face exploded. The eruption from her sockets was painted in scarlet, gray and transparent fluids. Some hit Grant’s chest, causing him to choke, but no blood came from his body.

            As the body of the School-girl hooker fell into the mass of blood on the satiny surface, the tall man in black, standing perfectly still with no emotion, said, “Do not be sad, Congressman. With any luck the right guy will come along again.”

            When the man in black pointed to Grant’s clothing hanging on hooks on the back of the door, the Congressman’s eyes fell on his two transsexual lovers dying. What was this? What made this bloody evil happen? Who was this man? What had made the girls…guys die?

            “Get dressed Congressman.”   

            As Grant grabbed his pants his mind arrived at an obvious conclusion: HE gave me a shot to save me! He wants me alive!

            “What did you do to them…what is your name?  You have me at a disadvantage.” While he was full of terror Grant tried to sound as cool as he could. This failed for his voice broke.

            The thin man in black watched Grant slip into his pants and replied, “Ten-minute Ebola. The American tax dollars at work, my dear sir. That is the reason I am here. It is amazing what a good Intelligence budget can develop.”

            Grant glared at him and snapped, “Who are you?”

            The albino gazed serenely at him and responded, “Dack Shannon, Majestic Services.”

            The blood drained from Grant’s face as he heard the words Majestic Services. “Christ,” was all he could say back. He heard the name of the organization on Capitol Hill and thought it to be a joke, something buried deep in the Intelligence community black budgets.  It was all nonsense, he thought, UFO silliness and crazy talk made to make hacks afraid.   Yet standing before him was a Man In Black, emotionless and imperious in the middle of a web of death. Grant’s heart raced as terror seized him for the entire house was silent as a crypt. This man had killed these hookers…and probably more in the house…with some “ten minute” version of the Ebola virus that he was apparently immune to. Dack didn’t care that Grant was an influential member of Congress or that he himself had just committed mass murder. What really bothered Grant was, to what end?

            “Threatening family and friends is not our style,” the man called Dack Shannon said as he tugged on the brim of his black leather fedora. “Certainly not mine, Congressman. Get up and let us go.”

            “I have money!  This doesn’t have to come out!”

            Dack looked at his watch and sighed. His white face was grim and full of furrows. “Exposing you as a fairy is not on my agenda. I could give a flying toss what you screw or who buggers you.”

            “Then what is it you want?”

            Dack grabbed him be the right forearm, increasing the agony in his body and dragged him into the hallway. Instinctively, Grant struggled against his touch, but Dack yanked him closer to him. The pain was incredible and Dack again showed no feeling to Grant’s painful plight. “This is a wake up call. You will comply and learn the meaning of terror. Come with me, little man.”

            Grant tried to keep up with Dack’s long strides but found himself stumbling next to him. Dack stopped suddenly, pushed a door open and pointed.  Inside were a man and woman both faces covered in blood. As they went down the stairway three female hookers lay in the same condition. One had a looping piece of her guts hanging out of her mouth. One of her hands had smeared down the flowery blue wallpaper making a design not unlike kinder-garden finger-paintings. Grant wretched and vomited, but it was just his dinner and some wine. No blood. He felt lucky. As he puked Grant heard Dack speak.

            “Yes, they are all dead. Mr. Midnight came for their souls and they all rest on your spirit. You are about to change your voting record, Congressman. The appropriations bill you are sponsoring to undercut the Intelligence community must die in committee. You are about to have a change of heart.”

            Grant looked up as Dack knelt beside the body of a man spattered in scarlet at the foot of the stairs. He dipped his gloved right index finger in the man’s eye socket and drew on the pale blue wall. Dack dripped and wrote several times.  What he penned looked like archaic, evil symbols to Grant.

            “Do not get the wrong idea,” Dack snorted as he stood up. “That is for the authorities. This will be blamed on a cult in the region that needs cleaning out. One of them is in the basement with a hefty lady of the evening. I am positive that they are expired. The virus is untraceable and even if it survives a bit our men are in the M.E.’s office will cover it over. This will be viewed as what it looks like—butchery. You can be happy that you are not among them.”

            Grant gasped as he was pulled about the corner and saw the bloated, bloody corpse of Madam Labelle. Her…his pasty face was frozen in the vile rictus of death, stiff and decorated with a mound of bloody bubbles that refused to burst. He couldn’t remember where his tranquilizers were for Grant felt a panic attack coming on.

 “The budget that you plan to undercut in the House of Representatives is why you are alive. Understand me sir? The same money that you want to cut and send elsewhere made the ten-minute Ebola viral bomb and also found an immediate cure. That is why you are alive.  This is all for you. Your death would not kill the bill. Besides, you are better on our side than not. This is an educational day. Sister Elizabeth told me that one should never forget what one learns in school. Never forget.”

            Grant gawked about feverishly as Dack Shannon guided him toward the back door. He wanted to run but knew it would be fruitless. All about them were dead bodies, hookers, johns, blue collar men, runaway girls dressed as silken property, rich men, poor men all equal in their bloody demise.

 “You owe them your life. There are bigger things to fight in this world. Your allegiances to special interests have just changed.”

            “But I am protected…” Grant gasped as Dack pulled him to his feet. “…I was in Skull and Bones at Yale! I have the secrets of the ages…”

            Dack punched him across the left side of his face, knocking his jaw out of joint. As the Congressman went to the floor, Dack kicked him in the stomach. He never noticed Dack wore pointed boots until then. When Grant spun onto his back Dack leaned down and wrenched his jaw back in place. Though Grant was still feeling the effects of the Viagra, hash and Vodka, he still felt the agony of the move.

            “Oh, Jesus, no more…” Grant whimpered and covered his face.

            Dack stood over him and shook his head. “Yes, yes, you all call on Jesus at the same time. Too late. Hmm. If you are the best that the New World Order can offer, then we shall have an easier time crushing your serpent’s head than I thought.”

            In moments Dack had him outside and heading away from the dimly lit Ante-bellum home. The orange street lamps lit the dead of night to show Grant that they were heading toward a rusty navy blue van. Grant felt the air-conditioned environment leave and the heavy drape of Memphis summer humidity fall on his shoulders. This rough looking vehicle was running, but had no lights on.

            “What happens to me?” Grant wailed.

            Dack walked erect, held Grant’s shoulder with his right hand and stated, “Nothing, so long as you have seen the light this night. You shall kill your Bill to undercut the Intelligence field. You will do what is right for America.”

            “What kind of a man are you? Say what you will about me but you sent all of those people to their graves this night! Not me!”

            There was no change in Dack’s face at Grant’s words.

            Grant, the consummate politician, went on. “They all tumbled into the abyss because of you!”

            A smile spread over Sack’s face that wasn’t much different from a shark getting ready for lunch. “No sir, because of you!  You cannot talk your way out of this.”

“But…”            

“This is not a debate!” Dack raged, anger showing through his face at last.

            “Does the President know about you people?”

            The van doors opened and two smaller men in black overalls grabbed the Congressman and yanked him in. Dack appeared cool and calm again. “They will clean you up and release you. Remember what I said.” Dack turned away and then moved back to the van. He leaned in and hissed, “You mistake me for someone plays by the rules. Rules and I are oil and water. I have another King and he is not in Washington DC.”

            Grant’s heart beat faster and he feared he would stroke out. Was this sinister man a real Satanist? Was he really one of the warlocks he’d heard of that worship Lucifer in secret societies that even he couldn’t get in?  The lovers of Lucifer, the light bringer? Did he commit an error in making this Dack angry? Grant could manipulate people with his speech and make their real feelings come out. This wasn’t always a good thing.

            There was something amiss for Grant felt that if Dack was indeed on the side of Lucifer this man in black would be a little less likely to take out his brethren in the frame up for the whorehouse.

            Dack went on with some passion and a gleam in his pink eyes; “My king sits on his throne in Heaven and he is coming back in the twinkling of an eye.  The trump of God will sound and the dead will all arise, and it could happen today. But if it does not, I must take out the trash and hold the New World Order at bay.” He tugged on his hat as the men wrestled Grant in the van. “Vote well, Congressman. I do not want this to get personal.”

 ©2001 Steven L. Shrewsbury