Part One

"Dude!" Poke shouted, drawing unwelcome attention to himself. The music was too loud, and many guests packed the lawn, discussing meaningless everything. Poke prodded his way through the merry festivities, even though he hated more than anything, parties. They never invite you, asswipe. That's why you hate dick-to-dirt shindigs. They think you're a fucking freak of nature.

"Poke," Steven Edwards said, turning. "I didn't send you an invite. Did you crash my party, Poke?"

You let him talk to us like that? We go where we want. Tell him we go where we want, asswipe. Tell him. The question didn't need to be answered, and Poke was certain Steven wasn't expecting one. Tell him!

"I heard you were leaving," Poke said, "soon, that is. I just wanted to talk to you . . . before you go . . . tomorrow . . . that is."

Carla stood next to Steven, and Poke did his best not to look at her to the point of being rude. She was extremely hot, and he had fantasized too many nasty things about her, choking his chicken until it chafed. Tight little Carla cunny. Always compliant. Always primed for the pump. Feel that meat-stick grow. Poke dug his fingernails into his hand to break her sexual spell. Ask her to turn around and bend over. Fuck her up the ass. Her dark eyes had a way of boring into his most secret thoughts, and he was afraid she would discover the place inside he had hidden his lust for her. Sneak a quick peek at her big tits while you still have the chance, moron. Look at her shorts. You can see the shape of her slit through the fabric.

"Why, Poke," Carla cooed. "You're blushing, and for no reason at all."

"Need a few bucks, Poke?" Steven asked. "Is that why you're here? You crash my party, drink my beer, and brave my wrath to borrow a few bucks?"

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Carla cooed. "Let's hope there isn't a long line for the potty box."

Steven watched her jiggle away, as did Poke with-a-not-so-gentle-rise-in-his-Levi's. Meat suddenly hollered. "Poke! You quit looking at her ass!" To which Carla shook what she had at them all. Which set everybody within earshot laughing at you, Poke! They're laughing at you. Like they always laugh at you.

"No!" Poke whined.

"What?" Steven asked.

Poke quickly said, "I've been trying to get Digger off my back, but he won't listen to me, that is."

"Poke," Steven began, "you always have a problem. One after another. You must like problems. I'll have a talk with him before I go. Will that work? Now get the fuck out of my face."

"How soon are you leaving?"

"Didn't I say for you to get the fuck out of my face? I'm sure I said that. Twice now. I'm leaving first thing in the morning, but I'll talk to him before I go. Is that okay with you? Now, piss off, huh?" Steven blew him off, and he knew why. To get back to Carla. He took a drink of his beer, but it suddenly tasted flat.

Poke felt queasy, feeling like he needed more than anything else in the world, air. You're a turd, Poke. He didn't say a word, playing people dodge-'em, and nobody made an effort to talk to him. A soft greasy shit ball. There were times, and this was one of them, that he was sure he could say just about anything at all to anyone, and simply get ignored. Like he wasn't even there. His beer and cup hit the grass. His vindictive little jab at them all. Poke turned left at the sidewalk. He was headed home.

Steven makes fun of you to your face, and behind your back. You take it all like a two-dollar whore.

"He's not mean the way the others are," Poke said out loud.

Yes he is. You won't admit it. Go get you a pack of after-sex smokes.

"Dude's my friend."

He tolerates you. That's all. When it's him alone, he tolerates you. When other people are around, you're his favorite butt to trash.

"Dude never carries it too far, and he stops the others. I never ask him to, Dude does it on his own."

Bullshit. You're a target. You always will be, always have been. What were you, Poke, five-years-old? That was the first time you got the shit knocked out of you by someone other than your mom or step dad.

"Grady Pruitt."

"Pewman," you yelled at him, just like the other kids. But he didn't go after them, he went after you. Didn't he? The coward went after you.

"The other kids were with him, not me."

You were five, he was fifteen.

And then it was real. Once again Poke was there.

"Pewman! Pewman! Pewman!" little Martin Dewsbury meanly screeched, imitating the rest of the neighborhood riffraff; and for such a small boy, not yet in kindergarten, he really didn't mean it.

Grady Pruitt had picked up a nice hunk of two-by-four from a trash pile behind Mr. Dwryer's ramshackle house. Sphincter tightening fear is what Poke felt watching the wood arc for the first and second time in his life. He, like the time before so long ago, shoved his arm up to ward off the blows, only to hear his bones snap. The pain, again, flashed white-hot into his brain.

The beating had been more than brutal, and left little Martin Dewsbury brain damaged and broken. The arms and nose slowly healed, but the scars deep inside, never did. He was afraid of them all after that, and they knew it.

Suicide? You're too afraid. Too weak. His momma used to reach out and backhand him across the room for being weak. "Why can't you be strong," she'd spout in a tired voice. Poke never understood what she wanted. Not really. Hour to hour her expectations changed. More often than not the blow would bloody his nose, and he'd get it again that night from his drunken daddy for messing up his shirt.

Things got better when his real daddy left, he remembered that, but it didn't last long. His momma had gotten remarried, and they had packed up and moved out into the sticks of western Idaho. He had to do "chores." He had to work hard and fast to get them done: feed and water the dogs, feed and water the chickens, feed and water a few fat pigs. If he hurried, he wouldn't get caught. He wouldn't have to go into the smelly old barn. He wouldn't have to pull his pants down around his ankles and bend over a bale of straw.

Angry over another situation he had no control over, wrapped up in dark thoughts, Poke had gazed at, yet didn't notice, a nebulous puddle on the ground surrounding him. "I remember I wanted him dead. I wanted her dead, too. I wanted them all dead."

Poke had stared right at the opaque mass around him, but he was too lost in his own black thoughts, at first that is, to notice the puddle as it moved as he moved.

And then it clicked. You could add one plus one.

That something on the ground, it had made him more afraid than he had ever been in his whole sorry life.

The answer was two. You, and me.

Poke had picked up his leg, and the blackness had closed in where his foot once rested. He had moved his foot forward, slowly, then towards the ground. The blackness opened up to receive his shoe.

Leg up, Poke had stopped moving. It was all he could do to force a muted squeak. He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. You wanted to know what it was through your confusion.

It was in that moment that his horror grew into an all-encompassing terror as the blackness had jumped right off the ground, right up into his mouth and down his nose.

All he could do was gag on the syrupy black spout and swallow.

Sadistic hate had filled his veins, and stuffed his mind full of thoughts that reeked of something far, far older than humanity.

Ten-year-old Martin Dewsbury wasn't alive anymore, but he wasn't dead either. His lungs sucked air, his heart still beat. His blood was no longer red, but a thick black ooze. And it had talked to him . . . in his head.

"I can feel you," it had said. "I know you."

"God."

"I AM GOD NOW! I can scare you, kill your mind, or keep you alive and in pain for all eternity." The creature inside had slurped up on Poke's pain like cotton candy at the county fair. It rested inside his mind like a cancerous tumor, and it had laughed at him. All through his memories he heard laughing. People were always laughing at him. People like Steven, Carla, Meat.

"Please don't hurt me anymore? Please?" Poke finally begged.

Poke felt his essence, his soul, slowly crushed for a few excruciating seconds, then nothing.

When Poke came back into himself, he was in his basement apartment, cleaning an old rifle. An old .22, to be precise. His step-daddy would have called it a squirrel rifle. Dirty oily rags were spread all over his coffee table. A barrel brush was in his hand. He had no idea what time it was, or what day it was. He didn't know if he'd had something to eat lately or not, but he wasn't hungry. The barrel brush was pumping in and out with purpose.

There was an awareness attributed to the creature inside of him. A need it had. A want it wanted. The rifle had to fire smooth and sure.

"Why?" Poke finally voiced.

To inspire change. Humanity is a simple creature. A small number among you have the ability to touch and change, for the better, all around you. Steven Edwards is such a person. That ability to influence others has allowed your species to proliferate unchecked. See me for what I truly am, and fear me even more . . . .

***

To Digger, giving Poke a bad time was always fun. It made him feel good about himself, and his place in the world. Digger's number two pastime. He knew it wasn't right to enjoy the misery of others, but what the hell, what else was there to do? Digger's number one pastime was avoiding the fat stupid bitch he was married to.

Digger pounded on the door like Poke was deaf. Poke eventually answered the door, and Digger bullied his way past the man, shoving Poke to one side like he owned the place. He made a beeline down to the noisy mustard-yellow fridge, and pulled out a cheap tasteless beer. Why buy your own when Poke could afford to stock a generous supply? Digger often wondered why Poke got a disability check each month, somewhat sure the guy was, slow. But Poke always had beer.

"Poke you asshole, how the hell are you today." Digger never meant it as a question to be answered, and slammed the refrigerator door shut. It never failed to get a rise out Poke, until today. Poke never made a sound. Which was, in and of itself, a little odd.

"Why can't you buy something better than this cheap shit?" Digger said, pointing at the label. He cracked it open, took a long swig, not taking his eyes off of the goofus, who said and did nothing. "If there's something wrong, cheese dick, you have to speak up."

Poke didn't blink, which unnerved Digger, because the man should have been having a hissy-fit almost to the point of tears.

"I get it! You're upset. Your boyfriend's leaving. Dude's on his way out, and you're afraid you'll be all alone. Well, Poke, ya still gots me!" And struck a smiley pose.

"Poke?" But Poke still regarded him with the same vacant expression. "Aw, come on. You can't be that upset."

He never saw Poke at the party, but then again he didn't look. Like everybody else there he wanted the food and drink. Hell, he even took the wife, which surprised the shit out of everyone.

"Christ, man, let it out or something." He set the can down on the counter, got real close to Poke's face, then belched his best. Nothing. "Must be true love."

Poke was homophobic from the word "go," and his comment would have sent Poke into hysterics, so, Digger pressed. "Don't get to suck his stick anymore?"

He moved a little closer, and Poke's breath was, in a word, gruesome. A menstruating rhino with the trots.

"What have you been eating?" Backing off just a tad. "Been chewing assholes again, Poke?"

Poke reacted to that one.

***

Poke could only observe.

Faster than the eye could follow the shadow inside jammed his fingers, all ten of them, into Digger's mouth. It flexed the hole wider, then wider still. The flesh tearing across the cheeks. Blood, spit and snot. It was like the sound his step-daddy made when he used to skin rabbits. He watched his own hands pull Digger's jaw apart until Digger had a real flip-top head.

Digger began a slow dance of death, still held up by the thing's unholy strength.

Poke felt something then. He could feel himself growing, becoming so hard, it hurt.

The force of his orgasm rocked him to his core. The creature inside feasted on it all.

Digger's eyes rolled up, but even so the creature knew Digger's mind could still feel, could still think, but not for long. Sensing Digger's death, it picked up the palpitating body, all two hundred and thirty pounds, and snapped Digger's back in two across one knee, absorbing all that Digger was. One final psychic blast of suffering to swallow whole. The creature had drained Digger of his soul.

It, the shadow thing, preceded to dispose of Digger's body. The method it chose was quite unique. It took the trash can and dumped the trash. It stuffed Digger in stomach first, and arranged the head so it stared straight up out of the can from between Diggers's booted feet. It sickened Poke, but that was like feeding the creature an after-dinner mint.

It had packed the rifle and ammo into a blanket, picked up Digger's car keys from the kitchen floor, and left what had once been Poke's marginal life behind.

It climbed into Digger's car, grabbed the two wires wrapped around the steering wheel–one connected to the battery, the other to the starter--and with the key in the on position, touched the two together until Digger's rust-mobile choked into life. Poke could hear the exhaust pipe scrape the driveway as he backed out. The creature was in a hurry. It might get an hours' head start. Two at the most. Just enough time. It had extended its awareness as far forward as it could while behind the wheel, and found the perfect spot. Several hours later Poke drove Digger's Horizon off the road, up to and around a natural stone pillar of sorts. He parked the car off to the side, where it was hidden from the road.

Poke tried to talk to the thing that occupied his mind, but he was weakening. The creature seemed to be draining the life out of him. He could feel his soul slipping away as the clock ticked. It was the reliving of his past that sapped his strength. Every time he tried to assert himself, there was only punishment and pain. He wanted to let his thoughts crawl up into a ball, but still he tried to talk. Just talk. Laughter followed his efforts.

Sand, dust, assorted dessert grit swirled around the massive stone structure. If seen through another set of eyes one might call it picturesque. The creature could see into the stone. It could feel the psychic energy imbedded within.

The pillar was popular with the party crowd. There had been much violence, and cheap sex that passed for love. Hundreds of women over the years had been plied with cheap booze and drugs, then raped or sodomized. They had hidden their shame within the stone with whatever pride they might have once felt. Poke began to climb with his rifle in hand.

At the top the creature drank from the two murders that had been committed here within the last five years. It knew both bodies had not been found, mummifying in the hot dry sand, not half a mile from where it stood. Incidences that started out as youthful posturing carried too far.

At the top of the pillar was a gap-toothed bowl. Level and spacious inside, littered with condoms and broken beer bottles. A more perfect spot could not be found. The natural wind-carved formation would allow it to draw a proper bead on Steven Edward's head as he passed.

Part two.

"Rifles in back?" Bob asked, glancing over at the Captain. Captain Redneck was a big man who combined the western folklore of the cowboys of yesteryear, with the image of southern white trash, huge gut included.

"Yep," the Captain said. "And cover them up with that tarp there."

They put their 4-10's into the trucks rusty, dented bed, and covered them up with love. Everybody that was going climbed into Captain Redneck's extended cab Chevy pickup truck. Each man had a twelve pack in a coolee.

Bob, well, he like these outings. They got him out of the house, and got him drunk. He wasn't sure which he needed the most.

Jake handed him a beer. Shooting skeet was always good fun, especially when everybody ended up shit-faced beyond recognition.

"John," Bob wailed. "You got that jug of Southern Comfort just to make sure we have a good time?"

"I got it," Jake replied. John said nothing.

"Pass it here first," the Captain said.

Bob was ready for today. He had a bathroom redo for this ugly old lady. He'd started the job, but he wasn't ready to finish it. She had paid him half, and he had most of the stuff he needed in his back shed, so, it was party time. He'd take a few days to get over the hangover, then finish the job.

Jake and John were former car lot grease monkeys who now worked out of their own garages. Captain Redneck, as everybody called him, bled the government out of some kind of disability. Bob thought it might have been a mental disability since the man could get around just fine. The Captain seemed to have more than a few lies handy when pressed, but the man's mean streak taught them all long ago not to press too hard. You don't piss off the Captain. He'd just as well thump you as look at you.

Everybody was in, beer open, the whiskey had been passed around once, and was slowly making its way around again. They had turned off the highway onto some dirt leading into the dessert.

Everything the good time crew found was fair game. It didn't matter if it moved or not. Lizards were sport, though once they warmed up they moved too fast. Most preferred their targets didn't move.

"Cactus," Jake said. A dessert life preserver. An unofficial point system was given for the ability to decapitate, or blast the outstretched arms off with the fewest shots.

"You think we're close enough?" Bob asked. They couldn't be twenty feet away, not drunk enough to see double, but, they weren't hitting much. Each took aim, and little by little managed to blow the thing to bits.

"Let's go shoot something else," the Captain said, loading up another whiskey-laced beer. Bob was up for it. The rest wouldn't disagree either. All the time laughing at each other like idiot children. "Fuck 'em Flats. Maybe we can scare a high schooler or two."

And those were the words Bob didn't want to hear. It meant the Captain was in one of his moods.

The man had a need to show the world he was boss, and if nobody was up on the Flats, it would mean the Captain would be showing them. Jake ended up with a black eye the last time. John damn near ate a bullet when he opened his mouth. That's why he's being so quiet, Bob thought. John had yet to say three words strung together in one sentence.

"Who knows," The Captain said, pretending to jack off his rifle, going at it with long loving strokes. "It might turn out to be just what we need."

And squeezed the trigger. "Ahhhhhhhhh."

They all wailed on that one.

At the pillar they all noticed a car parked out of the way. Bob got scared. He could see nothing but relief on John's face.

They'd parked close by, trying hard not to laugh out loud at each other tripping over their own feet. The Captain moved slowly, motioning the others to do the same. Bob was sure the Captain's idea was to catch a couple of kids making out or partying, then send the boy running for home while they took turns on the girl. The last girl, a couple of years back, had given them all some great noggin. Not that she had a choice.

The trail turned out to be a long hard climb. They were all anticipating some tight young pussy, and all they found was some nasty, greasy, bald-headed biker-looking dude. The greasy biker dude turned toward the crew with a blank expression, and Bob noticed a rifle in the biker dude's hands. And that's when Bob's head began to itch.

It itched inside.

It itched where he couldn't scratch it.

The Captain roared, turned towards John for some odd reason, and blew John's head clean off. That seemed to break Bob out of his drunken itchy stupor.

The biker shot Jake, but not before Jake shot the biker.

The biker dude got the first few shells from Bob's rifle. Part of the biker's brains went flying in all directions. One chunk landed on the Captain's face with a small wet slap, but he didn't notice. Bob did, and noticed the hunk slip-sliding down the Captain's cheek.

"John?" Captain Redneck asked. "What the hell happened to John?"

"I'm hit bad," Jake panted, holding his chest. "You got to get me out of here. I'm not going to make it."

What was on the Captain's face seemed to move sideways across the man's cheek, and Bob was sure, drunk or not, that kind of movement wasn't possible.

He watched the big bloody blob defy gravity and bolt for the Captain's mouth, entering when the Captain took a breath. The Captain choked, shook his head, and gagged blood. Lots of blood. When the man started puking clots, Bob turned away. If he had continued to watch he'd be hurling up his own asshole.

A "ta-chick" caught his attention, and Bob turned to watch the Captain reload shell after shell, swallowing . . . swallowing.

The Captain picked off Jake in three quick deafening blasts, and popped him with two. Bob looked down to see blood blossoming right about where his heart was. That's when Bob pooled everything he was, and zeroed in on the Captain's head.

Bob pulled the trigger.

Bob, he was tired, dying and all, and wasn't to sure, but something weird was definitely happening. It came out of the Captain's head. A much too large black puddle was running out of all the holes.

It was oozing closer, and without warning squirted up into his mouth, up his nose, and he couldn't do a thing to stop it.

"I can feel you," It said to him from somewhere inside his head. "I know you. I will heal you. We have things to do."

©2002 Mark Sutton