Chapter One
Dr. Larry Kindred threw the sleeping bag on top of the bright blue cooler. He closed the door to the back of his green station wagon. He gave a nervous glance to his watch. 5:18 a.m.
Not enough time. He had to get out of here before they got here. It was to blow this Popsicle stand and hit the road. If he didn't leave soon they would retrieve him. And he wouldn't be coming back home. No, way, man. He would never return to his quiet suburban house and sit on his lazy-boy and pop back a couple of beers. Nor would he go on those long weekend trips he adored. No more Larry and the guys sitting around in the cabin sipping coffee and telling dirty jokes. When they come to get him he would end up road-kill. They kill him first-class style. They do all their work with style. He would get a company funeral and most likely a good turnout of mourners.
They would all be loyal employees of GenTec. Yup, their finest and brightest would all come to one of their fellow comrades who had taken his own life in such a terrible way. It would seem to everybody outside the company ring of trust just a suicide or a terrible accident. He could just imagine what they would say at his funeral. "Terrible thing to have happened to such a good guy." "Yea, he was a hard working employee." "Although, he did have his flaws. Not small ones either, mind you." "Really? How so?" "Oh, you didn't know. Well it seems to be that ever since his wife left him two years ago for an actor down in Florida he has had a little bit of a drinking problem." "Oh my God! I had no idea." "It's true. You know it makes you wonder was it actually an accident." "What do you mean?" "Well, I'm just running my mouth but you know he did kind of seem like the person who would you know.." "You don't think he would take his own life do you." "Well I don't want to be known to have spread rumors but." "Yes?" "Well, there have been rumors he was into the heavy stuff. You know like PCP. "That's terrible." "There are some stories that he would pick up prostitutes. Not female ones though. People say he was into little boys." "That's horrible." "I know but it's probably not true. I'm sure it's just a rumor. Maybe." "Maybe my ass," Larry growled at to nobody except himself.
Of course that is how it would end up being. The seed of doubt would be planted and soon begun to sprout. From there it would grow like a vine. It will spread across the wall of truth and with a little time and some lies it will completely consume all ideas of the truth. His accident would change into suicide. Then he would become some drugadict child rapist who killed people just for his jollies. It would up being turning from something simple as an accident to him sticking the barrels of a shotgun in his mouth, closing his eyes tight, slipping his big toe into the trigger and bang the wall paper gets a fresh new coating of brain matter.
He admits that he had been sipping out of the bottle, but he had never done any form drugs or had relations with any prostitute of either sex. Actually after his wife had left him for the now famous and hottest male actor in the nation, Kevin Miller (who can get Aids and rot in the fiery and everlasting pits of Hell for all he cared [witch is actually quite a lot, but he would never admit this to himself]. He didn't care if he would walk across the street and get hit by three cars and survive just so he would be completely paralyzed except for very little face movement and the use of his right hand. Then to be forced to only be able to move around by a remote controlled-wheel chair. He didn't care if he would be just riding along in some dark tunnel alone when the wheelchair's battery died and he was forced to stay there and starve. He didn't care if his nose began to itch and there was no possible way to scratch it. He didn't care. Not at all.), he had never been with or thought about any other woman. He was a loner and always would be.
Larry ran back into the house, the floorboards creaking under his weight. All two hundred and seventy-five pounds. (He had gained a hundred of this extra weight after his wife left him.) He went through the den, the kitchen, up the stairs. All twenty-seven of them. (This was quite a challenge for him on most days.) He ran into his room and fell to his knees. WHACK!
He cursed himself and knew his legs would be killing him later. He shoved his chunky hands under his mattress until he felt a hard metal object.
"Bingo," He pulled the 9mm berretta out and stared at it. The bun's eye looked back at him unblinkingly. He stood there a good fifteen minutes before he snapped out of his trance. He gut up to his feet and wiggle- wobbled his way back down the stairs and back out the door. He stuck the gun in his pants and pulled his shirt out to hide the ominous object. He hopped into the driver's seat and twisted the key. And hen was off to do his part in this story.
"Giddy up mother fucker."
Dr. Larry Kindred threw the sleeping bag on top of the bright blue cooler. He closed the door to the back of his green station wagon. He gave a nervous glance to his watch. 5:18 a.m.
Not enough time. He had to get out of here before they got here. It was to blow this Popsicle stand and hit the road. If he didn't leave soon they would retrieve him. And he wouldn't be coming back home. No, way, man. He would never return to his quiet suburban house and sit on his lazy-boy and pop back a couple of beers. Nor would he go on those long weekend trips he adored. No more Larry and the guys sitting around in the cabin sipping coffee and telling dirty jokes. When they come to get him he would end up road-kill. They kill him first-class style. They do all their work with style. He would get a company funeral and most likely a good turnout of mourners.
They would all be loyal employees of GenTec. Yup, their finest and brightest would all come to one of their fellow comrades who had taken his own life in such a terrible way. It would seem to everybody outside the company ring of trust just a suicide or a terrible accident. He could just imagine what they would say at his funeral. "Terrible thing to have happened to such a good guy." "Yea, he was a hard working employee." "Although, he did have his flaws. Not small ones either, mind you." "Really? How so?" "Oh, you didn't know. Well it seems to be that ever since his wife left him two years ago for an actor down in Florida he has had a little bit of a drinking problem." "Oh my God! I had no idea." "It's true. You know it makes you wonder was it actually an accident." "What do you mean?" "Well, I'm just running my mouth but you know he did kind of seem like the person who would you know.." "You don't think he would take his own life do you." "Well I don't want to be known to have spread rumors but." "Yes?" "Well, there have been rumors he was into the heavy stuff. You know like PCP. "That's terrible." "There are some stories that he would pick up prostitutes. Not female ones though. People say he was into little boys." "That's horrible." "I know but it's probably not true. I'm sure it's just a rumor. Maybe." "Maybe my ass," Larry growled at to nobody except himself.
Of course that is how it would end up being. The seed of doubt would be planted and soon begun to sprout. From there it would grow like a vine. It will spread across the wall of truth and with a little time and some lies it will completely consume all ideas of the truth. His accident would change into suicide. Then he would become some drugadict child rapist who killed people just for his jollies. It would up being turning from something simple as an accident to him sticking the barrels of a shotgun in his mouth, closing his eyes tight, slipping his big toe into the trigger and bang the wall paper gets a fresh new coating of brain matter.
He admits that he had been sipping out of the bottle, but he had never done any form drugs or had relations with any prostitute of either sex. Actually after his wife had left him for the now famous and hottest male actor in the nation, Kevin Miller (who can get Aids and rot in the fiery and everlasting pits of Hell for all he cared [witch is actually quite a lot, but he would never admit this to himself]. He didn't care if he would walk across the street and get hit by three cars and survive just so he would be completely paralyzed except for very little face movement and the use of his right hand. Then to be forced to only be able to move around by a remote controlled-wheel chair. He didn't care if he would be just riding along in some dark tunnel alone when the wheelchair's battery died and he was forced to stay there and starve. He didn't care if his nose began to itch and there was no possible way to scratch it. He didn't care. Not at all.), he had never been with or thought about any other woman. He was a loner and always would be.
Larry ran back into the house, the floorboards creaking under his weight. All two hundred and seventy-five pounds. (He had gained a hundred of this extra weight after his wife left him.) He went through the den, the kitchen, up the stairs. All twenty-seven of them. (This was quite a challenge for him on most days.) He ran into his room and fell to his knees. WHACK!
He cursed himself and knew his legs would be killing him later. He shoved his chunky hands under his mattress until he felt a hard metal object.
"Bingo," He pulled the 9mm berretta out and stared at it. The bun's eye looked back at him unblinkingly. He stood there a good fifteen minutes before he snapped out of his trance. He gut up to his feet and wiggle- wobbled his way back down the stairs and back out the door. He stuck the gun in his pants and pulled his shirt out to hide the ominous object. He hopped into the driver's seat and twisted the key. And hen was off to do his part in this story.
"Giddy up mother fucker."