"Food has always played a vital role in life's rituals: The breaking of bread, the last meal of the condemned man. . .and now this meal. However informal it might appear, you can be sure there was to be very little bonhomie."
-Charles Gray (The Rocky Horror Picture Show)
He stood well over six feet head and shoulders with a physique burlier than a shaved grizzly bear, only with dryer skin. A neon green T-shirt with crudely ripped sleeves one might associate with landscaping laborers and a scuffed pair of jeans clothed his frame. A single black boot shod his right foot, while a grimy white sock adorned his left (out of which his big toe poked courtesy of a large hole). What remained of his dark black hair had been tied into a ponytail which meandered along his neck like a lazy snake, while a greying mustache drooped along his upper lip like a second frown. But most frightening of all were the immense pair of hands which shook with fury as he had balled them into fists with the aim of making his displeasure known over the lack of pie that would accompany his supper that night.
Helga and Phoebe immediately felt their internal organs plummet like prisoners on the gallows. But as Wolfgang's father stood in the threshold of the front room and laid his eyes on the preadolescent girls, the temper that surged through him slowly began to simmer down, evidenced all the more as he emits a hearty, house-shaking laugh. Wolfgang, by contrast, hesitantly rises himself from behind the couch awaiting whatever backslapping the man had in store over his son's (alleged) prowess.
"Heeeey, big fella." He said with pride before congratulatorily gripping his son's shoulders. "Looks like someone's become stud of the year!"
"Right." He said sheepishly. "Dad this is Helga and Phoebe-"
"Whatever, Hilda and Fifi here'll be a faint memory by next week if you keep goin' at the rate you are tonight." He replied dismissively gesturing to the wrong girls respectively. "Nonetheless, you girlies can call me Leo. Now who's hungry?"
While objectively, Phoebe and Helga had a larger portion on their respective plates than they did at the community center, it still paled in comparison to the continental heap of meat and foodstuffs Leo horked with abandon like an English king of old. Even this prized son of his glumly dined upon a modest portion of the haul hoping that any opportunity of small talk could reprieve them of the cold silence permeating their eating space. Finally, with some hunger satiated, Leo spoke.
"Well, I don't usually do this, but since today...(belch)... is a day for gratitude." He bellowed and burped upon swallowing the last of his food. "I for one am glad that my son is finally shaping up to be a real man; bringing home the [metaphorical] bacon, doing what he's gotta to survive…(he turns to Helga and Phoebe)…making his way with the ladies, and most importantly, that he's finally gotten over whatever mania he had with that 'Our Lady of Agrabah' church."
"Our Lady of Agrabah?" Phoebe asks.
"Y'know, that church with all them domes on Bartlett Street." Leo said. "His music teacher tried to reel him into for a while, and given all these stories they got going around with the Papists, I didn't want this 'anchovy' dude getting funny ideas about blowing some notes on my son's flute is all I'm saying. Besides buddy, this is America! Y'ever heard of Freedom of Religion?"
"To be fair, he didn't 'reel me in'." Wolfgang clarified tonelessly. "Deacon Olchovy was working on his Grad thesis on Dmitri Bortniansky and would often play the Cherubic Hymn No. 7 a lot. Out of curiosity, I asked my dad if we can go to St. Seraphim-"
"Which let me tell ya, was a complete clown show if there ever was one!" Leo interjected. "First thing you see walkin' into this place are all these damn pictures; a lot of which got of Jesus' mom lookin' like one of them Osama-dama-ding-dong chickies with the burka and all. Then if that weren't enough, not only did the service last for-freakin'-ever, but whatever happened to good ol' English? No, instead we get sing-songy Pinko talk like 'Gas Pedal Nemoy', 'Octo-Ganache', 'Swab the boat-chest'… and just when you finally think the insanity might end, out come all these so-called priests from behind that wall with the pictures; all of 'em lookin' like rejected queer-mo teachers from that book about the wizard school all the kids are reading these days-"
"Dad! I…I think they get the picture…" Wolfgang began before his father's face caused him to sink back down into his seat.
"Yeah, anyway, like I said; I thank our all-American God who wrote the Constitution with his blood that Wolfgang is done with that crap." Leo said before shoving another heap of meat into his maw.
Helga and Phoebe nervously side-eyed each other as another round of silence filled the air, broken only by the masticatory snorts Leo emitted.
"So…Wolfgang, other than that, how are you enjoying Tono?" Phoebe asked after a while.
"Well, it's interesting." He began. "For a while, I had some dreams about this place being an opposite day version of Hillwood, but as I slowly made some friends and had sessions with Dr. Bliss, I slowly learned that my fears were misplaced and that dreams are only just our subconscious trying to make sense of-"
"Oh yeah, I forgot to mention. That Bliss bitch tried t'do a number on him too if you hadn't figured it out." Leo groaned.
Somewhere beneath the fear and dread she had been smothered by all evening; Helga felt a ripple of rage writhe about her abdomen upon hearing Leo's assessment of the woman she had considered a mental godsend. Sensing that Ol' Betsy might join the party, Phoebe gave her friend a subtle but sharp kick to the shin in hopes of not only keeping her in check but keeping them alive.
"Why you…never told me about seeing Dr. Bliss as well." She said finishing with strained cheeriness. "When did all that start if you don't mind me asking?"
"Remember back at PS 118 when Jordan had that thing for chocolate?" Wolfgang began. "After he kicked the habit, word got around about my little deal with the kid…something, something, 'enabling an addiction' later and give you one guess who's got a date on the good doctor's couch."
"And I take it these sessions are still ongoing…" Phoebe inquired.
Before Wolfgang could answer, Leo let out a harsh and barking laugh. Like a puppy having its nose rubbed in its crap, it became apparent to Phoebe with each guffaw he let out just how stupid her question was given the company they shared.
"You kiddin'?! I put the ol' Kibosh on that as soon as quickly as I could." He bellowed as he beat the table with his fist. "In hindsight though, knowing what I know now with Father McFondles as a music teacher I wouldn't've been as hasty…still, no son o'mine needs that huggy-wuggy horseshit! This is the real world, cupcake! And the irony of it all is how all those self-important teachers think nothing of shoving Darwin down kids' throats day after day. If 'survival of the fittest' actually meant something, there'd be no need for all these candy-ass guidance counselors or safe spaces because you'd either get some hair on your peaches or start taste-testing bullets..."
Leo suddenly got quiet as he rose from the table, turned around and took his shirt off. The problematic chill blanketing their evening turned unquestionably arctic as all six eyes drank in the positively nightmarish image tattooed upon the Toran patriarch's backside; a camo-colored skull with red white and blue flames that almost looked like it was laughing. While a rivulet of blood ran down the vacuously black left eye socket, the right one possessed the most striking blue eye ever inked but with a grenade in lieu of a pupil were one to look closely enough. Beneath the menacing masterpiece was the following: "If human nature were a university, wars would be the textbook." CPL. W.J. 'Junkyard' Jones.
"The real world, it ain't got time for tears…especially when war happens."
"Oh, this again." Wolfgang muttered.
"What's that Boy?"
"I mean, 'oh, this again!'" The younger Toran repeated with feigned excitement. "The story of Junkyard Jones."
"Junkyard Jones." Leo continued wistfully. "A brother, an ally, a patriot and friend. One minute you're picking off Victor Charlies one by one in Saigon, the next you're watching what's left of him take the final flight home in a pine box knowing his family is stuffing themselves on a turkey dinner somewhere at home."
"He must have meant a great deal to you." Phoebe began earnestly, to which Leo snarled defensively.
"What's with you kids and 'homo-izing' everything? Can't two men be brothers in arms or poker buddies these days without people thinking we're a couple of fags?"
Silence.
"So…how did 'Junkyard' get his name?" Helga asked hoping to cut through the awkwardness.
"Kid's name was William Joseph Jones, but the entire platoon called him 'Junkyard' for the fact that he was a one-man wrecking crew. Every man who served with him had a story to tell in one form or another; danglin' off the skids of an AH-1 Cobra as he blew the brains out of the skulls of the Victor Charlies below him, laughin' while frying a squad of commie gooks in their own tunnels with his flamethrower, stranglin' prisoners who gave lip to the guards with his dog tags 'til their eyes popped outta their sockets, his failed yet fearless attempt to storm the Hanoi Hilton all on his lonesome…the kind of man you'd want having your back. Not like his brother Fred."
"Fred?"
"Yeah, before he died, William told me a bit about how he and his brother used to be close before all this. All American in every sense of the word; clean cut, rugged, athletic, …just an ideal twosome of boys, more than anyone else in their hometown. They represented the old values…(he shook his fist affirmatively)… Ike would have been proud of them…(he sighs sadly)… But it all came to an end after Fred managed to avoid the draft by getting a scholarship to one of them smart-ass universities with his girlfriend. In the end it was all for nothing as they dropped out after a year to travel around the country with two other losers they met there; this cranky donut-diving woman's libber type and some dogfood eating beatnik that passed as her boyfriend."
Finally sensing that his guests (Phoebe especially) seemed to have more than their fill of Leo's odious tirades, Wolfgang rose to bid the old man adieu in the only manner he knew would arouse the least suspicion. Scratching his nose at the two girls, he clears his throat.
"Well dad, as fun as this was, the three of us…"
"Awwww! y'mean ya can't humor me with your presence a while longer?" Leo protested facetiously before letting out another lustful chortle. "Nah, I'm fuckin' around there. You three probably have 'plans' for the night…(he said giving his son a laudatory punch on the shoulder while his eyes twinkled with concupiscence)… Well, guess I come from a different time when you could just take a girl or three and do your business without haulin' 'em home to meet your old man, but I feel for ya buddy; gotta do what ya gotta do to evade all this feminazi 'Hash-Brown Me Too' nonsense…"
As the two girls found themselves starting to turn green with nausea, Wolfgang ushered them back through the house before his father could make any more comments about…anything. Yet even as he slammed the door shut, Leo still managed to get one last word in before the portal clicked in place.
"Make me proud kid!"
"Yeah...make me proud..." He whispers mockingly.
Helga and Phoebe thought they saw it all when Wolfgang scampered behind the seating like a scared chipmunk. But as he lumbered robotically off the stoop and onto the sidewalk, disgust weighing on his backside like a dead whale. The shared sense of anger they felt for enduring their deplorable dinner found itself eclipsed with pity and concern as he collapsed and sobbed with abandon at the foot of his father's ride.
After collecting himself the best he could, Wolfgang reached for his phone and thumbed through his contact list before making a selection. Even with some shadow of control over his sorrow, only six discernable words could be made out amidst a new round of frustrated weeping.
"Mar...help me...I'm at dad's..."
And here you go…Leo Toran, ladies and gentlemen.
Pointless Trivia Time: I drew inspiration for much of what Leo looks like from (of all things) one of my favorite childhood toys: an action figure of a Mesomorph from the tv show "Hercules: The Legendary Journeys" (or as some may know it, "the show 'Xena Warrior Princess' spun off from"). I got it as a party favor at my cousin's birthday and had it for about ten years until it fell down the steps and broke. In an odd coincidence, that same birthday party was where I saw my first HA! episode ("Heat" from Season 1).
One plot point in the story that I've tried to keep subtle is Wolfgang finding Jesus via the influence of his teacher Deacon Sawa Olchovy. But with Papa Toran's narrow-minded assessment of what the experience is like at these churches, I feel it right to go over the aspects of an Orthodox Church that would make it (in Leo's words) a "clown show" to one unfamiliar with such practices.
Icons are an integral part of worship; serving as windows to heaven, they often depict representations of biblical scenes from the Old and New Testements, historical events in the life of the Church, and portraits of the Saints. As Orthodox Christianity follows the Byzantine Rite (as opposed to the Roman Rite observed by most Catholics), a) there are no statues as they are considered idolatry, and b) the complexion of individuals depicted in icons are swarthy, regardless of where said person originated from.
On that note, icons of the Virgin Mary (or Theotokos) depict her covered in a shoulder-length veil which was commonly worn according to the tradition of Jewish women of that time. According to OrthodoxWiki, "This veil or head covering is usually colored red to show her suffering and her acquired holiness. Under her veil, her clothing is blue, symbolizing [her] humanity." This speaks to the theological teachings of Orthodoxy that while Mary was human in nature (blue) she took on divinity (red) like one takes on a shawl or veil. Conversely, because Christ is divine in nature and took on humanity, he is often depicted in a blue outer garment beneath a red robe.
Architecturally speaking, Orthodox churches (primarily those found in Eastern Europe and the Rus) are known for their distinctive onion shaped domes topped with tri-barred crosses. Domes represent the heavens whereas the church building symbolizes the body of Christ. Functionally, the onion shape prevented the snow from piling on the roof as Orthodoxy moved eastward from the Holy Land where the domes are more rounded and snow is a rarity. Furthermore, services in Russian/Eastern European Orthodox Churches are conducted in Slavonic (antiquated Russian). The main service on Sunday is called a Divine Liturgy which usually lasts roughly an hour and a half (as opposed to Mass which clocks in at 45 minutes). Some basic phrases one might hear in these services include Hospodi/Gospodi, pomiluj (Lord have Mercy), Otche nash (Our Father) and Svjatyj Bože (Holy God).
Also important to know is that unlike Roman Catholic Mass which is primarily spoken, Orthodox Christian services employ a great deal of chanting (a mix between speaking and singing).
One of the most distinctive interior features of an Orthodox Church is an iconostas, or the wall which serves as both a) the stable support for icons and b) the boundary between the altar and the rest of the church. It is behind the iconostas where much of the service is conducted. There are three points in which the clergy and altar servers come out in procession (the Great and Little Entrances, and the Gospel reading). In addition to flamboyant vestments, Orthodox clergy are most famous for their abundance of facial hair, some even having beards that run along their abdomen.
As for the rest of the story, Helga and Phoebe aren't out of the woods yet as there is still one more member of Wolfgang's immediate family to meet.
What further horrors (if any) are they to be subjected to?
Stay tuned…
HumanDictionary
