Duncan's Diary (26 page)

New relationships keep our minds wandering. What she might be like in bed, what it might feel like to hold her in your arms, or how it must feel to kiss her softly on the lips and caress her soft, flowing hair. The fantasies of the wild mind! Interestingly enough, it is similar to reading a good book with the anticipation and imagination of the words forming pictures in your head.

I was debating with my oldest daughter the other evening about the difference in artistic talent it takes to write a book versus paint a painting. A book is nothing more than painting a picture with words. A writer hopes to help the reader visualize images and explore the imagined feelings of characters as they interact in some make-believe world. Each person looks at a painting and pulls out different formulated pieces. We all focus on different aspects. Everyone conceptualizes different pictures that leap from the pages as a good book as they weave their way through the written story.

One of the downfalls of today’s society is the trend to take all good books and form them into a movie. I was recently reading
A Beautiful Boy
and enjoyed it so much I insisted my daughter read it, as well. Eighty pages into the book she looked at the jacket cover, which had a picture of a man. She asked, “This is not the father, is it?”

Everyone forms various images of reality from reading the exact same words on the same pages, yet the imagination runs in different directions. While this is interesting and the exploration of newness has a profound effect, there is also the reality of images cutting off your imagination – the mindless raw pull of physical needs versus fantasy that, once tasted, leaves you with the satiated desire to eat again.

With my new relationship possibilities still in budding infancy, I knew I could not squelch my inner desire for the taste of blood and sexual pleasure. I decided to explore the streets of San Francisco again in the hopes of appeasing myself with a quick fix of hidden ecstasy. I was worried about my recent encounters with the local law enforcement agencies and what that meant, but I had not heard from them in several days now. The immediacy of my lust moved my concerns into the forgotten realm of the past.

San Francisco is an interesting place. The moderate temperatures and the scenic views of Angel Island, The Golden Gate Bridge, and Golden Gate Park make it one of the most enticing cities in which to live. As with all pleasures and positive attributes, it is has a negative side. The city attracts a large group of homeless people that frequent the streets.

Having rid the city of two such vestibules of emptiness not long ago, and gaining pleasure from the act, I felt that taking this path again was logical. Many could admit that it was a needed service. It was a Wednesday evening, and I was home alone after leaving work several hours prior. I was fully energized from my frozen pizza dinner and small toke on the rarely used marijuana pipe from my college years.

Being middle-aged, I was pretty conservative and rarely partook of the mellowing, smoky substance; but in my latter high school years and during college, I admittedly inhaled far too often. I had many experiences that should have swayed me to understand that I was wavering to close to the edge of the abyss. As most young people, I felt the strange invulnerability that encompasses youth allowing them to pursue things without thought.

I once remember crossing a street in Carbondale, IL. It was a four-lane main road. I was walking to a friend’s house, having decided that I was no longer in a state of mind to enjoy the festivities of Halloween. Our years in college were the last ones where the city actually shut down the main street and embraced the holiday, while it inhaled the inflow of thousands and thousands of people creating a weekend-long party.

Everyone would dress up in costumes and wander about the city streets. Bands played, kegs flowed, and anything and everything seemed not only to be allowed, but also encouraged to be explored. Having never been to New Orleans, I think this is the closest thing to which I would compare the event—decadence was openly displayed and promiscuity was embraced.

Along with several friends, I had decided to ingest not only many mushrooms, but also pot from a bong multiple times. This left me with the whirling energy of the drug-induced fungi that was softened by the subtlety of marijuana. In my altered state, the streets lined with people had been too much for me to take. I forcefully pushed and pulled my way out of the crowds into the openness of the peripheral grounds beyond.

As I made my way to my friend’s house and crossed the four-lane road, I saw a group of four young adults walking on the sidewalk at the other side. I heard one of them say in a boisterous voice, “Dude, did you see that guy? He walked right in front of that car and didn’t even flinch. I can’t believe he didn’t get run over.”

Having piqued my curiosity on what kind of idiot would walk in front of a car that was speeding down a main road, I turned to see the event first-hand only to realize that the “dude” in question was me. I had apparently sauntered into the road, oblivious to my surroundings, and had come very close to becoming a permanent fixture embedded into the pavement.

The ironic thing of being young and letting invulnerability flow through your veins is that reality knows the difference. How many young people purposely or accidentally lose their lives by the stupidity of their actions? They don’t understand the consequences of certain activities. I wish I could say that the event sobered me up and left me with a new outlook on life but, alas, the shaking feeling was fleeting. I continued my self-destructive agenda for a few more years. The City of Carbondale did wisen up eventually, though, when some of the students got out of hand one Halloween and a couple of kids got killed. Afterward, they closed down the festivities; the raging street parties stopped.

Having gotten slightly wiser, my rare indulgence of the smoky, relaxing substance was always minimally consumed with one or possibly two hits at the most. I now remained in control of my actions and capably crossed all streets, safely reaching the other side.

I had ventured out to the SUV and was now making my way into San Francisco along with hundreds of other cars. I navigated down to Market Street again, which seemed like a logical place to move forward with the evening’s plan. Predictability is never a reality in the world. I think the word should only be used in the confines of scientific experiments and should be banned anywhere else. Nothing in life is predictable. You can play percentages, but you always have that chance for an odds to arise and throw everything out of whack.

As I arrived, I easily found a parking spot on one of the side streets, which is not usually the case in San Francisco. I veered in and made my way to the back of the vehicle to gather the tools I would need for the evening. In general, it is really just the one tool that mattered. There is nothing like the respect you gain when you hold a gun at point-blank range and jam it in somebody’s face.

It reminded me of the movie
The Grand Canyon.
In the opening scene the gangster wannabe stated something to the effect of “If I don’t have the gun, you don’t respect me so, in essence, you only respect the gun.” He was talking to Danny Glover’s character at the time. That’s a great movie, by the way. I stowed the gun and strolled through some of the back alleys, looking for a likely conduit to fulfill my present needs.

As I made my way down one specific alley, I was entranced by the pull down stairs and how eerily the lighting sifted through the iron railings. Ironically, as I stared, enamored with this oddity, I saw a slight movement and realized I was not alone. A young woman sat half-naked underneath the top railing and leaned against the brick structure. I found it odd that even in her unclean state her exposed breasts were very attractive and firm. I would have thought that a woman in such a degenerative state and obviously drugged condition would have more wear on her physical form.

As I tried to decipher the extent to which her nipples were erect, I received the surprise that can change the course of your existence if you allow it to take control. A sharp twang resounded throughout the alley as I was struck by what must have been a shovel of some kind squarely between my shoulder blades. My knees buckled as I felt myself slowly slipping to the ground.

I find it odd how some guys feel they are so tough and, yet, have never actually felt the blow of another person’s fist to any part of their body. Call me lucky or unlucky, but I have had the experience of being hit many times.  I know full well the end result of the impact and how it feels on the body. I admittedly, until now, had never been hit by a shovel; and I have to say that the feeling was not something I desire to repeat at any point in my future life.

As I slowly fell to the ground, I began to realize the situation that I had wandered into. This was no random act of violence. The girl was there to attract my attention and to distract me from the man who was now my attacker. I hypothesized this was an attempted robbery. The scene was most likely played out quite often for unsuspecting men who didn’t mind stopping to observe a half-naked woman curled up in a dark alley.

Luckily for me, my attacker was not the smartest guy in the world. Instead of delivering a blow to my head, which might have rendered me unconscious, he had aimed for my back. While the blow was definitely going to slow me down, it was in no way leaving me unable to react. I was now almost completely on my knees and felt the pavement connect with my kneecaps. The sharp pain raced up my legs, but also brought my awareness to a heightened state. My nemesis reared back his crude weapon and prepared for another blow.

It must have been surprising to him as I had put my hand in my jacket. I pulled out my weapon and simply allowed my body to fall completely on the ground turning to one side at the point of connecting with the surface. At that moment, I let out two quick bursts of flashing scenario-changing bullets that he was not expecting. As astonished as I had been, my now victim was, indeed, sharing my dilemma; but he was not going to recover quite as rapidly as I had.

The two bullets each hit home directly in his mid-chest section, impacting dead center in his heart. He appeared to lose life before he had even fallen to the ground. The shovel clanged against some metal behind him, as it fell from his lifeless hands and rattled to a resting spot in the darkness. He dropped from where he had hidden, no longer a threat to me or anyone else again.

I now turned my attention to the young lady, who was curled up in a ball in the same place she had been when the entire 30-second altercation began. Most altercations you will find are over so quickly that you don’t even have time to contemplate the end result. My back would be sore for weeks. Of that I was sure. In my current heightened adrenaline pumping state, I could not feel the bruise that I was sure would be forming quickly.

As I walked closer to the girl who seemed to be attempting to curl inside herself so tight that she was hoping I could not see her, I began to admire her even more. She would have been extremely attractive at one time I was sure and, even now, held remnants of her beauty that would never be completely removed. She spoke in a garbled tone and seemed to be begging me not to kill her as I approached her.

She had felt fine being the bait for the brutal beating and possible killings of how many men in this scene from some act that her friend had concocted. Only now as the play had changed directors, she begged for her existence. She was probably better off not continuing down this path she had chosen of drugs and prostitution, I thought. What hope did she have, really? Unless somebody took mercy on her, she was doomed to die as a drug-infected pest in some back alley like this one, if not this exact one.

I decided that it was dark enough and my actions had still gone unnoticed (probably why they had chosen this alley). I unzipped my pants and pulled them down, along with my boxers. With my staff already growing, I pointed it in her direction while holding my gun no less than an inch from her head. She opened her mouth and took me in, grabbing my butt with both hands, as she forcefully swallowed me whole over and over and over again. She showed her experience in her technique. I was sure that she had been coerced into this situation several times in her young life.

There is something to be said for having oral sex with somebody who seems to be doing the act to save her life. The enthusiasm and energy injected results in trying to give the best blow job ever. It is given in the hopes of staving off what might end up being the last sexual act she commits. I found it was hard to remain alert, as she was providing such pleasure with her mouth. I grabbed the top of her head with my left hand holding a fistful of her hair, as I pulled and pushed her head moaning with delight.

It did not take long for me to explode in her mouth, as I shoved myself into the deepest part of her throat that my penis would allow. At the instant when I felt the last drops slowing and the subsiding orgasm was just reaching its finality, I pulled the trigger on my gun again twice. I actually saw one of the bullets exit the other side of her head, apparently going all the way through. The ricochet of the projectile off the brick building echoed slightly. I was now left holding up her head solely on my own by the still fistful of hair that I had not yet released.

I let her body limply fall to the ground and started gathering my belongings. I made sure that I had not dropped anything in my haste of the last several minutes. I again realized that I was leaving my DNA all over this young ladies mouth and face, but I could not think of any way to properly dispose of her. I again decided to just let things lie and take another chance. My chances were going to run out soon, I was sure, but until they did I would continue fulfilling what was now becoming my legacy.

I could feel the soreness in my shoulders and wanted to get home to take some pain medication and sit in the tub and relax. The evening had been somewhat of a success, and I had gotten more out of the night than anticipated; but again I would have never been able to predict the events as they had unfolded. I was becoming a hardened killer, I thought. For better or worse, I was reaching the end of my metamorphosis. I had enjoyed the evening immensely.