Introduction and Shit Like That
Since the beginning of my works of, “Tales From Under the Concrete” that shatters the normalcy of compliance in the macabre and horror genre, the “Werewolves of Deadwood” has appeared as short stories. This includes segments and side stories that I love to do as it adds to the ambience of not only the tale itself but that of Deadwood itself. Now on to the next thing I would like to bring to bare and that is the fact that DarcWorX and myself, Douglas S. Taylor are one of the same. With so much written and the energy that I put into this blog over the long haul, anyone who isn’t deaf, dumb, and blind should get more than enough proof in becoming exposed to my talents without excuse.
Yes, I know that I am not for everyone in the adult horror, thriller, suspense, dark fantasy to say nothing of the macabre genres I write – I can also assure with equal measure that everyone out here isn’t for me either. Having said this, I am who I am, I write in a unique sort of way, a style of my own, and an International fanbase that expects nothing less from me. Though, this fanbase is small, means everything to me to include my loyalties with each and everyone of them. Yes, I even regard most of these people as friends. Oh, dare I even say that (enters sarcasm). For those who are just becoming writers, authors who are entering the world of the Internet along with the social media I would like to welcome you and warn you. You shall find friends and fans who are anything of what they seem to be. They are anything but positive influences and most you shall find out are envious and are cruel shadowy reflections of humanity.
More importantly, you continue being yourself and constantly strive to perfect your gifts and talents. Rise above and beyond the shit-eating trolls, imposters of those called friends, fans, and critics. Critics, real critics will always point out the good with those things that needs work on through a constructive atmosphere – Thank them, take their comments and opinions in heart. With all else, fuck them, press on, and give no more thought to these posers.
With the advent of the Internet, the creation of Social Media via the web, everyone has a voice. I would concede that for most, they don’t need a voice and remaining silent would be the best choice they can make. Alas, the genie as it were, is out of the bottle.
Over time, I have been accused of many crimes against humanity as suggested by this particular article of a man who disguises himself as a woman and another pretending to be a human whose interests are into exploiting Asian underage girls.
Nevertheless, if you strive to be the best you can be, you will run into parasites like these. Put the dogs in the ditch with plenty of lime and bury these and move on. I have been accused of being a racist because of the dialogs of characters and what they have said in the course of a particular story. This is utterly shameful and a pathetic of poising the well and reputation of the author.
How fucking lame is that?
How fucking ignorant is that?
I hear it all the time about others who are more well-known. “Oh they must be pedophiles because they write or create monsters like these…” Disturbing albeit. Nevertheless, horror based upon the cruel realities in this world. Still, these hypocrites say anything to bring another down so they, these spineless fucks would make them look brighter and better – It shows how lame, it shows you stunted fucking minds is what it does.
I think there are some comments made on Amazon that I allowed to leave there about some pretty ignorant fucks who gave it their best shots. There are other comments that are good and reflect an accurate opinion. There are also some negative comments that has absolutely nothing to do with the particular book or story – What the fuck?
It is what it is…
I wanted to add this material and things said to set the stage with some of my own angst to share. I also have the need to share some sage advice to those beginning their literary journey in these realms I have made mention. Do not give into the hubris and the gut-shot howling of these lesser primates. Live your dream and perfect your endeavors.
Now let me move on with the second half of this article; “The Werewolves of Deadwood.”
I wrote in some detail a few years ago while I was still a slave to the W-2 indentured to the Game. I remember it was a terribly dark and dreary night in the month of November. Walking in the mist and patches of fog dressed head to toe in black I moved through the night unseen as my mind wondered. I will admit that my imagination became ablaze with visions of supernatural monsters like vampires, phantom specters, psychotic killers, the criminally insane on the prowl, and then like a bolt of lightening electrifying my spine, werewolves!
Yes, werewolves indeed. Right then in the absolute darkness, I could almost hear the howls of such beasts. I imagine that I was one or vicariously traveling within one following the further shore of Elk Creek hidden in the forest and brush line. I could almost feel its blazing red eyes gazing upon me as I walked alone. I remember smiling from ear to ear at the thought that I may be pray. Yes, the hunted as the werewolf hidden watched me with such contempt. Finding myself smiling even more where others may be frightening themselves with their own scary thoughts I walked on thinking about the imaginary creature that wanted the end of my life and the taste of my flesh and blood in his mouth.
I did not have the time or energy to divert to some self-induced fear. No, my mind now totally in flames of creativity. As I walked on this dreary lonely road, the world of, “The Werewolves of Deadwood” began its infancy socially secretive world. You know, the beginning of the particulars, some of the main characters came into mind, and with them, their names, where they were from, what they do in human form in Deadwood. I also thought or entertained the possibility of Deadwood having its own clan or tribe of werewolves.
Moreover as my mind burned with brilliant visions and a budding storyline, the walk home concluded as I found myself on my front porch. I was already home least physically but not mentally.
How in the hell could I be?
My mind was spinning up a new darker world. Already the world of Deadwood, my Deadwood I was creating and sharing through short stories such as the Whispering Pines Sanitarium, Blackstone Rising, and others were already in print. Yes, I was then at that time tying all these persons, places, and events though totally fiction into my world. The story of these werewolves would become part of it. With these werewolf clan would be a need of history behind them, events that happened in the past, cause and effects, ant-heroes, villains, and an age-old rival, the vampire coven. Moreover, a vampire coven unlike that of the baneful romantic glowing bullshit mythology of young teen vampires. Instead, a blood-thirsty parasitical group or coven who were akin to the idea of the destruction of the werewolf clan in some Underworld sort of way. No, I wanted to add to what I have created on my own. So, the vampire coven based upon an insurgence of a biker gang that recently moved into the area in reality and with it, a level of crime not seen since the late 19th century.
The biker gang would later be all rounded up by the DEA and FBI for the manufacturing and distribution of Crystal Meth in the Lawrence, Meade, and nearby counties. Yes, this would be something that I shall use in the story line. I had it. The vampire coven would take the place of the biker gang, but not only take the place, but to kill off the biker rat-bastards themselves. No love loss, and all overnight. This would be excellent. The Vampire coven needed a name, a leader, a few of their own meth cooks with their own brand of crimson meth. These vampires would also come to the knowledge of how to keep a shifter, (werewolf) from changing from human into their animalistic powerful supernatural selves.
Oh, the fucking gears in my mind were grinding. First, I made mention of these things in some rendition of “Morbidity News” on here, on this blog a long time ago. Some people picked up on it and actually enjoyed the piece of fiction. However, most of those that lived in Deadwood, Lawrence County, and as far as Wyoming thought of it as some sort of fabrication, fake news being passed off as real news.
Now, how fucked up and simple-minded is that?
I then needed a dumb-like character that is a werewolf. In human form, eye-candy for the women. A tall and powerful man of the usual average intelligence from the back woods of Louisiana near the Mississippi boarder swamps. A man came to mind, his description of a dark skinned brown eyed and matching hair that is shoulder-lengthen tattooed fellow that goes by the name of Connolly Pettimore. Basically a good natured and fair man attached to a ruthless bitch for a mate also from the same region who came up here after a conflict of a clan in New Mexico. I shared a bit of history of Connolly and the troubles his mate got themselves into. I think I may even shared a measure of personal regret on his part for keeping her. Though, she blames every ill-deed on him. She is nothing less than a sociopath and quick to anger. Any other emotion is nothing but a conjuring effect on her part. Now enters the drama aspect.
As I said earlier, I wrote several very short stories of, “The Werewolves of Deadwood” that appears in the Tales Series. Nevertheless, I believe that this particular story needs to be its own novel in paperback and eBook formats.
As for Connolly and his henpecking, he will end the latter abruptly. A man can only stand so much insanity from a stunted mind. This woman, sure, she is based upon a sociopath I once had the most unfortunate time then in my most miserable life. I don’t care if man or woman, you all can see faces being painted across your mind’s eyes right about now – no doubt.
So, the story, the original piece was told through a character who is the owner of the Gallows Saloon in which was an actual place here in the historical Deadwood. I was offered an opportunity to visit this place by the late owners. Fascinating this adventure was and it was, at that time, all that I could imagine and then some. Now, some ex-FBI agent turned it into a pistol shooting range and bar – Yeah a fucking bar with drunks with loaded weapons.
How fucking stupid is that?
I couldn’t have made that shit up.
Again, the story, or the history is told by a werewolf in human form that describes John Joseph “Jack” Nicholson to a fucking “T.”
Character names withheld; the story starts with the introduction of the werewolf clan and how it fits into a dark history just before and during General Armstrong Custer’s infamous 7th Calvary’s 1st and 2nd Expedition into the Indian Reservation of the Black Hills from Fort Meade, South Dakota. Fort Meade is now a Veteran’s Hospital Facility east of Sturgis in Meade County – You never know, the question could come up in Jeopardy or something and this information may be priceless to you all.
Yeah, the historical portion, a portion in a draft format is fascinating on its own merits though will be re-done from the ground up with a good many things in a novel format. The history speaks of actual events along with the accounts with the views of the speaker. This history laced with both facts, truths, and my license of fiction will certainly blur the lines much like the pseudo-history told as actual history in today’s classes of education, the Museum of Deadwood that has about as much truth as a few grains of Fool’s Gold.
Not to get a head of myself in the least. Connolly Pettimore hears through the elders of the Deadwood clan that resides up in Roubaix, South Dakota of the current treaties they have with the neighboring vampire coven not to mention, the manufacturing of the crystal meth operations. These facts, this alliance is something that Connolly can’t even conceive since the history of Vampire and Werewolf is more of a story of master and slave. Pettimore’s personal dealings in the south with the vampire covens there has proven only one thing of certainty; vampires cannot be trusted in the least.
For Connolly, he harbors only contempt and seething hatred since both of his parents were killed by the order of some elders of a vampire coven. Again, he would be faced with another deadly alliance in New Mexico that his woman helped greatly in exacerbating the tension placing the clan there in peril. Truce was only achieved by excommunicating Pettimore and his mate from the region. Yeah, there is far more to the story or I mean, more to it when I write it.
Nevertheless, Pettimore finds the secret location of the Vampire Coven’s Elders. He manages to ditch the warnings from his own elders and enters the secret grounds hidden in the ancient Roubaix Graveyard. There he waits in hiding for mid day. Then he executes his plan. In basic, a shallow but effective plan. He is to break in and being undetected by the surveillance system short-circuited by a huge solar flare he knew nothing about. Otherwise, he would have been out-numbered and killed by his own kind protecting the Elders. A betrayal made by a pact with his own elders and kept secret. He opens all the window protection mechanisms after quietly opening the caskets. The Elders turn to dust, screaming, flames, the whole bit.
Pettimore realizing that the guardians are coming upon him, he bolts out of the den of elders and blocking the only door behind him with some sort of old railroad tie. He watches the place burn and all those that die inside. This obviously includes his own species.
With this knowledge gained and the betrayal of his own Elders he goes to back into Deadwood where those there in power have a very hard time believing Pettimore. Proof is presented as a small band of werewolves investigate and report back. The coupe ensues with the demise of the treacherous werewolf Elders. This swift and bloody action raises issues with the Custer, South Dakota and Wyoming Clans. A Blood War is immanent as sacred laws seemed broken because of the deaths of the werewolf elders. This will have to wait as the more powerful covens of North Dakota, Montana, and Minnesota along with Nebraska demands retribution of the near total destruction of the meth-making, hence, money-making coven in Lawrence County.
One thing is for certain, Connolly Pettimore may be a hero to some in the region, a hero to those immediately around him but has a death bounty on his head along with those who help conceal him from a twisted form of vampire justice and then, if he survives, he may have to face the wrath of his neighboring clans.
Well that about does it here for me with this subject. It would be considered kind indeed if you would let me know of your thoughts. I know I have exposed some intriguing plots within plots and a high-powered overall synopsis.
I will also say, don’t get any fancy ideas of using any of this matter and subject as your own. Though, you may kid yourself into thinking of taking this work as your own and that would be a fucking grave mistake since all this, everything is copyright protected to include all within.
This brings me to the finality, the conclusion of this article, this post on WordPress. Unlike many other bloggers that have posted some sort of Anti-Plagiarism banner. You will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. This is proprietary work owned by DarcWorX. I have seen my work on other blogs. I have seen my stories and literary material on other blogs and stories. Yet, these same dullards say my work is poorly written as to discourage me. They take the entire story and the only thing that is changed is their name pinned to it.
These egregious actions do reveal themselves and those phony fucks pay dearly and more often than not, much more than they can afford.
For all those new talented writers, authors, and such. Protect your work. Learn what is, “Fair Use,” “Public Use,” “Non-Copyright” and “Stock Images.” I recommend the following, “Adobe Photo Libraries,” “ShutterShack,” and a vast array of online catalogs of additional images you can graft into your own, make it your own like any other business online and traditional magazines do.
For Annette Vecellio, Joseph Mobley, Kelly Forward, and Laura J. Taylor
And to all who have been bitterly abused but has chosen not to become the monsters in a maddening world shunned by society.
We are more than survivors but as warriors.
Another man walks into the den of such devastating violence that just took place some time before his arrival as he folded up his Deadwood Police ID to be allowed just moments ago by two peeked cops on the front porch of the residence and steps ever so carefully towards the opus of unmentionable vehemence.
There across the other side of what would have been a deco kitchen is a mountain of a man wearing his long coat with huge shoulders that one may describe as being in two time zones belonging to a man sculpted by the very hand of god with the most hardened granite ever known to mankind looking at the smaller man.
“Be of great care when you come in here. There are so much goddamned blood and shit in here.” To the smaller detective, all of what he is seeing looks like a savage animal, perhaps a Grizzly Bear or an African Lion came literally in an unfathomable rage.
The younger detective took his care fighting off the shock and awe of the crime scene unfolding before him while missing the splatters, pools of coagulating blood in the obvious arduous process.
The older and bigger detective began to talk as his voice drowned out other below the kitchen and from those behind him. “You know that little boy that has been locked away in a fucking box in a locked closet down there in that damp basement. Looks and smells like fifty shades of hell. He’s been in his own mess for days on end. However, he got a hold of a steak knife and cut a new doorway through what remains his mother’s underage boyfriend.” The large and powerful man by the name of, Special Detective Stone Phillips stated in a voice that sounds more akin to five miles of a crushed gravel road.
Stone rubbed the bottom of his freshly shaven square chin of his rugged face His dark blue eyes smoldering then flashed about the kitchen as he lit up a cigarette.
“Feels like I need a little something stronger than this, wouldn’t you say?” Stone flicked his stainless zippo and put it back in his pocket as he exhaled watching his smoke cloud up around the single ceiling light above.
“I can see you ain’t quite used to the smell of all this fucking blood, are you?” He looked down at a much smaller man wearing wire titanium bifocals also dressed as sharply as Stone stood looming over him.
“So much fucking blood you can smell the goddamn iron, the metal in it all. When you begin to get used to all of this shit, then it’s time to get the fuck out of this cursed job and maybe find something in retail or something.” Phillips drew in another deep hit off of his cigarette and chuckled at his own comment.
The two standing there with the cellar door open and the Deadwood CSI Team hard at work as two street officers bent over the front porch splashing vomit on the cold concrete driveway from what they saw.
“Can’t really blame them. The two cops on the porch.” Stone reached into his long tan coat and pulled out a small jar of Vic’s and opened the lid from the jar.
“Just a dab under the nose will help you. Go ahead.” The other detective, a detective known as Joseph Mobley who is the very same that headlined most of South Dakota’s newspapers started out as a beat cop until the night that the entire world would turn for him.
Mobley working off a vague at best, caller of the possible address of Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez, the notorious rapist, and on occasion, a Meth Cooker, not to mention, a real low-life scumbag. Geronimo was someone that was protected in many ways by the feds since he became a snitch for them. Ratting out those involved in the meth trafficking in the region by the Banditos in order to keep his stinking hide from doing a life sentence at Yankton. The local and regional law enforcement in the past were persuaded by the FBI that the scumbag was off limits.
In Officer’s Joseph Mobley’s mind, this new information on an otherwise thwarted case by the protection of the FBI kept the local law guessing on these rapes and murders that led the public citizenry in the discovery first hand who were finding the mutilated and mangled underage female bodies all over town in dumpsters, just off of park trails, and belly up along Elk Creek.
In the minds of a few to include, at the time, police officer Joe Mobley, this “Hump, and Dump Killer” as the locals dubbed. A murderous pedophile that needed to be brought down like the rabid animal this predator desperately demanded.
With the new information given, Officer Mobley came upon the house in the middle of the night knowing that this is indeed the home of what they bikers called this monster as, “Harley.” More like Harley the fucking Snitch Rat Bastard. Joseph caught some noise from inside as some young girl was begging Geronimo to stop raping her as she cried.
In this fact alone, gave Joseph more than enough cause to bust down the front door with his weapon and light above the aim of the barrel, Mobley continued in a pitch-dark living room. It would be in Geronimo’s wretched bedroom that Mobley would find the scum raping the naked blonde girl. Probably just another typical girl that may have run away from home and made it into the grip of the biker gang to prostitute in drugs and money. Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez would end up getting new trim in trade for his trafficking deals, Besides, all the girls murdered were not from around Lawrence County. The scene with her spread eagle and pinned down by this monster was more than Joseph Mobley could stand even if it meant his job.
Geronimo turned up looking into the blinding light as he pulled out of the young girl. That was enough for Officer Mobley. Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez flinched in saying that whoever was on the other end of the flashlight blinding him in the act. Rodriguez yelled that he is a “…protected man.”
Joseph only answered back with his standard issue semi-automatic by emptying his firearm, a standard Glock-9 that didn’t do too much good at first Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez was jacked on Meth. Though every shot Mobley made was fatal in its own right to the heart, chest, throat, and finally a double-tap brought this insane animal down. An entire clip and in a flash, Mobley loaded up a fresh magazine and took a filthy blanket off the bed so the girl can cover up herself as he instructed her to go outside and asked her is there were any others like her among them in the house. Mobley would find three additional underage girls ranging from about nine to fourteen in age naked and shivering in the cold left to piss and shit in a goddamned bucket up in the attic. They were understandably terrified.
Everything else became a blur to him, the “Hump, and Dump Killer” was brought to a deserving end. On Mobley’s way back down with the children holding hands in a human chain. Mobley radioed for an ambulance and backup to come at once. The neighbors around the low-life awoke and two women brought coving for the naked and heavily abused girls. Joseph seeing that the girls were momentarily being looked after went back into the house alone and carefully entered the bedroom where Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez’s limp body rested. Joseph dumped two more shots in the back of good old, Geronimo for good measure.
As for Officer Mobley, he was promoted to detective first class and would be working on cases now and again with Special Detective Stone Phillips. As for Joseph, he didn’t mind at all working alongside Stone with years of street knowledge from his days in Chicago’s notorious South Side.
“Sure, Mobley, not a problem. But…” With Stone’s right hand holding the burning cigarette in between his fingers, “Look on the wall there behind you and notice that strange carving?”
Joseph turned and noticed a bloody patch running down the carnation pink wall drawing closer to it.
“What the fuck is that?!?” Mobley nearly shrieked and realizing it is made of bone turned to face Stone Phillips.
“The little boy is a fucking Michael Angelo with knives. Who knew? Not with a steak knife, mind you. The paring knife, a butcher’s blade, and the fucking very steak knife itself that he used in freeing his escape is all there in the sink filled with bleach and water.”
“But what in the fuck is that?” Mobley asked drawing for his own cigarette.
“The sculpture is of human bone from what we can tell is from his mother’s missing sternum. Oh, she’s gutted in the bath tube over there in the only bathroom in this house.” Stone pointed in the direction.
Mobley can clearly see that there is a CSI personnel in the bathroom as their shadows danced off the yellow door and the white wall of the room itself.
“I think I’ll skip that part.”
“Quite a masterpiece the boy did on her. I can tell you that Mobley. That up there, so I’m told by Doctor Annette Vecellio, she says it is some kind of tribal design of a devil or some kind of demon. She told me that the young boy says it is his friend? Yeah, I know, right?”
Detective Mobley just shook his head in stricken awe as a police photographer is a shade south of pale as his eyes wide open to this oeuvre of murderous mania played out through the illustrations of smeared blood made by the boy’s small hands.
Mobley is trying desperately to get his mind around the fact that this, all this malevolence was created by the hands of a young child.
“Hey, Jimbo…” Stone snapped.
The police photographer turned to Phillips, “Yeah, Chief?”
“Take a good photo of that up there on the wall for me, would you?”
“Certainly…” The police photography took the shot as Stone and Joseph standing there noticing that Jimbo is heading for the front door for some much needed fresh air.
“Tell me Stone. How did this all go down?” Mobley asked.
“Well…” There is a spark of light cutting across Stone’s dark eyes and pointing down the cellar, “CSI will fucking confirm what I already know. The little seven-year-old –” Stone is cut off by Mobley.
“Seven? Just seven did all of this shit? Fucking seven?”
“I know, right? Besides the kid is standing about so high…” Stone motioned the height with his left hand. “Yeah, about that high and weight about 65 pounds soaking wet in his mess. Doctor Vecellio made him change his clothing and helped to clean up the entrails and saturated encrusted shit and piss for days he was wearing. God fucking insane. Let me tell you something, my friend. This shit is what makes good people wonder if there is even a fucking god in the first goddamned place…” Stone’s voice lowered as he continued.
“You know, Joe, there are places for the likes of the good doctor in some sort of a pleasant afterlife…” Stone’s voice faded once more.
Detective Mobley nodded in agreement as he took in the entire crime scene of the kitchen area as Stone went on.
“The child, Dougray Scott was obviously tormented for god knows how fucking long, managed to stash a knife, that steak knife in the sink in fact. He used the weapon he concealed on him knowing his fucking bitch mother and her stunted boyfriend would go and lock him up – What they didn’t know, it would be the fucking last time as you can see.”
“How in the fuck did these monsters get away with it all along in this day and age?” Joe glared up at Stone.
“That is a question that I can easily answer. To cover up the screaming and such, they would turn that radio down there loud to cover up the hell going on in that fucking trunk.” Stone paused.
“God knows how long he would be confined like that with no answers to his screams and sufferings.” Stone growing a bit angry as anyone would then continued.
“Then the boy must have picked the lock and with all of his might, snapped the latches, picked the closet door, and threw that radio against the wall in pieces. That is what brought the fucking idiot down the stairs, turned on the light below to find Dougray wielding a knife and gutted on Michael Anthony Glenn.”
“You mean to say, this Dougray Scott did all that I’m seeing with a single fucking steak knife?”
“Yeah for the most part downstairs, and by the looks of things, a few years of pent up seething rage with about a gallon of pure adrenaline and a demand for a pound of flesh and then some. I cannot fucking blame the little lad one fucking second for…” Stone grew quiet for another moment as Mobley hung on to every word.
“Retribution, retaliation, revenge, all wrapped up in such a tiny malnourished boy. His mother…” Stone took a moment.
“As you can see by the bloody footprints of the young lad came right up the steps and kicked the door ajar nearly shattering it off the hinges as you can see.”
“My god…” Mobley’s mind is playing out the scene that happened over the course of a couple of hours earlier.
“Seems mother on her meth-binge came running right into a buzz saw of sheer animalistic rage. Dougray Scott snapped under all this hideous shit. Now Dougray had the element of surprise totally on his side as he began with a killing blow and slashing effect upon his mother’s stinking neck. You can see there on the floor of her choking spasms of blood. The boy seeing this monster now lying nearly naked jumped over her body for something a little bit heavier to use on dear old mom. She was alive to see it coming and that there, my friend, is a fact.”
“Horrifying…” Joseph could see ever swing, every action being played out before them by the blood evidence alone.
“I don’t know if there is a word out there somewhere that aptly describes all of this…” Stone lit up another cigarette as he did before.
“He jumped over his moms?” Detective Mobley asked.
Stone in deep thought in a very dark place inside him if only for a moment and then turns around to face Mobley looking up at him. “Yeah, yes, he jumps over his mother and grabs the butcher’s blade because it is heavy. He knows he must have, must need something more brutal to get the job done. Dougray, he begins to dismember her arms and legs hacking away…” Stone shows with his right hand holding the cigarette up to the further wall and ceiling opposing the two detectives.
Stone went on breaking it all down, “She is bleeding out as you can see and the effects of his unrelenting chopping and hacking. The floor here really tells the fucking story and make note of the arterial spray that looks more like morbid wings of some kind of hellish angel or something.” Stone allows Mobley to take it all in as he points to the morbidity of this inhumanity.
“Treat a boy, any person like this and you create a goddamned monster in your own right. Though this monster might be a seven-year-old boy, but you know the deal Mobley; it’s not how big the monster is, but how big the monster within that counts at the end of the day, and I am afraid based upon this blatant evidence that whatever carved a new doorway through that asshole down there is something much more of a monster that was running to meet him. And that too, my friend, is a fact” Stone grew silent once more.
“Goddamn…” Mobley nearly whispered.
“Now, Dougray takes the Butcher’s blade and cloven his mother’s skull as you can see some of the gray matter all over the floor and the goddamned ceiling above over there. Hacking away he then began putting body parts in the bathtub. Really, she’s all kinds of fucked up. Quite the jigsaw if you ask me.” Stone barely grinned.
Detective Mobley just stood there as his eyes dancing as the entire gore played out in his mind.
“I know you’re seeing this in your mind, Joe. I just needed to point the way. Shit, you would have figured it out all on your lonesome given the facts as I did earlier from the CSI guys.” Stone takes another heavy drag.
“How did we come to know about all of this about the radio bit?” Mobley quipped.
“So glad you’ve asked, Joe. The next door neighbor by the name of, Kelly Forward said she heard screams and what sounded like a ‘rabid dog’ — her words. She came up to the kitchen window there and peeked in. What she saw would sear her mind like a white hot iron into her memory. It will never leave her what she saw. In this too is a natural fucking fact.”
“I fucking bet,” Joseph added.
“Misses Kelly Forward is down at the hospital being treated for shock. She said in her brief statement that sometimes these people play the radio downstairs now and then a little too loud. She has no knowledge of the boy other than she would see little Dougray Scott that would smile at her on seldom occasion.”
“What is going to happen to the kid?” Mobley asked again.
“Like what happens to most monsters his age. He’ll become a ward of the Whispering Pines Sanitarium, hence, the state up until he becomes of age. He’s got a long and bumpy road ahead of him with the so-called rehabilitation processes no doubt.”
“Damn…” Mobley looked down at his feet.
“I had enough of this hell myself this evening. I got what I need and tomorrow I’ll get with Doctor Vecellio over some of that preliminary stuff. You can come along if you like. But, I think I hear the police chief coming up and all’s we need is another asshole in this stew. Besides, we did all we are going to do here. Let’s go have that fucking drink, Joe.”
The two walked out before the flashing red and blue lights and the shadows dancing in the reflections off the walls of the houses as the entire neighborhood is cluttering the street after allowing the two undercover cars leaving into the chilling night air.
Tomorrow is another day of a media blitz as the horrors come to light right under the very noses of the folks of Deadwood.
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