A Hanging Madness, Chapter 7, by Jacob Malewitz, on Mercenary Armor, for Mercenary Star 100

A Hanging Madness

by Jacob Malewitz

Chapter 7

Blue Vest, 100

Blue Sweater, 200

Columbia, 5 mill

Patlabor Summoners, 2 trill 

“Ha.” And he pulled away, noting the desk was now covered with small pieces of technology combined with symbols of old world mankind with the newspaper clippings and the notes on a yellow notepad, the old fashioned pen. He lit another  cigarette. He had two left, bummed from Joe who wouldn’t miss them with his boxes of cigars.

And how did Paul hold all this together while being haunted by angels and demons? He thought of Alice Amy, for no apparent reason, but he thought of her. The long legs, the lips, the wild look in her eyes, the red hair which looked all the more wild and sexy; her voice was a different matter; her situation even worse. He decided then and there to visit her, to see what had happened. 

Newspapers lay all across the living room, and the TV was still on MSNBC. He turned it off and read a feature story on religion, odd to be in a newspaper, and then the reason he’d picked it up.

“Reports of an attempted rape at a mental institution followed by—“ and he read no more, jumped out the door on a sprint, opened the car down and buckled up; hitting the road seconds later, you might have noticed the red light going into the dining room window right by the chair, if you had looked.

2

Alice Amy screamed out loud when she saw Paul Light pushing past police and guards, failing to reach any further than just outside the elevator door.

“Not the time, son,” said one guard.

“Go home, dude.” It was the odd cop, the one who insulted him.

Paul took his chance; not a real blow, but he clocked this unnamed officer in the face enough for the other cops to jump on him immediately.

“Fuck you you fucking sonova’” and Paul got the wind knocked out of him.

“He’s okay,” screamed Alice Amy, “he’s my husband.”

“Oh give me a break,” and the cop decked him once, a good shot this time, and Paul took the blow and clocked the cop in turn. They then handcuffed him and stormed out. Alice was laughing, Alice was in love and she kept on laughing until she began to cry.

She looked at the guard. “He’s my future husband.”

“Planning on leaving soon? Doctor’s won’t let you leave. This place has many ways to get in, but few to get out.”

“Your friend raped me.”

“He wasn’t a friend when he did that. I am not your enemy” and he stopped, maybe realizing he’d gone too far with this statement; he’d admitted she’d been raped. However, she had. and Charles Long had gone on to kill several MSU girls walking home from bars and parties. Not a good thing.

Alice walked back to her room. And what are the rooms in these  places like? Though kept so clean and sanitized, you could never get the disgusting smell of madness combined with the crazies who occasionally shit their pants or peed on the floor. 

  Surely she would never go that far, but in thinking about this place, the one she had always felt home at, she couldn’t get past the part about her pain. He’d screwed her hard, no doubt, and wore no condom when he did it. She remembered little of the actual event, bits and pieces, but Father John had put it in her and Charles had taken away.

But Peter Light.

Peter Light was gorgeous and brave and a true hero, a domino with a key to her room. He would come back.

Looking at the barred window (you were usually lucky to even see the outside, rarely ever go out in it, you were locked in), tears filled her, and though she’d washed Charles off her, she still felt the pain of the rough sex. She grinned. “But Paul Light.” And then and there she decided love indeed would save her.

3

She stepped out into the dark later that night. Rules were, you really can’t do whatever you want in these places. It wasn’t about the straitjacket usually, but just as men were watched as they shaved with razors, girls were discouraged from walking around later. Sometimes the guys could get away with it, but the nurses definitely hated it. Simply, she had an itch to scratch.

“What are you doing? It’s 4 in the morning, Alice, please go back to bed.” An older women, with a big wart on her chin, but somewhat pretty all the same with her stout face and roman appeal.

“Right,” and she kept walking toward the elevator, noting the key lock. “I used to play basketball. You have a rim down there. Can I shoot a couple?”

“It’s 4 in the morning!” She laughed. “Why would you want to shoot baskets, if we allowed that, and why so early?”

“I like basketball,” and she went back to her room, the clean smell of disinfectant and the bed that, when she first got here, was the only home she’d ever liked. “I like basketball,” and she started dancing around the room, the other girls sleeping, her eyes roaming out to the barred window and her mind relenting and letting the madness in. “I like,” and she stopped, her eyes focusing on a car sitting outside the hospital. Blue. She liked blue. Buick, she  hated Buicks. And she jumped into bed, the springs catching and pushing her back, closing her eyes with the demon Bezeel floating in front of her. No, she thought, it was all but a dream within a dream. It never happened. It couldn’t happen. And she flashed back to high school and forgoing cheerleading for basketball, for then choosing other girls over boys. She loved so many of them, and it haunted her. The drugs and the sex, the pieces of hanging madness controlling her for the rest of her life. For in those moments, when you see God’s plan, maybe Satan’s too, you can only run away and hope to forget all the happiness and images of smiles.

She closed her eyes. She opened them and saw the demon floating above her, a different one, something certainly vampire about it, but red skin like images of demons, and eyes full of black, floating above her bed and no smirk or grin, staring, floating like vampire but not showing teeth. “Call it dream,” and she closed her eyes and dreamt of shooting the game winning basket, before this all happened, before she went crazy and had demons possessed her. “Call it dream.”

4

Paul left in chains, only to be bailed out by one Joe Santiago, who whispered curses and worse curses at the bruises on his hands and the big welt on his face.

“Dude, I break rules, but—“ and Joe stopped and walked him to the Buick. “I mean, going into a hell house without a warrant, talking to former priests who now gets laid, following some dude who’s writing a book on phenomenon in mental institutions.”

“Shut it,” and Paul sat down in the old Buick.

“Okay,” and they drove away, Joe only able to bite his lips for a few moments more. “You like her.”

“I like her.”

“Like as a friend or as more than a friend? Like in bed or—“

“Shattup.”

“Gotcha.”

“And how much did this whole thing fuck me up?”

“Dude, you’ve got no record but some cop finding you burning one in a bathroom, which I guess is bad.”

“Are you serious?”

“You forgot your criminal record?”

“I’ve forgot girlfriends, bro.”

They both laughed. Then Paul said, “I think she’s cute, but maybe—I don’t know.”

“Your mom,” said Joe, “your mom was, um, insane and so—“

“So I like an insane girl who probably isn’t into guys.”

“She called you her husband.”

“Right.”

“And she seemed to like you like every time you’ve seen her.”

“Right.”

They both smiled.

“Have you ever seen the file on your mom?”

Paul paused, looking back at the precinct more and more distant from him, noting the 5 story institution jutting out from farther away, the sunset revealing both.

“No,” he replied.

“She was there.” Joe tossed him some photocopies. “I am definitely going to get a new line of work and get my ass to Cancun or something.”

“You quitting?”

“Soon enough, man, soon enough.” Joe lit a cigarette, his eyes rolling back like he was stoned, which maybe he was, Paul remembering how he used to be.

“She was there! My mom was in that building.”

“I just told you that.”

` “She was in that very fucking building!”

“Dude, you went to see her there—“

“No, I didn’t. This was north, north of East Lansing, dad had to drive like 45 minutes to get there.”

“You don’t remember her being there?”

“My memory is gone.”

“And you’re a writer.”

“I guess.” Paul breezed through the file, losing himself in it for moments and only picking up bits and pieces. It was like reading when you have so much else on your mind: you forget bits and pieces, have to go back, reread.

By the time they were back at dad’s, he was staring at a picture of his mom with her wrist cut. A tear pushed to his eye. His mouth went open. For a few moments, he lost control, laughed hysterically, and then put his hands to his face.

“Shit man, I’m sorry I even—“

“No, her last words were my name.”

“I don’t remember—“

“She said she wouldn’t forgot the fort.”

“The fort?”

“To keep the bad people away.”  And Paul smiled. “I told her about the fort, and she liked the idea. She said it would keep her safe.” He stepped out and leaned into the car, gathering himself as Joe looked him over.

“Dude you are not good are you?”

Paul shook his head, thinking drugs or alcohol could cure him. “I need something.”

“You need to drink?”

Paul got back into the car. “I need to get her out of there.”

“Now you are talking like your mom—ah shit man. But you know I can’t do that.”

“Get the keys. They have a code and key on the elevator.”

“You need someone in there to hit the button,” and Joe stopped, then hit the gas. “No, we’re going to the bar. We’re making  a plan.”

Joe hit the radio. “Reports of a  woman who bit out  the tongue of a college student today has surprised—“ and Joe put the flashers on with his new partner.

Chapter 11

“What happened?”

“Who’s the dude?” The man in blue pointed to Paul. “Is that the crazy dude?”

Joe thought about punching the beat cop, but eyed him with enough force to knock him back to puberty.

“Right. Some woman was kissing another, um, woman, and then she ripped her tongue out of her mouth. She is in the hospital, but the suspect is—“

“Gone,” and Paul looked at the blood on the ground. “Is she bleeding to death?”

“I am not losing my badge over this,” and the cop walked away.

“Paul, I don’t know what to do with you sometimes.”

They stepped away from the scene. Joe apologized, his eyes not making contact as he looked back at the blood on the ground. “I just shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“It was Bezeel.”

“I don’t even know if I believe in hell, well—“

Paul stepped back to the car. “Let’s find her before another demon, I don’t know, moves.”

Paul touched the blood with his finger, which surprised Joe. Joe lit a cigarette.

“You coming?”

“Where?”

“The internet will have copies of the ancient exorcism performed by Father Joe.”

“How do you know that?” Joe’s eyes rolled back down. He wanted a drink; you could tell.

“It’s there. It’s there.”

Back at Paul’s house, and it seemed to be becoming his house more than ever, they sat in the dining room which had the brand new, expensive computer hooked via DSL to the online world. Paul hit a few buttons.

“Went through a spell as a kid. Kept having nightmares of demons possessing me like they did my mom. So I went online looking for exorcism rights. Performed one on myself. Didn’t seem to take. Nothing happened. And yes, I did perform an exorcism on myself, and wanted to do one to my dad. He went nuts, but I never forgot the basic idea of it.” Paul’s eyes opened. “Here!”

He looked over the ancient exorcism rights, and it almost looked like the same exact site he’d been to over a decade ago.

“Are you saying we should use this? It’s not even English!”

“We just need a translator.”

“How did you use it before?”

“I could read Babylonian.”

“Babylonians are not Christians.”

“Exorcisms are Catholic.”

“So this isn’t even a Catholic Exorcism?

“Nope.”

Joe lit a cigarette, and Paul, inhaling second hand, wanted to explain to the cop he shouldn’t smoke in his living room. He relented, bumming one off him while it printed. “I always hated cigarettes,” said Paul, “the smell and the coughs and the smell.”

“This is crazy.”

“Joe, we got to do something.”

“This is some kind of Dead Sea Scroll or something.”

“Ur,” said Paul.

“What?”

“They battled the demons at Ur, they believed in God, they understood the stars, they could travel far and see the world was round, they could do many things even we can’t do.”

“And why could you read Babylonian?”

“Because,” Paul took a puff on the cigarette. “I had a man visit me in a dream.”

2

There is Paul standing in front of a doorway and there is a god setting a massive stone down; it’s a tablet of stone and there are laws written on it. The Babylonian god, the king of kings, pushed his fingers into his eyes and pulled out a small piece of paper. He pointed at Paul, speaking in Roman as though he were some latin speaking man. “One.”

Paul hesitates, his eyes rolling back in  his head. Paul takes the page, looks at a sketch of a demon, then another sketch of a girl, and then the god hands him a massive rock twice his size. “Ur,” and he points down to the ground. “Ur.”

“I am going crazy,” says the young Paul, his eyes rolling back and his feet floating. “But I have to save mom.” Young Paul opens his eyes again. “Ur.”

“One.”

“One.”

“Ur, One.”

“Ur, One.”

A demon rises from the stone, its look in tune with the one at the dinner table. It lets out a scream worthy of a million men being tortured, and Paul sees something cascading across the skies. Demons flying.

He looks at the page. 

“Call it evil,” the god says and disappears into the sky.

“Call it evil,” and Paul begins to cry, his eyes—