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This Week |
Baine switches on the radio, hoping that some vintage rock-'n'-roll would brighten his mood. He must have nudged the selector off the station to which he had been listening earlier, because now there was nothing to be heard but a soft susurration, not ordinary static, but like distant water tumbling in considerable volume over a sloping palisade of rocks. Briefly glancing away from the road, Baine pressed a selector button. At once, the numbers changed on the digital read-out, but no music came forth, just the sound of water, gushing and tumbling, growling yet whispery. He pressed another button. The numbers on the display changed, but the sound did not. He tried a third button, without success.
'Oh, wonderful. Terrific.'
He had owned the car only a few hours, and already the radio was broken. Cursing under his breath, he fiddled with the controls as he drove, hoping to find the Beach Boys, Roy Orbison, Sam Cooke, the Isley Brothers, or even someone contemporary like Julianna Hatfield or maybe Hootie and the Blowfish. Hell, he'd settle for a rousing polka. From one end of the radio band to the other, on both AM and FM, the watery noise had washed away all music, as if some cataclysmic tide had inundated broadcast studios the length of the West Coast. When he attempted to turn off the radio, the sound continued undiminished. He was certain that he had hit the correct button. He pressed it again, to no effect.
Gradually, the character of the sound had changed. The splash-patter-gurgle-hiss-roar now seemed less like falling water than like a distant crowd, like the voices of multitudes raised in cheers or chants; or perhaps it was the faraway raging babble of an angry, destructive mob. For reasons that he could not entirely define, Baine was disturbed by the new quality of this eerie and tuneless serenade. He jabbed at more buttons. Voices. Definitely voices. Hundreds or even thousands of them. Men, women, the fragile voices of children. He thought he could hear despairing wails, pleas for help, panicked cries, anguished groans - a monumental yet hushed sound, as though it was echoing across a vast gulf or rising out of a black abyss.
The voices were creepy - but also curiously compelling, almost mesmerizing. He found himself staring at the radio too long, his attention dangerously diverted from the highway, yet each time that he looked up, he was able to focus on the traffic for only a few seconds before lowering his gaze once more to the softly glowing radio. And now behind the whispery muffled roar of the multitude rose the garbled bass voice of. . . someone else someone who sounded infinitely strange, imperial and demanding. It was a low wet voice that was less than human, spitting out not-quite-decipherable words as if they were wads of phlegm.
No. Good God in Heaven, his imagination was running away with him. What issued from the stereo speakers was static, nothing but ordinary static, white noise, electronic slush. In spite of the chill that continued to plague him, Baine felt a sudden prickle of perspiration on his scalp and forehead. His palms were damp too. Surely he had pressed every button on the control panel. Nevertheless, the ghostly chorus droned on.
'Damn.'
He made a tight fist of his right hand. He thumped the flat of it against the face of the radio, not hard enough to hurt himself, but punching three or four buttons simultaneously. Second by second, the guttural and distorted words spoken by the weird voice became clearer, but Baine couldn't quite understand them. He thumped his fist against the radio once more, and he was surprised to hear himself issue a half-stifled cry of desperation. After all, as annoying as the noise was, it represented no threat to him.
Did it?
Even as he posed that question to himself, he was overcome by the irrational conviction that he must not listen to the susurration coming from the stereo speakers, that he must clamp his hands over his ears, that somehow he would be in mortal danger if he understood even one word of what was being said to him. Yet, perversely, he strained to hear, to wring clarity from the muddle of sound.
'...Jaccob...'
That one word was irrefutably clear.
'. . . Jaccob. . .'
Baine's name. Before he had changed it. His name given at birth.
Jaccob Brinks. .
Someone was calling to him. Far away at first but now drawing closer. Seeking contact. Connection. Something about the voice was . . . hungry. The chill, like scurrying spiders, worked deeper into him, weaving webs of ice in the hollows of his bones. He hammered the radio a third time, harder than before, and abruptly it went dead. The only sounds were the rumble of the engine, the hum of the tires, his ragged breathing, and the hard pounding of his heart. His left hand, slick with sweat, slipped on the steering wheel, and he snapped his head up as the Corvette angled off the pavement. The right front tire - then the right rear - stuttered onto the rough shoulder of the highway. Sprays of gravel pinged and rattled against the undercarriage. A drainage swale, bristling with weeds, loomed in the headlights, and dry brush scraped along the passenger side of the car.
Baine grabbed the wheel with both slippery hands and pulled to the left. With a jolt and a shudder, the car arced back onto the pavement. Brakes shrieked behind him, and he glanced at the rear-view mirror as headlights flared bright enough to sting his eyes. Horn blaring, a black Ford Explorer swerved around him, avoiding a rear end collision with only a few inches to spare, so close that he expected to hear the squeal of tortured sheet steel. But then it was safely past, taillights dwindling in the darkness. In control of the Corvette again, Baine blinked sweat out of his eyes and swallowed hard. His vision blurred. A sour taste filled his mouth. He felt disoriented, as if he had awakened from a fever dream.
Although the phlegm-choked voice on the radio had terrified him only moments ago, he was already less than certain that his name had actually been spoken on the airwaves. As his vision rapidly cleared, he wondered if his mind also had been temporarily clouded. It was easier to entertain the possibility that he had suffered something akin to a minor epileptic episode than to believe that a supernatural entity had reached out to touch him through the prosaic medium of a sports-car radio. Perhaps he'd even endured a transient ischemic cerebral attack, an inexplicable but mercifully brief reduction in circulation to the brain, similar to the one that had afflicted Mike Curry, a friend and fellow actor, last spring. He had a headache now, centered over the right eye. And his stomach was queasy.
Driving through Corona Del Mar, he stayed below the speed limit, prepared to pull to the curb and stop if his vision blurred . . . or if anything strange began to happen again. He glanced nervously at the radio. It remained silent. Block by block, fear drained out of him, but depression seeped in to take its place. He still had a headache and a queasy stomach, but now he also felt hollow inside, grey and cold and empty. He knew that hollowness well. It was guilt.
He was driving his own Corvette, the car of cars, the ultimate American wheels, the fulfillment of a boyhood dream, and he should have been buoyant, jubilant, but he was slowly sinking into a sea of despondency. An emotional abyss lay under him. He felt guilty about the way he had treated Lina, which was ridiculous because he had been respectful. Unfailingly respectful.
Admittedly, he had been impatient with her, and he was pained now to think that maybe she had heard that impatience in his voice. He didn't want to hurt her feelings. Never. But sometimes she seemed so hopelessly stuck in the past, stubbornly and stupidly fixed in her ways, and Baine was frustrated by her inability to assimilate into the American culture as fully as her blood family had done. When he was with American-born friends, his "mother's" thick Vietnamese accent mortified him, as did her habit of walking one deferential step behind her husband. Lina, this is the United States, he had told her. Everyone's equal, no one better than anyone else, women are the same as men. You don't have to walk in anyone's shadow here. She had smiled at him as though he was a much-loved but dim-witted son, and she'd said,
I not walk in shadow because have to, Baine. Walk in shadow because want to. Exasperated, Baine had said, But that's wrong.
Still favoring him with that infuriating, gentle smile, she'd said, In this United States, is wrong to show respect? Is wrong to show love? Baine was never able to win one of these debates, but he kept trying:
No, but there are better ways to show it. She gave him a sly look and ended the discussion with one line: How better - with Hallmark greeting card? Now, driving the long-desired Corvette with no more pleasure than if it had been his second-hand rattletrap pickup truck, Baine was cold and grey inside even as his face flushed hot with shame at his ungrateful inability to accept Lina on her own terms. Sharper than a serpent's tooth is a thankless child. Jaccob Brinks, bad son.
Slithering through the California night. Low and vile and unloving. He glanced at the rear-view mirror, half expecting to see a pair of glittery snake eyes in his own face.
He knew, of course, that wallowing in guilt was irrational. Sometimes he had unrealistic expectations of his housekeeper, but he was far more reasonable than she. When she wore an ao dais, one of those flowing silk tunic-and-pants ensembles that seemed as out of place in this country as a Scotsman's kilts, she looked so diminutive, like a little girl in her mother's clothes, but there was nothing vulnerable about her. Strong-minded, iron-willed, she could be a tiny tyrant when she wished, and she knew how to make a look of disapproval sting worse than the lash of a whip.
Those uncharitable thoughts appalled Baine even as he indulged in them, and his face grew yet hotter with shame. Taking frightful risks, at tremendous cost, she and her family had escaped out of the Land of Seagull and Fox, from under the fist of the communists, to this land of opportunity, and for that, he should honor and cherish them.
'I am such a selfish creep, 'A real piece of shit, that's what I am.'
As he braked to a full stop at an intersection on the border of Corona Del Mar and Newport Beach, he settled deeper in a sea of gloom and remorse. Would it have killed him to come inside after he accepted her invitation to dinner? She had made shrimp and watercress soup, com toy cam, and stir-fried vegetables with Nuoc Mom sauce - three of his favorite dishes. Clearly, she had worked hard in the kitchen, hoping to lure him home, and he had rejected her, disappointed her. There was no excuse for turning her down, especially since he hadn't seen her for weeks.
No. Baine. That was her line: Baine, haven't seen you in weeks. On the phone, he had reminded her that this was Thursday and that they had spent Sunday together. But now here he was, minutes later, buying into her fantasy of abandonment! Suddenly his "mother" seemed to be all of the stereotypical Asian villains from old movies and books rolled into one: as manipulative as Ming the Merciless, as wily as Fu Manchu. He blinked at the red traffic light, shocked to have had such a mean-spirited thought about his own "mother". This confirmed it: He was a swine.
Fu Manchu. If he could think such unkind things about his "mother", he might slip up eventually and say them to her face. She would be crushed. The prospect of it left him breathless with anticipatory fear, and his mouth went as dry as powder, and his throat swelled so tight that he was unable to swallow. It would be more merciful to take a gun and shoot her. Just shoot her in the heart. So this was the kind of son he had become. The kind of son who shoots his mother in the heart with words.
The traffic light changed from red to green, but he couldn't immediately lift his foot off the brake pedal. He was immobilized by a terrible weight of self-loathing. Behind the Corvette, another motorist tapped his horn. "This sucks,' Baine said miserably as he finally drove through the intersection. Lately he had been talking aloud to himself far too much. The strain of living his own life and still being a good son was making him crazy. He reached for the cellular phone, intending to call Lina and ask if the dinner invitation was still open.
Car phones for big shots.
Not anymore. Everybody's got one.
I don't. Phone and drive too dangerous.
I've never had an accident, Mom.
You will.
He could hear her voice as clearly as if she were speaking those words now rather than in memory, and he snatched his hand away from the phone. On the west side of the Pacific Coast Highway was a restaurant styled as a 1950's diner. Impulsively, Baine swung into the lot and parked in the glow of red neon. Inside, the place was fragrant with the aromas of onions, hamburgers sizzling on a grill, and pickle relish. Ensconced in a tufted red-vinyl booth, Baine ordered two cheeseburgers, French fries, and a chocolate milkshake. In his mind's ear, his Lina's voice replayed: Clay-pot chicken and rice better than lousy cheeseburgers.
'Make that four cheeseburgers,'
Baine amended as the waitress finished taking his order and started to turn away from his booth.
'Skipped lunch, huh?'
Too much cheeseburgers and French fries, soon you look like big fat cheeseburger.
'And an order of onion rings,'
Baine said defiantly, certain that farther north, in Huntington Beach, his Lina had just flinched with the psychic awareness of his betrayal.
'I like a man with a big appetite,'
She was a slender blue-eyed blonde with a pert nose and rosy complexion - exactly the kind of woman about whom his Lina probably had nightmares.
Baine wondered if she was flirting. Her smile was inviting, but her comment about his appetite might have been innocent small talk. He wasn't as smooth with women as he would have liked to be. If she had given him an opening, he was incapable of taking it. One rebellion a night was enough. Cheeseburgers, yes, but not four cheeseburgers and a blonde. He could only say,
'Give me extra Cheddar, please, and lots of onions.'
After lathering plenty of A1 on the burgers, he ate every bite of what he ordered. He drained the milkshake so completely that the sucking noises of his straw against the bottom of the glass caused nearby adult diners to glare at him because of the bad example he was setting for their children. He left a generous tip, and as he was heading toward the door, his waitress said,
'You look a lot happier going out than you did coming in.'
'I bought a Corvette today,' he said inanely.
'Cool,'
'Been my dream since I was a little kid.'
'What color is it?'
'Bright aqua metallic.'
'Sounds pretty.'
'It flies.'
'I'll bet.'
'Like a rocket,' he said, and he realized that he was almost lost in the oceanic depths of her blue eyes. 'Well' 'take care.'
'You too,'
He went to the entrance. On the threshold, holding the door open, Baine looked back, hoping that she would still be staring after him. She had turned away, however, and was walking toward the booth that he had vacated. Her slender ankles and shapely calves were lovely. A breeze had sprung up, but the night was still balmy for August. On the far side of Pacific Coast Highway, at the entrance to Fashion Island Mall, stately ranks of enormous phoenix palms were illuminated by floodlights fixed to their boles. Long green fronds swayed like hula skirts. The breeze was lightly scented with the fecund smell of the nearby ocean; it didn't chill him but, in fact, pleasantly caressed the back of his neck and playfully ruffled his thick black hair.
In the car, he switched on the radio. It was functioning perfectly again. Roy Orbison was rocking out 'Pretty Woman.' Baine sang along. Lustily. He remembered the ominous roar of static and the strange phlegmy voice that had seemed to be calling his name from the radio, but now he found it difficult to believe that the peculiar incident had been as uncanny as it had seemed at the time. He had been upset by his conversation with Lina, feeling simultaneously put-upon and guilty, angry with her but also with himself, and his perceptions hadn't been entirely trustworthy.
The waterfall-roar of static had been real enough, but in his pall of guilt, he had no doubt imagined hearing his name in a meaningless gurgle and squeal of electronic garbage. All the way home, he listened to old-time rock-'n'-roll, and he knew the words to every song.
He lives in a modest but comfortable two-story tract house in the exhaustively planned city of Irvine. The tract, as was the case with most of those in Orange County, featured none but Mediterranean architecture; indeed, Mediterranean style prevailed to such an extent that it sometimes seemed restfully consistent but at other times was boring, suffocating, as if the chief executive officer of Taco Bell had somehow become an all-powerful dictator and had decreed that everyone must live not in houses but in Mexican restaurants. Baine's place had an orange barrel-tile roof, pale-yellow stucco walls, and concrete walkways with brick borders.
As Baine swung into his driveway, the bordering beds of white and coral-red impatiens glowed in the headlights as if iridescent. Swift shadows crawled up through the raggedly peeling bark of several melaleucas, swarming into higher branches, where moonlight-silvered leaves shuddered in the night breeze. In the garage, once the big door closed behind him, he remained in the silent car for a few minutes, savoring the smell of leather upholstery, basking in the pride of ownership. If he could have slept sitting upright in the driver's seat, he would have done so. He disliked leaving the 'vette in the dark. Because it was so beautiful, the car should remain under flattering spotlights, as though it were an art object in a museum.
In the kitchen, as he hung the car keys on the pegboard by the refrigerator, he heard the doorbell at the front of the house. Though recognizable, the ringing was different from the usual sound, like a hollow and ominous summons in a dream. The curse of home ownership: something always needed to be repaired. He wasn't expecting anyone this evening. In fact, he intended to spend an hour or two in his study, revising a few pages of his promotional video. When Baine opened the front door, ice-cold wind assaulted him, frigid enough to take his breath away. A whirl of dead melaleuca leaves like hundreds of tiny flensing knives spun over him, whispering-buzzing against one another, and he stumbled backward two steps, shielding his eyes with one hand, gasping in surprise.
A dry, papery leaf blew into his mouth. The hard little point pricked his tongue. Startled, he bit down on the leaf, which had a bitter taste. Then he spit it out. As suddenly as it had burst through the door, the whirlwind now wound up tight and disappeared into itself, leaving only silence and stillness in its wake. The air was no longer cold. He brushed leaves out of his hair and off his shoulders, plucked them from his soft flannel shirt and blue jeans. The wood floor of the foyer was littered with crisp brown leaves, bits of grass, and sandy grit.
'What the fuck?'
No visitor waited beyond the threshold. Baine moved into the open doorway, peering left and right along the dark front porch. It was little more than a stoop - ten feet wide and six feet deep. No one was on the two steps or on the walkway that cleaved the shallow front lawn, no one in sight who might have rung the doorbell. Under tattered clouds back lighted by a lambent moon, the street was quiet and deserted, so hushed that he could half believe that a breakdown in the machinery of the cosmos had brought time to a complete halt for everyone and for all things except for he himself. Baine switched on the outside light and saw a strange object on the porch floor immediately in front of him. It was a doll: a rag doll no more than ten inches tall, lying on its back, its stubby arms spread wide. Frowning, he surveyed the night once more, paying special attention to the shrubbery, where someone might be crouched and watching him. He saw no one.
The doll at his feet was unfinished, covered entirely with white cotton fabric, unclothed, without facial features or hair. Where each eye should have been, two crossed stitches of coarse black thread dimpled the white cloth. Five sets of crossed black stitches marked the mouth, and another pair formed an X over the heart. Baine eased across the threshold onto the porch. He squatted on his haunches beside the doll. The bitterness of the dry leaf no longer lingered in his mouth, but he tasted something equally unpleasant if more familiar. He stuck out his tongue, touched it, and then looked at the tip of his finger: a small red smear. The point of the leaf had drawn blood. His tongue didn't hurt. The wound was tiny. Nevertheless, for reasons that he could not fully explain, Baine was unnerved by the sight of the blood for the first time in his life.
In one of the doll's crude mitten-like hands was a folded paper. It was held firmly in place by a straight pin with a glossy black enamel head as large as a pea. Baine picked up the doll. It was solid and surprisingly heavy for its size, but loose-jointed and limp - as though it might be filled with sand. When he pulled the pin out of the doll's hand, the death-still street briefly came alive again. A chilly breeze swept across the porch. Shrubbery rustled, and trees shuddered sufficiently to cause moon shadows to shimmer across the black lawn. Then all fell quiet and motionless again. The paper was unevenly yellowed, as though it might be a scrap of ancient parchment, slightly oily, and splintered along the edges. It had been folded in half, then folded in half again. Opened, it was about three inches square.
The message was three columns of thick black ink. Baine recognized the handwriting as his but was not able to read it. With confusion swirling about his mind as rapidly as the dried leaves before, he takes the doll and goes inside. The study is simply furnished, cherry wood desk with matching chair. Upon the desk, his faithful laptop computer. He repeats the drill he had done a countless number of times before and prepares to record his promotional video.
Well, I must say that I had a most enjoyable time on Annihilation, which is more than I can say about a couple people. People like Lethal Weapon and Desolation. Especially Lethal. If the man comes back after this he will never be the same again. I made sure of that. Some people asked me how it felt to be someone's lap dog, so I think it only fair to reply. When it gets you the chance to end the career of one of the best known wrestlers in the ULW, All I can say is bow wow bitches. You see though I have much love and respect for my brother Devin, I can now show the world what Baine can do when he stands on his own. The singles roster is where I have wanted to go for quite some time now. Now that I am where I wanted to be for so long, I have nowhere to go but up the rankings ladder, for some much overdue spotlight time.
Speaking of spots, poor Desolation is going to need some serious Neosporin, to get rid of the spots I put on his ass. I am the ultimate machine of destruction, and you just so happened to piss of the wrong people with enough dead presidents to acquire my services. Sure, you may think being a hired mercenary is a pretty low way of getting paid, but I get the client's desired results. You mad now? You going to try and seek retribution? Gonna go cry like a bitch with a scraped knee to your momma? Plot and plan till you are red in the face bub, cause there isn't a damn thing you can do to get back at me. To bad, so sad, have a nice day. So until next we meet Desolation, why not go and play a nice fun game of hide and go fuck yourself?
Now onto my opponent this week, Orlando Cruze. Boy, you are about to step into a world filled with pain, agony, and overall torture. Watch over and over again what I did to Lethal. implant that image to the back of your mind, and hold it there. Know that I live for moments like that, and look foreword to do that at every opportunity. I know you are a native to the city of New York, as am I. But that is where our similarities end. I must say however, your choice in ring entrance music is the perfect choice. Both the song name, and group name fit you so damn well, it scares me. That's the only thing about you that scares me mind you, but scares me none the less.
You enter to the song, "Every Time I Die". The name alone says it all bub. You enter the ring and what are the words that are spoken? Have you even stopped to ponder the meaning of them? No, I suppose not. You just picked a song that sounded good. Please bare with me as I quote the lyrics to your song, then give you what it is that I get from listening to them.
I get from listening to the lyrics that you are aware every time you step into that ring, you await someone to end the torment you put yourself through. You have no reason to go on, nor do you seek one. You want so badly to end your own career because you know you are not good enough to compete in this sport. You are broke down and as useless as tits on a nun. I feel for you Orlando. But rest assured, I will be your angel of mercy. I will grant to you what it is you seek so innately. I shall give you the end of your pain and agonizing existence such as it is. You will only endure pain for a few short minutes Orlando. After that, you shall have the long rest you so lust after. Do not fear the end Orlando, embrace it as dearly as a child clings to it's mothers bosom. Live life to it's fullest, and truly enjoy all life has to offer.
Watch the sun rise in all it's splendor. Emerge yourself in the prismatic display of the scandalizing reds, pinks, and hughs of blue. Love this world while you can, taking nothing for granite. watch the children play at the park, or even stand in a bedazzled stupor as you study every delicate petal from a rose. Do all these things while time allows. For as you face me in that ring this week, you look into the eyes of the angel of mercy. Death. Every minute that passes shall be an eternity for me Orlando. For I cannot wait to get my claws into your delicate flesh, and tear you asunder. Time is fleeting Orlando, enjoy what you have left.
Baine clicks the mouse to the computer to end transmission as the phone rings. The scene fades to black.
End Of Transmission.