Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 107

More inspiration

This photo from a couple years ago is the embodiment of the relationship between Carli and Zeke. Plain and simple...if he had a prosthetic left leg. The boot might hide it. And if he had a tattoo that goes up the left side of his body from his leg to his shoulder and arm.

I wish I had a photo like this for Alex Minsky, but the one I remembered of him and his ex-girlfriend is nowhere to be found. She did a dirty trick on him so it's probably for the best she's vanished into obscurity. But she's the reason we know he's circumcised and nicely endowed.

I went back into a chapter that dealt with some of Carli's self-reflection and doubt and toned that crap down, a lot. She thinks about what she's done, and agrees it's time to stop...but because she wants to build a life with Zeke. She does grow a bit concerned with how much she enjoyed killing Stasi, Grady, Nat and Spit...and wonders if she's addicted to it.

But then she sees his smile and all concerns go out the window...and she asks him to leave the area with her. I'm at the point where he's trying to decide what to do, but things are about to fly out of control thanks to Dax, the drug boss, doing something he should not have done.

I don't think what he does is a dumb move on his part; it's an instinctive one and automatic. He's an animal lashing out so doesn't think things through, and sets in motion events that will prove deadly, all the way around. I'm going with ending idea number 4, which is where Eldora realizes she has to shut this mess down in such a way as to finish it and protect herself.

Boy, does she ever.

Breaking free...

There comes a time, in a story you're writing, when you just have to kick back and say Fuck it. Let it go. Understand you will never control the muse or the ether from whence these stories come. You are a stenographer to ghosts haunting you, demanding their tales be told, and who still have the irritating ability to behave too goddamned human to be dealt with.

Seriously, arguing with those essences gets you nowhere except a one-way ticket to a lobotomy. All you can do, as a writer, is let it flow. Talk it through within yourself, sure...but don't let it take over. That is so easy to do...and death to the creation of it.

Reading my books for A Place of Safety, I now see the first three drafts were merely locking in the story and letting me know which characters will inhabit it. And Brendan is warning to advance with caution. It's like I'm barefoot and shattered glass is everywhere. Some people can walk on that with no trouble; others leave behind trails of blood and pain. I'm somewhat in-between.

My first step into this ocean of destruction will be to finish Carli's Kills. And do it as Carli wants. I keep edging towards making her noble and acceptable, while she's screaming at me, Stop it. No apologies. Remember Beryl Markham, who did her own thing, come hell or high water, and never looked back.

She trained championship horses in Africa, became a bush pilot, was the first woman to fly from London to North America, was friends with Isaak Denison, and fucked anything and anyone she wanted, whether she was married or not. Some say she was the inspiration for Daphne DuMaurier's Rebecca...as the first Mrs. DeWinter.

I wrote an award-winning screenplay about her...for two women who didn't have the rights to her story. They said they did. And I busted my ass. And I'm goddamned proud of what I wrote. But it was for nothing. It was my first lesson in the realities of Hollywood and the system, therein.

Carli is the same as Beryl in her attitudes. And I can use that to keep me focused on her reality. 

Can I do this?

I'm watching season one of You, on Netflix, which apparently is about an obsessive serial killer who's protecting his latest crush...and it is driving me up the wall with its lazy, sloppy, don't-really-give-a-fuck writing. And I'm talking glaring shit, here. For example...

1. A beautiful young woman has an apartment that faces the street, at street level, with tall windows...and no shades or curtains. And walks around in full view of the street wrapped only in a towel...or having sex with her boyfriend, legs in the air...or sleeping. In the middle of NYC! That is begging for trouble.

2. The lead, Joe, played by Penn Badgley, knows books and how to bind them. He's got the tools and materials. Knows they need to be kept in a safe place with constant temperature and humidity level. So what does he do? When he does have to rebind a book, he rips off the boards and spine and says they don't matter. WRONG! And what does he have to keep those books in? A lucite block in the middle of the basement, where it's wasting valuable space...and has air holes in it! Looks more like a prison for Hannibal Lechter than anything else.

3. A rich asshole in the middle of trying to get his new business started is kidnapped, held in that special book room for days, yet never takes a dump or a piss or have a shower, and his clothes never get rank on him. Nor does anyone come looking for him. Not rich parents. not business partners. Nobody. Then when he's dead, decomposition sets in and his body stinks. Do you know how hideously difficult it is to get that smell out of anything, especially something as fragile as an antiquarian book? But let's just ignore that.

4. Also, the rich asshole is a junkie. Has coke and other drugs in his system. He also has a peanut allergy. Joe kills him by slipping peanuts into his latte, so it looks like he died by accident. His body could be dumped in an alley in the middle of the night, and with those drugs and his medical history, his death would probably be ruled an accident, even with a nasty smack to his head. Instead, just to pump up the suspense, he's wrapped in plastic, put in the back of a car, complications are tossed in just for fun before he's driven out into New Jersey and his body burned...as people are approaching in the middle of the woods. A shitload of idiotic trouble that is not at all necessary and reads more like filler.

And that's just in the first three episodes! Don't get me started on how easy it is, apparently, to get into anyone's home or apartment in a city of security systems out the wazoo...or break into people's phones or laptops, even with passcodes...or not be caught lurking about like a stalker...or have a car smash into a rock hard enough to cause a concussion in the driver but ZERO damage to the car. It's fucking insulting.

I know this thing is based on a book, and I'm halfway tempted to read that thing just to see if the producers and writers hewed closely to it. If so, my obsessiveness about making CK believable...hell, making APoS believable...is overwrought.

It's truly depressing.

Sete de Sangue

The sun was lower the sky. Still warming the desert, but only in the areas where its beams hit. In the shadows, when mixed with the soft breeze the evening air was bringing, it remained quite chilly.
And that is where Carli was, in the shadows.
She was hidden between brown-black rock formations tens of millions of years of years in age, that shot skyward at least a hundred feet, straight up from the ragged earth. This was off a dirt trail parallel to another dry arroyo. Their base was now scarred with modern hieroglyphics happily sprayed on in bright neon colors that almost...just almost...glowed with reflections from the sun. Broken glass, crushed cans, cigarette butts and syringes proved this was nothing but a gathering place for the hard-drug crowd, so care had to be taken as to where you walked.
And how long you stayed. 
Don't want to get caught by the night crowd, using their space when those soon-to-be-corpses were jonesing for a needle. 
Here, the Dodge sat, nose facing into the rocks, engine humming, headlights on, the beams cutting into the shadows. Directly above, up a semi-trail, was the spot where Carli had watched Eldora and her crew on that low plateau, starting their investigation into Grady's murder. That tarp was still stretched between the rocks. But this time, Carli didn't feel the need to observe them with the bodies, once they were found. She just wanted to be away.
She stood before the Dodge, naked, washing blood off her body. She had a five-gallon jug of water sitting on a rock at about waist level, and was rubbing herself down with a blood-soaked rag. She worked slowly. Cuts and bruises on her body. Hands shaking. Mind deliberately blank. A second jug was on the ground next to the rock...and she would probably need it. And that was just to get back to the house so she could take a long hot shower. 
With lots of soap to wash away the smell of death. 
Then a nice scented lotion, for good measure. 
Killing these two...Nat and Spit...they were bothering her. Especially Nat. Having complete and total control over him like she had Grady. Staked into the same spot, this time next to the Malibu, with Spit's body on the other side of it. Trying to do to him what she had done to Grady...even as he was bleeding to death...she had actually experienced an orgasm as he died. 
Y'know, for some odd reason, that just did not seem normal. 
What is more? She now had to admit she'd felt a bit of a thrill as Stasi had vanished over the balcony railing. And the thought of sending Mikey after her had brought a tingle to more than just her nipples. Then there was a nearly guttural release at Grady finally giving up the ghost. 
Spit had been a fight for survival, and had taken too physical a toll to be enjoyed. Though now it almost struck her as foreplay. 
Almost. 
After all, he was really a creep. 
But Nat... Nat. Him...what had happened could not be ignored or brushed aside. His death had brought a sense of power and pleasure to her that she had never felt before. It almost reminded her of the overwhelming beauty she had sensed the first time she did coke. The euphoria. The peace. The excitement. Snorting it with a PFc from Georgia, who had also turned her on to the joy of fucking while stoned out of your mind. The orgasm she'd had nearly blinded her with its grace and perfection. Carried her for days. Weeks. Months, and she had been unable to achieve that same exquisite torture, again.
Until now.
She hadn't really come close to it with Grady; he had been too slovenly to affect her sense of need. But Nat? He was the exact opposite. Trim. Tight. Not much hair and that was tightly curled in ways she found odd and playful. And his penis? Of a decent length...and circumcised. Once she had staked him down and stripped him, she had undressed and lain next to him and on him and straddled him for some time as he begged and cajoled and argued and whined and finally drifted into shock and stopped breathing. 
It hadn't mattered that she couldn't get him up like she had Grady, try as she might. He was in too much pain and had lost so much blood. Maybe if she had been able to get him to cum, she might have lost her focus and been happy with only Spit's death. Called an ambulance. Told them where to find him. Maybe. But it was a moot point, now. 
There was no question in her mind that each one of these bastards had deserved to die for what they did to Lara. Callous beasts taking joy in the destruction of another human being should be destroyed in just as callous and cruel a manner. Like mad dogs. They were a danger to others...and she had ended that danger. 
Does that make me Samael? she wondered. 
The fallen angel of death. 
She had wondered this a couple of times near the end of her tour in the 'Stan. Her skill on a target range had brought her to the attention of a Field Captain, who had learned how much the Taliban and ISIS hated even the possibility of being killed by a woman. He had talked with her, checked her out, joined her in her bed...at her instigation...seen she had the eye and the concentration, and arranged for her transfer to his squad.
All on the down-low, of course. 
At this time, the Rangers wasn't ready for a female sniper. But a few words with another captain got it fixed by just using just her initials for his crew and keeping her officially assigned to logistics. No need for any colonel or general to know what they don't need to know. And she. Had. Loved. Every. Minute. Of it. The marches, where she proved she could carry as much weight as the boys. The target practices, where she outshone even the best of them. The camaraderie, where her being just as forward about sex and fun as the guys had made her more like a buddy than just an object of prurient need. For the first time, she felt like she belonged. 
Of course, the Captain hadn't expected her to happily lead more than one of his men into understanding that sex was sex, whether with a man or a woman, or both at the same time. He did get a bit huffy, over that, but her kill ratio was too great to let some antiquated morality fuck things up. And he had to admit, his men were a lot closer and morale much better since she had joined the group. So...if it ain't broke and all that... 
But then Lara had been raped...and died...and something in Carli had shifted. She would not let a man touch her unless she initiated things. She kept off to herself, brooding and easily triggered into a rage. And what was worse? At least, to her conscious mind? She now looked forward to killing the enemy.
Needed to. 
Always male. 
She exalted in it. Felt a near orgasm when the bullet hit home. 
Despite her rejection of her mother's religious nonsense, she knew, deep down, this was wrong. Sociologically. Humanly. Morally, even. But there it was. 
The Captain had noticed the change in her but let it ride. She was still his best gun. Until a dumber-than-dirt Second Lieutenant got drunk and grabbed her breasts from behind and told her she was servicing him, that night...and she'd broken his nose without a thought. 
Unfortunately, he got all pissy about it, which meant she had to be returned to logistics and bound for Courts Martial. No matter how much of an ass a Second Louie was, he was still a superior officer. But this one quickly learned that, first, he'd put his Captain in serious trouble with the brass and, second, the other men in the platoon were angry as hell about it. Now he could expect no backup from anyone, so wound up being rostered back to the states, once everything with Carli was settled.
His attack on her was dismissed, of course. But the Army, in its wisdom for once, let Carli accept a general discharge. The idea of getting another black eye over yet another sexual assault allegation being ignored was the determining factor. Which suited Carli just fine. She had begun to formulate a way to exact a vicious revenge on Lara's rapists, and not being beholden to anyone was perfection, to her. 
And now she was keeping her vow.

Pushing through

Another couple of chapters done in CK as I grow nearer and nearer to the day of reckoning...deciding if I go for my tragic ending or my HEA. I've got both set up, with 3 possibilities...and I'm leaving it up to the characters to decide. I think they'll surprise me as much as anybody, because I'm seeing a 4th possibility opening up, as well, concerning Sheriff Eldora Parridge.

I don't know if this is how it always works when writing in third person omniscient. First person, I'm just dealing with one character as he's going through his process. On the three other occasions where I wrote third person, it wasn't omniscient but focused solely on one individual...David in David Martin, Adam in The Alice '65, and Finn in The Beast in the Nothing Room. They were in every moment of the books and all was viewed through their perspective, almost like they were first person.

I've played with first person being presented as third person, in The Lyons' Den. About a writer trying to write but things keep getting in the way. That story's being told by Ace, the fictional detective, so it's actually Daniel telling the story through a character who's part of his mind...meaning he's telling it in both first and third person. Small wonder people get lost in it. But I had fun writing it, and I've gotten good feedback from those who did get invested in the story.

I haven't done multiple first persons in any of my stories. I find that confusing and hard to keep track of. But they've started doing it in You, however, and it only verified my belief that it throws the viewer. All of a sudden we're hearing Beck's interior dialogue jumping back and forth with Joe's...and I honestly think it hurts the revelation of who a character she's interacting with turns out to be.

I'm still not really invested in this series. They have things happen that have to happen to forward the story but don't make sense considering the truth of the characters involved. Like having a manipulative woman who's as shallow as spit on a sidewalk notice a particular book is missing from her family's library...when she probably never cracked a book in her life. Or Joe always having ways to get into apartments by doing things I flat out know would not happen in NYC.

Hell, anywhere.

I'm now treating this series as a guide to keep in mind it needs to be real when you write it, boo.

Beginning to plan...

I'm ignoring my own protocols for the preparation of Carli's Kills to enter the world of the published. All of my ebooks are on Smashwords because they're more available through Kobo and Apple Books and other people who don't have Kindle. But that also cuts out the KU market, so I'm going to set it up on Kindle, exclusively, to see what happens. It's a MF book so I doubt the puritans at Amazon will be as jerky about it as they are about my MM books.

When How to Rape a Straight Guy and Rape in holding Cell 6 first came out in ebook, Kindle offered them. The publisher I was with set them up. But then Amazon went through one of their freak outs and banned my books for content. I went through a nasty fight with them to get them to back down, and then they only agreed to carry the paperbacks. They wouldn't even discuss carrying them in ebook.

I was all alone in fighting this battle. I couldn't get my publisher to help me, nor did I ever get a reckoning from him of how many copies were sold, so I got my rights back and found Smashwords, and I've had good luck with them.

I also learned how to format for both paperback and ebook, so that they come out the way I want them. Hasn't been easy, but I've got a fair grip on it. Meaning when I do submit to KU, it's a ready file, not one that needs formatting by them. And no ISBN is needed, so that's good. I'll give it a year with KU. If nothing happens, I'm pulling it for Smashwords.

I'm also publishing it under a pseudonym, to keep it separate from my other work. I want to see if that makes a difference in sales. I worked out my final sales figures for 2021, and The Alice '65 fared poorly. I've had people suggest it's because of my gay novels; people don't think it's okay to read or some shit like that. I used to think that was nonsense and that people should get over it, but I've seen so much stupidity in the human race, the last few years, I no longer think my lofty beliefs are valid.

Nothing much I can do about A65, now...but I can give CK a fighting chance, at least.

Something educational that might bear on CK

This is a distillation of Noam Chomsky's Ten Strategies of Manipulation. Which I think Carli may wind up using at the end of Carli's Kills in order to get away with murder. Granted, she's out for revenge and the system of justice failed her, miserably, but vigilante justice? People tend to frown on that.

But here it is...

1. The strategy of distraction -- The primary element of social control is the strategy of distraction, which is to divert public attention from important issues and changes determined by the political and economic elites, by the technique of flood or flooding continuous distractions and insignificant information. Distraction strategy is also essential to prevent the public interest in the essential knowledge in the areas of science, economics, psychology, neurobiology and cybernetics. "Maintaining public attention diverted away from the real social problems, captivated by matters of no real importance. Keep the public busy, busy, busy, no time to think, back to farm and other animals." (quote from text "Silent Weapons for Quiet War"). Think Kardashians mattering more than the KKK.

2. Create problems, then offer solutions -- This method is also called "problem-reaction-solution." It creates a problem, a "situation" referred to in order to cause some reaction in the audience, so this is the principal of the steps that you want to accept. For example: let it unfold (and intensify) urban violence, or arrange for bloody attacks in order that the public accepts the applicant's security laws and policies to the detriment of freedom. Or: create an economic crisis to accept as a necessary evil the retreat of social rights and the dismantling of public services. Bill Clinton's Welfare Reform in the mid-1990s.

3. The gradual strategy -- Acceptance to an unacceptable degree, just apply it gradually, like eyedrops, for consecutive years. That is how the radically new socioeconomic conditions (neoliberalism) were imposed during the 1980s and 1990s:  the minimal state  privatization  precariousness  flexibility  massive unemployment  wages  and do not guarantee a decent income Changes that would have brought about a revolution if they had been applied all at once. Reference the refusal to increase the minimum wage until the only way to do it with any meaning is to more than double it, and that's just too much.

4. The strategy of deferring -- Another way to accept an unpopular decision is to present it as "painful and necessary", gaining public acceptance now for future application. It is easier to accept a future sacrifice instead of immediate slaughter.  First, because the effort is not used immediately.  Then, because the public, masses, always has the tendency to naively expect that "everything will be better tomorrow," and that the sacrifice required may be avoided. This gives the public more time to get used to the idea of change and accept it with resignation when the time comes. Massive tax cuts to the rich will pay for themselves, but help to people is way overpriced.

5. Go to the public as a little child -- Most of the advertising to the general public uses speech, argument and particularly children's intonations, often close to weakness, as if the viewer were a little child or a mentally deficient. The harder one tries to deceive the viewer's look, the more it tends to adopt an infantilizing tone. Why? "If one goes to a person as if they had the maturity of someone 12 years of age, or less, then, because of suggestion, they tend, with a certain probability, to have a response or reaction also devoid of a critical sense beyond that a person 12 years or younger." (see "Silent Weapons for Quiet War") As in...Keep It Simple, Stupid. To the max.

 6. Use the emotional side more than the reflective -- Making use of the emotional aspect is a classic technique for causing a short circuit on rational analysis, and finally to the critical sensibility of the individual. Furthermore, the use of emotional register is to open the door to the unconscious, for implantation or grafting on of ideas, desires, fears and anxieties, compulsions, or to induce behaviors ... "Why should billionaires pay more in taxes when they give us jobs?" Never mind that they don't pay enough to live on.

7. Keep the public in ignorance and mediocrity -- Making the public incapable of understanding the technologies and methods used to control and enslave. "The quality of education given to the lower social classes must be as poor and mediocre as possible, so that the gap of ignorance it plans between the lower classes and upper classes is and remains impossible to cross for the lower classes." (See "Silent Weapons for Quiet War") See #7's response.

8. To encourage the public to be complacent with mediocrity -- Promote the public to believe that it is fashionable to be stupid, vulgar and uneducated... "This is the best we can do, and never mind we promised you more. We had to make compromises."

9. Self-blame strengthen -- To let individual blame themself for their misfortune, because of the failure of their intelligence, their abilities, or their efforts. So, instead of rebelling against the economic system, the individual is self-defeating and guilty, which creates a depression, one of whose effects is to inhibit action. And, without action, there is no revolution! "If you don't like your job's wage, get a better one. Oh, wait, don't do that before you make me my soy milk latte exactly right so I don't scream at you."

10. Getting to know the individuals better than they know themselves -- Over the past 50 years, advances of accelerated science have generated a growing gap between public knowledge and that owned and operated by dominant elites. Thanks to biology, neurobiology and applied psychology, the "system" has enjoyed a sophisticated understanding of human beings, both physically and psychologically. The system has become better acquainted with the common man than he is with himself. This means that, in most cases, the system exerts greater control and great power over individuals, greater than that of individuals over themselves.    All those stupid little quizzes and tests on Facebook, for cryin' out loud.

Of course, this list also applies to today's political situation...which I finally have accepted is completely out of control, thanks to the weakness of Democrats. At the end of 2022, we will probably cease to be a democracy and, instead, will officially be an oligarchy. And this is how our elites got us to this point.

Needless to say, I'm something of a cynic...which is why I'm letting someone kill people with impunity in my next book.

And making fun of it.

Just over halfway done with Carli's Kills...

About 55% of the way through this rewrite, and it's going to take one more for me to begin to be happy enough with it to consider getting feedback. Turns out there's also something of a romance moment in this that might add...or subtract...for the overall story.

Zeke takes Carli out to his zen spot in the rocks, on his Harley. At two in the morning. With his dog Loki in s puppy seat keeping a tight eye on her the whole way. He thinks she's another vet having trouble adjusting back to civilian life so is being kind. But by this point, she's killed a woman and three men. And come close to killing him.

Probably not the most romantic of situations, but on that ride she divorces herself from her need for revenge. The beauty and silence and cold air and Zeke's innate tenderness are almost cleansing her of her hate and psychopathic tendencies.

For the moment.

After all, where can a character go once she's realized she got a sexual rush off of killing a man? Not exactly something you can say three Hail Mary's over and be forgiven.

Progress is slow

I'm going through CK chapter by chapter and also doing a short outline of details for each one so I can make sure I'm getting everything I need to and be consistent about it. I've already caught a couple of errors and things I need to explain or return to, later. It's just slow-going.

What's interesting to me is how the story keeps shifting from humor to horror and back again. Not sure how that's going to play, yet. If this counts as black humor or not. It might just be indecisive, but since I'm doing this as third person omniscient, that might not be a bad thing.

I am having fun with Carli's non-stop rating of the men she meets. She even does it with a couple of Latino high school boys who are dealers for Dax...and decides they're too young. Instead, she gets them to leave town before all hell breaks loose.

The story happens fast...in 8 full days. There's a lot of history that's referred to, of course, but the actual murders go from early Saturday morning to early Sunday morning, the following weekend. Zoom-zoom.

I'm also thinking of doing a calendar for 2023 with images that reference the books I've written. Not all of them...maybe 6 or 8 of my titles. 1 or 2 images for each. Spiral bound, if I can figure out where to do it. Ingram doesn't have it offered on their site. Same for saddle-stitch or staples, so I sent them a query about it.

It would probably be 28 pages, maybe 30, 8.5x11", depending on how I set them up. Just these? Sketches or paintings? Of scenes? Hmm...

Zeke and Carli meet for the first time...

He hopped up the steps to his porch, dropped onto a padded folding chair right by the door, and pulled off his boots. Next, he shifted his jeans down his legs then unstrapped his bionic leg. He set it next to the chair and finished one beer while massaging Stumpy, as he referred to the amputation. All he had left was his thigh, down to just above where his knee used to be. And some scarring, most of which was hidden by a swirling Viking design that would put Game of Thrones to shame.

He had two other fake legs, of various designs. It seemed alternating them helped keep the base of his thigh from being rubbed too raw. Right now, it was throbbing, a little, but not unlivable, and rubbing it helped.

But sure as hell ain't goin' two-steppin', tonight, he told himself.

"Whoop, whoop, Cotton-eyed Joe," he actually said, making Loki look at him as if he were nuts. "Wish I was crazy," he added. "Might help."

Instead of feeling like you're trapped.

Well...now came the hard part...making it through the night. Dusk to dawn had never been easy for Zeke, even before he almost died. His mind just wouldn't shut down, and far too often the thoughts now hitting him were vicious and cold, and out of nowhere. Sometimes remembering the second after the blast. Sometimes the pain of physical therapy. Sometimes thinking of when he'd had both legs and could go climbing in the hills or swimming in the lakes of Minnesota. Sometimes envisioning being jumped by a wild beast intent on tearing him to shreds. To him, one of the greatest blessings was when he drifted into slumber, because he never remembered his dreams.

But that not going to come, tonight.

Not with Grady dying.

Not unless he reached exhaustion, and it hadn't been all that busy.

His brain kept drifting back to the horror of Grady's death. Staked out, alive, to be feasted on by the creatures of the desert. It was beyond comprehension that anyone could do that to anybody, no matter how much they hated them. The pain. The suffering. He could see it. Almost feel it. Made his skin cringe in sympathy.

He needed something to shift away from the horrific images, so opened the screen door and pulled out an acoustic guitar. Still sitting on the chair, he fiddled with the strings, then played a soft, gentle, surprisingly elegant version of Romance de Amor.

The melody had been playing in the bar, in Juarez, the night Zeke got the first part of his arm inked. Grady had pushed him across the bridge in his wheelchair, which made Zeke smile. He had complained the whole way.

"I ain't that strong. My feet hurt. Should've grabbed an Uber. My arms are achin'."

On and on. But after the tattoo shop came beer and burritos, on Zeke, so he hadn't said a word while pushing him back. Probably helped they were both well on the drunk side, and Grady had tried to work his charms on the immigration clerk...and nearly gotten them arrested for harassment. It was only Zeke laughing out of control that had gotten them off the hook. That and Stumpy being very visible.

The next time they went, Zeke had made himself walk. And it had hurt like shit. Grady had been really solicitous the whole way, and Zeke had finally accepted he could make it back to life, after that. So he'd bought this plain guitar in a second hand shop near the bridge. For two-hundred pesos. Self-taught, he wasn't as smooth as he would have liked. It took him more focus than most people, he was sure, but that's why he liked playing it. The melodies seemed to come out more tender, and they did a lot to lift his mood. He'd never make America's Got Talent, but he wasn't interested in that crap, anyway, and...

 Loki skidded to a halt.

And turned.

And sniffed.

And listened.

Then growled towards the Cantina.

Zeke froze. It couldn't be Dax returning. Loki would be barking.

Then the dog carefully positioned himself beside Zeke, in a warning stance and attitude. Okay, this was serious. He carefully set the guitar by his chair and reached back around into the trailer, his eyes scanning the area. He had an old M-16 that was in top condition propped just inside the door. He got it and held it, ready to fire.

Into darkness.

Into silence.

Into nothing?

"Careful," he finally said. "Loki don’t like surprises."

After a moment, a woman appeared from a shadow.

Carli.

Zeke tensed. Kept his finger on the trigger. Was it that same woman? The form didn't look right. The hair seemed lighter. But Rho had mentioned she'd been in disguise, and it was too hard to make out what she looked like, in the darkness. Best to play it safe.

"You can stay there," he said, his voice carrying the hint of a quiver.

"Sorry," she said. "Just listening to the music. It's pretty."

"Bar’s closed."

"I...I know, I just..."

"So what you doin’ here?"

"I...I dunno. I was bored. Thought maybe I’d find some fun, but I arrived late..."

"From where?"

It took her a moment to say, "The college."

"That’s twenty miles off," he said.

She shrugged. Moved a bit closer. Ran a finger over her belt.

Loki's growl went low and dangerous. "You really need to stay over there."

She stopped. Said, "Nice dog. Protective. What’s his name?" Then she held up a hand, realizing. "No, wait, you said...he's Loki. Right? The trickster."

Zeke just nodded.

She crouched. Offered to let Loki sniff her hand. He did not even think about approaching her. Just kept glaring at her. She finally rose.

"You’re doin’ good," said Zeke. "If he thought you were a threat, he’d have bit you, by now."

"Is...is that why he was chained?"

"How'd you know about that?"

Carli hesitated then motioned to the chain lying in the dirt. "I don't think it's there for you."

Zeke leaned back, still wary. "Okay..."

"Oh, you...um, you work here?"

He gave her another shrug, still frowning, the rifle still in hand.

Carli continued with, "What time do you open?"

"Six."

"A-M?"

He snorted in response.

She sighed. "Yeah. Right. Makes for a nice, short commute."

"Works okay."

"Your...your leg...um, Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"It matter?"

"No. It’s just I..."

He caught on to her hesitation. Her confusion. His voice became more gentle. "You do a tour?"

She hesitated then said, "Yeah. Logistics. Bagram. I was AMS. Saw so many guys like that...so many times."

Zeke relaxed a little more. "Marines. Three-three."

Carli was taken aback. "Helmand? Wow."

"How long you been out?"

"Oh...just over nine months. You?"

"Eight years. Y’know, the bar closed near an hour ago."

"Did it?"

"Don't you know what time it is?"

"Oh, I...no, I...truth is, I was sitting in my car. For hours. Um, trying to talk myself into going inside. Just for a beer. Then I...I couldn’t even get myself to go home."

He quietly propped the M-16 at his side. "Still want one? Shot?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Carli looked at him, honestly confused. She ran a finger over her belt, again. "No," she finally said. "I...uh, I...I just heard the music and it was nice so I came over. But that was a mistake."

"Yeah. Even one-on-one can be hard, sometimes. How you handle classes?"

It took her a moment to understand the question. Finally, she said, "Not well. Remote. Mostly."

Zeke nodded. "You did more than logistics."

All she did was shrug.

"It’ll get easier," he said. "There’s a good VA hospital not too far from here. They’ve worked out ways to get around cuts in funding. I’m Zeke."

"Carli." Then she seemed upset that she had told him.

"Mid-terms're on through tomorrow...oh, but you know that. Good thing is, Saturday night’ll be slow, if you wanna try again. Kids're off on Spring Break. I tend the bar. I’ll comp you one."

"You don’t have to do that. But thanks. Maybe I’ll take you up on it...sometime..."

"Your choice."

"Okay. Thanks." She hesitated then backed into the shadows.

Loki did not move.

A few moments later, Zeke heard the Dodge start up. Saw its headlights flare on just up the road and pull away. He gave Loki a pat and scratch behind the ears, saying, "Thanks, boy."

Woof.

"So you think she's lyin'?"

Woof.

"Yeah, me too. Can't lie to a dog."

Woof-woof.

"C'mon, it's chilly out. Let's go in. See if we can find some Rin-Tin-Tin on YouTube."

He set the safety on the rifle, rose and used it to steady himself as he grabbed the guitar then entered the trailer, Loki on his tail while wagging his own.

In the Dodge, Carli drove down The 14. To her surprise, she was shaken. Something about seeing Zeke without his leg, wearing only his briefs and shirt, a sock on his right foot...caught in shadows and the cold night breeze...vulnerable as he played that lovely melody...it sliced into her. The gentleness in him. The calmness. The quiet. And the casual acceptance of her lies. There was nothing about him that struck her as him being the kind of guy who would even tolerate a rape, let alone commit it.

And...there was also one other very important fact... "He wasn’t on the video," she told herself. "He wasn’t on it, anywhere...so maybe he wasn't even there. Maybe."

There was something else that really troubled her. For the first time in her life, she'd felt protective of a man. Someone she didn't even know. Hadn't even really met. And that was weird. Granted, she felt like that about TF, but he was her baby brother. And okay...she'd been like that about the men in her unit...but that was different. That was in a conflict and they were on the same side and...and...

Okay, fine, it's not the first time. Shit.

But there it was. Deep inside, she did not want anything to happen to him...and honestly felt she would do all she could to keep him from getting hurt. Which made no sense, to her. Mainly because the problem was, she had heard him join with the gang in mourning that vile piece of shit, Grady. Like he was a nice guy. Someone decent. Who'd been a good friend. As loyal and trustworthy as that damn mutt. Loki.

Right.

Which didn't even begin to meld with her image of him grunting and giggling on top of Lara. Same for the other three. All of them humping and grunting and laughing while assaulting the girl.

Grady, a good buddy? That also made no sense. Except...it almost sort-of kind-of did. They kept saying wasn't the kind to usually get access to someone of the female persuasion. He had even admitted he usually had to pay for his sexual encounters. And on top of it, he was damaged. He might actually get all giggly and awkward, like a randy puppy that's too excited to control itself. Like he had started to with her, last night.

Damaged.

That word stuck in her head. Zeke was damaged. Nat and JJ were damaged. Was Spit? Was Dax? There was nothing about that in TF's info on them. Was there something she was missing, here? Some detail she'd passed over in her drive to plot a course of revenge?

TF had brought her only the necessary background on all of them, but something else in all of it was how not once had there been previous accusations of rape. Nothing since, either.

No, no...hold on, Carli. Hold on. Don't go getting all sentimental just because they were once soldiers who got hurt serving the military-industrial complex. There were millions of them who didn't hold down and rape young women.

It's just, there was something else in play, and she needed to dig deeper before she let herself get all weepy and bleeding-heart over them. Or not. Because the fact of the matter is, that video was damning. Was absolute. And even though Zeke had not been seen on it, that didn't really mean anything. It had cut off, suddenly, and there was whispering of another voice in the background. A voice she couldn't make out. Plus, Dax was only seen watching the rapes, a couple of times. Almost cheerleading. That alone was reason enough to punish him. And if Zeke had done nothing to stop it? If he had been there but had only watched, as well?

Well...then maybe he should the last to die. She laughed. That made her sound like the Wicked Witch of the West.

"The last to go will see the first three go before him!" she cackled. "And his mangy little dog too."

She drove on, still laughing. Her plan was back on track. A vow would still be kept.

And tomorrow promised to be a most glorious day.