The Dark Furie

When people think about the 1969 Altamont Concert, it's usually about Meredith Hunter even if those people don't remember his name. You see, that's the concert where The Rolling Stones hired the Hell's Angels as security. The crowd and Angels antagonised each other according to the story and the concert ended in a riot and the death of one of the crowd at the hands of one of the Angels. It's often thought of when people look for an example of the lawlessness of this Motorcycle Club, and the story has expanded over time so that the Angels were hired for $500 worth of beer in one version or $1,000 of weed in another. I'm not here to comment on that as urban legends have it in their nature to grow. What I am here to do is impart a little extra information about that event.

Towards the end of the concert the crowd pressed the stage and the Angels, in their role as security, fought them back away from the group they were protecting. In the ensuing melee eighteen year old Meredith Hunter was killed and his death has been used since as an example of the violence of the Hell's Angels. What isn't mentioned often enough is that an autopsy of Meredith showed that he was high on amphetamine at the time of his death. What is almost never mentioned at all is that he was caught on camera approaching the stage brandishing a handgun, which caused him to be stabbed by one of the acting security guards. And what is never mentioned is that the Angel went to court for the killing and it was found to be a justifiable homicide as he had every reason to believe his life was in danger.

1 - The Butterfly Effect

I never was any good at figuring out where to start a story. Where exactly should one begin? What exactly is relevant to the story? If I leave something out will I need to spend more time explaining it later? Maybe I should just start with the butterfly. Ah, I can see that you're already confused. You know that old saying that a butterfly flapping it's wings can cause a tornado on the other side of the world? Yeah, that's not scientific despite how strongly one of my old schoolmates insists it is, rather it's an example of how a small event can blow out of control. I find it strangely fitting that the butterfly in this story, telling as it does the tale of a mans utter destruction, is a woman.

I first wrote Fragments back in January of this year but was unable to publish it due to the character limits imposed by the available mobile browsers at that time. As such I had to cut some of the content, changing some words to shorter ones, cutting entire chunks of story and dialogue, and leaving the story with what I counted as an unsatisfactory ending. The story was still incredibly well received though, gaining me more praise than I'm used to. Now I've got a way to publish it properly, the way I originally wrote it, so make yourself a hot drink and settle down to read. I hope you enjoy it.

You can find the original version I uploaded at this link if you want to compare the two.

This woman, in fact. Her name is Kate and she's a trainee psychiatric nurse that I've been friends with for years. Pretty, isn't she? It'll be years before she starts to see it though. As you can see we've locked ourselves away in a bedroom with a bottle of Johnny Walker, while the party goes on downstairs. About half an hour ago we were both cracking up as we listened to them play Spin The Bottle like children. That dirty laugh of hers is bloody infectious, I swear. But she's not laughing anymore, she's sobbing her heart out. If I'd known then what I know now I might be crying too, because this party is exactly...

Two Weeks Before I Die
"Ya can't stick around, Katie. If he's done it once he'll probably do it again. Ya deserve better than that." It sounds cliche to me even as I say it, a mixture of lines from made for TV movies.
She looks up at me and I kiss her forehead then smile softly down at her. The look in her eyes makes me freeze for a second. I know that look, I've been trained to respond to that look, and having seen it so often before I can even recognise it through her tears. Longing, need, want. Our lips linger mere inches from each other as she holds my gaze, and I make my choice.
"Ya know I'll always be here for ya, babe, whenever ya need a friend."
She smiles and cuddles up to me. I've never been any good with crying women. Whenever I'm confronted with them I get two conflicting urges - to do anything I can to stop the tears and to run away. Much later I'd find out that most men feel like this, but tonight I was trying to be the friend she needed so I chose door number three. We finished the bottle and her tears dried up long before the sun rose, and spent the night cuddled up on the bed, talking about life and other bizarre things neither of us fully understand.

Eight Days Before I Die
I hit him again, smashing his head back into the wall. I normally hate violence. I'm a big guy and I've had training so I'm fully aware of how much damage I can cause if I put my mind to it. I'm also fully aware that I lack the discipline to stop when I should. That's one of the reasons I try to avoid fights whenever I can. I'm not stupid though, and I will defend myself if I need to. See, I'm already getting my story straight in case he calls the police when I'm done.
It's not entirely untrue though. Having finally convinced Kate to move back in with her parents, I came here with her to ensure this abusive bastard couldn't lay another finger on her. I want him to be afraid. I want him to know what it feels like to have someone bigger and stronger than him hurling him around.

I hit him again.

Ten Minutes Before I Die
There really are no words that can describe how it feels when a car hits you. Terrifying, yes. Painful, of course. But those words just don't quite describe the feeling when several hundred pounds of metal slams into you at speed. Your internal organs shift around, some of them bursting, and your bones shatter. If you're lucky then the impact will knock you out before you feel the pain. Yeah, I never was all that lucky.

Three men pile out of the car and I reach up to them for help. One kicks my hand away and then they start beating me with metal baseball bats and iron bars. Already in agony, each blow that lands shakes my body more, adding to the pain. I try to defend myself but can only raise an already broken limb to be broken all over again. Over the sounds of impact and their laughter I can hear a siren in the distance and pray that it's headed to me. Through blood and tears I look at them, turning the pain into fury, letting each blow etch their demonic faces into my thoughts so I can describe them to the police.

Then there is no more pain, there is no more fury and there is no more thought. Mercifully, I die.

---

2 - Scarred

I awake in a darkened hospital ward and, after that realisation, start pulling tubes out of myself. Let me tell you this, just in case you find yourself in a similar situation: all those movies that show people tearing those taped on tubes out of their arms and hands are dangerously inaccurate. All you do is tear yourself open when you do that, which is one of the reasons I've got blood running down my arm. I'm hungry and thirsty, and there's no way I'm going to attempt to get these lower tubes out after the disaster with the less delicately placed one. I try to call out but my throat feels like sandpaper and I'm very aware of my tongue. My blood drips slowly onto the floor.

Nurse
"Hey 'Chelle, you hear to give me my sponge bath?"
"You never quit do you?"
"What can I say? You're the most beautiful woman I've seen in months."
"You were in a coma for three of those months and there's only guys in this ward."
"You reckon that's got something to do with it?" I raise my eyebrows and look worried, and she laughs.
"The police are here again. They want to take a statement.", she tells me. "Are you up for it?"

Street
A car comes round a corner too fast and the brakes squeal, making me visibly jump. For the first time in my adult life I'm afraid and, most damning of all, I know I shouldn't be. I slam my fist into a nearby lamp post and my blood hits the ground again. I smile as my knuckle shatters.

Psych
I stare over his shoulder at my reflection and shift uncomfortably in my seat.
"And the police can do nothing for you?" he asks.
"They say it's been too long. Any proof is long gone so while they can press charges it probably wont even get to court."
I watch myself forming the words with a face I don't recognise.
"How do you feel about that?"
I knew the question was coming. After all, it's what the majority of psychology comes down to - how people feel about the events surrounding them. It doesn't make it any easier. How does he think I feel? Angry, cheated, alone, but mostly...
"Tired. I'm just so tired of the whole damn thing. I feel like I need to sleep but there's just so much that needs to be done that I haven't got the time."
I watch my reflection as I say these things, watch these strange expressions formed on this grotesque face, almost unrecognisable under all the scars.
"I guess if anyone needs some beauty sleep, it's me eh?"
He looks confused, a practiced expression to help those with low self-esteem.
"So, tell me about your work situation..."

Boss
"I kept this club running for eleven bloody months while you were off in Spain!"
"I know that..."
"The manager left and I kept it running. I paid the bills. I paid the wages. I got us a spot on TV."
"You've got to underst..."
"All the while no-one could contact you. Everything was on me. And now I can't even work here?"
"You've been gone for six months."
"I was dead for some of that and in a coma for the majority of the rest."
"I couldn't hold the management positions for you. We didn't know if you'd be able to come back. I can set you on the bar again but there's just nothing on the management track."
I walk out without saying another word, wondering if anything is left for me. I know this industry needs faces and mine is gone now along with everything I've ever known.

Justice
Laughter. I know that laugh. I'll never forget that laugh. I glance over at the queue forming outside the club and see him. He's laughing with his girlfriend. He took my life apart and he's laughing about it now, just as he was back then.

His girlfriend hits the floor too as I plough into him, but I couldn't care less. I start punching him over and over. Someone tries to pull me off and I elbow them in the groin. My fists are covered with a mixture of his blood and my own now so I'm hammering rather than punching. I'm crying and I don't know why. I keep hammering away, crushing his face under my fists bit by bit. Now his blood hits the floor, now he can live in fear, now he can die.

Police
She looks at me, an emotion in her eyes that I don't recognise. One day I'll know it as pity but today it has no name.
"He was one of them wasn't he? One of the ones who hurt you."
I nod. I'm so tired now. I just want to get this done and go to sleep. I don't care if it happens in my bed or a cell, so long as I get to sleep.
"You're lucky, you know? There's no cameras here. Most of them are already too drunk to tell who started it." She gestures to the clubgoers being questioned by her partner. "Claim temporary insanity and we can make sure you wont see the inside of a court."
She keeps talking, telling me how the system is broken if they got away with what they did to me. I'm drifting off, lost in the discordant rhythm of her words. Sleep starts to drape itself around my shoulders, then is torn away suddenly by what she says next.
"Just make sure you don't kill them."
Awake at last I start paying attention as she tells me how she sees the world, and I'm fascinated.

I thought about her words all that night, and their implications. As I bandage my hands I catch sight of my destroyed face in the bathroom mirror and make my decision.
"One down..."

---

3 - Prey

A new perspective and a good night's sleep; that's all I needed. Yesterday people were slamming into me on the street, barging past the monster with the scars. Today they're stepping out of my way, avoiding my challenging glare, crossing the road to be away from my horrific grin. The words echo through my head. Free reign with only one condition.
"Just make sure you don't kill them."
My smile widens.

A quick phone call gets me a bar job, showing my name still means something in this town despite being away. I chose the rock bar because I'm sick to death of hiding what I am. I've worked the club scene in this town for so long, pretending to like this almost tribal crap that they blast out at a nauseating volume, dressing a certain way to match the image, constantly wearing a mask, and I'm not entirely sure I remember who I am underneath that mask. It feels good to be heading off to earn my living in jeans and work boots. It feels like coming home. I smile again and a mother moves her child away from the monster I've become. If only she knew the reason I can smile now, had the slightest inkling of my plans, no doubt she'd keep that child indoors for the rest of her life.

Two To Go
He still lives with his mother, this demon. The family has a large house in a well to do neighbourhood and three large cars in the driveway. I use my spare time to watch them, building a view of the family bit by bit. Mommy Dearest loves her son and is constantly boasting to the neighbours about his achievements at University. I notice she never mentions the police questioning him for attempted murder. Maybe she forgot? Part of me hates that woman as I see her constantly singing her boy's praises, but she's not my main concern. She does manage to edit my plan slightly, as I realise there are worse things than physical pain.

My chance soon arrives as he and his family set up their stall for the church fete. A couple of seconds is all I need to slip the package into his car's glove compartment, and then I'm gone before anyone can see. I watch the fete from just outside the old Boy Scout hall, absently wondering if there's a badge that covers this sort of thing while waiting for more and more people to show up. When the place is bustling with their neighbours I make the call to my friend and the police arrive minutes later. So confident are they that junior couldn't do anything wrong that they don't even ask for a warrant when their car is searched. I savour their expressions when the package is found and laugh out loud when he hits the arresting officer in front of everyone. Somehow I don't think Mommy Dearest will be able to sweep this one under the rug. £500 street value of any drug usually means some jail time as there's no way he can claim it's for personal use, never mind £500 of a class A drug.

As I walk away from this ruined family I smile to myself, barely containing the laughter. It was worth every penny. For a second I wonder if I should worry that I can do this to a family and not feel guilty, then the laughter washes the worry away.

Max nested elements reachedMax nested elements reachedMax nested elements reachedMax nested elements reachedMax nested elements reached

It has been three days since I left my dear friend Derrick's house, and never have seventy-two hours been more filled with fear - for him and myself. In almost thirty years of practice I've never let a patient get to me like this, never left them to deal with things when I could help them, yet I cannot bring myself to return to the house of one of my oldest friends when he, above all others, needs my help.

I met Derrick Ourbridge decades ago when we were both young pups in University. Our love of rugby had brought us together though our academic pursuits couldn't have been further apart. Where I studied the sciences of the mind, his own avenues of study were business related, with a few classes devoted to art history on the side. Looking back I can see that I looked down on him slightly for becoming yet another businessman in a world crying out for doctors and lawyers. Had I known then what I know now I might have given up my psychology lectures and joined him in his other interests, especially as those interests had made him a millionaire many times over by the the time he was thirty. Still, we all forge our own way in the world, and where he earned money I cured many people of the mental maladies that ailed them, building a respectable name for myself in my field.

Derrick and I had remained fast friends through the years, I acting as his best man while he became godfather to my dear son, Jason. When Jason went to University himself it was Derrick who consoled me in my loneliness, bringing a bottle of nicely matured, and slightly oak flavoured, whisky with him. Upon the tragic loss of his wife, Joanne, I travelled to his mansion and we spent several days together drinking and talking of better days. Thinking back we were more foul-weather friends than fair-weather, our respective industries keeping us busy until some need called one to the other. So it was that when he sent me a telegram saying he thought he was losing his mind and begging for my professional services, that I cleared my calendar and bought a ticket on the first train out there.

Derrick met me at the railway station in an unexpected jovial mood, pumping my hand furiously and chattering away about his latest acquisition. He kept talking as we loaded my suitcases into his car, continuing as he drove us from the little village and up through the hills to his mansion. Weary from the trip I half-listened to what he was saying, offering non-committed grunts and nods to show my interest. Only as we entered the gates to the mansion did I start listening intently, and then only because of a marked change in his tone. Gone was his cheerfulness, replaced instead by something I'd never heard in his voice for all our years of friendship - fear. He talked of an old painting and how its eyes seemed to follow one around a room, how he'd felt like he was being watched ever since he bought it as part of an estate auction, how strange things had been happening ever since that day. As we entered the house I'm not ashamed to say a shiver went down my spine.

Dinner was a marvelous affair, a full roast chicken with all the trimmings. Our talk was of our victories in our University rugby days as we devoured the tender bird. After dinner we retired to the drawing room and smoked cigars over brandy while our conversation turned back to the painting and he filled me in on why he'd called for my help. Since buying that thing he'd felt that it watched him whenever he was in the room, a fact that had caused him to cover the painting until he could sell it on himself. It was then that the dreams had begun. He'd seen the woman in the painting climb out of the picture, seen through her eyes as she slowly climbed the stairs, watched with horror as she walked along the landing towards his bedroom. Each time as her hand reached out to the door handle he had awoken, covered in sweat and screaming. As he explained all this my eyes were drawn to the large covered painting on the mantle and I shuddered. Visibly shaken, we both turned our conversation back to rugby and filled the ethereal silence with laughter and cigar smoke. When we retired that night to adjoining rooms I don't think either of us remembered the painting, but my dreams were fitful, haunted by ghostly figures rattling my door.

The next morning, over a breakfast of bacon, sausages and scrambled eggs, neither of us felt like talking. Poor Derrick looked like his night had been much worse than mine, the bags under his eyes telling me that if he'd slept it hadn't been for long. After we finished breakfast as the maid collected the dishes, we entered the drawing room and approached the painting together. Without speaking we both knew we were going to do what neither of us could summon the courage to do last night. I found myself concentrating on controlling my breathing as Derrick reached up to the painting and pulled off the cover. There she was, the woman who had haunted his dreams these past weeks, and started to infiltrate my own. She wasn't a pretty lady, though far from repulsive too. Her clothing suggested her as a nurse to some unknown child, though I feel for any child looked after by that monster, for her features were twisted with malice and insanity. A feeling of dread washed over me and it was only the false bravado provided by being close to my old friend that stopped me from stepping back away from the portrait. Immediately upon seeing this apparition I knew there was only one course of action that may save my dear friend's sanity and I explained this to him. So it was that we both put on our jackets and walking boots, then went out into the hills taking the portrait with us. The fire we built was going strong when we put the painting on it and watched it burn to ashes, and we were both in a much better mood as we returned to the mansion.

I stayed with Derrick for two more weeks and watched the life return to him. Not once did our conversation turn to the woman in the painting, instead staying on sporting victories we'd shared, business successes he'd had and interesting psychological cases I'd discovered. We ate heartily and drank quite a bit more than we should, and soon I was satisfied that, with the painting gone from his life, he was fine again. As I lay in bed one night, contemplating this, I decided it was time to take my leave of Derrick in the morning and resume my own life and resolved to tell him of my decision right then. I went to his door and knocked, soon being answered and instructed to enter. That was the moment that I'll remember for the rest of my life, the sight that caused me to leave that place right then, screaming as I did so. The sight that caused me, at my age, to lose the contents of my bladder right there in that hallway. The sight that caused me to abandon my oldest friend to his terrible fate, leaving my clothes and suitcases in the room beside his and running out into the night in just my nightclothes. There was Derrick, sitting up in bed and smiling at me. He gestured to me to enter the room and there, reflected in the mirror, the same action was carried out by the woman from the painting like some grotesque puppet-master controlling her favourite puppet. And there was that grotesque insane smile, mirrored on Derrick's face as he beckoned me.