Fingers dance along the keys. Hammer out the scene just the way the old man described it.
#
Exterior – a high steeple church in the early evening. Close up on sign out front of the church. It reads: "Looking for a Sign from God? This may be it."
Interior – church. Only one pew is occupied, a man sitting quietly regarding the room. We see statues and stained glass implying where his eyes roam, dim flickering candles everywhere. The man is Remy. He’s dressed like a school teacher, his face shadowed by stubble. A priest emerges from a confessional, notices him, and steps over.
Priest: I’m sorry. I thought no one was here.
Remy turns towards the Priest and smiles.
Remy: I was thinking the same thing: there’s no one here.
Priest: Are you here for confession?
Remy: No, thank you, although since you’re here perhaps you can help me with something.
Priest comes closer to Remy.
Priest: What can I do for you?
Remy: Wait with me.
Priest sits down near Remy.
Priest: May I ask what we’re waiting for?
Remy: To see if God comes.
Remy stabs the Priest in the stomach several times. Shocked, the Priest cries out and staggers toward the exit bleeding down the aisle. Remy stands up. He slowly follows the Priest who collapses near the holy water fount. The Priest rolls over bleeding profusely.
Priest: Help me. Help me.
Remy kneels down beside the Priest.
Remy: I’m praying just as hard as you that He comes.
The Priest expires. Remy sighs. He gets to his feet and washes the blood off the knife in the holy water. He puts the knife away.
Remy: Guess it takes a little more to get your attention.
#
Push back from the typewriter, light a cigarette. It seems like a night to howl. Pages done set headphones in ears, otherwise might hear the cry of wendigos wandering the arctic city outside. The wind chill is pulling the thermometer below zero, and there’s two miles to walk. Can’t have any hesitation creeping in.
Layered for warmth not fashion set off into the night. Spit, a touch of saliva whipped against a cheek thanks to the wind. The chill freezes it into a strand of icy lace. Peel this natural lingerie off, and watch it melt in the palm only to solidify again in the next breeze.
Music gets the blood pumping, yet the cold is bound to win. So a course is plotted. Bar hop until the door swings open at Mr. Delacroix’s.
“Oh child, it’s been too long.” The old witch doctor’s toothless grin is good as any space heater. He shuffles into the house. It’s impossible to tell who is making more noise, him or this rickety building. Both seem liable to collapse at any moment.
Following him in, “I was wondering if we could continue our conversation from the other day?”
“I figured. Jus’ gimme a sec to wrap up this brew.”
Delacroix is sort of like a prison vintner, only instead of toilet wine he concocts voodoo potions. Bathtub miracles bottled for sale to anyone willing to risk swallowing. Side effects may vary, but the intended outcomes are assured. Though those side effects can be nasty, like the time that love potion made a young man’s eyes bleed. But the bleeding eventually stopped.
Stirring a small bucket on a hot plate Delacroix remarks, “There’s rum in the fridge. Help yaself if ya like.”
Don’t mind if I do, thinking it’s time for a celebratory drink. Pages done deserve reward. However, good manners demand pouring a drink for the host too. It’s just polite.
Raised glasses clinked to an unspoken toast. Delacroix sips his. The burn seems to fuel some memory. He shakes his head, muttering, “Amanda,” but it’s clear the memory is private. He keeps it in his pocket for himself.
The witch doctor leads the way to the living room. He plops down on the couch, gesturing the guest towards an empty seat nearby. Sit down casually in case the green easy chair decides today is the day to give up on life, collapsing to pieces. It groans, but holds together.
“So how that script comin'?” Delacroix asks.
“It’s coming along fine. But I was wondering if we could get into what happened after the priest.”
Delacroix nods, “Well, Remy kept up what he doin’. He figured he could do something awful enough it’d get God’s attention, ya see? He went on killing nuns, and children, and doing things I don’t even wanna say aloud. There’s some wickedness conjures the devil, even just mentionin’.”
“Yeah, I know. We talked about this. I’ve got all the details of the killings I need, more than I need. What I’m interested in is what he felt while he was on this, for lack of a better term, quest.”
Witch doctor shrugs, “Can’t say all uh his feels, but I do know one thang. He got powerful depressed. He didn’t exactly want to do what he did, only he thought it was the only way to get done what he wanted. And for a while seemed like alls he’s doin’ is proving there is no God.”
“When he called you would you tell him otherwise?”
“Course I would. I did. Magic is real.” His eyes glaze over, reminiscing, a thin red crack creeps across the white of his eye, “Though he once said something like magic is just the world without explanation. Like just cuz a fellow can call up fire out his fingers don’t make it unnatural just not understood. And by unnatural I jus' mean spiritual, divinity and such. Magic never was special to Remy, no sir.”
Delacroix rubs his fingers together. It seems like little arcs of blue electricity are crackling between the digits, but it could just be static electricity, not some mystical act. Yet the desire to see it one way or another feels like a choice, and why anyone would choose the simple scientific banal reality is a mystery itself.
Another round of rum. The conversation drifts to other aspects of life. The old witch doctor is making a balm for a hooker lives on the fourth floor. It should clear up some nasty chaffing, although it might make her extra hairy down there for a few weeks. She’s willing to pay in trade.
“If you’re interested,” Delacroix says.
“No thanks,” try to say it kindly.
Delacroix chuckles, “Just tossing a friend a bone.”
“Seems I’d be the one tossing a bone.”
The old man hoots, and slaps his knee. Outside the wind howls. The window frosts opaque. Somehow it’s a comforting blank grey. Perhaps every bullet fired tonight will freeze in the air.
A handmade clock, the only clean object in the house, chimes. Delacroix squints at it.
Shaking his head in disbelief, “We been talking that long?”
“Doesn’t seem that long.”
“That’s a good sign, when time don’t seem to drag, but I don’t plan on gabbing forever. I got things to do.”
“As usual, thanks for your time.”
“No worries. I got more than I need.”
And with that the conversation ends. Fresh details in mind bar hop back to the apartment. Sit at the keys. A fresh scene forms inspiring digits into motion. It’s time to make this killer human.
#
Remy tortures a nun, slowly peeling her skin off in long strips. The nun screams.
Remy: I don’t like this anymore than you. I really hope He saves you. You seem like someone who should be saved.
Remy looks up. His eyes are full of tears, some fall down his cheeks.
Remy: When is it enough? When do I have your attention?
Crying, Remy begins to saw off her hands.
#
Exterior – a high steeple church in the early evening. Close up on sign out front of the church. It reads: "Looking for a Sign from God? This may be it."
Interior – church. Only one pew is occupied, a man sitting quietly regarding the room. We see statues and stained glass implying where his eyes roam, dim flickering candles everywhere. The man is Remy. He’s dressed like a school teacher, his face shadowed by stubble. A priest emerges from a confessional, notices him, and steps over.
Priest: I’m sorry. I thought no one was here.
Remy turns towards the Priest and smiles.
Remy: I was thinking the same thing: there’s no one here.
Priest: Are you here for confession?
Remy: No, thank you, although since you’re here perhaps you can help me with something.
Priest comes closer to Remy.
Priest: What can I do for you?
Remy: Wait with me.
Priest sits down near Remy.
Priest: May I ask what we’re waiting for?
Remy: To see if God comes.
Remy stabs the Priest in the stomach several times. Shocked, the Priest cries out and staggers toward the exit bleeding down the aisle. Remy stands up. He slowly follows the Priest who collapses near the holy water fount. The Priest rolls over bleeding profusely.
Priest: Help me. Help me.
Remy kneels down beside the Priest.
Remy: I’m praying just as hard as you that He comes.
The Priest expires. Remy sighs. He gets to his feet and washes the blood off the knife in the holy water. He puts the knife away.
Remy: Guess it takes a little more to get your attention.
#
Push back from the typewriter, light a cigarette. It seems like a night to howl. Pages done set headphones in ears, otherwise might hear the cry of wendigos wandering the arctic city outside. The wind chill is pulling the thermometer below zero, and there’s two miles to walk. Can’t have any hesitation creeping in.
Layered for warmth not fashion set off into the night. Spit, a touch of saliva whipped against a cheek thanks to the wind. The chill freezes it into a strand of icy lace. Peel this natural lingerie off, and watch it melt in the palm only to solidify again in the next breeze.
Music gets the blood pumping, yet the cold is bound to win. So a course is plotted. Bar hop until the door swings open at Mr. Delacroix’s.
“Oh child, it’s been too long.” The old witch doctor’s toothless grin is good as any space heater. He shuffles into the house. It’s impossible to tell who is making more noise, him or this rickety building. Both seem liable to collapse at any moment.
Following him in, “I was wondering if we could continue our conversation from the other day?”
“I figured. Jus’ gimme a sec to wrap up this brew.”
Delacroix is sort of like a prison vintner, only instead of toilet wine he concocts voodoo potions. Bathtub miracles bottled for sale to anyone willing to risk swallowing. Side effects may vary, but the intended outcomes are assured. Though those side effects can be nasty, like the time that love potion made a young man’s eyes bleed. But the bleeding eventually stopped.
Stirring a small bucket on a hot plate Delacroix remarks, “There’s rum in the fridge. Help yaself if ya like.”
Don’t mind if I do, thinking it’s time for a celebratory drink. Pages done deserve reward. However, good manners demand pouring a drink for the host too. It’s just polite.
Raised glasses clinked to an unspoken toast. Delacroix sips his. The burn seems to fuel some memory. He shakes his head, muttering, “Amanda,” but it’s clear the memory is private. He keeps it in his pocket for himself.
The witch doctor leads the way to the living room. He plops down on the couch, gesturing the guest towards an empty seat nearby. Sit down casually in case the green easy chair decides today is the day to give up on life, collapsing to pieces. It groans, but holds together.
“So how that script comin'?” Delacroix asks.
“It’s coming along fine. But I was wondering if we could get into what happened after the priest.”
Delacroix nods, “Well, Remy kept up what he doin’. He figured he could do something awful enough it’d get God’s attention, ya see? He went on killing nuns, and children, and doing things I don’t even wanna say aloud. There’s some wickedness conjures the devil, even just mentionin’.”
“Yeah, I know. We talked about this. I’ve got all the details of the killings I need, more than I need. What I’m interested in is what he felt while he was on this, for lack of a better term, quest.”
Witch doctor shrugs, “Can’t say all uh his feels, but I do know one thang. He got powerful depressed. He didn’t exactly want to do what he did, only he thought it was the only way to get done what he wanted. And for a while seemed like alls he’s doin’ is proving there is no God.”
“When he called you would you tell him otherwise?”
“Course I would. I did. Magic is real.” His eyes glaze over, reminiscing, a thin red crack creeps across the white of his eye, “Though he once said something like magic is just the world without explanation. Like just cuz a fellow can call up fire out his fingers don’t make it unnatural just not understood. And by unnatural I jus' mean spiritual, divinity and such. Magic never was special to Remy, no sir.”
Delacroix rubs his fingers together. It seems like little arcs of blue electricity are crackling between the digits, but it could just be static electricity, not some mystical act. Yet the desire to see it one way or another feels like a choice, and why anyone would choose the simple scientific banal reality is a mystery itself.
Another round of rum. The conversation drifts to other aspects of life. The old witch doctor is making a balm for a hooker lives on the fourth floor. It should clear up some nasty chaffing, although it might make her extra hairy down there for a few weeks. She’s willing to pay in trade.
“If you’re interested,” Delacroix says.
“No thanks,” try to say it kindly.
Delacroix chuckles, “Just tossing a friend a bone.”
“Seems I’d be the one tossing a bone.”
The old man hoots, and slaps his knee. Outside the wind howls. The window frosts opaque. Somehow it’s a comforting blank grey. Perhaps every bullet fired tonight will freeze in the air.
A handmade clock, the only clean object in the house, chimes. Delacroix squints at it.
Shaking his head in disbelief, “We been talking that long?”
“Doesn’t seem that long.”
“That’s a good sign, when time don’t seem to drag, but I don’t plan on gabbing forever. I got things to do.”
“As usual, thanks for your time.”
“No worries. I got more than I need.”
And with that the conversation ends. Fresh details in mind bar hop back to the apartment. Sit at the keys. A fresh scene forms inspiring digits into motion. It’s time to make this killer human.
#
Remy tortures a nun, slowly peeling her skin off in long strips. The nun screams.
Remy: I don’t like this anymore than you. I really hope He saves you. You seem like someone who should be saved.
Remy looks up. His eyes are full of tears, some fall down his cheeks.
Remy: When is it enough? When do I have your attention?
Crying, Remy begins to saw off her hands.
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