Medusa Strain Chapter 1: A Story of Economic Terrorism

The reader should be warned that extremely frank language in conceptual situations is contained in this novel and any language that the reader may deem to be offensive should be in no way construed as the author's actual beliefs. The author in no way bears any responsibility for those that continue to read this book and find themselves to be offended.

Chapter 1"Water, water, everywhere,And all the boards did shrink;Water, water, everywhere,Nor any drop to drink." The Rhyme of the Ancient MarinerSamuel Taylor Coleridge (1797)

Eureka Springs, Arkansas

Thursday, December 28^th 2006

0645hrs

All Arkansas jokes aside, the hills surrounding Eureka Springs seem to be full of people that would be better served on the set of "insert your cliché here". Dilapidated trailers tucked between dilapidated houses, shoved into black-jack oak tree infested hollows, their sides covered in rust and mold, siding and underside fiberglass insulation flapping in the breeze; their very existence a testament to poverty and substandard education. This is where dreams go to retire and die piteously on the vine. Bullet-sprayed signs intoning "Trespassers Will Be Shot... Survivors Will Be Shot Again" hang precariously on creosote lacquered gates, which open on weed-ridden, double-rutted drives, proof that there are guns out here and their owners might use them for no apparent reason.

Winter has set in; the camouflage canopy that once shielded the dwellings from the sun as well as from prying eyes is now a cacophony of color lying like a blanket on every surface. The air is clean and cold out here, just the faintest hint of burnt oak from a fireplace lingers, stale in the breeze.

A lone figure leans against a column which stands upon a porch that is threatening to buckle and shrug the figure off onto the ground at any time. A plume of smoke bursts out of the figures' mouth, wreathing its head in a grayish mist, leaving a disembodied torso leaning against the column. A horse of a grey spotted dog barely acknowledges its owner, preferring instead to lick at a spot that looks suspiciously like mange.

The man is bald, face clean-shaven, pitted acne scars belie his age. If his arms were not covered by a long-john shirt, swastikas and barbed wire crosses could leap into view and show the world the darkness that permeates his mind. Jonah Davidson is 31, he thinks. The birth certificate that could have confirmed his poorly accepted arrival into the world three decades ago, had been burned over the gas range by his alcoholic father in a fit of rage during some nonsensical argument.

His father had committed suicide-by-cop 10 years earlier, despondent over having been laid off by the private contractor who had the road contract with the state. Replaced, he later found, by illegal immigrants willing to work for ten dollars an hour less. His mother abandoned the family years earlier, running off with a black truck driver she met at the Hilltop Diner. As far as Jonah was concerned, it was the spics, niggers and kikes that were at fault for all of his familial problems to date.

Jonah flicks the still lit butt of his first morning cigarette at the dog, who in turn ignores the gesture and continues to lick himself, mainly in the crotch area as dogs tend to do. The man heaves himself into a full standing position. The screen door creaks in agony as Jonah opens it, stepping into the darkness of his living room. A hint of fresh coffee brewing is interlaced with thirty years of stale cigarettes, body odor and rancid food. The floor is littered with countless newspapers, beer cans, crumpled and crusty looking tissues and magazines.

Jonah coughs wetly as he walks into the kitchen, looking for a place in the overflowing sink to spit. He hesitates then walks over to the trash can that had not been emptied in several weeks and lets forth a thick yellowish brown wad of sputum.

He surveys the area that is supposed to be his kitchen. "Fucking bitch," Jonah mutters as he walks out of the kitchen and heads toward the back bedroom. "Fucking fat-assed good for nothing bitch." He kicks open the bedroom door, the musty smell of dirty laundry and body odor assaults him.

"Hey, get the fuck out of bed," Jonah yells at the lump buried under the covers.

"What... leave me alone," a voice croaks hoarsely, almost an unintelligible mumble from under the covers.

"I said get the fuck out of bed. I ain't gonna have you lying about all day. I want this fucking house cleaned up once and for all."

"Clean it yourself you fuckin' slob," the voice shoots back.

Jonah is pissed, he grabs the ancient blanket and yanks it off the lump revealing a thick naked body.

"Goddamn it Jonah, leave me alone... I just got home, you know I work nights."

"I don't give a fuck when you work. Ya been neglecting this house for too long, we're living like the fucking niggers and spics. My friends come over here and they are gonna start wondering about my loyalty. Now get up."

The woman rolls over onto her back and stares at Jonah. This is not the life that Melanie Wilson had envisioned when she graduated high school. Though never a beauty queen, she had been moderately attractive, and had at least a modicum of intelligence. With so few opportunities in the area and no resources for college, she had been left with the option of working in one of the poultry processing plants or at one of the diners that were spread through out the county. Not wanting to endure the smell of the chicken plant, and because it seemed that they were only hiring Mexicans, a diner seemed to be the only recourse. Now fifteen years, two kids, she never knew where they were, and forty extra pounds later she was hogtied to a brutally violent and abusive man that wanted her more as a slave and a sounding board for his racist ranting than for anything else. She had thought about leaving several times, especially the time when he had fractured her jaw in the act of beating her and raping her, but she didn't know where to go, and there was no way that she could support herself or her kids. She stuck it out, but continued to antagonize Jonah; it seemed to be the only way that she could feel something akin to a human.

Jonah continues, "Now I'm going to work and I want this house fucking clean when I get home tonight."

Melanie sits up in the bed, "Are you going to the bar again?"

Jonah looks at her quizzically, noting her sagging breasts, almost indeterminable from her belly fat, and a shudder of revulsion passes through him.

"What the fuck does it matter to you?"

He spins on his heel and grabs a flannel shirt off the back of a moth-eaten corduroy upholstered chair by the door. Turning back toward Melanie, his face twisted in contempt, "and take a fucking bath... you smell like the fucking diner!"