The Swift Stream of Consciousness: Part 2

Portals grow and open wide for the interloper that pries them loose. What's at stake here? Diamonds, gold, the cold hard cash or the cold hard truth? Traffic rushes, a cacophony rises and falls on the ears of the deaf, who could know what they know? The Uncle and The Partner have returned to a place they have been where two people were and none are now, one passed...deceased by their own hands. FRAMED. A wife holds a stranger who smells like scotch and Lucky Strikes, while The Uncle and P. strike it rich. Thieves, murderers...liars. Who's Uncle is he?

There is a woman who must run. I know her...now. Anvils crash and hot metal is pounded flat. My head may explode. Another drink. "I don't know where to go". Have I heard it before? I've heard one talk of Carlotta Valdez and the film Vertigo. Hitchcock was a master. Plots wound as tightly as the celluloid on which they were filmed, waiting, coiled, like a serpent ready to strike, but maybe she was different...life can't always mimic art. I didn't have much room, I slept on the couch as it was, no...that isn't true, it was a cot, much more comfortable than a couch. Door, car, door, shower, floor. "You can take the cot."

All night visions pervade my mind. Two beings not of this world loosed to wreak havoc on those that stand in their way. They are two, but one with terrible heads made out of mottled, rotted flesh, blood dripping from their mouths, fire raging in their eyes. The two are now one, monstrous, beastly, ABOMINATION! Children dangle mutilated from it's maw, women weep at it's feet, newly widowed....and....it laughs. Filling the universe with foul, putrescence, molding, festering, poisoning the very fabric of time and space. Somewhere, someone no longer has an uncle. HALF-NIGHT! Cold hands caress my arm, so subtle, so soft and sweet and silent I barely notice. Warm skin slides next to mine and arms like slender saplings embrace the bulk of my body. I have known the love of many women but few have I loved that loved me back. She was a kid, but old enough to know. We kissed, hands gliding through her brilliant brunette locks as they cascaded down her breasts onto my body. She smelled like...cinnamon. "I don't know your name" she whispered..."No one does."

The disc of flames rises the same without hesitation or council from any other. It doesn't matter. Like a factory uncaring, just working. It will burn out. It does burn bright though. Too bright for eyes accustomed to the dark, eyes with the haze of drink and the gloss of passion. Women can be unpredictable when they feel vulnerable, but so can men. Backed into corners with nowhere to go, the caged animal lashes out blindly, unbiasedly and rips and tears whatever it can grip with it's jaws. EXTRA! EXTRA! People have read all about it. A man is dead and the woman is suspect: HUSBAND KILLED IN DOMESTIC DISPUTE: WIFE'S WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN! Tears, fresh and unhindered roll away and smear the page, there is a new kind of fear present. Bastards! The lot, they should pay, they will pay. The Uncle and The Partner. Tears are vague. For whom are they shed? To what are they dedicated? Her's for her husband. "Were you in love with him?" "Of course I loved him." That isn't what I asked, but I nod. Not yet. Would a woman so deeply in love give herself so easily to a man she just met? Maybe...It thickens, as they say.