Episodes of Violence Read online

  Knowing they would need more supplies, Bobby purchased a re-loadable Visa card. A number of items were purchased from various online stores. Everything was shipped to Sage’s uncle’s house, the place Sage resided when she wasn’t at Daemon’s. Her uncle was a full-time drunk, specializing in never leaving his house, never wearing a shirt and somehow surviving off his social security disability payments on account of his being in a car accident that took the use of his legs. The items ordered wouldn’t be touched by the man and left on the front porch for Sage when she came home.

  Among the supplies obtained: multiple pairs of black leather gloves, a few cases of various colored Plasti Dip canisters—their assortment of colors running low, and ski masks. Daemon was going to use it to disguise whichever vehicle was used when they went out for a night of mischief. Add in the license plate change and they would be golden. When they were done for the evening, the coating of Plasti Dip would be peeled off, leaving the original paint job intact and unblemished.

  Chapter Seven

  Dressed in black garb and carrying backpacks with their supplies, the trio of friends climbed into the newly painted maroon Camry and drove toward Brewmeyer’s house. They parked a few acres away from the teacher's property on an old, weed-strewn dirt road that no one used anymore and where the car was completely hidden from the road.

  From there, they donned black leather gloves, and using the red-lensed military flashlights Bobby had purchased, they made their way through the woods toward the teacher’s property. Bobby let loose an occasional grunt whenever Sage, who was ahead of him, let a branch whack him in the face or some other part of his body.

  “Cut it out, asshole,” he said.

  “Go around me. I can’t worry about your pussy-ass. By the way, Bobby, these flashlights are fucking cool as fuck.”

  “The red lenses allow us enough light to see by while keeping anyone from seeing us from afar.”

  “Really?” Sage said, sounding overly sarcastic. “You think because I’m a chick I don’t know shit about army shit?”

  Bobby shook his head, moved past Sage, and walked next to Daemon who said, “She’s a real bitch tonight, eh?”

  “No comment,” Bobby said, focused on the task ahead.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” Sage said and swatted Daemon on his ass.

  The houses along Merdock Road were practically made to be robbed. Each abode had at least a few acres of thickly wooded land between them, and behind the long row of houses was nothing but swampland.

  Daemon felt his pulse quicken with every step. The three weeks he'd had to wait only fueled his need for vengeance and he was ready to burst with the rage and hate he felt for the teacher. It was difficult not to charge ahead, Brewmeyer’s place like a magnet and he a chunk of devilish metal.

  When they reached the backyard, the despised teacher’s two story house came into view. From the tree line, they scanned the structure for security cameras.

  “I don’t see any,” Daemon said.

  “Yeah, place looks clear, though we should check the front for cameras too,” Bobby said. “We really should’ve done all this a few days earlier.”

  “Stop your worrying,” Sage said.

  As they made their way along the property line, Daemon noticed the empty driveway and stopped. “Shit.”

  “What?” Sage asked.

  “He’s not home,” Bobby answered, clearly noticing too. “We should’ve done a drive and made sure his car was here.”

  “Boo hoo,” Sage said, and stomped the ground like a spoiled child. “All this way and no one to torture.”

  “At least we know he didn’t go to the cops, and we can guess, more than likely, that he didn’t record us,” Bobby said.

  “Unless he was using a handheld camera,” Daemon said. “It’s why we should go inside and make sure.”

  “Damn it,” Bobby said. “This isn’t going down according to plan. He was supposed to be home—we knock at his door, he opens it, and we bum rush him. No alarm is sounded. If we break in now and an alarm goes off…”

  “So we’ll figure out if he’s got one,” Sage said. “Toss a rock at a window. Duh. If a siren goes off, we’ll leave.”

  “Me and Sage will go in through the rear,” Daemon said.

  “I love it when you go in my rear, babe,” Sage said, grinning.

  Daemon grinned at her, then continued. “If there’s an alarm, we’ll come right back. In the meantime, you stay here and keep a lookout. If the dickface comes home, call me. We’ll hurry out the back before he knows it.”

  “It’s risky,” Bobby said, rubbing his chin.

  “Sometimes, man, you just got to go with what’s provided.” Daemon motioned towards the house. “I mean, the asshole ain’t home. We got nothing to worry about with a lookout.”

  “If I’m involved I want to have fun too,” Bobby said.

  “After we fuck up a room or two, I’ll send Sage out to switch with you. Sound good?”

  “Just leave me his bedroom,” Bobby said. “I want to take a huge dump on his pillow.”

  “Incredible,” Sage said.

  “What is?” Bobby asked.

  “That you can shit on demand like that. Must be so useful.”

  “It is.”

  “You’ll have to teach me that trick someday.”

  “All right,” Daemon said. “Time to do this.” He slid off his backpack and let it fall to the grass. Unzipping the bag, he pulled out the hockey mask and handed it to Sage, then handed Bobby his surgical cap and mask before pulling the tan-colored stocking he'd purchased over his head. Immediately, he felt a surge of adrenaline, as if the stocking held some kind of ancient power. Looking at the others, he couldn’t help but grin at how wicked they all looked, and together they would make one hell of a frightening bunch of… What? What were they exactly? Vandals? Punks? Soon-to-be killers? He certainly had more than destruction on his mind. Sage too. But Bobby? It didn't matter because they were an evolving evil that would grow like a tumor and wreak havoc upon all in their path. This was only the beginning.

  From their place by the tree line, Daemon and Sage headed to the house and checked for security devices and signs that stated the house was protected by so-and-so company. Finding nothing of the sort, Daemon rang the front doorbell while Sage crouched a few feet off to the right behind a row of neatly trimmed lilac bushes. When no one came to the door, he knocked and rang the doorbell again, making sure no one was home. If a light had come on from inside the house and the door opened, he would have bum rushed Brewmeyer.

  Assured the place was vacant—they could make noise and take their time—they went around to the backyard and tried kicking in the backdoor. After a few good whacks without it opening, Daemon retrieved a hammer from his backpack.

  “Care to do the honors?” he asked, holding out the nail-hitting tool.

  “Yes, please,” Sage said, her voice slightly distorted through the hockey mask. She took the hammer, walked up to the window on the right side of the house and swung. The glass shattered, the still atmosphere along with it. “Such a lovely sound.” She giggled and then knocked out the jagged pieces that were sticking out of the windowpane.

  As soon as the window was harmless, the duo climbed inside.

  They took a few moments to allow their eyes to adjust to the darker surroundings and saw that they were in a living room, standing behind a sofa. Bookshelves lined the wall to their left. Straight ahead was a flat screen—the television a measly thirty-two inches in size. Daemon thought it was way too small for such a large room and it made him hate Brewmeyer even more. Why wouldn’t the asshole want to experience home theater-like quality?

  Past the television was a nook where an ornate-looking desk took up space. A laptop rested on top, its lip open but the screen dark.

  Sage climbed over the sofa. “Looks like a great place to start,” she said and hurled the hammer at the television. The screen cracked, resulting in numerous lightning bolt-like fractures spreadi
ng across it, but the glass remained in place. Sage hurried over, picked up the hammer and began smashing the television and giggling madly.

  Daemon pulled out his hunting knife and plunged it into the sofa. He dragged the blade across the seat cushions, then slashed the back ones, shredding the fabric with ease. When he was satisfied with his work, the piece of furniture looking as if it had been in a fight with a tiger, he found Sage jumping up and down on the smashed and broken flat screen that she’d ripped off the wall. Glass and plastic littered the carpet around her.

  Daemon moved to the bookcases, found that they weren’t bolted to the wall and pulled one forward. Books spilled out as its own momentum sent it crashing to the floor. After the second went down, he turned his attention to the unmarked white walls. Using his knife, he stabbed and slashed at them. Realizing his fists and feet would do more damage, he punched and kicked creating large, jagged holes. Tearing into the walls and seeing his fists and boots covered in white sheetrock dust was somewhat euphoric, as if the house's blood was on his hands, and he imagined to a degree that this must be how a killer feels when the blood of a victim is set free.

  Sage joined in, sending the claw-end of her hammer into the defenseless walls and ripping them apart. Hanging pictures were obliterated. Glass flew about like confetti. An expensive-looking painting of an elderly lady sitting in a rocking chair holding a yellow cat of all things was made worthless.

  From the living room—if that’s what it was—they made their way along a hall, knocking down more paintings and gouging the walls with hammer and fists. They passed a laundry room and the back door, and then walked into the kitchen. A small white kitchen table and matching chairs sat across from them. The tabletop was decorated with circular woven placemats and a salt and pepper shaker each in the shape of a naked woman. The asses jutted out and there was a clear plug where the butthole would normally be. Each shaker had tremendously large breasts with half-inch long nipples. The right shaker had a hole at the end of each nipple. The left shaker had three holes around each nipple. Sage picked one up.

  “Fucking guy’s a total perv,” she said, then pocketed both pieces. “I know we're not supposed to take anything, but c'mon, these are too cool.”

  “I won't tell if you won't,” Daemon said. He lifted the stocking so his mouth was free, then lifted Sage’s hockey mask and kissed her. When they separated, Sage said he looked so fucking creepy and wanted him to wear it the next time they fucked. Daemon grabbed her ass, pulled her close and barked. “I want you now.”

  “First, we got a house to destroy.”

  Lowering their masks back in place, they looked around.

  A microwave, toaster and coffee maker sat on the counter next to the sink, the counter ending where the stove began. Above the counter and stove were wooden cabinets. Across from the stove was a towering refrigerator. The air smelled like lemons and oozed cleanliness. Not a dish was in the sink, nor crumb on the counter or table.

  “Fucking guy’s a neat freak,” Sage said, sounding annoyed when the two separated from each other.

  “Good, it’ll make the asshole that much more upset when he finds his place all fucked up.”

  Sage opened a cabinet door and snatched a ceramic plate. She held it up and then let it drop to the floor where it exploded into multiple shards. “Oops.”

  Daemon looked around for where he should begin as Sage continued to smash dinnerware and giggle. With the fridge practically calling to him, he opened the door and eyed the milk. Grabbing the container, he poured the cow-produced contents over the room, splashing the table, chairs, floor and walls. Next, he grabbed a pan of lasagna, and using a large spoon he found in one of the drawers, began flinging the Italian food all over the place. Finished with that, he flung the pan into one of the walls. It clanged loudly, made a divot and then hit the floor.

  Turning back to the fridge, he thought removing one item at a time would take too long. He needed to cause as much damage as possible and as quickly as possible while still enjoying himself. Brewmeyer could come home at any moment.

  He remembered seeing a meat-tenderizer in the drawer where he found the spoon and retrieved the meat-pounding tool.

  Returning to the fridge, he swung open the door and began smashing everything inside. Orange juice exploded from cartons. Cans of soda spewed their contents. A bag of salad was tossed while a container of baked beans was smashed. The glass shelves shattered. Despite the danger of getting cut, Daemon went wild. The leather on his hands would protect him as long as he was somewhat careful, the gloves holding up nicely so far despite his punching holes in the walls. However, being amped up and seeing all the wonderful destruction, he was unable to help himself and went a little crazier, smashing and swinging and yelling. Vegetables and all sorts of items were splattered about, covering him and the floor at his feet. But he didn’t care because it was so much damn fun.

  When he was finished, having not taken more than a minute or so, the fridge was a hollow shell, all the broken items at the bottom and pouring out onto the floor. As he took a moment to admire his work, he heard the sound of glass shatter from down the exiting hallway. Turning around, he saw that Sage was gone.

  Holding onto the tenderizer, he hurried down the hall and saw Sage toss a book out a broken window—the window facing the front of the house.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he said.

  Sage spun around and started laughing. “You look ridiculous, like some kid at camp who got into a food fight.”

  Daemon shook himself off and wiped at his stocking and chest. “Don’t throw shit outside. We don’t need anyone seeing books or whatever on the lawn.”

  “Who’s going to see anything from the road, it’s dark out?”

  “We don’t need Brewmeyer seeing anything on his lawn when he comes home. We want it to be a surprise, remember?”

  “Oh yeah.” Sage went over to the window. “Well, you don’t have to worry about him seeing anything on the lawn because the book is on the driveway.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Sage started knocking out the rest of the window’s glass.

  “Cut it out, Sage.”

  “I’m only cleaning the window of glass so he won’t see it’s broken. It’ll only look open or super clean if his car’s headlights shine on the house. His being such a neat freak, he might notice a broken window, right?”

  “Good thinking, sweetie.”

  As Sage stepped back from the window, headlights lit up the room and the sound of an engine grew louder.

  “Shit, you jinxed us,” Daemon said. “The motherfucker must be home.”

  “Damn it,” Sage said. “I wasn’t even close to finished with this place.”

  Daemon’s phone rang. Checking it, he saw that Bobby was calling. “Yeah, dude, what’s up?”

  “He’s home. Get the hell out of there.”

  Daemon glanced at Sage. His blood was pumping, heart pounding against his breastbone and it felt delicious. “Nah. I think we’re going to stay.”

  Chapter Eight

  Howard Brewmeyer was having a wonderful evening. Hell, he’d had a great day too. Failed a third of his students, dealt a bunch detentions, and got to spend last period staring at Kendra Souter’s nipples as they tented her tight, practically see-through, pink top. He’d taken a few pictures, zooming in real close, using his cell phone while the group was told to read an article he’d handed out. It was bullshit, a spur of the moment thing so he could snap pictures of Kendra’s tits without being seen. He'd gotten a few of her face too, and would video edit them all onto one of the porn stars from one of his videos, allowing him the pleasure of masturbating to his hot student's naked body. He'd had to resort to this newer tactic—having already built up quite the library of porn-altered videos—ever since the camera he’d installed in the girl’s locker room had been found. The principal and his crack committee believed it was set by a student, and to avoid a scandal they kept the incident among themselves.
<
br />   Whacking off to semi-imaginative naked Kendra and shooting his load onto her face as she moaned his name was something he looked forward to that evening after a few beers. But then when he went down to Dwight's Bar and Grill—a real redneck shithole with a vomit-stained pool table and rat-infested basement—he wound up getting lucky. Lucky that a twenty-two-year-old hottie—if not a smidge on the she’s-been-around side—had not only been at the establishment on the night he was there, but that she was interested in him: a gut-carrying, chubby-faced, balding fifty-four-year-old ugly son of a bitch.

  She’d introduced herself as Crystal—which he doubted was her real name—and said she was in town for the night and wanted to know if he’d be interested in having a good time. Based on her hard eyes, aging flesh on her young face, the way she ran a finger along his forearm and pressed her tongue against her upper lip, he knew she was a hooker, since he’d been fucking them over the years. Of course, not in the small town of Spencer, but when he took a trip to Binghamton or Albany for that very reason.

  “Hell, honey,” he said, “I’d love to have a good time with you, but you’re going to need to convince me you aren’t a cop.”

  It was extremely odd that a hooker would be in Dwight's, but he’d seen stranger things.

  “I ain’t no cop, Mister,” she said, sounding a bit annoyed. “And if you ain’t familiar with what I’m asking—”

  “Oh, I’m familiar all right. It’s just, well, you know. I got to be sure.” He looked at her, then said “come on” and hopped off his stool.

  Crystal followed him to the hallway that led to the bathrooms, the air pungent with the smell of urine and puke.

  “Ugh,” she said. “I don’t think I can blow you here.”

  Howard laughed. “Just show me your tits, and then we can leave. Go to a hotel where it’s clean and we can relax.” He pulled out a wad of twenties. “So you know I’ve got the cash.”