Batsto

Part 1.

A buddy of mine – let’s call him “Bob”- closed his law practice in Mt. Holly, NJ about ten years ago. Mt. Holly is the seat of Burlington County, NJ, hence the epicenter of all its Courts and legal activity. Bob was treating with doctors at the time but itching to get into his RV with his wife and hit the road. Since lawyers are obligated to keep their closed files for at least seven years – in case some client or client’s relative has a late-breaking issue – he asked me to look after three Bankers Boxes of files.

Bob had been winding down his practice for years and didn’t have much to safeguard – perhaps four or five fat accordion folders of paperwork involving real estate closings and Estates he’d handled. I wished Bob and his wife well, dumped the tattered boxes at the back of my garage and mostly forgot about them until last Fall.

Out of the blue I got a hand-scratched letter from a funeral parlor in Sedona, Arizona that they’d just buried Bob in a small Mormon Cemetary near there. His wife had passed six months before.

She was a “Saint” – a Mormon – and he opted to stay with her throughout eternity at “Brigham Young Rest Park”. The funeral director had to sell Bob’s RV to pay for the arrangements. Bob – ever the lawyer – had left instructions. Sad, actually. Some broke old NJ lawyer taking a dirt nap in a far away desert. He had no next of kin, so I got a check for $57.00 left over from the funeral bill and RV sale.

At least it was a beautiful location. As the old saying goes: “God made the Grand Canyon – but he lives in Sedona”.

Some months later I got a phone call from a guy who identified himself only as “Rory”. My phone showed a 719 Area Code, which I recognized as Colorado Springs, home of the archery supply house I ordered arrow fletching supplies from. Archery was one of my few passions these days.

He said my buddy Bob was his father’s lawyer. He was sorry to hear Bob died – but needed something from one of Bob’s files in a hurry. How Rory knew that I was holding Bob’s files was not clear.

Rory proceeded to explain that his father, John Braden, late of Lumberton, NJ, died in the late eighties and my lawyer friend, Bob, was Executor of the Braden Will and Estate. He’d also administered the Estate of Mary Braden, Rory’s mother, who died a few years before his father. Rory was, apparently, the only child of John and Mary Braden. He presently resided in Colorado.

My caller authoritatively advised that the “Estate of John Braden” file I was holding contained a package marked “Confidential”. It was a large, reinforced manilla envelope wrapped in duct tape and had his name written on its front with a black wide Sharpie.

“It’s a delicate matter, man…….I need it back.” Rory said, his voice cracking. “I need it back, like…right now…..I’ll try to pay you for your trouble, but….”

I told Mr. Braden I’d have to check the Bankers Boxes in my garage but that he’d have to prove he was the owner of whatever he wanted returned to him.

“What’s the big deal man?” was his quite snarky response. I was caught off guard by his tone. “My father’s dead. His stuff is my stuff!”

An awkward silence followed.

“Well, that may be, Sir” I said. “But whatever I’m holding was entrusted to me by a dear friend, an Officer of the Court and the Executor of your alleged father’s Estate…and I’m not about to betray the faith he placed in me to protect his property…”

More silence.

“Look”, I continued. “I don’t know you are who you say you are. You want me to share escrowed materials with you without some ID?”

I hoped he’d say something and give me time to think. I needed a minute or so to parse this all through. Something wasn’t kosher here. The minutes ticked by.

Behind him was an eerie quiet. Wherever this guy was calling from you could barely hear wind in the background. No birds. Where was he – Fraggle Rock? No traffic or road sounds at all. No planes droning overhead. When you’re from New Jersey you notice these things. Sounded like the my caller was middle of nowhere.

Lawyers hold things in “escrow” to protect clients pending completion of some immanent project or deal. It’s usually a short term situation. A lawyer’s authority and parameters for holding stuff is based on consultations with his or her client. These are secret. We’re talking “Attorney Client Privilege” here.

It works like this. Say your wife shoots somebody that attacks her in a dark WAWA parking lot. Why is she carrying a gun? Maybe she had a premonition. Maybe she’s Annie Oakley. Hell, I don’t know. It’s not important. The real point is this: she turns over the gun to her lawyer. He walks it into the State Police Barracks and drops it on the counter. “Where did you get this?” the State Police desk Sergeant asks. “I’m sorry” says the lawyer. “Attorney Client Privilege”.

The lawyer can’t be pressured to divulge anything. Of course, the cops now have a gun to do ballistics testing on – but that’s another issue. The critical fact here is: your wife no longer has a homicide weapon in her possession.

Even if the gun is determined to be the weapon that killed the hoodlum in the WAWA parking lot, the attorney doesn’t have to divulge where he got it from. Your wife still has a mega-load of legal problems (like, was there parking area surveillance camera?) – but, for the time being, the gun ain’t one of them.

At least now wifey can say “her” gun (assuming it was registered) was stolen by somebody who broke into her house years ago and she forgot to (or just didn’t) report it. Maybe it was the guy on parole she was having an affair with at the time. Maybe another old boyfriend took it when she wasn’t looking (she’s a tad loose). Wifey just didn’t want to fess up and draw her husband’s attention to anything or raise his suspicions…….blah, blah, blah.

You can make it up from there.

In the case of John Braden’s Estate, any Attorney Client privileged “secrets” died with the lawyer, Bob, who was Executor of Rory’s father’s Estate.

But a situation where a lawyer is holding something in escrow so long after he closed his deceased client’s Estate file is wierd. There had to be a reason. Maybe my lawyer-friend Bob was protecting young Rory Braden from something Papa John Braden wanted kept secret until the Grim Reaper took him…. Something he didn’t want to burden his son with?

Was Rory illegitimate? Skeletons in the family closet? A safe deposit box key? Diamonds? A winning Willie Wonka ticket?

But alas…it wasn’t any of my business. I was a bit player in this thing. I consoled myself that if my lawyer buddy Bob wanted me to know any details about it, he’d have given me a heads-up when he heaved the boxes off his RV and waved goodbye.

Everybody under restriction of any “Privilege” in the chain here was dead and there was no reason to keep anything on the down low anymore. I sure as Hell wasn’t about to apply for a Court Order for permission to release the file. I’d been holding Bob’s Beguiling Bankers Boxes long enough. I should have dropped them into some dumpster by now anyway….

Memo to self: start cleaning out the garage.

Rory Braden was entitled to reclaim whatever his dead father’s dead lawyer was still holding (through me)…but my gut was flashing red lights that a face-to-face meeting was necessary here. Right. Consummate a hand-over of materials only after I get photocopies of the man’s identity papers. A CYA move for yours truly. Last thing I needed was another “relative” coming out of the woodwork and acusing me of handing off family property to somebody who isn’t really family.

Maybe insisting Mr. Rory Braden retain Counsel wherever he was to handle the details was the best way to keep this all legit. Why stick my neck out?

Rory was still on the line, patiently hanging on dead air while I chewed through all this in my mind. I got the impression he didn’t want to argue but was aggitated – and needed a quick solution. I also got the impression he was flat broke and, as the song goes, out of aces. There was a morose desperation in his voice. Like he was carrying a bag of bricks and just wanted to put it down. He was bone-tired, grabbing his last thread.

“Let me check the boxes for your Dad’s Estate file” I offered. “I’ll see what’s in there and call you back”.

“I’ll call you back in a week” came Rory’s reply. “This isn’t my phone – so don’t call me…and don’t say anything to anybody…..” Click.

“Well, that was interesting”, I thought.

I almost broke my neck after tripping on a bunched rug as I dashed to the garage to dig out those boxes. A juicy little chance to snoop around just dropped into my lap. Life is good…..

I kept the grungy, tape covered envelope on my desk for a whole week. It was right where Rory Braden said it would be. And thick Sharpie black letters were scrawled across its top, spelling out his name and an ominous warning: “CONFIDENTIAL”.

It felt like it weighed a ton. Whatever was inside was hard and heavy. Gold bars? I kept reminding myself that it was all none of my business and waitied for my cell phone to ring back. What the Hell was in there?

Days came and weeks went. I put the mysterious package in a desk drawer so I didn’t have to constantly resist the temptation of tearing it open. Finally I got a call from a number my screen showed as “Unavailable”. Half-expecting some spam bullshit, I answered. Surprise, surprise.

“Sir, this is Lt. Taylor Calvary with the Colorado State Highway Patrol. I’m calling to find out if you know a Rory Braden of Breckenridge, Colorado. Your number was on his pay-as-you-go cell phone. I’m trying to contact any relatives he might have had”.

I was caught off guard by his tone and use of past tense.

“Might had had?” I asked cautiously.

“Yes, Sir”. Lt. Taylor answered. “Rory Braden was killed in a motor vehicle accident a few days ago. Some Air Force guys reported it. His motorcycle was apparently hit by another vehicle and he was thrown off. The Air Force boys dragged his body out of a ravine. Braden was DOA at the local ER……”

“I……see.” I responded. “I’m not a relative, just a friend of a friend. Mr. Braden had no next of kin or surviving relatives I’m aware of.”

I was floored.

“Look…Lt. Taylor.” I asked. “Did you guys do a police investigation about the accident, any reconstruction and witness statements – that sort of thing? Is there a report…?”

“Nawww…” He drawled. “This was a motor vehicle accident, clear and simple. Braden dumped his bike late at night on a bad road…..probably hot doggin’ it and high on weed….we’re just grateful those Air Force flyboys were on the scene to get him out of that ravine and call us…..”

My next words came out before I could stop myself.

“Did you get the names of those…good samaritan flyboys, Lieutenant Taylor? Is there some way maybe I can contact them….?”

“Nawww….” He groaned, obviously preoccupied with readjusting his weight on a chair or reaching for a donut.

“We don’t give people the third degree ’round here in Colorado when they do us a good turn….they’re just, like I said – flyboys. Got a lot of ’em hereabouts. They’re always pitchin’ in a hand….we’re grateful for their vigilence and patriotism. And we don’t hassle ’em…”

Our conversation stalled at that point. Obviously, Bubba here didn’t give two shits about a dead biker those valiant Air Force servicemen handed him on a platter.

“Wish I could help, Lieutenant.” I finally offered.” You have a good day”.

He grunted something and hung up.

What a shit show.

I slumped down in a chair and didn’t move for an hour – just far enough to grab the Glenlivet and a glass.

By the time I’d downed my third double, I was elbows deep into that desk drawer grabbing Rory Braden’s envelope out. At this point, who cared? Screw it.

I cut through the duct tape and ripped the top flap clean off. Inside was a beat up wire bound notebook like you’d use in High School and a series of smaller sealed envelopes. A four and a half by eleven inch envelope inside was heavy as Hell, apparently the reason why the whole package was so weighty.

I can’t just paraphrase the journal that was pencilled in that wire-bound notebook. First off, I could barely read the handwriting. And as far as writing style, Rory Braden wasn’t exactly Hemmingway.

What follows I’ve cleaned up some, changed some names and locations for caution’s sake. I corrected spelling and some grammar – but I never changed the content. That’s what grabbed me. Better strap in.

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CONFESSION OF RORY BRADEN, 315 LANDING ROAD, LUMBERTON, NJ 08048 – AUGUST 8, 1982

I’M WRITING THIS IN MY OWN HAND SO NOBODY CAN QUESTION IT LATER.

ALL THE PEOPLE IDENTIFIED IN THIS CONFESSION ARE EITHER DEAD OR VERY FAR AWAY. DON’T TRY TO FIND THEM. YOU WON’T.

A LAWYER WILL HOLD THIS – AND SOME OTHER THINGS – UNTIL I FIND SOMEPLACE SAFE.

Something happened here…..in New Jersey. I have to tell the world. It’s all true. What I describe is on good authority. This killed my father – and now it’s destroyed my life.

First, some facts. Real events.

About 1:00AM on January 18, 1978 at least ten UFOs were sighted in a “swarm” over Base Fort Dix / McGuire in New Jersey. These are military bases right next door to each other, creating one large military footprint in Burlington County, NJ.

In the hours that followed, rumors of this “swarm” and what subsequently happened at Base Fort Dix would grow into an urban legend in South Jersey. At least fifteen witnesses of various rank and service branch (Army and Air Force) would swear on a stack of bibles one of these objects landed.

But I know more. Here it is: Something grey and spindly actually got out of the object that landed. About the size of an elementary school child. Three military men in close proximity witnessed an Air Force MP blow the thing’s brains out with an M16.

My father was one of those three military guys that watched the visitor get killed. Gunned down like a dog. These three servicemen are all dead now – and the US Air Force is to blame. The Air Force killed my father, sure as if they’d capped him in his brain with a 9MM Beretta Service Weapon.

Nobody knows why the object landed and the visitor disembarked. The craft shot back up into the heavens once the MP’s gun started blasting. Nobody knows why the visitor headed towards the cyclone fence that separated two military bases.

All that’s certain is the little thing’s head was blown clean off while it tried to claw its way up the chain links – trying to get to the Army side. What was on the Army side? It first acted confident, like it was expected, showing up for an appointment. But suddenly it panicked and ran for the fence.

My Dad said within fifteen minutes the thing’s remains were being loaded into a rubber body bag and onto a transport plane. Destination was Wright-Paterson AF Base in Ohio. Apparently, it’s Boot Hill for any “Extraterrestrial Biological Entities” (EBEs) that are unfortunate enough to get themselves killed or left behind in the USA.

Dad described the craft the EBE got out of as a classic silver disc, about forty-five feet in diameter.

Why believe my father? Because he was an Air Force Lieutenant, a decorated Korean War fighter pilot and had all kinds of security clearances. He was the most honest man I’d ever knew. He never lied.

In January of 1978, my father, Lt. John Braden, was an Air Force Security Analyst (First Class) assigned to Base Security at McGuire. At the time of the incident, my Dad had just showed up to manage graveyard shift oversight of data transmission from something called a “Keyhole” Satellite that was orbiting Earth and eavesdropping on the Soviets.

It was Top Secret stuff, and Dad had the knowhow to keep the cutting-edge project running smooth, at least the part McGuire AF Base was handling. He had scientists reporting to him and even brought a few of them home now and again to have dinner with my Mom and I.

Most of the “brainiacs”, as Dad referred to them, were from Los Alamos, Sandia Labs or Lockheed in California and had nobody to spend holidays with. Dad would share our Christmas and Thanksgiving celebrations with them. “Egg Heads” with slide rules popping out of their shirts were a common sight at the Braden farm dinner table.

So by the time this all happened in ’78 my Dad had already been a fighter pilot in Korea, flew missions refueling Strategic Air Command B-52s carrying atomic bombs, trained pilots for combat against Soviet MIGs in Viet Nam and flew classified troop drops in Laos.

And those were only a handful of the assignments he could actually tell me about. My father had serious mission qualifications. And a chest full of medals to prove it.

Lt. John Braden was a bona-fide, USA Patriot. A genuine bad-ass. He had a swagger in his walk and cocked his hat (called a “cover” in the military) in a jaunty slant to his left, just like Tyrone Power. His cover was even bent down a little on its right and left sides – something old timers called a “40 Mission Crush”. He never stopped being every inch the pilot, even when he was relegated to flying a Security Desk at McGuire. I guess young lions were pushing the old war horses out to pasture. It was his time to move over.

But after his shift ended on January 18th, Dad came home a different man. I was in our kitchen when he came home. He left his leather briefcase out in his standard Air Force grey Ford Galaxie – something he never did because of the high security paperwork he always carried. He headed from the front door straight to his “crash cart”, grabbed the Wild Turkey and poured himself a good hit. He flopped down in his favorite living room chair and stared straight ahead. Didn’t say a word.

“Hey, Pop” I said, smiling in his direction. Mom and I were always glad to see him come home. When your dad is in the active military, you count home time with him like gold coins. What can I say. We loved him.

“Hey, Ror” He groaned, after swallowing another pull of his bourbon but still looking absent-mindedly out the front bay window of our house.

“You ok, buddy?” He finally asked, this time looking at me.

I responded instictively “Yeah, sure,,,,” but noticed his face. He was drawn and wrinkled around his eyes. He looked like he’d aged since yesterday when I saw him last.

“What’s goin’ on….” I asked. He waived me and my Mom over and gestured towards the couch. He had something to say.

That’s when he unloaded. Words came out in a torrent.

He was angry and couldn’t hold himself back.

Everything. The UFO swarm. The landing. The gunned-down Alien being. He being ordered to keep quiet about it all.

After Dad finished, we all didn’t eat much that night. Didn’t say much either. Don’t get me wrong – I had a couple thousand questions. I just didn’t want to pump him for facts I know he was breaking his Security Oaths over. So I just kept him company. I was hoping he’d pick another time and place for more details. He was wrestling with his conscience, like heros do in the movies.

My father was built that way. Straight as an arrow.

Unlike me, his black-sheep son. Once my Viet Nam Draft Lottery number was drawn and announced – 326 out of 365 – I knew I wasn’t at risk for military service unless World War Three broke out. I settled into a life of motorcycles, whorey girls and weed. Booze was a real pal, too.

Dad, Mom and me lived at 315 Landing Road in Lumberton, NJ.

Typical Burlington County. Farms, farms and more farms. My parents had a fifties rancher surrounded by abount ten acres. Mom had a horse corral and boarded riding horses for extra cash. She even had an exercise track to put them through their paces. Behind that was a two-story garage where I lived. Upstairs was a fully furnished apartment. My bachellor pad.

I wrenched bikes downstairs in the garage part and most days hung out there with my buddies and an old “Coldspot” refrigerator we kept filled with Yuengling Beer. Once out of High School we got into the biker lifestyle in earnest – and started to look and act like real bums. We all worked together at a Kawasaki-Triumph Dealer on Route 206 in Tabernacle about five miles from home.

Most nights, our sovereign gang of Piney white trash – “Tel” Griffen, Bobby Koval, Eddie “Wingnut” Vos, Aurellio “Rel” Vincente, Bat Rodriguez and Toby Fledermann – would get shit-faced at the Red Lion Bar off Route 70 while still covered with grease and grime from the dealership. The babes didn’t mind. Everybody was cool.

I didn’t even have to drive down the main driveway past my parent’s house to get to my upper floor garage apartment. Our back fence abutted a huge commercial nursery (Medford Horticultural Gardens) where I worked part time during busy seasons. There was a deer path clear through the Nursery groves, over the Rancocas branch creek (a big-ass felled Maple tree about three feet wide and worn down flat into a walkway) and right to my garage staircase. My pad was one flight up.

Many a night I staggered home dragging my motorcycle next to me – ignition off for a couple thousand feet – over that log bridge so I could pass out in my pad without my parents seeing me. Bringing girls home to bang was also a snap – but getting them out before sunrise when the horses had to be tended by Mom sometimes was a bit tricky. I’m sure there were more than a few planters at Medford Horticultural out back that wondered why bleary-eyed, worn-out looking girls were wobbling through their lines of Arbor Vitaes so early in the morning. I rode ’em hard and hung ’em up wet.

My parents had to know what I was up to. They just never let on. They were good that way. Even though I wasn’t exactly a model kid, they loved me solid. It was a great place to grow up.

In the days that followed the UFO thing, Dad seemed to shake off his funk and get back to normal. His duty assignments suddenly got more hectic, though. He’d disappear for days at a time. He was sent to Reykjavik, Iceland for six months on some assignment he couldn’t talk about. My mom was a nervous wreck. She thought the Soviets were gearing up to drop the big one.

Next was a stint at a place called Bentwaters in England. All he said about that gig was it had to do with nukes the US stored there.

By the time Dad came home in January, 1980, he looked like he’d been hit by a train. He’d lost weight and his splendid uniform hung on him like a rag. His belt was on it’s tightest loophole and his pants bunched up in the back. That’s when he spilled the beans about his chest pains.

“Doc’ at the base in England sent me for some tests” he said.

Results were “negative”.

I guess the fact he couldn’t walk up stairs anymore without gasping for air or doubling over from chest pain didn’t mean anything to the AF medics. Bunch of quacks.

In 1981 Mom and I got a call from Ramstein AF base medical facility in Germany that Dad was being flown home. He’d suffered a series of strokes. Doctors said he had “aphasia”. I soon learned what that meant. He couldn’t speak normal because of brain damage.

Mom and I met Dad at McGuire AF Base in New Jersey. We’d taken a taxi there. An ambulance then home drove us all home. He’d apparently signed off on his pension papers. Ex Lt. John Braden was officially now a civilian.

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The weeks and months that followed were a blur. It was good to have my father home, but he was a wreck. The left side of his face drooped like melted cheese and his hands and arms shook constantly. He had all kinds of elimination issues – I’m trying to be delicate here – and Mom and I worked around the clock to keep him stable and clean. Dad’s usually bright hazel eyes now looked cloudy and bloodshot. He took a fistfull of pills each morning and evening. The few words he spoke were mostly unintelligible.

I cut back my hours at the motorcycle shop to stick around the house and help Mom. She gave up boarding horses because of the physical demands Dad presented. She had to feed him, bathe him, change his clothes constantly. Their house soon started to smell like a barn.

Then, a surprise when we least needed one.

One morning mom insisted I drive her to see a doctor at Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia. We got a neighbor to sit with Dad for a few hours. The news wasn’t good. A shitload of tests and specialists later, her medical diagnosis was revealed. Pancreatic Cancer, aggressive. Her doctor gave her a year, tops.

In October of 1980 – on top of all this shit – weird stuff started happening around the house. Phone calls at all hours of the days and night, sometimes hang-ups, sometimes dead air or whistling noises. Like static covered Pan flute music. I started sleeping on my parent’s TV room couch to keep and eye on things.

A few times I’d wake up in the middle of the night – like three o’clock in the morning – and see a car parked at the end of the house driveway. Looked like two people were in it. They’d slowly pull away, lights out, real careful not to make noise on the crushed stone surface. Once on Landing Road, they’d put their lights on and move away without gunning the engine. Real easy like. Quiet as a mouse – or in this case, a rat.

I made sure to dig out Dad’s Savage Springfield 12 guage pump shotgun, loaded a few shells in the tube and placed it behind the coat closet slide door near their front entrance. Just in case.

I worked Wednesdays through Saturdays at the Kawasaki-Triumph Dealer because I needed cash. I hated to be away for those eight hours each day and saddle Mom with all the responsibilities. One Thursday I came home to find her frantic and crying. I’m talking heaving for breath and in a body-trembling panic.

“Mom…mom, what the Hell is going on?” I stammered. I got her a cool damp towel for her face and sat her down in the kitchen while I ran and checked on dad.

He was shaking so bad the rivets in his recliner were creaking and groaning. What looked like tears were welling in his eyes and drool was cascading out his left jaw.

Dad’s right jaw was bright red, as if he’d given himself a bad shaving scrape or rug burn.

What the Hell…..?

I consoled my Dad as best I could and ran back to the kitchen to talk to my mother. When she calmed down a little what she said made my blood boil. She literally sputtered and coughed out something unbelieveable.

Two men in dark suits came to their house. They looked official so she let them in. They showed Dad some identification and asked for some “privacy” to speak with my father. Mom tried to listen from the kitchen but Dad had been watching TV and the noise from their old Admiral drowned out any words. But she could see them – reflected in the big dining room wall mirror. They were hovering around dad’s recliner and whispering to him inches away from his face. Up front and personal. Real agressive shit like you’d do to chained prisoners in a camp.

Suddenly, she said, Dad started to moan loudly and rock back and forth in the chair, whipping his head from side to side.

Mom heard a loud “slap”, like flesh on flesh – and rushed back into the living room where the men were. Dad was still straining in his chair, moaning and uttering noises like he was in pain. The skin around his right jaw was bright red.

The two men then backed away from him, no doubt motivated by something pungent. Dad had obviously soiled himself.

The mystery men then left.

Between Mom’s heavy meds and the strain of caring for my Dad, she was at the end of her rope anyway – but this event clearly shattered what little composure she’d had left.

“Who the Hell were they?” I asked, alarming her even further by the blind rage in my eyes. “Were they military?”

“I don’t know” she replied. “They had dark suits on and dark glasses and seemed to talk very quietly…..they looked strong……I was so afraid they were going to hurt your father…”

“That slap sound you heard…..” I asked her. “Did they hit him? Did they strike a sick, disabled, chairbound man wearing diapers???”

“Please, Rory!!!! PLEASE!!!” She cried, shaking even harder. “Enough, son….go and calm your father!”

I didn’t know what to think. I stayed awake most nights thru the next week cradling that Savage pump shotgun in my arms. Just waiting.

Come back, you dirtbags. I got four 12 guage sabot rounds racked up for ya’.

Who the Hell would harass an aphasic invalid and his terminally ill wife on an October evening in Burlington County, New Jersey, wearing dark suits and spooky eyewear? What did they say to my father that made him react so violently? And why did they slap him?

Just thinking about it made my ears ring from spiked blood pressure. Like an air raid siren inside my head.

Mom insisted that I carry on with my life – keep some balance and recreation to counteract the dire situation at home. But I had other ideas.

I never wandered far after that, checking back home frequently even when I was blowing off steam with my Piney pals. Most nights we’d get loaded and raise Hell, then walk our bikes the through the Medford Horticultural pathway, over the creek and into my backyard garage-bachellor pad to drink even more beer, smoke weed and crash.

I’d keep a buzzed but sharp eye on my parent’s house about an acre away, straight across mom’s now-overgrown horse run and a rotting manure pile that looked like a little volcano. I had clear line of sight to their driveway in the distance. I knew every light and room in that house. If anything was out of sorts, I’d be on it like flies on shit.

The next few weeks I busied myself with repairs and chores around the farm. It’s ten acres had old fencing all around that needed constant attention. Me and the boys were also putting the finishing touches – steps, railings and ballisters – on a deck at the back of my parents house.

Me and “Wingnut” Vos, “Tel” Griffen, Bobby Koval and Bat Rodriguez were all busting our asses to wrap it up before the weather turned too cold so my parents could sit outside and watch the birds and Fall colors. The boys knew what I was going through and were always there for me. Dependable as Marines. Well….insane Marines.

Then one night the weirdos came back.

Me, Wingnut, Bat and Tel were tired as shit after working all day on the deck, chainsawing trees behind the garage and clearing brush out front. We retreated to my pad, started chugging bottles of Yuengling beer and dreaming about food. Somebody was going to have to make a run out to the Red Lion Diner for takeout.

Then Tel noticed a car stopping at the foot of the driveway with its lights out and booted Wingnut in his ass to wake him up.

“Yo – Wing – check it out, Man…”

I heard their voices across the room and made my way over to the front window. We were all upstairs, over the garage. The two-storey building height made it easy to see a dark sedan stopped with its lights out at the edge of Landing Road and my parent’s driveway. No sooner did it stop than two people in dark clothing got out and started slowly walking to my parent’s front door.

There was a classic harvest moon out that night. Bright enough for us to see that these visitors were wearing suits, not uniforms – and they had hats on. Kennedy-era hats like the Rat Pack wore in those old Vegas movies. Fedoras.

It was about 9:30PM. My parents would be asleep. Why would these wierdos be stopping by now? Why indeed…..

“Time to go, boys”, I said pulling on my biker jacket.

“Frikkin’ A!” replied Wingnut. For a six foot, two hundred and fifty pound muscle-ripped dude, he moved pretty smooth-like. Tel and Bat followed close behind. Bobby Koval had left hours before to meet a chick at The Red Lion Bar.

My mind was racing. “Damn – I wish I hadn’t left dad’s 12 guage in the front door closet…” I muttered under my breath.

With me in the lead, we all crept across scrub we’d just cleared today, through the horse run and up towards the back of the house and that new deck. Somewhere near the pile of old horseshit I stopped and looked back at the guys in the moonlight. “You all down with this, right?”, I quietly asked, scaning their faces.

All I saw were crazy Pineys, heads nodding up and down.

“Frikkin’A!” Tel blurted out in a grinning, ball-busting hommage to Wingnut. We kept going, slowly climbing the decking stairs. Tension kept us sharp.

Wood debris, tools, nails and ballisters were strewn around because we still had to finish the top railing and supports. We watched where we stepped and made our way to the sliding glass doors to peek inside the house. I barely made out some reflections in the dining room wall mirror of what was happening in the living room right across from it.

I guess in some hive mentality moment we each picked up a ballister off the materials pile. Nobody had to say a word. Everybody was on the same page. Tonight was payback time.

Wingnut had already started moving the sliding glass door open and creeping inside. I took point because I was most familiar with the house layout. By the look of the mirror reflections, Mom was standing in the living room in her tattered blue night coat, gesturing. I could hear her pleading with the men to leave.

So here was me, Wing, Tel and Bat creeping through the hallway leading from the kitchen to the front door – off to the right of which was the living room where our “guests” were. We could hear my father’s familiar groaning and his squealing chair rivets. He was sounding louder and more plaintive, shaking his old recliner to pieces.

My mother was crying and screaming words through her tears. My heart broke as I heard her beg.

“PLEASE LEAVE US!!!!!! PLEASE LEAVE, NOW!!!!!!!”

I silently made way past the hallway bathroom and along the wall towards the front door. Soon Wingnut , Tel and Bat were inching their way along side the same living room wall – behind which our prey were now bent over yelling something to my spasming and frothing father. I couldnt make out the stranger’s faces in the dining room wall mirror reflections, but could see they had what looked like Ray-Ban fifties-style dark glasses on. They both looked like Ray Milland in “The Man With The X-Ray Eyes”.

The maple ballisters in our hands – stout, lathe-turned decking supports about the length of axe handles and just as hard – steeled our resolve. We were ready.

Without any hesitation Wingnut calmly stepped into the living room and whacked the guy to the right of my father. The force of the blow split his wooden ballister in two. The guy’s hat seemed to instantly fold into his head. He crushed inward like a ripe melon. Weird – like he was an eggshell skull baby. Blood spurted down his face and he started to seizure standing up, flailing his arms. His whole body shook like somebody stuck a cattle prod up his ass.

That’s right, I nodded in approval. “Dance, MoFo…. Dance!”

Now it was my turn.

I whacked the other guy as he turned towards his companion. Same result. The force of my ballister cracked the man’s skull bones like I hit a major league home run a with Louisville Slugger. Cantalope salad, anyone? The dude slumped over and started hawking blood out of his piehole like a faucet.

“And that’s all for you, pinhead. Slap any invalids lately?”

I gloated outloud, smirking like a psycho.

Then that odd, acrid smell happened. Ozone. Like fried ignition wires on a Triumph or BSA motorcyle with those really shitty British Lucas electrics. Wafting up from all that blood.

Ozone??? What the Hell…..?

The room fell silent. Only breathing could be heard – then whimpering from my mother who I was now holding close to my chest, covering her eyes from the carnage. My dad just stared straight head, tears streaming down his tortured face. His body tremors slowly subsided.

Only Wingnut spoke – probably just venting to break the tension. Eloquent as usual. A man of few words…

“Frikkin’ A….”

Tel and Bat started wrapping the guys in the carpets they were bleeding on. After a few minutes me and Wingnut joined in the cleanup. Tel got a roll of duct tape from a tool box on the still unfinished deck and we bound the two “packages” tight so we could drag them outside.

One of these weirdo sacks of shit had collapsed on a small notebook marked “Air Force Materiel Command”. It was soaked through with his blood. I wrapped it in newspaper and stuck it in my pocket.

And there it is. I took part in killing two guys that probably worked for the US Air Force or some government agency that did their dirty work.

My life was over. The shit had hit the fan.

But this wasn’t the end by a long shot.

END OF PART ONE

Copyright, 2021 Jon Croft