The Pragmatic Fragment of Diem Hain Marshalltow: 1987
The first page:
Spawns & spawns of memories I wonder,
To the eyes my mind has seen,
I gave to you my heart and soul,
Sacrificed my all in vein,
The whole of a woman,
The devil inside,
A friend’s true love,
Will never hide,
The beast forever on my skin,
Though my heart and mind belongs with-in,
He chewed me up and spit me to the floor,
All for the lust I could not endure,
My whole life I may never truly know,
Why I killed myself for you,
Love I loved and love I took,
All for a woman.
Kabe closed the book for a brief moment so he could enjoy another cigarette.
Just off I74 Interstate: 1987 1:34 A.M.
“Oh fuckin God man,” Thomas moaned from with-in, as tears streamed down his filthy cheeks. “What have I done...?” He interrupted himself with wheezing coughs. “What have I done?”
Thomas wasn’t talking to no one but himself. He had stared at the ceiling of a tiny bedroom in an abandoned farmhouse for close to eleven hours coming down off his cheap meth high. He was a wasted talent. Once an esteemed family man, now a low down drug addicted murderer. He had been hiding for the FEDS now for four days, on the run; he had nested in the abandoned house after a quick theft from the nearby grocery store of some robutussin so he could relax with his thoughts. What Thomas didn't know was that it wasn't the FEDS he had to worry about...
The second page:
ANGER, RAGE, HATE & SORROW
WINDOWS EYES, SOULS SO NARROW
A TASK OF ENDLESS BOUNDS
SEVEN DEADLY SINS WITHIN
OUR LIVES WE LIVE DENIAL
A FACE A COVER
THE BODY A SHELL
WHATS HIDDEN BEHIND OUR SMILES-
“Very vague writings," Kabe said shutting the journal, he turned it over and focused his sight on the obscure design on the back. He could not distinguish what it was. Maybe it's another map of some sort. Kabe thought.
Kabe was drawn in by the arcane writings of this unknown individual, or individuals, considering different languages and the many variations in hand writings. Something seemed to create a rather disquieting desire within Kabe to read on. He thumbed further through the pages of the thick journal, he noticed on some pages; many various writing styles were scribbled, from top to bottom. After thumbing about a third of the way through the journal a torn page floated to the floor. It was another enigmatic drawing, scribbled on a thin yellow fabric. The art covered the entire sheet, this one of a naked lady; he studied the picture a bit and admired its immaculate detail. Kabe read just below the drawing:
There were many arms about her. Her bosoms sprouted perk, her naval exposed naked and fresh. There were wings…arms and legs evaporated into a steamy mist, like a genie being released from a lamp. Temptation…pulls…enticement. Her one eye shut and the other open. No words, just silence. All were right handed, hovering, clinching tight and even sweating profusely. Never touching, only longing to.
The dreams were reoccurring and hard to forget. They had disturbed me as I awoke on a daily basis. The distinctive point of this uncanny dream was the four leafed clover tattooed to the women’s thigh. There was a name written above it, to elusive to discriminate.
There was yet another poem near the end of the journal:
-MY HEART HAS REALIZED
FREEDOM WITH THE SOUL
ONLY YOU ARE THE KEY
LIFELESS TO LIFE
MUST YOU FIND
PRISON CAN BE FOR ALL
WISE PATHS CHOSEN
LUST SETTLES WITHIN YOUR LIPS
SEALING A KISS WITH HUNGER
ONE IS MORE THAN THE DEVIL
BLIND LOVE IS DEEP INSIDE-
Beyond the enigmatic poems even stranger writings emerged, Kabe didn't read on though, not just yet. He closed the book and rubbed his knuckles deep into his eye sockets. It was getting late... 2:16 A.M. Omar's clock displayed.
The Seventh Son of the Seventh Son:
Marshalltow, the forebear of time, inveigled his women into a total nirvana. He created, for most of his victims, a euphoric template of all their hopes and dreams being commended, by one and all, with beguiling chicanery. Marshalltow was not of this world, but of this universe.
His bright green eyes coruscated, just before he covered them with his ray-ban sunglasses, shading them from the glinting moonlight that fought its way through the indistinct clouds. He adjusted his watch to a comfortable fit on his right wrist, and then settled his black tie, nice and tight up against his bulging throat. Brushing his hands along the sides of his navy-blue blazer, he pulled down on the bottom edges of the corners firmly, fitting it nice and snug around his shoulders. Glancing into his rearview mirror, smiling, he wiped his teeth clean with his left index finger. “Time to go to work.” He muttered, winking to himself narcissistically through his sunglasses.
He turned the ignition, without any hesitation, the engine roared. The tires squealed away, throwing loose rock all around the gravel road, that led away from his ranch buried deep within the conservation club on Oaklaw Road in Moline. The Illinois license plates read JOKER 28, elusively through a dusty layer of exhaust fumes as the 77 Malibu sped and swerved onto the north shore drive freeway towards the interstate.
Marshalltow lay back with a constant cunning smile across his face; he placed a black cider cigar into his mouth this was dipped in honey and crammed with marijuana. Focused towards his destination of endless bounds, he reached over to his briefcase lying next to him in the passenger seat and pulled open the locks, revealing two separate pieces to a gun. A low tone of Jimi Hendrix’s All along the watchtower was playing on the radio. He pulled the gun and the silencer with his free hand from the protective surroundings. After screwing on the silencer and concealing the gun inside his sport coat, Marshalltow turned the radio up as far as it would go.
Amusing and enchanting with charisma, he was unmerciful, disheartening with relentless ingenuity. Like a midnight rider, his eyes were tunnels, concentrating on the road ahead of him, the task at hand.
The Malibu pulled onto interstate 74 heading north towards Davenport, Iowa. His speedometer read 85 as he crossed over the empty 280 bridge from Illinois to Iowa. After he reached the Iowa side he slammed his boot to the floor. The carburetor opened its mouth wide full of gas. His speed was now max, the engine, deafening.
Fall weather had settled in on the small town of Davenport.
Dark, evil shadows from the fetid apple trees lay sprawled across the vacant field next to this deserted farmhouse, leaving those lifeless expressions on any passerby’s from interstate I 74 many yards away. The farmhouse was secluded from the moon light due to the over shadowing from the woods behind it, almost completely swallowing the it. The field leading up was strewn with dead leaves, and putrid acorns from the profusion of trees and the aged fall season.
Thomas' mind had gone empty; all days had become night to him. He lay there naked and cold on his bed. He stared endlessly at the low ceiling in his bedroom. He was high wired on crystal myth his body felt numb, he felt dead. He held a loaded .45 to his leg rubbing it on his kneecap; he slowly raised the .45 to his temple his eyes clinched as he pressed the cold barrel firmly to his head.
Why has life deserted me? I’ve failed as a man. I have no one. Alone and never able to hold a job, The things I've done just for drugs. I fuckin lost total control. I told him not to fuck with me but he would not stop. Why did he have to say something about my mom? Mom please, Jesus God forgive me. I didn’t mean to kill anyone. Why did you have to leave me mom? I loved you so much. You were all I had. I wished you could have somehow been able to help me spiritually, somehow helped me to put the brakes on when I needed to. We lost the house. Jenny and the kids want nothing to do with me anymore. I had to pawn most everything off just to pay for gas, and find a place to sleep sometimes. But that fucking policeman had to pull me over and had to search my car. I went along with it until he found my acid hits stashed deep inside my wallet. That’s involuntary manslaughter, ten years no matter what. Fuck that. I fuckin reached for the back of my pants and pulled out my .45 and shot that son of a bitch dead in the face. My life instantly flashed before my eyes. Immediately my life had changed in less than two seconds.
“Oh fuckin God man,” Thomas moaned from his mouth, as tears streamed down his filthy cheeks. His meth filled mind had rambled on constantly for hours.
Diem Hain had arrived, moving swiftly out of the Malibu and making a beeline for the vacated farmhouse door. Slamming the door shut, not worried of anyone hearing him, he took a long hard puff on his marijuana cigar and exhaled through his nostrils. He concisely removed the concealed silencer and with brunt force kicked the farmhouse door wide open snapping both hinges. He trotted up the faded red carpeted steps pass the bathroom, now a gutted hole, straight into the room where Thomas lay starring into oblivious. “You have called upon me my son.” Marshalltow spoke grimly. “I have come to free you from hell, and turn you over to the Lord.” Thomas briefly looked down the barrel of the silenced weaponry without hesitating, or really even knowing, he glanced back into his own subjective sense momentarily.
Now normally Marshalltow would have killed him, dead in his tracks but something held him back. Just before squeezing the trigger of his pistol at his murderous victim, Marshalltow’s periphery vision began to consume him. I told you so. Raided his mind, as plain as day he saw it, with flames though, mysterious. It can’t be, he thought.
By Michael Mowder, Jr. 1999-2001
Illustration w/added effects:
By Michael Mowder, Jr. 1997, 2011