After The Flesh

Greenwich Village, New York.
Brendan still remembered the first murder; it had seemed almost like a
rite of passage to him at the time.
Adam Hollis had been a typical acne-ridden seventeen-year-old boy. Like
any teenager he had too much unused libido and not enough common sense.
Brendan had nothing against him; he was merely in the wrong place at
the wrong time. It had never seemed odd to have homicidal tendencies at
the tender age of eighteen, not to Brendan anyway. He recalled how
grotesque and laborious the whole process had been but how the result
had been so perversely satisfying. It was a curious sensation similar
to the elation an artist must feel when some great work has just been
finished after countless hours of preparation. He could still feel that
place, the sounds and smells. The surprising ease with which the soft
pliant flesh had split revealing all the hidden delights within. The
precision of each cut making him feel like some great surgeon. His
surgeon's knife now lay dulled and neglected, blunted by so many
similar operations that the procedure now held no fascination and was
almost mundane. His thirst had been quenched and now he longed for a
different challenge to satisfy some new inner desire that stirred in
him. He had conquered the realm of death and it now held no interest
for him to take a life. It seemed just as easy to squash a cockroach or
other insect as it did to kill a person. Perhaps the answer lay not in
death but in life, to see how long a victim could be preserved against
all odds before the battered body finally succumbed to the abyss. How
much pain could one person endure before he surrendered himself to
nothingness? He would need to find a worthy specimen and not just a
faceless parasite from society as so many of his previous prey had
been. Yes! This idea showed promise and filled him with a passion he
had not felt in months.
First of all he would need to prepare as always but the prospect of
this new challenge made it seem less of a chore and he began in
earnest.
Barcelona, Spain.
Michael Powers was a man at the top of his game; right now he felt
there was nothing he could not achieve. The world was his for the
taking! When he had first entered the gymnastics contests back in
secondary school all the boys had jeered and laughed at him, typical
for boys their age really. But now it was his turn to
laugh&;#8230;laugh at how successful he had become, an absolute
paragon of perfection. His body was a finely honed instrument shaped
and moulded into its current immaculate condition through years of
training and dedication. Now he could have anything, do anything, women
as he pleased, wealth and soon fame. His entire life had been leading
up to this moment like some crescendo in a great opera. He had made it
all the way to the world gymnastics championships and was determined,
no certain he would win. The prize money seemed trivial to him; it was
the title that he held in such high esteem. The knowledge that no man
on the planet could better him made his pulse race with elation. The
sensation was short lived however as the tannoy boomed over the arena
for him to approach the bars. He had spent weeks practising this event
alone and his head was not crammed with nervous last minute thoughts
about the routine as one might expect.
Instead he was toying with the idea of buying some modest accommodation
and settling down in the U.S.A after he had secured the title. He felt
the country suited him with its loud flamboyant atmosphere and he
allowed a smile to creep across his face before composing himself for
the task ahead. He took one last long deep breath, and jumped...
Manhattan, New York.
After ten long arduous years on the force detective Rick Kowalski was
starting to feel the pressures of urban living. It had been bad enough
working the beat on the streets of New York when he was a rookie cop.
Now it seemed his work consumed him so much he was tempted to lie a
mattress on the floor in his pokey fifth floor office. It felt like
months since he had last collapsed into his own bed back on West
fourteenth street in what barely passed for an apartment, in reality it
was barely two weeks. His life now seemed like an endless string of
drug busts and paper work that just would not quit. It disgusted him to
think of the number of perps and pushers he must have encountered over
the course of his service and at times he felt the whole procedure was
rather pointless as no matter how many of the bastards they caught
there would always be more.
He remembered one particular case when he had busted a pusher after
weeks of investigation only to find him dead in his cell two hours
later. It seemed that the small stash he topped himself with had been
missed on his cavity search&;#8230;pointless. Now after weeks when
the most interesting case that had crossed his desk was a repeating
drunk and disorderly offender he was desperate for something more
concrete. Just one more big case and he could get that promotion that
would mean he could order other bums around instead of vice versa.
Those seemed unlikely now though as a pile of paperwork loomed over him
like some ancient immovable monument.
Three unrelated lives, three very different men and three separate
destinies. But destiny is a strange thing and sometimes people who
thought they would never meet are thrown together in situations they
never conceived possible&;#8230;for better or worse. People often
forget that destiny can also be a cruel thing, a cruel, murderous and
bloody thing. A harsh lesson that these three will come to understand
all too well.
The sweat glistened in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. Like dozens
of tiny pearls the beads shone on his forehead. A thin plume of smoke
gradually began to rise from the desk in front of him. Brendan watched
as the now smoking fly twitched under the magnifying glass as it burnt
in the suns rays. He was captivated by the entire spectacle yet
sweating profusely with unease, he knew Father would be back very soon.
He knew that he shouldn't hurt the fly, that he shouldn't risk starting
a fire in the house and he absolutely should not be doing it on
Father's desk. Yet still he found himself simply sitting watching the
thing squirm whilst the oak of the desk grew blacker and blacker. By
now there was a veil of smoke settling across the room and the smell
had no doubt permeated the entire house. In spite of all these things
Brendan could not stop watching the fly - which now resembled nothing
short of a smoking raisin - burn and hiss under his control.
A loud bang downstairs soon roused Brendan from his torture of the fly.
Father! Back a whole half-hour earlier than expected. It wouldn't take
long for him to smell the smoke and Brendan had no where to run. He
knew what would follow, the lash. Father was a strict man and therefore
never hesitated about punishing Brendan. He had scars up and down his
body to prove it. When he'd kicked a ball through a window of the
house, five sharp lashes across the offending ankle. When he had gotten
mud all over brand new clothes only hours after they were bought for
him, seven swift lashes across the back&;#8230;even if he'd wanted
to he couldn't have rolled around in the mud after that. Even on one
occasion when he'd spoken a vulgar word in front of Fathers business
colleagues, one single stinging lash across his cheek. Yes Father was a
strict man and Brendan knew he would be disciplined.
Seconds after thinking this Brendan awoke with a jolt. Typical, nothing
more than a dream. A stupid silly dream and Brendan knew he'd never get
back to sleep now. The clock read four in the morning. No matter, down
to business. Why must he always dream of such inconsequential things
anyway, nothing but a fly? Although on reflection that had been the
first thing he had ever harmed so maybe it wasn't so trivial, it was
certainly the smallest creature he'd slain. He'd swiftly graduated to
bigger and better things like other people. But there was no time to
reminisce now; it was time to focus on the job in hand.
Crossing the room he settled at his desk under the glare of a
fluorescent lamp. The wall in front of him was canvassed with
photographs and various cut outs from newspapers and the like. Various
articles about torture victims, prolonged kidnap situations where the
victims were found barely alive. This was his "research" if you will,
reading up on his specialist subject. The small desk in front of him
too, piles of books and papers, everything from statements of torture
victims to psychological studies of the torture process.
Brendan would spend days reading all of this scrutinising any detail.
What methods had they used? What injuries had been inflicted? How long
had the victims been kept alive? As always he had to take all factors
into account in order to be successful. He hadn't survived this long
without being caught only to start getting sloppy now. There were still
a couple of quandaries he had yet to iron out. First of all he still
had to settle on an actual subject for the process, all the possible
candidates so far had either been out of the country or simply
inaccessible to him. After this had been accomplished he had to devise
a way to subdue the subject for transit. If he was to find a prime
physical specimen then surely such a person would not give up without a
fight and Brendan was rather poor at deceiving strangers. His family or
close friends, not a problem but for some reason he'd never been able
to lie to people he was unacquainted with&;#8230;curious. It was
obvious somekind of suppressant or anaesthetic would be required and
this also had to be procured. All of this thinking was only adding to
the already sizeable swelling in his temples.
Sleep.
If he could just get a couple more hours then he'd be clear headed
enough to think everything through. Reading the paper, that usually
made him doze off. Skimming through stories of others mundane little
lives nearly always made his eyelids feel like bricks. He scooped up
yesterday's paper and crashed back onto the lumpy excuse for a
mattress. The headline read, "TOP GYMNAST COMING TO NEW YORK". How
utterly uninteresting.
Interviews, what was the fucking point of all these interviews? Hadn't
millions of people world-wide already watched him win the
championship&;#8230;they'd all been sat in front of their television
sets watching him sail through all six of the events. It had been
broadcast on ESPN, Sky Sports, Eurosport and god knows how many other
stations worldwide! This had all been live on the actual night too, so
why had he spent the last three months travelling all over telling the
same story of how he did it? An endless chain of interviews all to
describe what any person with access to a T.V set had already seen!
He'd lost count of the number of chat shows he'd been a guest on. Every
single one practically an exact copy of the last. Answering the same
questions with a constant smile and feigning modesty the whole time.
Modesty? Why the fuck should he be modest!? He'd spent the better part
of his life trying to achieve this and now he was supposed to be
humble?
Well he certainly couldn't take much more of it, Michael was a patient
man but he had limits. He'd just become world gymnastics champion and
now he just wanted to relax, hadn't he earned a little rest? Well at
least they were headed for New York next, one of the less lifeless
cities he'd been dragged to. Plus he could start looking for that
hideaway he'd promised himself. Something on the Upper East Side maybe,
something with a view of the park, perhaps even a penthouse. Yes, he
liked the idea of being able to look down on all the little people
going about their business&;#8230;master of all he surveys.
The smooth sleek black limousine pulled up outside the Waldorf
Astoria. After all, if a champion could not travel in style then what
was the point in being champion at all? No sooner had the car came to a
halt than the attentive doorman rushed alongside to open the door.
Stepping out Michael turned to him and went to shake hands, passing him
the folded twenty-dollar bill concealed in his palm as he did so. The
American obsession with tipping was one gripe he could live with out
but he found it to be a necessary evil. Usually one hefty tip would
curry favour with a hotel porter or maitre'd for the better part of a
week. It was just so much less awkward than having them stand on
ceremony clearing their throats whenever they left a room. No sooner
had the doorman disappeared from view than a bellhop appeared just as
swiftly. The bags were all scooped onto a trolley and after another
"handshake" Michael and company proceeded into the hotel lobby.
Now understand that "Michael and company" refers to the small army
that now seemed to travel everywhere with him. Heck! The guy couldn't
even take a shit by himself anymore. It's the price of fame apparently,
it's also another nuisance he could quite happily live without. There
were now no less than three people with him at any given time, whether
it be his press agent, his trainer, some reporter getting the "inside
info" on what Michael Powers is really like! Strange, reporters always
wanted to find out what he was "really" like by following him around
all day and kissing so much ass they have cooties for a week. All he
wanted was to get upstairs and get some privacy&;#8230;well maybe
some privacy and a couple of adoring young female fans, also the price
of fame.
Asshole! Fucking asshole! The detective was not a happy man. His day
had started badly enough with a phonecall from one very pissed
landlord; apparently one of the senior occupants of the building had
nearly died screaming when she saw a cockroach crawl out from under his
door. The old lady was practically a walking prescription anyway
popping two bottles of pills a day, she probably looked worse than the
roaches did. Now he was being threatened with an eviction notice unless
he coughed up some cash for an exterminator. Rick told the guy to take
it out of his security deposit and was swiftly reminded he'd never put
up the cash for that either. He was on the verge of telling the
landlord where he could shove the roaches when he got an "urgent" call
to see the captain.
Now we'll just pause here for a moment because a few things need
explaining before we continue. See an "urgent" call to the captain's
office usually meant one of three things: either he'd been caught
banging his secretary again and needed a cover story before word got to
his wife, that was the most common. Or maybe due to budget cuts his pay
was going to be held back a month yet again so there'd be enough money
to keep all the cops in doughnuts for another few weeks. The last and
worst possibility was that the commissioner had been breathing down the
captain's neck again about some big case the detective had never heard
of. Whatever it was Rick knew it couldn't be good.
Rick took a deep breath and opened the office door. This was as much
to prepare himself as to protect his lungs. The captain practically
invented the term "chain smoker". The ashtray on his desk looked like
somebody had been cremated in it. The captain was stood by the window
staring down at the street already lighting up another. The detective
was told to come in and sit down which was odd because by now the
captain would usually be yelling orders peppered with various colourful
expletives. There was a strange calmness about him that made Rick very
uneasy. Settling behind his desk the captain threw a copy of The New
York Times into Rick's lap. The headline read, "TOP GYMNAST COMING TO
NEW YORK". Oh shit!!!
In reality this gymnast had been in the city for the past week and his
sponsors were very worried somebody might try to take a pop at him. The
captain had explained all this in a matter of minutes and also added
that some top brass would be keeping an eye on the department to make
sure he was well taken care of. Great, that meant major league brown
nosing and babysitting. Apparently the guy already had his own private
army watching him around the clock but they wanted a
"professional".

TO BE CONTINUED...