Fun House Chronicles
CHAPTER ONE
Fun House Chronicle: Meal time
“Get me down to dinner, you goddamn bitches.” Gladys announces she is ready to eat.
The cognitive residents share one end of the dining room, each with three tablemates. They gossip, tell tall tales, and gripe about the afternoon’s entertainment, especially if the Belly Dancing Grannies performed again. One resident might introduce another’s brittle ankle to a lightning quick swing of her walker, but otherwise meals pass uneventfully.
The more helpless residents eat in the war zone at the other end of the dining room. Some manage on their own in about the same way toddlers do. Others are spoon fed. After each meal, bits of food cling to the popcorn ceiling and to the staff. Eying an aide’s scrubs, the physical therapist says, “I see squash was on the menu tonight.”
Most aides are patient with their old charges. The youngest among them chirp like song sparrows, filling old ears in great need of idle chatter. They share their stories about two-timing men and frizzy ends and what little Bobby did yesterday. Some even seek counsel from the residents who have seen more and done more. These may be the only solid relationships they’ve ever had with the elderly.
It will end, of course. These old people will die. Experienced aides grow wary of exposing their hearts.
Time passes, and mealtime begins again. “Get me down to dinner, you goddamn bitches.”
***
Lessons of Evil
CHAPTER ONE
They think they know everything, but they’re as easy to fool as anyone else. Abishua had learned that lesson years ago from the psycho-babble they forced on him at Oregon State Penitentiary. He’d been paroled early because of all the ‘progress’ he had made. They had no one but themselves to blame for the bloody mess he’d made of a girl that night as a celebration for his freedom.
At the moment he was clipping his fingernails over the office waste can, thinking about the newest mind fucker. She will fail, too, this Laura Covington, just like her predecessor. She’d never have hard proof of a damn thing. Not when a spy reported back to him from deep inside each of his creations. His followers would keep an eye on her, too. Nothing overt. He never exposed his Seekers of the Absolute Pathway to unnecessary scrutiny.
Abishua looked at his fingertips, now satisfied with his handiwork. “Cadman,” he said to his oldest son who was, as always, nearby. “Keep an eye on Laura Covington. Be sure she doesn’t push too far.”
He turned his attention to the small child sitting motionless at his feet. “It’s time,” he said. “Tick, tick, tick.”