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and the police could do nothing to lower her fear; and Sammy, who never said much about these mysterious happenings, quivered all the time now.
This one day, I just kind of strolled by the old man’s store, now vacant, peeked through the window to see if he was there, knowing he wasn’t really, and took a quick look at that old picture on the wall, looked at that hard face, his eyes, that rifle, his solid stance, with the other soldiers. Then I noticed something I had never noticed before, but couldn’t see it clear, the faces on the men by him were strange, but I couldn’t pin point it, the strangeness to them. What was it, I mean, nothing alarming, just different, and something that didn’t belong. You ever get those feelings, something is wrong, but just what is not clear, I was getting on of those feelings. So I opened the window, it wasn’t hard, it was just old paint holding it tightly into its place, and once in I examined the picture closer.
The soldiers behind him were Japanese; enemy soldiers, with American Uniforms on. Funny I thought, then I looked closer, and there were soldiers behind them, holding the others up, the Japanese soldiers up, they were dead, all dead. Then I looked by their helmets, you could see round holes in their heads, all three of them. Funny I never saw that before, so I told myself, but then I only glanced at the picture, and it was behind the counter up a ways, blocked a bit by other items or merchandise. I had to take a second look, yes, yes, holes in the head, and not a bit of remorse from his face, from the old man’s face—cool as a cucumber. But why was he not holding them, why the other guys? So I asked myself. I looked closer at his rank: hay— I said, yes, he was the commanding officer, that’s got to be it, he was a captain, two bars, that’s captain rank all right. Then I noticed along side his belt, attached to his belt, on a chain hooked onto his belt, he had ears hanging. I quickly looked at the soldiers: my gosh, my gosh…I must have said it one –hundred times, “…my gosh…they have no ears!!”
—The old man then sent Muse a letter asking him how he was, how the gang was doing, hoping all was well with them. He even gave his new address so Muse, the big ox, so he could write back if he wished, and now Muse handed it over to the police, but the old man was back in Chicago, and Muse,belstaff leather jackets, well he and us in Minnesota, what could anyone do?
Sammy asked Muse, or better put, made a suggestion we all go to Chicago and do the old man in. But Muse was too scared, and I was not being tormented by him, it was they, so I refused (I figured better left alone, they did the dirty deeds they can pay the price, plus it was only a little scare tactic by the old man, for the moment).
Sammy did go on his own looking for the old man, bought a gun also, and never returned back to Minnesota. No one ever found a trace of him. The police questioned the old man, but all he said was: they had destroyed his property, and yes, Sammy came around, but he kept his doors locked, and would not allow him in, in fear of what might happen, and that was the last he knew of him. And once his story was checked out—for all knew the story back in Minnesota—the police left well enough alone, I mean, beyond that, what more checking could they do. But what bothered Muse was, the old man’s letters kept coming, and were cheerful. No revenge talk, no alarming words; nothing at all to indicate uneasiness, agitation, or apprehension. The disappearance of Sammy did not set well with his parents, but again, what could be done about it? Not a thing.
It was in July of 1966 when it happened, when it all took place. And it happened so quickly, so abruptly, it took a while to put it together. Mr. Beck had climbed up Muse’s tree somehow, someway, along side of his house, and opened his second story window, which led into his bedroom, he had cut the whole glass window right out of its frame. He was not a big man Mr. Beck, so he went through it easily. He injected something into Muse’s arm and stepped back as Muse jumped out of bed, and fell right back onto it paralyzed, like a big sequoia tree falling I picture it. Then the two-toned colored (green and black) charcoal face man—which looked similar to a leather mask tightly absorbed into his fleshy skin, his face, and neck, who we assumed at the time, to be Mr. Beck, had also a black bandana covering his forehead, silently paced the room, paced it calmly, and then abruptly, climbed upon the bed, like a scorpion, next to the huge Muse he bend his body to face him: head to head, the downed sequoia now had tears, moans coming out of Muse’s eye lids and mouth. Tangled,cheap belstaff jackets, entwined, unable to move inside his own body and not able to unfasten his muscles to save himself, he looked into those eyes of Mr. Beck, he must have, the very ones in the picture; but the old man had no intentions of killing him, yet that would be the only mercy he was granted, if that indeed can be called mercy: for the ugly part had not yet taken place.
The old man pulled out a butcher’s knife, one for slicing bacon backs, and cutting the tendons in the back of a pigs foot, hanging from—and coming down from, the conveyer belt at a slaughterhouse, he had worked there once; in addition, he had used it to cut out the infected parts deep imbedded inside the ham pieces of the fleshly pigs, used at the stockyards in South Saint Paul (sometimes he was even told to leave the infectious part in, if they noticed him cutting too much out; and he’d laugh, not at what they said, but at what might happen to the person eating that old boil left inside the ham).
Now the old man grabbed the youth’s hand, the one he had been hit with, slapped with, his right wrist was now being severed, and in the clap of an eye, he had cut it completely off with a sweep. Muse’s eyes almost popped out of his sockets. Then he cut out his tongue out, and when he left as quickly as he had come in, he had two ears dangling from his belt, along side of his belt, on an old chain.
—That very same night, the night he left Muse’s house, he snuck over to Amble’s house, into her bedroom akin to the way he got into Muse’s house, he knew he’d have to complete his mission all at once: this very evening to be exact, lest the cops catch him, and perchance the mission would have to be aborted because of other extenuating circumstances, thus, it was this evening it had to be done, if done at all; thus, there he stood, there in the melting dark room, looking at her, peering down upon her, like a devil with a long tail, wondering what she was dreaming of, and when she wakes up what her response would be: would she think she woke up in hell? Or perhaps this was a bad dream. He looked at her ears, her nose, her everything; he told himself this had to be done quickly, no time for waiting, he took out a drawer from her dresser, and threw the cloths on the floor, now he had it in the air, when she opened her eyes, he hit her, smashed her in the head with it, clubbed her over the head with it like the butt of a riffle, then cut her foot off as if she might try to chase him, then he kicked her cloths around like she had kicked his food around, the very one that kicked all the food onto the floor: was thumping inside his head. She was out like a light, and off came her ears, and out the window he was, four ears flopping against his thigh.
Everyone seemed to know who done it, especially the victims and their parents, but the old man simply said it was a mirage on their behalf, he had left well enough alone, plus, there was no proof to that anyhow, only cleaver guesses, although guesses that were pretty right on, you could not win in court, so the county attorney said. This is not the end of the story, no, the old man sent flowers to the hospitals they were both at, Muse and his girlfriend, like throwing salt on a wound. The parents of the kids even hired guards to sit outside the hospitals rooms.
One might be saying, this was overkill for a nasty deed done to an old man, and I’d agree with it, except, it might get back to the old man, and he’d come after me,ugg boots clearance, so I’m just saying: justice was done, and my uncle was right.
[4/2005] You may be asking, how do I know this to be true, and to be telling the story to you; well, my Uncle told me the parts I didn’t already know, and old man Beck was my uncle’s commanding officer in the war…something he forgot to let me know until after the incident; my sense of duty to my uncle was to say nothing to anyone and so I didn’t, I mean, I didn’t until now—some forty years after the fact. My uncle and old man Beck are dead now—the old man died in 1974 and my uncle in 2003; so I can now let the world know. Muse is still alive so if he reads this, he will know, and so is the once lovely Amble (her nickname we made up for her of course), whose real name is Marybell; sorry I couldn’t have told you sooner.
Author/Poet, Dennis L. Siluk
http://dennissiluk.tripod.com. He has published two books of short stoires, "Death by Desire," and "Dracula's Ghost," see bn.com or amazon.com or alibris.com