The One Percenters Read online

  Damnation Books, LLC.

  P.O. Box 3931

  Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

  www.damnationbooks.com

  The One Percenters

  by John W. Podgursky

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-013-2

  Print: ISBN: 978-1-61572-012-5

  Cover art by: Daniele Serra

  Edited by: Heather Williams

  Copyright 2009 John W. Podgursky

  Printed in the United States of America Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced , scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The One

  Percenters

  By

  John W. Podgursky

  Dedicated to

  My mother, for her unyielding support.

  Acknowledgements:

  I wish to thank the people who make me feel semi-normal. You know who you are.

  Page 1

  Chapter One

  My mother used to say I have a tendency to dwell on the subject of death. I tend to disagree with the bitch. I don’t dwell; I savor. Here’s why: Her name was Samantha James. An all-American name for an all-American girl. She was born just before the Zeldas, Phoebes and Zoes inherited the Earth—back when there remained a small measure of sense to life. Before the pixie dust of the new millennium stole our innocence. Sam worked as a checkout girl at the market on Fifth, and we met on a rainy morning that now feels like a lifetime ago.

  I won’t get bogged down in tedious detail; there’s no need to make it messy. Samantha was methodical in her daily schedule, a fact that made for simple timing on my part. And timing is essential in matters such as these. I waited beside the dumpster until she exited the grocery on her lunch break, and together we made for the woods, though she needed a little prodding. I understood that. We would take it slowly, one step at a time. It was best that way.

  I had packed what little I possessed into two neatly tied plastic bags, knowing I would soon be on the move again. It was not my intention to befriend Sam for long. I needed only to spill my guts, to regain my sense of dignity. I lost that back at the lake when the screams echoed in my ears.

  Sam’s entrance into my life was far from random. Young, bright, and beautiful, she represented the naiveté and denial running rampant in the world today. It would be easy to convince someone of my own grain; I would be preaching to the choir. Rather, I felt I needed a new and different challenge. Sam would have to do. She was a pretty doll indeed.

  It was midday when I began my discourse. The rain had tapered, though the sky was still a hostile gray.

  There was no noise in the forest at that time, which is unusual. Forests are full of buzzes, whistles and hums.

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  Sam stood facing me, tied to a tree, whimpering from behind the bandana. This hurt me. I didn’t want to see pain on her face. Who would? I had seen and experienced enough pain in my lifetime to that point. I only needed her to listen, to be my friend for a while. I hadn’t had many friends.

  Her sadness seemed decidedly ironic. Here I was, trying to let her in on perhaps the most important process in the world around her, rescuing her from a few hours of mindless and unfulfilling labor, and she was in tears. She should have been rejoicing to the heavens!

  As Sam stood before me tied to that tree, she was shaking noticeably. I suppose I can’t blame her. There is, after all, no magic pill I could give her to show her what kind of a man I was. There is no quick trust in this lifetime. You can’t fake time spent. Whatever I wanted to instill in her had to come through the spoken word, and what better and more natural form of expression is there than systematic grunting?

  I removed the gag from her mouth, slowly and with an expression that made it plain she was to maintain her composure. Even if she was to be trusted, I could not trust the world at large to understand. Not yet, and probably never.

  “Samantha.”

  There was no response from her. I tried repeatedly to elicit an answer, but did not wish to resort to violence. I was out to help, not to hurt.

  “Samantha.”

  Still nothing. Fine then. I would wait. I am, after all, a patient man. It’s a gift, I know. Some folks must learn patience, slowly and with great frustration.

  An hour passed, and she cried a lot.

  Tears are funny; their calming effect. Crying stabilizes. I knew it was only a matter of time before Sam came to her senses. I was right, and she did. At last, she motioned awkwardly at me with her head. She was free to speak, but was apparently uncomfortable in doing so. I edged closer to her. Finally:

  “What do you want?” Her words were weak and choked upon. They came out as one long, forced word.

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  I’d been rehearsing my response all morning.

  “I only require you listen. I am not here to hurt you. In fact, if I knew you better, we could be having this conversation right in front of the market. Although it is quite beautiful out here, wouldn’t you say?” Forest aesthetics— humble, splendid, even eerie—are among my favorite.

  Again it took her a long time to respond.

  “H-How do you know my name?”

  “I’ve been watching you, and I asked around a bit. The details aren’t important, really.” Indeed they weren’t. Details are for the compulsive, the anxious-minded. I had learned that from years in the advertising business. Go with the flow.

  Suffice it to say we spoke for a while that day in the woods on Fifth Street. In the end, she asked me:

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  The inevitable question. I didn’t immediately answer.When we met in the parking lot that morning, I had hoped that Sam would turn out to be one of them. It would have made this so much easier for me—

  two birds with one stone and all that. After our little therapeutic dialogue in the forest, she would help me in my mission, passively. I thought I could do it without so much as batting an eyelash, just as I had the other times. But it wasn’t turning out that way. In the course of our discussion that day, I sensed a big heart within her. I sensed passion and wit, and strength. These are rare assets. I hadn’t planned for this discovery, and in truth, I wasn’t sure I could answer her question yet. I didn’t know what I was going to do with her.

  How had it all come to this? I only know how it began.

  Page 4

  Chapter Two

  I found her body on a Tuesday; that much I remember.

  I had been infatuated with Jill from the start, and in the end, we had shared the type of selfless, warm love that perhaps one in ten will encounter in their miserable, self-centered lives. Then, she was no more than a cooling corpse at the edge of the woods. Her eyes were half-shut, which of course means they were also half-open. I didn’t feel comfortable closing the world off to them for the last time, so I sat there under her creepy gaze. I felt for a few moments like she would spring up from the ground with a sharp “Boo!” and it would all be over. It would mean that my nightmare would never have started, and I’d be sleeping much more comfortably these days, unaware of what I now know. Sometimes it’s better we don’t know.

  It was raining cold upon her form, and there was leaf litter in her hair. In a state of combined shock and grief, I picked the leaves out and covered her with my coa
t, shielding her body from the weather, preserving her dignity. Dignity was all I could grant her now; someone had assured that. Some man.

  The articles in all the papers opened with Jill’s name, but after the initial courtesy mention, she was known simply as Number Seven. Lucky number seven.

  My Jill was one of the eventual nine struck down by the Solemn Stalker in the autumn of ‘05. His calling card was one small Bible placed alongside each of his victims. I’ve always wondered if perhaps it was a sign of a strong sense of irony. I know now that it was indeed a “he,” though I had assumed it from the start. Jill’s panties were in the down position upon my arrival on the scene.

  The late-night talk show hosts had a feast joking about this guy. Originally, I found myself laughing right along with them, but a situation seems very different indeed, when it affects you personally. Perspective becomes skewed. After Jill died, I was hoping someone Page 5

  would knock off the comedians. Maybe they’d die laughing, if you’ll pardon the hackneyed pun. Laughter comes hard for me these days, like breath after a blow to the sternum.

  I will say this: you have to be pretty good to kill nine women in three months, and pretty angry too. Having thought it over, I didn’t buy the insanity bit—the excuse eventually given by the Solemn Stalker (even while maintaining his innocence!). There are mutations and fuck-ups in nature to be sure—I’ve met plenty of them—but insanity is a little too convenient for my liking. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who is both calculating enough to kill, and cognizant enough to get off on the sick power trip rape provides him, is all too aware of what’s going on. Cuckoo people don’t give a shit about power. They have enough on their minds.

  Jill was wearing a white sweater when her throat was cut. I remember the blood showing up well on it. There was a lot, as you would imagine, although I suspect it wasn’t quite as bad as my mind remembers.

  These things always look much worse when clothing becomes bloodstained. Her sweater looked like it had been washed along with several dozen tubes of lipstick—

  the color all the neo-bimbos wore those days.

  They found her killer a month (and two murders) later. Jeffrey Simons was his name—the name of an accountant, not a felon. I thought that then, and I think it now. He was a short guy, wiry and bearded. Stable background, loving family. Worked as a bartender, and was well liked by folks at his restaurant of employ. He even hosted an annual holiday party for his coworkers.

  How nice. This was the man who stole my life and my happiness. Apparently he just snapped. That’s the best the so-called experts could do. We think we’re so damn smart, we H. Sapiens do. We pretend to have it all figured out. I guess we all just want to feel in control, like Jeff Simons.

  I saved the news clippings for a while, but tossed them in protest of the glorification they provided this guy. Some things are not worth remembering. Now I just cry in memory. Yes, even now. Some man I am.

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  I was happy they found him, but I suppose that much is obvious. Besides providing closure, it got the police off my case and out of my life. Cops are generally good people, and certainly necessary for society to function (such as it does). But if you don’t need to encounter one for a good long while, chances are your life is going okay.

  Other people came calling, too. You wouldn’t believe the attention you get when a serial killer bumps off your wife. Not just friends and family, but media, book publishers, religious zealots, psychiatrists. The world is full of people with little taste and less class. I guess we can’t all be like my Jill. She made up for my many flaws and then some. And that’s saying a lot, I assure you.

  I now know what empty feels like. Empty is eating the last cookie in the box. Suddenly it’s gone, and you’re not sure you’ll ever get out to the store again.

  You’re left with memories of the chocolate flavor, but your stomach is soon growling again, and that’s all that really matters. I wanted my wife back. Get your own damn wife, Jeffrey!

  I wanted to drive to the prison and slay him with my own hands, but that’s not the right thing to do, is it.

  I suppose I should have moved, right there and then, to a state that has the death penalty, just in case lightning should strike twice. But I didn’t.

  I said earlier that you have to be good to commit nine murders. As it turned out, Simons was downright lucky as well. According to the newspapers, he left quite a trail and the cops had a good idea of the murderer’s profile after Number Three bought the farm (a fat accountant by the name of Mary Peters).

  When they apprehended Simons, there was some controversy concerning the length of time it had taken to pinpoint the culprit. Considering the death spree lasted barely three months, there must have been a hell of a lot of misread evidence in the early cases for anyone to complain about “find-time,” as the papers labeled it.

  I’m not a detective, but I think three months is pretty damn good. These things often stretch out over years and involve the cooperation of several precincts.

  Page 7

  Personally, I think the media was disappointed at having lost a hot scoop so quickly. Their questioning of police method was probably just a desperate attempt to rekindle public interest in the case.

  In the end, though, they had such an abundance of evidence against Simons for murders one through five that the rest became an afterthought. Come to think of it, the police didn’t spend all that much time at the site of Jill’s murder— or so I’ve heard—and hardly appeared the meticulous group of investigators one views on late-night “real detective” shows. I guess six through nine were just tack-on sentences in the pragmatic minds of the cops.

  Nine murders. I remember thinking at least the guy got his money’s worth before he was caught.

  I know that sounds insensitive, especially considering my closeness to the case, but sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying.

  It’s funny, the things that crossed my mind those days. Shock can do funny things to a man’s thinking.

  I guess it’s a physical defense. If you don’t buy that theory, drink water and shit ice, because you are one cold fucker. Anyway, I don’t remember asking your opinion.

  I took to drinking after Jill’s murder. I had always been a wine guy, zinfandel and then merlot as I aged, but I found myself holding the whiskey bottle on a daily basis. It gets the job done quicker, and it doesn’t leave that nappy feeling in your throat if you overindulge, which I did frequently. Alcohol can be your best friend.

  A draining and dangerous friend, though, the one who is constantly borrowing money and secretly banging your wife on the side. You don’t admit it to yourself, but you know what’s going on. You keep quiet, of course, as long as he keeps making you feel oh so good—keeps making you forget.

  My mailman started delivering the mail to my door. I know that he meant well by it. He was a nice man who walked with a limp on the left side. His name was Tom Jefferson—I kid you not. He was a tall man with one of those brushy mustaches that is so full, it interferes with the bearer’s speech and makes him Page 8

  sound like he’s speaking through a towel.

  Tom would come to the door, junk mail and solicitations in hand, and greet me with a courteous though not overly cheerful, “Afternoon, Mr. Caine.” I’d just nod my head and reach for the mail through my torn screen door. I wish I had Jill’s gun when that mutt tore through the screen. Tom would go on and on for a while. One afternoon, I invited Tom in and served him coffee. As he drank, I said nothing and let him small-talk away. Eventually he ran out of comments on the weather, and we sat there in awkward silence. The very next day, my mail started coming to the box again. I guess he took the hint. It was worth a cup of coffee. Tom’s all right as acquaintances go, but he lives by too many rules, it’s a cinch to tell. His shirt was always over starched, and I never heard him use a contraction. It was always “It is” and “Can not” and “We have.” Silly man. I wanted to stick a catalogue up his ass. The big one w
ith all the riding mowers and circular saws. Just the one I imagine he most hates delivering.

  I quit work too. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that.

  I quit work and watched an awful lot of TV. I think I missed conversation. I watched a lot of soap operas, which I suppose must seem a rather strange thing for a grown man to admit. I suppose I just enjoyed seeing people in relationships, even if those relationships were based on shallow, wanton desires. Besides, people on soaps are always pretty, and it felt good to look at pretty faces and asses. Whom are we kidding with this equal opportunity bullshit? Anybody seen by the public should have to pass some type of beauty test. Who wants to be served a burger by some hairy woman with a mustache like Tom’s?

  Jill had a very pretty face. I always told her that it reflected her soul so that the whole world would know what a saint she was. Her eyes could only be compared—favorably—to the bubbles that accumulate on the top layer of a bucket of sudsy water—reflective, sparkling, almost iridescent. Her eyes were blue centered with green trim. Deep, honest and thoughtful, they whispered “believe.” But that means fuck-all now.

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  Most of the time I was depressed and in an alcoholic stupor. It’s a hell of a mix. I looked like a caricature of a drunk—stubbly face, white undershirt, matted hair—and I certainly played the part well.

  I woke up on the couch one morning with crumbs in my ears. I started to get minor bedsores, and realized if I didn’t get up off that damn sofa, I was gonna be in a world of pain. I kept one of the empty whiskey bottles as a reminder never to let myself get into that state of mind again. For a while, it worked. For a while.

  After Jill died, I realized there wasn’t much depth to my life. I had few friends and fewer hobbies.

  What can I say? Jill was my whole world. I was never very popular in school, and after I found her, I figured my luck-well had been tapped clean. Besides, I didn’t need anybody else. I like to think that Jill felt the same way. All the same, she had plenty of friends. Women who look like her and act like her and think like her usually do.