Stream Album: The Builders and The Butchers

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   sageturk says *Chapter 2: Red Hands* My head was killing me. Sitting at the bar counter, nursing a beer, I put a finger to my eyebrow - and squinted from the pain. I took a swig and put the chilled bottle up to my temple - closing my eyes, hoping to get lost in the musky silence of this run-down little pub. Silence this deep, even for a middle-of-nowhere place like this, was a little odd - glancing around I could see the place was empty. Even the bartender was gone. I took a deep breath, and sunk into the heartbeat in my ears... ...when feedback tore into my skull like shrapnel. I yawned open my mouth to pop my ears and turned angrily around - squinting against the neon crackle of a decade old Dos Equis sign. I'd been to this dive dozens, maybe hundreds of times and had never even realized that the pile of dilapidated shit in the corner was actually hiding a stage. But there it was, materializing from the moldy boxes and stacked chairs like one of those Magic Eye novelties. I squinted harder. There on the stage, dark as specters, were six figures. The tallest was at the front, gripping a battered mic stand. He began to whine into the microphone - a nasally yawlp of a voice that stretched thin over accompanying banjo, bass, and whatever the hell else they were playing. Looking around, I tried to assess how they got here, or better yet, why they were playing to an empty podunk bar. I was feeling surly enough to throw my bottle at them, but decided instead to reduce their audience to none. I stood up, steadied myself, and headed for the door. As I pulled open the door, jangling the little alert-bell, I felt the back of my neck grow tense - I was being watched and I turned suddenly to meet the gaze. Time seemed to slow - not in hazy stupor, but the exact opposite - a crystalline focus concentrated in this dirty room. I found myself drawn in toward the players, pulled outward through my eye balls and suddenly there I was, sitting at the table closest the stage, my beer still in hand, tears flowing down my cheeks. I sat enraptured - i'm not sure how long. The band must have finished their set and left - I found myself truly alone and for once, truly aware of what I was, and what I needed to do. I looked down at my palms, slick and dark in the dusky light, and took a shaky swill of beer. The alcohol didn't do much to stop the shaking - but then again, nothing quite kills a buzz like finding yourself with two fistfuls of someone else's blood. *Chapter 3: Spanish Death*

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   I squirt a long dreg of Lavender hand lotion into my palms, rubbing the greasy liquid into my chapped skin. Honestly, as much as I hate the humidity, I'd take it any day over the cracking arid hell of northern Mexico. After several days in that scorched terrain a microscopic view of my skin would have revealed a landscape not unlike the chipped floodplains that hadn't seen an honest to goodness flood in decades. Lucky for me the dusty little gas-station bathroom had it's priorities straight. No roach motels, toilet paper, or hot water - just a fresh bottle of Johnson and Johnson's best. I wiped the excess up my arms and headed out into the blinding light. The sun down there is like battery acid - coating every surface in a white corrosive crust. I shade my eyes with a floral scented palm and head into the tiny station-mart. A sad old man sits alone behind the counter, seemingly trapped in this single cell prison of cigarettes, dried meat and phone-cards. I slip him a handful of american money - he nods, and I head back out to my SUV. I worry about that old man. It doesn't help that my rented SUV has probably sucked up every last oil particle, dinosaur bone, and indian burial ground within a square mile radius. I don't have time to worry though - just as I wonder what time it is, a deep bell bellows out from the nearby church - a run-down chapel seemingly built of mud and crosses. Four times the bell rings out - seemingly once for each fresh mound I'd left in its back yard. I start to worry again - no one should have been at that church, but the bell is ringing none-the-less. I wonder if the old gas man has a plunger - I think all that money I flushed has probably clogged the pipes. I wonder if I should pick up some sun-glasses. But, again, I've got no time to worry. I gotta get back. I've got a date. *Chapter 4: Black Dresses* Anyone from a small town hates goin' into the city. It's not the buzzing cars or the claustrophobic skyline. It's that feeling - the feeling of hundreds of eyes, every where you turn, looking at you like a backwoods yokel - wondering if the sight of indoor plumbing, multiple streetlights or 200 dollar jeans has blown your puny mind yet. And I was getting that vibe, big-time, from the pierced clerk behind the desk of the little Baton Rouge adult-shop. I have to admit, some of the things in there were blowing my mind - but she didn't have glare at me like I was an ox in a china shop. As uncomfortable as it was, I had to be here. I had a very specific need. I don't know what it is, but there's something about a little black dress that's as infuriating as it is arousing. 180 dollars for a handkerchief's worth of fabric - 180 dollars for something that, if you're lucky, will be worn for less time than it took to be put on. 180 dollars...and worth every penny. After I left, I smiled to myself, thinking about the look I left on that smug clerk's face. It may have been because of this country bumpkin was buying a black silk cocktail dress - but more likely it was the 8,000 dollar tip of unmarked, lavender scented bills. I hadn't planned on leaving that much- but I hate fumbling with those rubber bands...and I had places to be.

   Permalink posted 04/10/2008
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   sageturk says *Chapter 5: Bottom of the Lake* The gravel road looked like a jigsaw puzzle of sunlight and shadow - as my truck rattled onward, dark pieces steadily assembled into a more complete and empty picture. I ignored the ominous implications, instead tapping on the steering wheel in time with the my own internal music. I'd never been one to listen or enjoy music per se - it always seemed too false, too manipulative. But every time I looked over at the little box on the passenger seat, my mind filled with sweet melodies - and even sweeter images of her. Soon the dense trees opened up to a quaint but well-kept plot of land at the edge of a large pond. Perched on the shore was a cottage style house. It looked tinier on the outside than it really was - and even though I had never really been sold on the cute-factor, I had to admit - this was home. And right now, my home had trespassers. Grinding around the gravel bend I could see several sheriff cruisers, a meat wagon, and one of those small earth movers on tank treads. I leapt from the truck and strode toward the nearest cop - a stocky guy with a bright red face, looking like his too-small uniform top was cutting off the circulation to his head. The racket that CAT was making was deafening. I had to shout - "The hell's going on here?" "You the husband?" "Hey, I asked you a question - what's goin' on he-" I cut myself off with a glance toward the CAT. It was pulling on an industrial sized chain that was slowly snaking out of the murky water - as if it was trying to unstop the drain on a giant bathtub. That's when the breath was punched out of me. I started a desperate run toward the earth mover. Instead of a plug at the end of that chain, it was a truck. Her truck. I couldn't get there fast or slow enough - time crawled and my mind raced - suddenly jumping to a halt like a record needle skipping off its groove. It was then that my thoughts were most clear. If she was in there, if she was dead and bloated and ugly, Cash was a dead man. *Chapter 6: The Gallows*

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   My grandfather was a carpenter. His grandfather was a carpenter. My father, my uncles - you guessed it. Ever since my ancestors sailed over here on a windmill, or however the Dutch travel, the men in my family have had a lathe in their hand and sawdust in their eye. And since I was a child, I had known that their destiny was my own. That's how it is in a small town. You don't find your place, you grow into it. Like every generation before me, I was to fill my father's shoes as soon as he rotted out of them. I remember vividly my father's proud voice as we drove through the country. "You see that covered bridge? Your grandad was the only on in the county who could build spanners like that." Or on a trip to the town hall - "You see them stairs? Your grandad did em all - in only 8 days." Or at the dinner table before we said grace, "Now kids, remember - Jesus himself was a carpenter. There ain't nothing greater you can ask for." The only thing is - Jesus didn't carve the cross. And that's what separates our little family from the Lord of Hosts. I remember when I learned the truth about our family. I was naive (but who isn't when they're young), thinking it was all just cedar chests and fence posts. It wasn't until I flipped through a dusty old album late one night that I came face to face with myself. Well, it wasn't me exactly, but my grandfather, young, fresh, and sporting a cheesy grin not unlike my own. The resemblance was uncanny, which was all the more discomforting when I saw where this obvious source of pride was swelling from. There my grandfather stood, a hand on the main support beam of a massive gallows, bodies like laundry hanging around him, twisted and grotesque. It was clear - he had built the thing himself. At first I was shocked and sickened. I pulled the photo from it's protective plastic and flipped it over. Scrawled in pencil were a few numbers, a few names. No - not names, an address. And it was close, only a few miles away. I put on my shoes, grabbed a jacket, and snuck out into the night. Maybe it was adrenaline, or fear, but I arrived sooner than I expected. My old aluminum flashlight barely penetrated the overgrowth, but as I pushed through branches and kudzu, sure enough - there it was. Rotting, covered in vines and molds and lord knows what else, but obvious in its purpose, the gallows stood. And whether it was luck or fate i'll never know, but just then my little flashlight glinted off a small copper panel. And there he was - my grandfather's name - proudly engraved on this deathly structure. I put a finger to the metal insignia. Suddenly, time slowed. It was a new feeling for me then - the feeling of your mind hitting stride with the flow of the universe. I could sense the pressure of the air, the path of insects through the wood, the heat of the earth below my feet. All the fear and confusion drained from me. This thing, this wooden frame-work, was more than a simple structure - it was a part of me, just as much as my grandfather's blood coursing through my own veins. I had found my destiny. I had sealed my fate. It was time to get busy. *Chapter 7: Bringing Home The Rain* The humidity in the south can get so saturated it instantly condenses into cloudless rain. They call it "Popcorn Rain", a cutesy name that belied how thoroughly it was pissing me off. This microwave-instant downpour makes for a hell of a time when you're trying to bury a body. It'd be one thing if it was one of my bodies, but this was my wife god-damn it. She deserved more than to be put in water-filled hole and covered in mud. The preacher was still goin' full speed ahead, but I couldn't stand there acting like all these people in black lace had as much right to grieve as me. I didn't say a word, I just left. Striding across the cemetery lawn, my leather shoes filling with water, I headed to my truck - and there he was. He had obviously seen me, the window on his sedan rolling up quickly, the brake-lights dimming. I started to sprint - my truck was close. Turns out I didn't need to run - the twisting graveyard roads coupled with mourners' poorly parked vehicles made it easy to catch up with the green four-door. He drove like a man being followed - which he was, but he didn't have to be so obvious about it. Turning on his blinkers, trying to fake me out, none of it worked. I was too good for any of that amateur stuff. After a half-hour of this, the game changed. The car, hoping to shake me, made a sudden wild turn down an unmarked side road. I would have smiled if I weren't so livid. James Cash had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

   Permalink posted 04/10/2008
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   sageturk says *Chapter 8: The Coal Mine Fall* Some may have thought the decrepit side road was an old logging trail, with deep pot-holes eroded through the overgrowth. I knew better. The train tracks running along side it, hard to spot if you weren't looking, told me the truth. I slowed down a touch - letting Cash speed recklessly ahead of me, every pot hole throwing the back of his sedan into the air. I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner, the way he was careening down this series of ever deeper erosion holes. Eventually though, predictably, his vehicle lost control on the fresh mud, hit a particularly large hole, and flipped onto its side, smashing its undercarriage into a tree. Cash scrambled from the sideways car, slipped in the wet wet forest muck in an attempt to sprint, but it was no use - I was already there, striding toward him with a purpose, a fury, and a .45 caliber Desert Eagle pointed at his head. James turned and scrambled, pleading and sobbing in the still powerful rain. I simply growled - "Move!" Confused but obedient, Cash stood, turned, and began the death march farther down the road. Every time he tried to speak up, I'd shout him down. I meant business. Soon, maybe after 15 minutes of walking, we arrived at what the train tracks told me was inevitable. Though covered in woody vines, the plank covered mine-shaft was instantly recognizable. Cash let out a screech - "No!" Cash knew about mines, just like I did - so I can only imagine the depth of the horror he knew he was in for. Near the shaft opening I marched the pleading man forward. The actual entrance I wasn't interested in - a slow-sloping circuit to endless veins and pockets. I was looking for the Air-Shaft. A small, but endlessly deep hole, the Air-Shaft was meant for three things - ventilation, circulation, and dumping the still screaming bodies of the people who had ruined your life. It didn't take long. The Air-Shaft was several meters from the coal-mine entrance, sealed with a simple man-hold cover. It popped open with a branch. I shook my head at what a safety hazard this thing was. I'm sure James was thinking the exact same thing. I ordered him to his knees, perched so close to the Air-Shaft that the water dripping off his nose never hit bottom. I shouted angrily to him, "You got anything to say for yourself?" What he replied with sucked the air out of my chest. "What did you say," I growled. "She found out." I dug the gun into the back of his head. Gravel stones plummeted into the shaft. "I dare you to say it one more time." "She found out who you were..." he craned his neck to look me in the eyes. "It wasn't me who killed her. It was you." I fired my gun, deliberately missing him by inches. He flinched, but then resumed his gaze. "You must have got the tests back from her autopsy - so you know I slept with her." For having a huge-ass gun in his face, I had to admit, the guy had balls. I grimaced. "Why are you telling me this?" "Because. You also know she wasn't drinking. The papers all said it, but you got the toxicology report. So you know better. You know as well as I do she did this to herself with a clear head." "She didn't do this," I spat. "You did. She'd rather kill herself than face me knowing she'd been unfaithful. Especially with you," I stared at him, flexing my jaw, trying to hold back tears. "It was our anniversary. I had the gift and everything." "You gotta know something man - this wasn't the first time she came to me" He flinched. He must have seen my finger reflexively tug on the trigger. "Goodbye James." "You were never there man! Every time you took off, her heart broke a little more, until she didn't have nothin' left. At first, it was just sex, that's all..." "You better shut your mouth." "...but then something changed. I was almost like, she wanted revenge. This last time, she was shaking, so angry she could barely speak. The whole time she and I were.... together..." Tears flooded my eyes. "I said, shut your mouth." "...she had this look...she was crying the whole time, but her face was expressionless. It was like she had given up. When she left, the last time I ever saw her, she stared at me alone in the doorway. She said, 'I know who he is.' and then she left." I closed my eyes trying to suck back the hot tears pouring out of me. Cash stood up slowly. "I don't know how she found out - but what she did, she did because of you man. Did you...did you really think It could have ended any other way?" I looked up at him slowly, my face slack with shock and pain. "Just go." Cash stood there, dripping wet, his knees covered in mud. He put a hand on my shoulder and simply said, "Sorry man," before pushing me down the Air-Shaft. *Chapter 9: Slowed Down Trip To Hell*

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   I remember the start of the fall. My stomach rose into my throat, my lungs seemed to flash freeze inside of me. I closed my eyes - and suddenly, instead of fear, everything was clear. A familiar pressure closed in around me. Time ground down to a halt. I became aware. The clarity of understanding and embracing one's destiny is an interesting experience, to say the least. That fateful midnight so long ago flashed into view. I remembered vividly the promise I made - the resolution that I would be slave to neither God nor Satan. I knew that it would be my fate to live on the outskirts of society - to dance around the edges of morality. I was to be a spectre. I was to be the Angel of Death. And I was damn good at it. There are people in this world so evil that neither justice nor mercy can apply. Child murderers, wife beaters, the sick and depraved with lusts so putrid they'd curdle your blood. If you know where to look, you can find them everywhere - and I just happened to know where to look. The plains of Wyoming, the oil fields of Texas - temp work attracts scum like a moth to flame. Summer after summer I'd callous my hands and bide my time, listening to lurid stories in dingy trailer homes. Summer after summer, the world found itself relieved of a little more trash. That is, until I found her. I fancied myself a god of sorts, looking down on mortals, delivering old-testament style justice to those deserving of it. She was a run-away, hitching her way wherever the road would take her. She had a father who went drinking and drove himself and her little sister into a river. The little sister died, the father became meaner than ever. Something about her - more than her beauty, more than her humor - I was instantly transformed. Here was someone that needed saving - but in turn saved me. At least for a while. I tried changing my ways. I still left for temp work, it was really all I had known and the money was so good, but the temptation always nagged at me. All around me were people so vile, I couldn't stand breathing oxygen they'd expelled into. I began to feel the itch - the withdrawal symptoms. I should have known I couldn't walk the straight and narrow for long. The sound of four pealing church bells rang through my mind. And I hit the ground with an impossible crunch. I opened my eyes to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Which was strange because I didn't believe in that crap. I blinked hard. I wasn't dead, and I wasn't passing into the beyond. I was at the bottom of the Air Shaft, looking up at the light streaming into the opening. I must have blacked out for a while since the rain had obviously cleared. I felt my chest grow tight, pain shooting up and down my spine, as I tried to sit up. Ribs were definitely broken...maybe a vertebrae or two. Miraculously though, my limbs seemed fine. Banged up, but functional. As I rubbed my chest, grimacing in pain, I tried to come to terms with why I wasn't stone dead. From the looks of it, I had fallen maybe 20 - 30 feet tops. A long way, for sure, but not the mile deep hole I had expected it to be. Moreover, the earth I was sitting on was relatively soft and gravelly, instead of hard chiseled floor like It should have been. Suddenly, it was obvious. This mine was abandoned for a reason. It had probably caved in, filling the tunnels, shafts, and air vents with rubble. I remembered an old news story, years back, about a mine around these parts that had collapsed, killing 40 something guys. Ironic then that the same disaster that had taken so many lives, had just saved mine. I stood up. The shaft was only several feet wide. With a little effort, I'd manage to climb out. And when I did, It was time to get a drink.

   Permalink posted 04/10/2008
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   sageturk says *Chapter 10: The Night Pt.2* I thanked the grizzled trucker for giving me a ride into town. I silently thanked him even more for not asking questions. I knew I looked suspicious, strolling out of the woods in my suit and leather shoes - bloody, covered in dirt and wheezing like a chain-smoker. Luckily though, this is America, and I'm sure that trucker had seen stranger things on his long hauls. At least I wasn't in a dress. I squinted up at the hazy sun. It was about 4 pm. It had been a busy day. Too bad this visit to the bar wasn't to relax. Cash's Corner was on the outskirts of town, an already sleepy, middle of nowhere place that seemed even more ghostly than usual. I strode up to the door and kicked the damn thing in - sending the bell into a death-spasm. Cash was behind the counter, wiping it down. You gotta love that about small town America - hardworking folk that won't let something small, like a car-wreck or attempted murder, get in the way of being to your shift on time. He looked at me, eyes bugging out of their sockets, and screamed. "What? How!?" The few bar-rats there took their cue and scurried away. I cracked a grin - then vaulted over the bar-counter, crashing into James who has instinctively turned to run. The two of us fought like wildcats - one fueled by pure terror, the other by truth. Cash kicked me away and immediately followed up with a haymaker to the side of my head. It dazed me for a second, just enough for him to grab me by the throat and drive me into the counter top. That was James Cash's second big mistake of the day. The impact send a clarifying rush of white-hot pain from my ribs to my brain. Immediately I send James flying, adrenaline pumping in my ears. He lay on the ground behind the counter dazed and wheezing. I knelt down over him. "Hello James." "Hey," he wheezed. "So - I found myself with some time to think recently." "You don't say." "And as I thought about what you told me, back in the woods, I noticed that there was one thing you failed to mention - how she found out." James lay there silent. The fight had gone out of him. He looked pale. Lying was futile. "Why'd you do it? This whole thing, how long had you planned it?" He closed his eyes. "I loved her," he said weakly. At tear dripped from my nose. I didn't even realize I had been crying. "It wasn't enough that you use me to clean up your trash - those drug guys would have killed you if I hadn't taken care of them first - but that wasn't enough huh." James only repeated himself. "I loved her." "NO!" I bellowed. " I LOVED HER. NOT YOU. SHE WAS MY WIFE...." I stopped myself from shouting - then began again, quietly. "She was my wife. What did you think? Did you think you'd tell her the ugly truth about me, and then she'd be yours? How...how could you? How could you do this to your own brother?" James started to cry. "I. I'm sorry Sam." Then went still. At first I wanted to shout at him, how dare he turn away from me. Then I saw the growing darkness below him. Down I plunged, grabbing James's shirt, pulling his now limp body upwards. Underneath him, a broken bottle. Sticking out of his back, a wickedly long shard of glass. "No..." I whispered. "no no no no." Only a few hours had passed from when I had my younger brother perched on the edge of a cliff, only a few hours from when he in turn tried to kill me....and yet there I sat, holding him, crying desperately - wishing it was me instead of him. My instincts told me to run, to clean up the mess and run, but I couldn't. The will to act, to survive, had fled. Stepping over the body, I went over to the freezer and pulled out a beer. My head was killing me. *Chapter 11: Ten Miles Wide* After the band cleared out, I stood up - resolute, and filled with purpose. I moved James' body into a hefty trash bag, cleaned up the blood, swept up the glass. I didn't bother washing myself off. I didn't feel like seeing a mirror at this juncture. After locking up the bar, I dragged the body to my truck out back - right where James had left it after...leaving me. I looked back one last time trying to comprehend what had happened here tonight. No insights came - just the vision of a darkened bar, never to see flickering neon again. I'd have time to ponder things later. I fired up the truck, pulled out, and headed toward my house. More specifically, I was going to the pond behind my house. Soon I was pulling the tarp off the Air-Boat, loading up my silent companion, and ripping the zip-line to start up the motor. Calling it a pond behind my house is semi-misleading. It's really more of an estuary - if that helps. Connected to a larger body of water, Jacksonville Bayou is a ten mile-wide stretch of swamp - a marshland named for the town that used to stand there. Abandoned after heavy flooding and forever sealed in a watery grave after the levies were built, Jacksonville was one of those places that didn't show up on maps to begin with. No one seemed to know it even existed - let alone missed it. Hell, I barely even missed it - even if it was the town I grew up in. Loudly the airboat cruised the still black waters. Among the trees, the shells of abandoned houses floated past. Often when exploring these remains, I'd look in the windows and through attic vents. Turns out the houses hadn't been as abandoned as everyone thought. Jacksonville was one of Louisiana's dirty little secrets - one of too many to count. And here I was, about to become one myself. The boat slowed and came to stop. As a red darker than black itself overtook the swampy sky, I looked up from my brother's remains. Sticking up from the soupy water was a wooden framework, sitting like the bones of some terrible beast stuck in the mud. We were at the Altar - the name I had given long ago to the gallows my grandfather had built. This was the place I had sacrificed my soul all those years ago. This was the place I would sacrifice myself anew. Though it was over 80 years old and has suffered from neglect, the encroaching forest, and now years of flooding - it still stood strong. A rope hung, wound tight as ever. It didn't surprise me though - we Cash's do quality work. My heart was racing. I knew my destiny had brought me here - knew that fate intended this noose for me. Accepting it eased the pain only slightly. There was no turning back though. I climbed up to the platform. I started to shake. As warm as the humid night air seemed, I was freezing. --- Gingerly I slip the musty noose over my head. The trap-door below me creaks. It won't take much to force it open. I grit my teeth - and stomp down hard. Something below me cracks and breaks, splashing into the water - but the trap door remains closed. I take a deep breath - strangely relieved - when the door gives. My feet hit the surface of the water. The rope holds tight. I close my eyes - and music floods my mind. *Chapter 12: Find Me In The Air*

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   Time is slowing. All the color has drained from the swamp - but I can still sense every twig - every wisp of moss. Strangely, I can't sense myself. My body is below me, pulling heavily at the rope, but I can't feel a thing. A calm has enveloped me - I await the universe to accept this final supplication - in return, it gives me music. The stomping rhythms and red-raw vocals of the band in the bar pour into me. Instead of feeling light in death - I feel heavy. Full for the first time in my life. I yearn for nothing. I accept my fate. The truth of that music fills me with tears - a truth that I now can see clearly. My name is Samuel Cash. husband to a dead wife. brother to a dead man. Murderer. I will never know salvation. But for those 12 short songs - I was saved. *The End*

   Permalink posted 04/10/2008
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   Bartleby says A very engaging write-up. I think you've done this sort of extrapolation and commentary before but this is bringing the whole conceit to another level. I really enjoy the first track some old chain gang songs. Actually, most of the songs you've posted deal with bondage in its various forms. It's very interesting. Thanks for sharing your words which at times are reminiscent of Jim Harrison's short stories, with us

   Permalink posted 04/10/2008
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   Sturgell says HOLY CRAP! AMAZING review, Sageturk!

   Permalink posted 04/11/2008