"The waitress."

"Are you mad?" Donald exclaimed.

"Hear me out. What if we tell her that we're a writers' group? What if we ask her to decide on the best plot line for our story?" Raymond replied, his voice growing stronger. It was the first time that he had voiced an idea to the group and he took a sip of coffee to lubricate his dry throat.

"I like it," Donald mused, grinning broadly. "There's a delicious twisted logic to it."

"Whatever we're going to do we need to do it now," Rachael stated firmly. "So I'm in, let's ask her, and get this silliness over with quickly."

Donald beamed with mirth. "Oh miss," he called.

Della turned to the table and the large man grinning like the Cheshire cat. She sighed and wondered just how three people could be such a problem. She put on her best customer smile and walked back over.

"I was wondering if you could settle a little debate for us?" Donald asked and she raised her eyebrows waiting for the question. "You see my friends and I are part of a writing group. We are collaborating on a rather gruesome horror novel and we have hit quite the roadblock. We have three possible fates for a young lady in the book and we cannot quite decide which one to use. As an impartial observer you would cast the deciding vote."

"Ok," Della said uncertainly.

She listened as the three scenarios were laid out for her. All three seemed rather unpleasant and Donald's was particularly disgusting. She had them run the ideas through several times for her. The three faces before her all seemed to lean forward with hungry antic.i.p.ation. She noticed that Raymond was continuingly checking his watch as though time was running short. "Well I suppose that if you are looking for commercialism in your book, then I guess that audiences are a little desensitized these days, so I would plump for Donald's I suppose."

"Excellent!" Donald exclaimed. "A wise choice even if I do say so myself."

Della stood back as Donald heaved his bulk up from the table. The other two had gone silent but Donald didn't seem to notice. She watched on as the big man reached his feet before swaying. He stuck out a fat meaty paw and clutched the table's edge. His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing and his expression was one of confusion as the world spun around him.

Eventually he collapsed back into the booth with only a thin line of dribble for his last words. Della sighed with relief. Usually they went down so much quicker, but Donald was such a big man and she'd have to remember to increase her usual dosage in accordance with that sort of bulk.

She had kept them all prattling along with their ridiculous story ideas whilst the drugged coffee had done its work. She leaned in and checked the fading pulses as the three died. She hadn't wanted to have struck again so soon, but her instincts were telling her that something was amiss with these three and she always listened to her instincts.

She had been travelling the highway truck stops for some time now, always choosing her victims carefully and only moving on when the time felt right.

She noticed the fat envelopes on the table and opened them. Inside were files and photos of the dead. She counted out the Polaroid images in each envelope and found that there were 17 in each and all dated this year. 17 victims that the three had each taken.

She smiled to herself and shook her head, 17, she thought, thinking of her own number for the year, amateurs.

tale 3.

"you call that music?"

"Turn that c.r.a.p down!" Dale McCredie yelled at the top of his voice. He was a large man currently ensconced in his recliner and not in the mood to get up. He worked a long and hard day and he wasn't about to give up his leisure time as the cold beer nestled in his hand and the big screen TV washed over him in numbing waves of entertainment. "Swear to G.o.d Darlene if I have to get up he's not going to be able to sit down for a week," he snapped at his timid wife.

Darlene was up in a flash eager to please and prevent another evening ruined by her husband's temper. He was a good man in many ways, well in some and it was her duty to love honour and obey as her mother had done before her. "I'll take care of it sweetie," she cooed as she raced out of the lounge and up the stairs.

The music was loud and she could feel Dale's thermometer rising as the pounding drum beats and wailing guitar screeched at high volume.

Ricky McCredie barely registered his mother's apprehensive gentle rapping on his bedroom door. It was only when her pale face peered around the corner did he realise that she was there. "Jeez mom," he exclaimed shocked. "Don't you ever knock?"

Her face was sad as per usual and he immediately regretted his tone. His mother was a nice woman it was his father that created most of their problems in life, well certainly the home based ones. "Sorry mom, I didn't mean to snap," he apologized.

"That's ok sweetie, but your father is trying to relax and the music is a little loud," she replied.

Ricky was off his bed in a flash and turned the stereo down. The last thing that he wanted was for his father to start kicking off again. The big man was mean before he started drinking in the evenings and then he only got worse with a skinful.

He watched on awkwardly as his mother stood there looking around his room trying to find the words to bridge the gaping chasm between them. The walls were adorned with posters of various metal bands. His music was his life and the bands were his family. He was an underdeveloped 13 year old. He was short and skinny with narrow shoulders and the sort of face that just seemed to be a magnet for schoolyard fists. His hair was a deep ginger red and his face was sprinkled with freckles. His gla.s.ses were thick lenses and his rasping chest was often in need of an inhaler. All in all he was a bully's wet dream. He had no real friends in school and had grown tired of trying to make them. He knew that this part of his life couldn't last forever, but he wished that it would just hurry up and get done. All he had to hope for was that when it was over he would be long gone and successful and able to rub all of their stinking faces in the dirt.

"This one's new," his mother said pointing at an image of bikini clad model sprawled across a motorcycle emblazoned with a band's logo.

"Yeah it's a cool chopper," he lied in reply.

"Rancid Sp.a.w.n," she read aloud leaning in and reading the band logo. "Charming," she said wrinkling her nose in displeasure. "What is it about these bands and this sort of music?"

"I don't know," Ricky said shrugging his shoulders embarra.s.sed. "I guess that they're kind of on the outside, like me."

His mother stared at him with an open mouth not quite knowing what to say and shifting from foot to foot in the silence.

"DARLENE!" His father's voice bellowed out from below and he thought that for the first time he mother was pleased to hear it.

"Coming dear," she called as she backed out of the room.

Ricky loved his mom but there was little of common ground between them. He was a lonely boy on the outskirts of manhood and with no-one to discuss such things with.

He lay back on his bed and turned the music up as loud as he dared. He closed his eyes and pictured himself on stage as Jimmy Blaze hit high notes that seemed capable of shattering worlds. Jimmy had been the lead singer of Forsaken Children which was Ricky's all time favourite band. Jimmy had been the ultimate bad a.s.s front man, a genuine h.e.l.l raiser who lived life his way and didn't give a s.h.i.t what anyone else thought. Jimmy had cut a swathe through the charts and gossip columns in his short ride to glory. He racked more police records than record sales during his short career and had ultimately gone out in a blaze of glory. He had driven his car fast enough to smash it through a steel barrier and over a 200 feet drop into the ocean. What was left of his body was autopsied and found to contain enough drugs and alcohol to kill an elephant. As far as Ricky was concerned it was a perfect life and a perfect end.

The record finished and he got up to restart the needle. The old LP player had taken him weeks to find and a mountain of ch.o.r.e money to buy. For the cost of the old machine he could have bought more than one MP3 player system, but he instinctively knew that Jimmy's music had to be played as originally intended.

Jimmy Blaze had been a man of infinite talent and rage, misunderstood and unappreciated when he had been alive, and Ricky didn't need a psychiatrist to understand why he identified so much with the man. Forsaken Children had immediately disbanded after Jimmy's death just as their alb.u.m sales began to rocket due to Jimmy's explosive end.

Ricky had discovered Forsaken Children and Jimmy blaze through probably the only friend that he had. Lewis ran a small independent record store downtown called "Vintage Vagrants". Lewis was a guy about his father's age but way cooler. Lewis was a ball of hair and beard that never seemed to leave his seat behind the store's counter. It was Lewis who had taken pity on Ricky when he had been browsing one day killing time while waiting for his bus. Lewis had seen where Ricky was browsing and had steered him in the right direction. Lewis said that he was like a marriage counselor matching people with their perfect partner. Lewis had steered him through bands like "Insane Empire", "Holy Temple", and "Fallen Angels" until finally arriving at the feet of Jimmy Blaze and "Forsaken Children".

He lay back on the bed and allowed himself to drift off to sleep as Jimmy screamed b.l.o.o.d.y murder into his ears.

Ricky rode the bus downtown. School was out and he had watched the clock ticking down with hungry eyes. The last lesson was maths and he could not have cared less about the subject matter. Lewis had texted him at lunch and told him that he had a big surprise for Ricky. The rest of the afternoon had dragged on interminably as Ricky twisted in his plastic chair wondering just what the enigmatic message was all about. The bus pulled into his stop and Ricky was up before it had stopped.

"Vintage Vagrants" was located appropriately enough in one of the older buildings on the town square. It was a small store and out of place with the modern world around it, but it was still popular enough to turn a profit and keep chugging along. Lewis had told Ricky that he had little compunction about taking money from the phonies that browsed in their designer vintage clothing. He merely added a mark up and thanked them for their business; he had rent to pay and a roof to keep over his head. Lewis had a small local band of regulars that he took time to service properly and his online business was growing. It seemed that there was always a demand to rediscover the past and everything was circular.

The bell above the door jingled as Ricky entered the store. The place was relatively quiet due to the time of day. A few casual shoppers were browsing the racks, mining for gold. There was only one rule in Lewis's world; everything worth a d.a.m.n was vinyl. There were no flashy displays, no promotional material from soulless corporations, no posters of robotic teen idols artificially molded in a factory somewhere. This was a place of learning, a church to worship and it was to be treated with respect.

"Ricky my man," Lewis growled from behind the counter in his usual gruff but friendly manner. "What's the word little dude?"

"Hi Lewis," Ricky beamed back. Lewis was the only person who treated him like an adult and there was a strange thrill to it. "Not much, you got something for me?"

"Oh now dog, I haven't just got something for you, I've got the whole world on a spinning black platter."

"Huh?"

Lewis bent down behind the counter and brought out a small plastic bag. He reached in and pulled out a crisp brown sleeve. There were no official markings or artwork on the surface, only the words "Property of Vintage Vagrants" written in Lewis's handwriting. Ricky's heart sank a little; Lewis was always lending him alb.u.ms from bands that he had never heard of, and often for good reason. Lewis had a penchant for experimental Nordic Jazz, it was a taste that Ricky didn't share. However it had been Lewis that had shown him the metal ropes and introduced him to Jimmy Blaze, so he was always willing to give anything that Lewis recommended a listen.

"Oh an alb.u.m you've found," Ricky replied hoping to keep the disappointment from his voice.

"This, my friend, is a gift from the G.o.ds themselves. This is your particular holy grail," Lewis smiled through his bushy beard.

"What is it?" Ricky asked intrigued.

Then Lewis uttered the three words that were scorching guitar music to Ricky's ears. "Day of Atonement," he grinned.

Ricky stood frozen to the spot as the words sank in. "Day of Atonement" was supposed to be the lost solo alb.u.m of Jimmy Blaze. It was a myth among "Forsaken Children" fans that the lead singer had recorded the solo alb.u.m shortly before his death and much to the anger of his band mates. Rumors persisted that Jimmy had sunk into all kinds of black magic and devil worship. But that seemed par for the course in the world of heavy metal. Every man and his dog seemed to think that all heavy metal was a direct result of the devil himself.

Ricky had spent hours researching Jimmy once he had been seduced by the man's music. The lost recording was a legend among his followers but it had never been found and was considered to be a hoax. Now Lewis was dangling a golden carrot before his eyes.

"Are you serious?" Ricky said in hushed tones.

"As a heart attack little man."

"How did you..., where did it...?" Ricky tried to ask as awe overtook him.

"The vagaries of the universe," Lewis grinned. "The great G.o.ds of metal delivered this little beauty into my lap and now I hand it to you for the first ever listen."

Ricky stared speechless in disbelief.

"You've got this original pressing for three days before I need it back. I've got a guy coming out from LA to take a look at this bad boy. Son of a b.i.t.c.h is going to set me up for life. I'll be able to buy this place outright instead of renting and I won't have to worry about money again. But before I take the gravy train and sell out, I wanted you to have the first listen Ricky, it feels like the right thing to do."

Ricky took the alb.u.m from Lewis's outstretched hand with trembling fingers. The brown paper sleeve was cool to the touch. The LP inside had a white label on the centre with hand scrawled writing that simply read "Day of Atonement" and Ricky had to lean on the counter to stop himself from fainting dead away.

The bus ride home was the longest journey that Ricky had ever made in his young life. He cradled the alb.u.m in his arms like a new born baby, terrified to drop it and terrified of squeezing it too hard. The bus b.u.mped along its merry way and Ricky's heart skipped a beat every time it went over a pothole.

Eventually he was off the bus and walking the short distance home. The late afternoon was drawing closer to evening by the time that he turned onto his street. His road was lined with pretty sycamore trees and well kept lawns. He was actually responsible for cutting most of them and it was a profitable job.

He walked up his path to his front door which swung open before he could insert his key. His mother greeted him with a glowing expression that he had rarely seen on her face before.

"Quick, quick," she ushered him inside.

Ricky found himself practically dragged in through the front door by his mother's hands. "What?" He managed.

His mother's face was beaming. "You have a visitor," she said excitedly.

Ricky was shocked for the second time that day. He didn't really have any friends, let alone ones who would visit. He carefully placed the record on the hall table making sure that its edges didn't protrude over the side and followed his mother into the kitchen. If being handed Jimmy Blaze's solo, long thought mythical alb.u.m had knocked his socks halfway off what he saw in the kitchen finished the job.

"Hi Ricky" the face of an angel greeted him.

Laurie Chastain was sitting at his kitchen table holding a gla.s.s of his mother's homemade lemonade. Laurie was simply the most beautiful girl in school. She was popular with most of the cliques in the school hierarchy regardless of their standing. She was the same age as Ricky at 13, but where he was still a boy, Laurie was on the path to pure womanhood. She was taller than him with swells and curves in the sort of places that gave Ricky funny dreams at night. Her hair was a thick and l.u.s.trous brown that hung in natural waves around her high cheek boned face. Her eyes were a perfect blue pool that Ricky had fantasized about drowning in a thousand times as he sat across from her in cla.s.s.

"Don't be rude Ricky," his mother interrupted his thoughts and Ricky realised with horror that he hadn't answered Laurie.

"Hi," he managed through burning red cheeks.

"I was hoping that you could help me," Laurie smiled and Ricky would have given her his kidney if she'd asked.

"Sure," he replied.

"You know that we've got the dance coming up?"

Ricky's heart flipped over at the mention. The dance was a big deal at school and everyone seemed obsessed with it, but Ricky couldn't have cared less, until now.

"I was wondering if you," Laurie started.

"I'd love to," Ricky immediately answered as his imagination took off.

"I was wondering if we could sign you up for the decorating committee," Laurie smiled and Ricky wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

"Sure that's what I meant," he said trying to sound casual.

"You ready to go now?" Laurie asked with a perfect smile that Ricky just couldn't say no to.

"Sure, just give me a minute," he answered. He walked as slowly as he could manage back out to the hallway. He grabbed the alb.u.m from the table and took the stairs two at a time. His mind was being torn in two directions at once. He so desperately wanted to sit in a darkened room and listen to Jimmy wail, but he also wanted to go with Laurie. He felt like an idiot for thinking that she was there to ask him to the dance, but she was asking for his help. Spending the evening with her in any capacity was more than his fevered mind could handle. He hoped that Jimmy would understand as he placed the record down gently on his desk and ran back down the stairs again.

Ricky was sweeping up the last of the glitter from the gymnasium floor. The evening had been a wonderful dream to him. For the first time in what seemed like forever his life wasn't full of loneliness and silence. He wasn't a troubled teen, he wasn't full of anger and bitterness and hate. He was just a quiet boy who didn't really fit in anywhere. Tonight, however, he and the others had worked tirelessly sprucing the gym up ready for tomorrow's dance. There had been much talking and mild teasing between them and Ricky hadn't felt alone. The crown jewel of the evening had been Laurie. Her enthusiasm and open nature was infectious and Ricky's face felt plastered with a smile all night.

"Looking good Rick," she said as she pa.s.sed and Ricky beamed. She had taken to calling him Rick and he liked it; it felt more adult as though she saw him as a young man rather than a boy.

"Can you take the trash out Rick?" She asked as she pa.s.sed and Ricky would have happily walked to the moon if she'd asked him.

Darlene crept up the stairs to her son's room. Dale was downtown somewhere drinking himself into a stupor no doubt. Her son was so distant from her these days that she had no idea how to reach him. For the first time in a long while she had glimpsed her child's true face when he'd come home and found that pretty cla.s.smate sitting in their kitchen. That single look had pierced through his self imposed exile and given her hope that she could still reach him again.

She pushed open his bedroom door and stared at the posters on his walls. The images looked crude, violent, and highly s.e.xualized to her. Bikinis and blood seemed the order of the day and she had no comprehension of his fascination for this sort of music.

She thumbed through the papers on his desk hoping to find something that would give her more hope. She would settle for normal p.o.r.nography at this point, anything that would make him seem less troubled. She had heard the reports on TV about disenfranchised boys like Ricky who suddenly exploded in a fireball of violence and death. She watched the news reports about school shootings and wondered where the parents were while their children were going off the rails. Now she feared that she had stood by with negligence as her own flesh and blood was driven down a similar road to destruction. Ricky was always so quiet; it was like he took every hurt feeling and seed of anger and just packed them somewhere deep inside. She wished that he would scream and shout like his father rather than allowing his anger to fester and rot on the inside.

She lifted up an unnamed alb.u.m and turned the brown paper sleeve over in her hands. There was handwriting on paper which read "Property of Vintage Vagrants" and on the centre with an alb.u.m or band name that she did not recognise. She slipped the record out of the sleeve and held the black vinyl in her hands and wondered about the filth that lay inside the tiny grooves. Maybe if she listened to his music she could find a way to reach her son.

She slipped the record from the sleeve and placed it gently on the turntable. She turned the old machine on and carefully lifted the needle onto the record. What she presumed pa.s.sed for music began a.s.saulting her senses. She couldn't tell if it was a male or female voice such was the high pitched velocity of the screaming. Guitars reached fever levels with blistering speed and she automatically reached up to cover her ears against the painfully loud music. It slowly dawned on her the pain was all too real; her head throbbed monstrously as huge waves of pain wracked her body. Her fingers felt damp pressed against the sides of her head and they came away soaked with blood. She sank to her knees unable to stand against the pain. Her vision swam and her mouth began to leak a deep dark red ooze. Her whole body shook under the musical onslaught and her head felt like it was too tight, too small to hold the music. Her body bucked and jerked violently and her head exploded showering the room with crimson blood and grey brain matter.

Dale McCredie pulled into his driveway. His vision was unsteady and he tried to gather his thoughts. He was halfway drunk and planning on getting the rest of the way as soon as he was in his favourite armchair. He had somehow managed to get home without collecting another DUI; one more and he was out of a job. It wasn't so much losing his job that he feared as much as being stuck in the house with a weird son and a frigid wife.

He was staggering up the path when he heard the music coming from Ricky's room. He knew that Darlene was home, as where the h.e.l.l would she be? He also knew that she was indulging the boy again allowing him to play that c.r.a.p at ear shattering levels.

"DARLENE! RICKY!" He yelled against the noise as he entered the house. His rage was further spiked when he got no answer.

He charged up the stairs and threw Ricky's door open. His eyes barely had time to process the gore soaked walls before he sank to his knees as the music drove him downwards and blood started to trickle from his ears.

"That sounds pretty cool," Laurie said as Ricky finished telling her about the alb.u.m.

Ricky beamed in reply. Laurie was walking him home as they were the last two to leave. He had found her to be easy company and easy to talk to, at least after he had gotten over his stuttering mouth and nervous bladder. Once he had started talking about Jimmy Blaze and the record he hadn't been able to stop, especially after she had shown him such interest.