INTERROGATION
The police station sparkled like a new veneer. Emaculately kept grounds framed a modern, freshly
painted building. Without the sign out front it could have been mistaken for a tony private school.
It was a beautiful fascade wrapped around the rot and decay society wanted kept hidden and buried.
Ushered through the glass doors, Brendan was greeted with an odor that was distinctly jailhouse.
Lysol and bleach were losing their battle against the caked on grime of the street. Trace smells
of stale vomit and urine lightly drifted in the poorly circulating air. Dingy walls and sterile
decor were doing their best to suck the life out of soul and spirit. No wonder cops were always
angry, Brendan thought. They worked out of a public toilet.
Brendan was quickly marched over and shackled to a bench. Business was slow; he was the only
customer on the long empty row. He started preparing himself for the holding cell - the worst part
of the jailing experience. He had a long and uncomfortable night ahead of him. He and the other
flotsam from the streets were going to share a crowded cell before being shipped off to the county
jail in the morning.
The unholy smell announced his presence before Brendan saw him. An officer was leading him over to
to be shackled next to Brendan. His pores reeked of vile and unspeakable acts. Revulsion swirled in
Brendan's stomach warning him of what was coming, triggering a full blown panic attack.
"Officer. You can't sit him next to me." Brendan meant for it to be a plea but it sounded more like
a commmand.
"There's no preferred seating here, sugar," the jowly middle-aged cop said wearily.
"No. You don't understand - "
"Is there going to be a problem here?" The cop said it in a monotone so icy that Brendan knew not to
utter another word.
A smile turned up the corners of his new seatmate's mouth as the officer turned to leave. Brendan
started squirming, pulling away from him even as he felt the cuffs bite into his wrist.
"Officer!" He yelled at the retreating cop who didn't break stride.
"Somebody get me out of here!" he shouted as his seatmate pulled a snarling puppy from his waist length
coat.
"Get me out of here!" Brendan was flailing like a fish in the bottom of a boat as the man hit the puppy
twice in the head with his fist before unzipping his fly.
"AAAAAAAH!" Brendan yelled at the top of his lungs, desperately trying to drown out the yelps of the
mongrel being brutally raped.
A swarm of uniforms appeared out of nowhere and pounced on Brendan, cutting off his air. A leather mask
was forced over his face and the metal cuffs were replaced by plastic restraints. He was hogtied
before he knew it and was being physically carried somewhere. Finally he was dropped belly down on the
concrete floor of a nearly barren room furnished with only a card table and a couple of folding chairs.
Brendan didn't know how long he lay there alone. He was too busy fighting to breathe through the mask
to account for time.
He heard the door open and hard sole shoes echoing on the concrete walking toward his head. The shoes
were expensive but the cologne wafting about was cheap. Brendan couldn't lift his head to see who was
standing before him.
"I hear you put on quite a performance out there, Brendan." The condescending tone grated on Brendan's
nerves."I'm detective White."
"Now, I can understand you not wanting to talk to us. But I really don't think you want us to call the
wacky wagon. The good doctors over at the booby hatch have a new batch of powerful drugs they just love
trying out on a twitchy puppies like you... Take his mask off." Brendan felt a knee in his back as
the mask was removed.
"So what's it gonna be? You want to stay here and play with us or do you want to go pill popping with
the good doctors?"
"I wanna stay here," Brendan said, happy to breathe freely again.
"We want to remove the restraints, Brendan, but we can't do that if you are danger to yourself or others.
Are we going to behave ourselves?" Brendan nodded as best he could. He felt hands and knees moving over
his body as the restraints were removed. Then he was lifted onto his feet. Four men, two of them in uniform
carrying tasers, escorted Brendan to Interview Room 4.
In the middle of the room a gray metal table was bolted to the floor. The edges of the table were padded.
Electrical tape had been used to doctor the padding in certain spots. Two chairs were at the table, four
others were tossed in the corners of the room.
"Take a seat, Brendan. This is my partner, Detective Raymond. We're investigating Mr. Park's murder."
They were an odd couple. Det. White had the build of a tennis player. Det. Raymond had the thick neck and
blocky muscles of a wrestler. A woman was also in the room standing to the left of Det. Raymond. Brendan
tried his best to ignore her.
"This doesn't look good for you, Brendan," Det. White said taking a seat at the table. Det. Raymond
remained standing.
"You killed a man for profit. That puts a needle in your arm. Now, if you cooperate, maybe we can get you
a deal. Maybe you get out in time to collect social security."
"I didn't kill anyone," Brendan protested, his head down, wincing from the pain in his wrists."I need
medical attention. My wrists are turning purple. I think I've got permanent damage."
"We'll get you some help. But first we need your statement."
"We're tryin' to help you here, shit bird!" Det. Raymond yelled, slamming his palms on the table. His nose
inches away from Brendan's. "That old man didn't have to die!" Brendan could smell Juicy Fruit.The detective
had a thick wad of it in his jaw like it was chaw.
"Calm down, Ray." Det. White grabbed his partner's wrist and Det. Raymond backed off."I'm sure Brendan will
cooperate once he understands the seriousness of the situation. Brendan, we have you returning to the scene
of the crime. You used a key to get in and you used the code to turn off the alarm."
"You still wanna to stick to your story, punk?" Det. Raymond looked like he was going to explode again.
"Where were you March eighteenth, Brendan, between eleven p.m and two? Brendan fought to suppress a smile.
They were going to have to kick him loose.
"I was in county lockup. Vagrancy and loittering." For once, Brendan was grateful for going to jail.
But Det. Raymond was going to be a problem. He had a hard-on for Brendan. He could see it in his eyes.
Brendan needed a read on him. He turned his attention to the woman standing beside him. Her lips slowly
curled into a smile when she caught him looking at her.
"We're going to check this out," Det. Raymond said in almost a hiss." Heaven help you if you're wastin'
our fuckin' time." The two detectives left the room. The woman stayed.
"You can see me," she said, clearly delighted.
"Oh, I can see you." Brendan took her in from head to toe. She was at least six foot. Her jet black hair
reached her shoulders. She was wearing only a black lacy bra, trimmed in red, that pushed out her perfectly
proportioned breasts, black crotchless panties, also trimmed in red, that proudly displayed her black shag
carpet, and knee-high black riding boots and matching riding crop.
"But you're not one of us. How is that possible?"
"It's a mystery. What's the story on Det. Raymond? Show me."
"Oooh! You like to watch." She hopped up on the table with the agility of cat. And with the soles of her boots
planted firmly on the table top and her hands supporting her weight, she leaned her torso back and did a
slow grind, her pink labia peeking through the black forest mesmerizing Brendan. A whiff of her scent pumped
a surge of blood to Brendan's dick.
"Say hello to ltttle Tyrla," she said throwing her head back and moaning as her hair lightly brushed the table top.
"Boochie!" she commanded from deep within her diaphragm. Det. Raymond appeared in the corner trying to fit his
beefy feet into a pair of red pumps. He was sporting a matching color of lipstick - badly applied; his mascara
hadn't been applied much better. Shock appeared on his face as a huge man in Dickies and Brogans towered over
him.
"Uncle Jack! I'm just fooling around," he barely croaked out.
"You little bitch!" A meaty hand slapped Det. Raymond onto his back."My brother must be turning over in his
grave knowing his namesake is a faggot."
"No. I like girls!" he protested, his tears running his mascara. Uncle Jack reached down and grabbed him by
the hair.
"Well if you're going to be a bitch, you might as well learn to suck dick," Uncle Jack said unzipping his fly.
Tyrla hopped off the table and walked over to the corner and squatted beside Det. Raymond and smiled back
at Brendan as Uncle Jack thrusted himself in and out of Det. Raymond's mouth.
"Don't let him know we like this, Boochie, or he'll be here every day," Tyrla stage whispered. Det. Raymond
jerked his head away only to be slapped and dragged by the hair back to Uncle Jack's crotch.
"You'll have to learn to finish this properly, Boochie, moaned Uncle Jack. Ah, that's it. You're going to
make some lucky man a fine wife, Boochie."
"They're coming back," Tyrla chuckled. The two detectives re-entered the room.
"It checked out, Brendan," Det. White said dropping a manila folder on the table. Boochie choked loudly on
a blast of cum then lept into Det. Raymond.
"Don't think you're off the hook, punk!" Det. Raymond shouted, slapping his palms of the table again, spraying
Brendan with a remnant of Uncle Jack's spunk. "You may not have been there to do the deed, but you set it up.
That makes you just as guilty."
"Give them up, Brendan." Det. White sounded like a father chastising his son. "It's better you do it while you
still have some bargaining power. If we find out on our own, you're going down with them."
"I had no part in it."
"Brendan, you knew where the keys were, you knew the security code, and you had five one-hundred dollar bills
in your wallet. We caught you with you hand in the cookie jar."
"What happened, mutt? The old man befriend you, give you odd jobs to put a little money in you pocket? And
this is how you repay him?!" This was more than just a bad cop routine. Brendan could tell this man really
hated his guts.
"How did you know about the keys and the code, Brendan?"
"It's complicated."
"Well, you better simplify it in a hurry, you piece of shit! I'm through fuckin' around here!"
"This should be good," Tyrla purred, leaning in the corner with her arms and legs crossed, the riding crop
gently tapping her thigh.
"I died when I was eight years old. I was clinically dead for fifteen minutes. You can look it up. I'm in
the medical books. When I came to, I could see into another world... or diminsion. I don't know. That's how I
know about the key and the codes. I've never been to that house before in my life."
"Are you telling us you see dead people," Det. Raymond said, his fingers forming air quotes.
"They're not dead. They don't die. They're Ekhalu, a hybrid race of humans and angels, or aliens, what ever you
want to believe. But they exist. When their original bodies died, they had to find hosts in order to keep
functioning in this world. They've been moving from host to host every since."
"Brendan, that doesn't tell us how you knew about the keys and the code."
"Mr. Park was a host. I know what he knows because his walk-in, an Ekhalu named Kiimpu, showed me."
"Bullshit! Sell it to Hollywood, scumbag. This is a murder investigation. We don't have time for fairy tales."
"Wait...you said "you know what he knows," Det. white said leaning foward. You mean you know what Mr. Park knows
...or knew?"
"Mmm hmm."
"So then you know who killed him?."
"Yeah."
"Well then, out with it, nimrod! This ain't a game of twenty questions."
"I want a deal. You drop all the charges against me and I walk."
"Fuck that! How about we lose you in the system 'til you're ready to talk? Have those gang bangers supply you with
a steady diet of dick." Brendan just looked over to Det. White.
"Alright, Brendan. I'm sure we can work something out - as long as you weren't involved in any way. So, who killed
Mr. Park?"
"I want a lawyer, and I want this in writing."
"Can you believe the balls on this kid?"
"Okay, Brendan. We'll get you that lawyer." The two left the room again.
"Wow! That was exciting, Brendan," Tyrla exclaimed. But I've got even better entertainment... Boochie!" Three men
appeared before Brendan, deep into a three-way, wearing only masquerade masks. Det. Raymond was in the middle,
on all fours, blowing a trannie while getting fucked up the ass by a bodybuilder.
Brendan didn't want to see this. It was obvious now why Det. Raymond was such a bully. He had this sadist, Tyrla,
fucking with his head. He probably doesn't even understand why he has these "urges" that disgust him. Det.
Raymond or someone in his lineage had to have been heavily involved in the occult. The sexually deviant of
the Ekhalu are inordinately attracted to the dark arts. Walk-ins can't just seize a body; humans have to allow
them in. A potential host is usually offered an extraordinary talent or ability in exchange for lodging.
Twenty minutes later the detectives returned with a disheveled man in his thirties. Boochie was still getting fucked.
He definitely had a lot of stamina.
"Brendan, this is Billy Turner with the public defenders office," Det. White said. "I'll leave you two to look over
the agreement."
Brendan asked to see Mr. Turner's credentials, and then the two went over the agreement for the next fifteen minutes.
Brendan followed as best he could. He had a hard time concentrating. Tyrla was in the background smacking Boochie
with her riding crop while a steady procession of donkey dicks abused his mouth and asshole.
"So, we good?" asked Det. White re-entering the room.
"Yes," replied Brendan, who started signing documents.
"So, let's have it."
"It was his son."
"Annngh! Nice try, bug turd. Mr. Park doesn't have a son." Brendan had had enough of Det. Raymond. He wanted to
take him down - hard.
"He never formally adopted him, but he raised his second wife's son."
"What's his name?"
"Jay Sohn."
"Why did Jay kill Mr. Park?"
"Jay reguarly chauffeured Mr. Park to the Morongo Casino. On the night of the murder, Mr. Park won twenty thousand
dollars. After Jay drove him home, Mr. Park gave him two grand. Jay thought he deserved more. They got into a
argument and Jay leveled him with a golf club."
"This script just keeps getting better," smirked Det. Raymond turning to Det. White. "You're not buying this
horseshit are you?"
Tyrla started mimicking a blow job just over Det. Raymond's left shoulder. It caught Brendan off guard. A chuckle
escaped.
"Oh, you think this is funny, cocksucker?" Brendan was feeling safe now with Mr. Turner there, an officer of the
court.
"No. It's not that. It's just you look ridiculous in pumps, Boochie." The quickness of the detective caught everyone
by surprise. He was on Brendan in a wink. He got in two blows before Mr. Turner and Det. white got a hold of his
arms.His knee was still on Brendan's chest, the weight of his body cutting off his air. He was seconds from passing
out...
"Captain!" Det. White said sharply. Det. Raymond was off Brendan quickly. The room was quiet except for Brendan
dry heaving on the cold concrete floor. Brendan looked up after catching his breath, and was immediately overcome
with terror. His first instinct was to run but there was no where to go. His legs were paralyzed in fear anyway. The
centurion standing between him and the door was a killer. The scariest kind. He didn't kill for glory or thrills.
Killing for him was no more than scratching an itch on his wrist. And he felt as much remorse about it. Hundreds
have died by his own hand, thousands more have fallen before the legions he commanded. He dripped in blood.
"Get him out of here," the centurion said in a barely audible voice. Two uniform police officers escorted Det.
Raymond out of the room. He gave the captain a wide berth on his way out, never raising his head. His fear was
shared by every one in the room. There was something about the captain, distinct from his rank and, at six-six,
his sizeable presence, that inspired fear. They felt what Brendan could clearly see. Even Tyrla bottled her
irreverance and showed respect, practically curtsying on the way out.
"I want this story checked out within the hour. And send for Doc."
"Yes sir." Det. White replied crisply and left the room.
"Captain Miller - "
"I know, Mr. Turner. Your client has a legitimate complaint and a right to bring charges against Det. Raymond. Get
your paper work together. We're not going anywhere." Mr. Turner winked at Brendan and turned to leave.
"A voice inside Brendan screamed, "No! Don't leave me alone with him!"
The captain never said a word the whole time they were alone. He just sat ramrod straight and stared at the wall.
Finally the doctor arrived and examined Brendan. Brendan was relieved to hear there was no permanent damage
to his wrists. He was given two ice packs and an appointment for a later checkup. Mr. Turner arrived twenty minutes
later with a photographer to document Brendan's injuries, and some paperwork for Brendan to sign. After everyone
cleared the room, Captain Miller stood and motioned his head to the doorway.
"Come with me." Brendan followed him out to the police parking lot.
"Get in," he said after unlocking his Impala. This was it; Brendan prepared to die. Something inside of him
told him he was finally going to learn why he was given his "gift," but it was going to cost him his life. He thought
about his mother. Would she have a body to identify and give her closure, or would he be forever missing?
Brendan expected the captain to head east for the desert. Instead, he headed west. Brendan kept stealing glances at
him. There was something noble, even majestic, about this soldier whose back was unbowed dispite his horrific
experiences on the battlefield. And then the unexpected happened. Brendan was sucked into the Ekhalu's past.
Brendan ordinarily could view an Ekhalu's past as if he was standing on a stage and watching a play unfold. This
was different. He was LIVING this Ekhalu's past.
The deafening din of the battlefield was a shock to his system at first, but he gradually became accustomed to it.
Adrenaline pumped through his body like a drug as the screams of the dying reverberated up his bloody steel. Body
after body he sliced through, from battlefield to battlefield. And then he felt the first blow. It was an axe
splitting his skull. It felt as if his whole head had burst into flames. Razor sharp steel sliced through tendons and
hamstrings. On and on it went, crippling wounds and death blows, one after another, a marathon of ineffable pain.
None more painful than the falling hot tar that evaporated his skin before the pain exploded in his brain. Finally he
lay amongst the dead and dying. The horrible stench of the bloated, decaying flesh of man and beast grating his
nostrils. Tne dying were begging the gods for death between screams as the buzzards ate their flesh and then vomited
into their open wounds. One thumped down on Brendan's chest, his head bobbing in every direction. Ball shriveling
pain ensued as it pecked out his left eyeball.
Brendan felt the need to vomit throughout the whole episode, but by keeping his eyes on Captain Miller he somehow
drew strength and kept his nausea at bay.
"If you don't stop eyeballing me, I'm going to pull this car over." Brendan quickly turned his head away. He felt the
rumbling volcano deep in his gut.
"I'm going to throw up." The captain turned on his siren and raced to the shoulder of the freeway. Brendan was barely
out of the car when his guts erupted. He felt like he was being punched under his ribs with each wave of vomit.
Finally, he was able to take a deep breath. The air tasted as sweet as life as he watched a flock of birds soar into
a clear blue sky. The scene brought a ray of hope. It was too beautiful a day to die.
NEXT: THE PROPOSITION
