Stoner John is a character from Enter Infernum. He’s a young boy who is able to foresee events by touching an article of clothing or an item belonging to the missing. Neighbors from the Eastside of Indianapolis come to John at Brookside Park to find missing pets or loved ones. He is known as the Oracle. His detractors call him Stoner John due to his blank look while sitting alone in the park. This story takes place after the conclusion of Enter Infernum. Other characters from the novel figure prominently in this story including Paul Randolph and Ian O’Brien. This is an Enter Infernum story.
A long line formed at Brookside Park, waiting for an audience with the Oracle, Stoner John. All held sweet confectionaries, offerings for the Oracle. Stoner John was a young boy, dressed in ratty clothes. He wore a cloth black jacket, stretched across his bulging stomach. The boy wore black leather gloves, two sizes larger than his small hands, protection against the harmful memories imbedded in any items he touched. He’d remove the glove from his right hand to hold the item and gleam insight as to the possessor’s fate. John would stand bearing the item in his right hand and lift his arms, stretched to the heavens, a tuning fork, searching for any signal in the ether.
The first petitioner in the line for the Oracle was a middle aged man. He produced a “Sugar Daddy” as his offering to the young boy. John took the offering and tucked it into his tight, holey jeans pocket. “Please help us. Our Missy has vanished. No word. No letter. Help us find her,” said the man.
Missy was Missy Stewart, Police Commissioner Wilbur Stewart’s daughter.
“Give me an item that belonged to the missing girl,” said John.
The man handed John a tied-dyed T-shirt. The shirt had a rainbow of colors and feathered patterns. John removed his glove from his right hand to hold the article of clothing. He stood, holding the T-shirt in his hand, stretched his arms skyward, and searched the heavens for an answer regarding the girl’s fate.
The boy’s body formed a tuning fork. His eyes turned up into his head, revealing the whites of his sclera. John’s body shook. It resembled an epileptic fit. Blood poured from his nostrils and ears.
John saw through Missy’s eyes her last hours before she went missing. She had met her friends behind the Brookside Park Community Center. Her boyfriend Josh rolled a joint, lit it, took a hit and passed it amongst the teenagers. The group formed a circle, passing the joint from person to person, taking hit after hit. An hour into the exchange of one marijuana cigarette led to the next, the teens were stoned, oblivious to the approaching footsteps through the woods behind them.
A tall, handsome blonde male emerged wearing a denim jacket, cut off at the sleeves. The jacket’s back bore the emblem of the Pagans’ motorcycle gang. The man was Skip Burrows, the younger brother of the motorcycle gang’s president Clyde. The gang resurrected after his brother’s commitment to Central State Hospital and the club massacre, orchestrated by the mob. Missy was Skip’s intended target.
The de facto Pagans’ club president, Skip, came with two other club members, both tall and brutish. The men grabbed the girl. Josh intervened but received a proper beat down from Skip. Chains and pipe. No one intervened. They left the boy unconscious and the others in shock.
A new image emerged. Missy had been stripped down to her bra and panties. Her arms bound and hoisted to a wooden beam, tied through a metal ring screwed into the wood. Her legs bound to a concrete block. John gathered from the surroundings that she was in the basement of an old house, the décor, cobwebs and dust.
An axe hung suspended from the ceiling. It was held back by a rope, tied to a wooden beam. The arc of its trajectory clear if the rope was ever released. The axe would strike Missy square in the face. Bacon grease slathered on the rope. Rats scurried about the basement floor. It was only a matter of time before they found the bacon flavored rope and chewed through it.
The image faded. John now stared at Stewart, assessing what to say next. “The Pagans have your daughter, Mr. Stewart.”
“How do you know my name?”
“The shirt told me. Can we dispense with the twenty questions? What I say next is important?”
The man nodded and let John continue.
“Your daughter is in peril. We don’t have much time. To find her, I need an article belonging to someone named Skip Burrows.”
“Not a problem. We’ll put out an ABP and arrest the motherfucker.”
“You cannot arrest him. Ever. Don’t ask me why. This has to play out as I say. You have to steal an item from him. I recommend sending someone he’s unfamiliar with. Not O’Brien. Not Becker. When you have the item, I’ll be waiting here.”
“But I don’t know how long this will take.”
John responded, “It doesn’t matter. I’ll know and I’ll be waiting.”
The boy sat down and his customary glance returned, ready for the next inquirer. Stewart trotted away, jumped into his car and drove. His destination clear, O’Brien’s.
***
Stewart pounded on O’Brien’s door. O’Brien’s wife Lilly answered, “What’s wrong Wilbur?,” asked the housewife.
“Is Ian home? I need to speak with him.”
Lilly led Stewart to the family den where Ian was watching a baseball game. “Honey, Commissioner Stewart, is here to see you.” Mrs. O’Brien left the men to discuss matters.
“Boss, what’s wrong?,” said O’Brien.
“The Pagans have Missy.”
Perplexed, O’Brien furrowed his brows and said, “But the mob snuffed out the local chapter.”
“Apparently not. Do you know where Willy Becker lives?’
“I do.”
“Take me to him.”
The two men drove to a house off 10th Street next the Ellenberger Park. Stewart raced past O’Brien to the front porch and banged on the door. Becker opened the door furious, “Will you keep it down, my mother is trying to sleep.”
Apologetic, Stewart said, “I’m sorry Lieutenant Becker. I need your help. The Pagans have my daughter.”
Willy Becker once worked for IPD homicide under O’Brien before his promotion to the narcotics task force. Becker’s sole mission was to crush the drug trade in the state.
“I heard rumors that the Pagans were back. Word is Clyde’s brother Skip is in charge. I have an informant that says he’s seen Pagans, specifically Skip, at “The Biergarten” on the west side.”
“Perfect,” said O’Brien. “I’ll send my detective over to case the place.”
“No, no, no. No cops,” replied Stewart. “We need someone who is inconspicuous.”
O’Brien thought of Paul Randolph. “I have someone in mind.”
Stewart added, “And I need him to steal something, anything from Skip Burrows.”
“Excuse me?,” exclaimed O’Brien. “Why do we need to steal, ahem, something from numb nuts Burrows?”
“That’s what the Oracle told me.”
O’Brien shook his head, “Not the kid.”
“Ian, I don’t want to hear it. Remember asshole, I lied for you over that whole Apotheker affair. Evil scientist, my ass.” Stewart’s face was purple with rage.
“Okay, okay. What does this Skip Burrows look like?,” asked O’Brien.
Becker answered, “Think Ken doll dressed in denim and leather. At least that’s what my snitch said.”
O’Brien turned to Stewart, “Take me over to Woodruff Place. It’s time to call in another favor,” said O’Brien.
***
O’Brien climbed the three stories to Paul Randolph’s apartment in a painted lady, located in Woodruff Place. A woman answered the door.
“Ruth, I’m sorry for the intrusion, but is Paul around?”
The red head opened the door and directed him to the living room. Paul sat at a desk in the corner, headphones adorned his bald, black head. He listened to the reel-to-reel tape recorder and responded with furtive taps on an electric typewriter.
O’Brien placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder. The man jumped.
“Jesus Christ, Ian. Don’t do that. You almost gave me a heart attack,” exclaimed Paul.
“Sorry, old man,” replied O’Brien.
“Let me guess, you need another favor.”
O’Brien smiled, “You must be clairvoyant.”
“What’s the ask?”
“Paul, I need you to take something, anything from a biker, one Skip Burrows.”
“What does he look like?”
“Think Ken doll dressed like a Pagan biker.”
“Where?,” demanded Paul.
“The Biergarten.”
Paul’s mouth dropped open in shock. Once he regained his composure, Paul said, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m black.”
“And?,” said O’Brien.
“That bar couldn’t be anymore white, and that sez something for this town. Word is the bar is not welcoming of anyone of color.”
“Then take Ruth with you,” offered O’Brien.
“Let me get this straight, you want me, a black man to walk into an all-white bar with my white girlfriend. Is that what you’re saying?”
Ruth inserted herself into the conversation, “Paul, why not pretend you’re a dealer.”
“Ruth, I resent the inference. All black people deal drugs. You know what O’Brien, no. I’m not going to do it.”
O’Brien pleaded, “Paul, this is an urgent matter. The Pagans have the police commissioner’s daughter.”
“Why couldn’t you have led with that?”
“Uh, because my peopling skills suck.”
“That it does. I’ll do it on my terms. No pretend anything.”
O’Brien handed a switchblade knife to Paul.
“What’s this for?”
“I see this going south,” said O’Brien. “You may need some help getting out.”
***
Paul borrowed Mrs. Feldman’s old jalopy for their mission. He dropped O’Brien off at the corner of Woodruff Place Drive and 10th Street. “Are you sure, Ian? It’s a longer bus ride now that the intersection of Rural Street is torn up.”
“I’m good,” replied O’Brien, as he hopped out and waited for the bus.
Paul turned left and headed west on 10th Street. Many left and right turns down the various one way streets of downtown Indianapolis brought him to Washington Street. He headed west towards his destination, “The Biergarten.”
The bar was located in the basement of a two story brick building. The first floor contained a laundry mat. On the side, were stairs that led to the bar.
The air hung heavy with cigarette smoke as Paul entered the bar. The establishment’s clamor of pool balls and talk stopped. The patrons’ attention focused on the solitary black man standing at the door. Four large bikers formed a barrier between Paul and a drink. He’d rehearsed what to say. He used sympathy to gain admittance.
“Look man, I’m sorry I’ve crashed your party, but lordy, I need a drink.”
A man mountain stood in Paul’s way. The man had long gray hair tied into a pony tail. His beard white. Lips turned down in a snarl. Eyes fierce. The man mountain voiced his disapproval, “You’re not wanted here.”
“Come on buddy, give me a break. It’s been a hard week. It’s bad enough having to work two jobs, but today, my one day off, my old lady hit me with a honey do list, the length of my arm. And today, lordy today’s been a bitch. She road me had all day long. Nothing I seemed to say or do satisfied the old ball and chain.”
The countenance of the large biker changed. Understanding flashed across his face. “I here ya friend. I’m sorry.” The man pulled a five from his wallet and handed it to Paul. “The first drink is on me.”
The biker next to the man mountain countered with, “Fred! What are you doing?”
Fred turned to his fellow biker, “Clarence, wait till you get your wagon hitched and you’ll understand. The man is having a bad day. Let him through.”
The men parted forming a channel through which Paul swam to dry land, the bar. The bartender stood behind the counter drying a whiskey tumbler. He was dressed in lederhosen and sported a crisp white dress shirt. “What will it be?”
Paul replied, “What will this get me?,” as he slapped the fiver on the counter’s top.
“Whiskey.”
“Then whiskey it is.”
Paul sat next to a blonde haired man, sporting a biker’s denim jacket. Pagans. The man resembled a young Robert Redford. He eyed Paul as he smoked a cigarette.
The bartender produced a whiskey tumbler and a generous pour of bourbon. Paul turned to the blonde man and asked, “Sir, can you spare me a cigarette? It’s been a long day, and my harpy wife put a kibosh on my smoking.”
The man produced a pack of cigarettes and shook it. A few cigarette ends stuck out of the pack. Paul took one and said, “Mind?” The biker lit his lighter. Paul leaned over the flame with his cigarette and took a few puffs to light it. He responded with “Thanks.”
Paul offered his hand, “The name’s Phil.” The biker shook Paul’s hand and said, “Skip.” Paul took a sip of bourbon and a drag on his cigarette. “Hell of a day.”
“I overheard,” replied Skip. “Why are you really here, Phil? Peddling candy, are we?”
“What? You think all black men deal drugs.”
Skip chuckled and responded, “And you think all bikers want drugs.”
“Sorry.”
“Me too,” replied Skip. He looked up at the TV set hung in the corner and the Cincinnati Reds baseball game. “You think pennant for the Big Red Machine?”
“I hope so,” replied Paul. “They have a great roster.”
Paul took a few more long drags on his cigarette before grinding it out in the ashtray. As Skip returned to his beer and the baseball game, Paul pocketed the cigarette. He drained his bourbon, patted Skip on the back, and said, “Thanks for the cig.”
“Don’t mention it.”
While Paul exited the bar, a man emerged from the bathroom, well dressed in a black suit, sporting a red vest and bow tie. He wore a gray fedora with a raven’s feather tucked into the black hat band. His face was horribly disfigured by fire. One eye occluded, the other icy blue. He ventured to the bar counter and sat next to Skip.
The scarred man whispered to Skip, “See. Just as I said.”
Skip shrugged, “A black man walks into a bar. So, what!”
“But this bar. A bit exclusive. No?”
The biker shrugged, uninterested in the conversation.
“And you gave him a cigarette.”
Annoyed, Skip responded, “It’s a bar, Mack. People are always bumming cigarettes. Clairvoyant, you are not.”
“But he took the cigarette with him. Remember, I told you he would take something of yours.”
Skip spied the ashtray. No cigarette butt. He blinked, not believing the stranger would palm the butt. “What the fuck!”
“I said more than he’d take something of yours. I prognosticated he’d leave with the cigarette. Your cigarette. I also told you that the man’s name was Phil, although that’s not really his name. It’s Paul Randolph.”
Skip pulled the business card from his denim vest jacket. The card was embossed with the name Johan Von Apotheker, Pharmacist, Skip’s supplier. He reviewed their earlier conversation.
***
The stranger gave him a brick of uncut heroin, it was purer than country snow. The Pagans could have more, as much as they desired with only one stipulation, they must believe. Believe in dark magic. Believe in the old gods. And, of course, allegiance. “Okay, two stipulations,” thought Skip.
Skip remembered that odd conversation and the card he held in his hands.
“Apotheker, as in Apothecary. That right?”
“Ja,” replied the stranger.
“Pharmacist. Drug peddler. Your alias is a bit lame. Who do you work for?”
“Lucifer.”
Skip smiled, “Now, that’s a cool alias. How’d you get those lovely scars? Your chemistry set go boom?”
“A duel with a witch. She unfortunately got the upper hand. For now.”
“What are you some wizard?”
“I prefer sorcerer, but as you say warlock sounds cooler. I can see you are doubtful of my claims. Let me prove to you my abilities.”
“Okay, I’m game. Let’s hear it,” replied Skip.
“I’ll prove my abilities through prognostication.”
“Through what?”
“Prognostication, to see into the future. Mein gott, you need to read more. And Archie Comics don’t count. I know you have a thing for Veronica, Jughead.”
Skips face turned red. Before he could retrieve his switchblade, Apotheker had a silver dagger at his throat. He whispered to the Pagans leader, “Put a hold there on that temper of yours, Skippy.” The biker fumed more over the insult. Apotheker continued, “I’m offering a lucrative deal. So, let’s not get our panties in a bunch.”
The biker gave the sorcerer his knife, who pocketed it in his suit jacket. Apotheker resumed their conversation. “You will kidnap the police commissioner’s daughter, Missy.”
“I may not be that bright, but there’s a bid difference between will and have.”
“Except I can tell you where and when Miss Stewart will be.”
“Continue.”
“You will grab her and take her to this address.” Apotheker scooted an index card across the table. “The house will be unlocked. You’ll take her to the basement, bind her arms to a ceiling joist and legs to a concrete block. There’ll be a metal ring, where you can secure her. You’ll find an axe hanging from a rafter bound to a wooden post. I’ve left a jar of bacon grease. You’ll smear it on the rope securing the axe.”
“What’s with the Sword of Damocles device? And who are you, the Joker?”
Apotheker blinked, not believing the luddite biker knew the story about the Sword of Damocles. “How do you know about the Sword of Damocles? I think I’ve got you all wrong, Mr. Burrows.”
“You know, the song from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
The sorcerer put his hand over his eyes, not believing his ears. A movie. “Ach du Lieber,” whispered Apotheker. “And who’s this Joker?,” afraid Skip’s response would seal Apotheker’s earlier assessment of the man.
“You know, the villain in the comic book, Batman.”
“Ach du Lieber,” sighed Apotheker.
“I’m sorry, so far I’m not see this as prog, prog, what’s that word?”
“Prognostication.”
“We’re just doing what you tell us to do.”
“It’s what happens next. First no one will know who’s nabbed the commissioner’s daughter and where she’s being held. A cigarette you offer a black man named Phil will reveal where Missy is.”
***
Skip remembered the black man and the cigarette. “Now what?”
“We case the house where you’ve left Missy and watch. I suggest you come with me in my car. Less conspicuous.” Apotheker looked at his wrist watch. “We have two hours before they arrive. Might as well knock back and have one more for the road.”
The pair drove to the Eastside and waited outside the house where Missy was held prisoner. A couple blocks away gave them advantage point to observe while concealed. That and dusk. Not quite dark, but enough shadows to be inconspicuous.
***
The basement grew dark as the sunlight faded, afternoon turning to evening. Missy’s screams muffled by the handkerchief gag. The rats found the source of the rancid bacon fat slathered on the rope.
The rodents scampered across the rope, slipped and fell. Some dangled by their paws before slipping to the floor. The scene would have been cute and comical except for the fact that an axe was secured to the rope. A few rats discovered a position and hold that secured them to the cord. They chewed on the roped, the line separating Missy from life and certain death. The rope frayed as the rats feasted on the bacon-flavored cord. Death was minutes away.
***
Police Commissioner Stewart ran through the park hoping the boy would be where he saw him last. The Oracle sat on the bench waiting. “Do you have the item?”
Stewart produced the cigarette butt. John took the butt in his right hand, and as before opened himself to the heavens. Once the boy’s fit subsided, he told Stewart where to go. “Hurry, you don’t have much time.”
O’Brien waited for Stewart’s return in a police cruiser parked by the community center. The commissioner rushed into the passenger seat and gave the lieutenant the address. O’Brien turned on the sirens and the flashing lights. The police cruiser sped towards their destination.
Stewart raced up the stairs. He turned the knob of the front door. It was locked. O’Brien retrieve a black pouch that contained his burglary tools. “We don’t have time,” replied Stewart as rammed his shoulder against the door, again and again until it slammed open.
He raced down the hallway, opening doors along the way to the kitchen. In the kitchen, he found a door that led downstairs. Taking stairs, two to three stairs at a time, Stewart raced down to the basement.
Tied to the ceiling was his daughter Missy. Rats hung onto a rope, chewing on the cord. Stewart pulled out his folding knife and cut his daughter free from the basement’s ceiling joist. As he pulled her away from the binding, the rope snapped and the axe swung down, missing their heads by inches.
O’Brien caught up with his boss, took off his jacket and wrapped Missy with it. “Missy, can you describe your abductors,” asked O’Brien.
Before she could respond, Stewart said, “No.”
“No, what?,” asked O’Brien.
“This case ends here. No inquiries,” replied Stewart.
“But commissioner.”
“Drop it, Ian.”
Skip and Apotheker watched as the detectives led the girl out of the house to the squad car. The biker smiled, “Well, I’ll be.” He offered his hand to Apotheker to shake. “I’ll never doubt you again. It’ll be my pleasure doing business with you Mr. Apotheker.”
Author’s Note. At a subconscious level, this story was inspired by Tim Curry’s passing and remembrance of a song, “The Sword of Damocles” from the “Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
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