Folie à deux ]Retrojapan and Black Out[ (Trigger warning)

[Black_Out]

Cake - Hem of Your Garment

Place - The Cardinal Institute of Mental Health, located on the outskirts of the city of Black Bridge.
Time - 10:45 AM, Thursday Morning, September 9th of 1965​

The stubbed end of a worn finger smeared with glazed icing from a half eaten donut jabbed down against the top page of paper upon a clipboard that had been unceremoniously slapped down in front of the frizzy haired doctor. "Read the rules." John stated while his fingertip traced over the front page of the document, pointing out the aforementioned rules while his eyes shifted over to the remnants of his pastry and the cold cup of coffee he intended to wash it down with. "Then sign off on the bottom." Just to be on the safe side, and maybe to drive the point home, John decided to recite them aloud while the fresh faced doctor was pouring over the contents of the page.

"Absolutely no touching the patient, stay on your side of the table at all times." His balding head dipped down to get a better angle towards her doe like eyes. "He'll be sedated and restrained in a straight jacket, but that don't mean he's harmless." There was a grave tone of warning to his voice as he hunched over to make sure he was being heard. "Don't leave anything on the table in front of him. Don't show him any pictures from his case file, and for gods sake, don't turn your back on him." John let out a sigh as he leaned his overweight mass back into the chair which groaned in protest. "The med's he's on are listed on the second page, take a seat, read it over, I'll buzz down to the guards and when he's ready someone will escort you too him." With that out of the way, John reached for his donut.

In midbite John buzzed down, pressing his thick lips right up against the microphone as he gulped down the last glazed bite of his donut. "Hey Franky, get Lonnie out of his cell and escort him to assessment room..." John paused as he wiped away the crumbs that were caked to his lips while he looked over a manifest of available rooms. "..3b, it should be empty. Double check his restraints, and make sure you get Alan and Rodriguez to help ya. If he gives you any trouble, well, you know the drill."

The piercing buzz of the main access door opening was the closest thing to music that existed in the bowels of the Cardinal Institute. It caused a stir amongst the deranged and violent inmates that lived down here in their windowless padded rooms beyond the security of that stout door. Screams, incoherent musings and mumblings, curses, and muffled sounds of someone banging their head against their cushioned wall echoed through the hallway as the red light over the door flashed to its own tune.

From all appearances, Lonnie Norman looked like he was in a tranquil and sublime place within the depths of his own delusional mind as he leaned back against the wall and stared up at the lone light fixated in the middle of the ceiling of his padded room. His daily dose of potent drugs, a cocktail of colorful pills, was meant to subdue his mood swings, lessen his delusions, keep his hallucinations in check, all while chemically castrating him. Lonnie had all but figured out the game long ago. He knew what the bright colored little pills were for. So he knew how to act, how to show and tell the doctors what they wanted to see and hear. In return for his good boy act, the doctors kept his dosage at a level that he privately found manageable.

But the way his cock was flat and numb in his pants, well that wasn't the work of a pill. That was the result of a court ordered injection, one that left him frustratingly limp and dumb down there. As infuriating as that was, Lonnie had come up with a way to exact some measure of revenge all while staying in character. He's just give someone an uneven, nobody's home smile while he pissed himself. Usually he'd get a beating for it, but in the end some pretty little thing in a white nurses gown would come along and clean him up.

The sharp clack of footsteps growing louder as they moved down the hall drew him halfway out of his reverie. Those clouded over brown eyes resting in the alcoves beneath his pronounced brows fell from the glow overhead and shifted to the dark shadows beneath his cot. While Lonnie knew that what he was seeing wasn't real, he couldn't help but smile lightly towards the plastic wrapped visage of a young ladies face that emerged from the shadows under his bed to greet him with her cold and lifeless eyes.

It was just like he last remembered her. Victim number seven, Violet Bradford.

Her face all shrink wrapped up, suffocating, the plastic swallowed up by her wide open gasping mouth. It was a memory that would last him a life time. She was his forever in that frozen moment, eternally beautiful. The only downer was the fact that he couldn't feel a prick of excitement between his legs, but he still remembered what it was like while he screwed her as her life fizzled away. You we're always one of my favorites... With a subtle shift of his heavy eyes, Lonnie peered towards the narrow crack at the base of the lone door in his room. He could see the shadows of boots outside his room, and from the sound of their shuffling there was more then one. With a barely audible grumble, Lonnie cast his gaze back under the bed. ...Another time doll, looks like they're coming to take me away from you.

"Hey Lonnie! We're coming in, you got an appointment. If you cooperate, maybe we'll see if we can get you a candy bar?" Slowly, tediously, Lonnie lifted his head away from beneath the bed and stared blankly towards the door where he could see Franky peering back through the open slot. Lonnie smacked his lips in silent appreciation of the bribe that Franky had offered while he fumbled with his ring of keys.

"Sure thing, Franky, sure thing." He gave a drunkenly grin towards the doorway as he peeled himself up off the floor. As the door open, Lonnie stood with his back against the wall, his elbows tucked in against his sides while he extended his forearms with his palms up and fingers open. "What are we doing today? Shackles? Straps?" Lonnie's eyes widened ever so slightly as he caught a glimpse of the straight jacket that was being held at the ready behind Franky.

"Oh, now your gonna make me blush, going to all that trouble for little old me." He let his shoulders bounce gently against the wall behind his back while the restraining white jacket was settled over him and firmly secured. Lonnie just watched on with his lost brown eyes as Franky took a minute to double check that all of the restraints were properly secured. "A Hershey Bar with almonds, that would be so nice, yeah." He murmured as he was led out of the room, but not before he could give a little wink towards the fading vision beneath his bed.

His intense and beady eyes shifted from doorway to doorway offering smiles and winks to his neighbors as the trio of guards dragged him down the hallway, leaving his slipper clad feet to trace along the cold tile floor. They were going right, which meant he most likely had an appointment with a shrink since the therapy rooms would of been to the left when they exited his room. Lonnie gave a caked over glazed look towards Alan who was on his right side as they drew him towards the exit. "Ya know, they say one out of every four people are insane. Which begs the question, which one of us is?" He couldn't help but laugh as he tapped his toes against the floor.

Some indiscriminate amount of time later Lonnie was all alone in the drab olive green assessment room. His ankles had been secured to the anchoring posts of the wooden bench he sat upon while his bunched up arms that were crossed over his chest within the confines of his off white colored straight jacket rested against the table before him. His angular cheek settled across the surface of the table as he let his eyes slip shut. As he waited quietly for the doctor to arrive for his evaluation, Lonnie let his mind drift away to places that would of sent a chill down the spine of most anyone that could of seen into his fractured thoughts.

 

[Retrojapan]

The Black Angels - Sniper At The Gates of Heaven
​

Black Bridge City was behind her now, with the Gothic fortress imposing on an otherwise barren autumn landscape. Trees decorated the property with reds and yellows, and the institutional stronghold cast a cool shadow across the parking lot. A Visitor's Parking sign marked her position. She arrived early because it was tradition to chain smoke for fifteen minutes before getting into character. No one had to know this was her first unsupervised meeting with a patient, and so no one did. She was going to play it like she knew exactly what she was doing. Fake it till you make it. The woman flicked ash onto the pavement, leaning against the side of her black 1963 Riviera and inhaling sharply as if nicotine could possibly provide relief to a woman like Cordelia Mason. She had been trying to get off on cigarettes for years, but was perhaps just inconsolable. She would keep searching for it, though.

Anyone looking at the conservative dress and demeanor of the twenty-eight year old's waif five foot five frame might see the warning signs right away. It was impossible to hide every single red flag in what most assumed was just a knockoff Audrey Hepburn with burgeoning substance abuse issues. Not too far off, actually. Her long, thin limbs, petite frame and batting doe eyes were like a siren's call off a cliff you didn't even know you were teetering on. It was a call for protection and care from people who could not help but cannonball themselves to her rescue time and time again. Cordelia just didn't understand why no one ever came back to the surface after the initial plunge. Many did try to save a woman who just wanted to drown. Below the surface, her fragility wavered in efforts to hide

scars and burns on her wrists. A typical ensemble from the times covered her destructive trail quite easily, actually. Being neurotypical could be mimed. She dressed herself well because she was an intelligent and high-functioning borderline with money in the bank. Cordelia would be the first to agree that her maladaptive menu choices were not professional. Her costume certainly was, though. A long sleeved navy blouse and grey wool tartan skirt modestly adorned her slender figure in the fabric and layers of her Dr. Mason disguise. Cordelia hadn't eaten in five days in preparation for this. She came upon The Cardinal Institute of Mental Health like a fawn Wendy entering Neverland in search of a Lost Boy.

Cordelia finished the fourth cigarette, knee high boots sounding against the cement and then sterile floor as she came upon her first rite of passage. Donut John. She followed the script perfectly, skimming through Lonnie's case file with feigned insight and signing the papers like she knew the bullshit. Cue friendly smile on her face and wavering sense of security - exit abandonment and daddy issues. She was as impatient as ever through the preliminaries, and hurriedly skipped through the file. John's rehearsed preface for Lonnie Norman was just a shtick spewed for every patient. No encore. Throughout the charade, Cordelia did make note of Lonnie's medications, but not because she was a doctor. Don't kid yourself. Her opposition and biased opinions towards psychiatry in the first place guided the curiousity. Truth be told, Cordelia was on the same regimen of pills as Lonnie - minus the testosterone-binding Lupron injections. Those were rarely voluntary for a man Lonnie's age. She left the case file with John because she didn't need a prop. She gave the man one last smile before making her grand entrance. First impressions are integral to people with personality disorders. "Thank you, I can take it from here."

Footsteps padding the floor again as Cordelia came down the hallway and entered the assessment room. The door opened to indeed reveal a very drab olive green. Her chair was backed to the door as if assuming the doctor would flee if in peril, but not a soul in Black Bridge knew how truly desensitized she was to fight or flight. She didn't even have the response anymore. Cortisol was boring. Her instinct said stay put and deal with the adrenaline later. Fuck anyone who said it was PTSD. Her life experience just called for top shelf material now. Cordelia took her seat at the table across from Lonnie, and clearly sympathized with the man's drug-induced stupor. It was evident the previous psychiatrist used Risperidone to disarm him. What kind of strengths did he have? She would never know if he was half-awake with a dreaming mind. That's why she took the Risperidone as her occasional sleeping aid instead.

"Hi Lonnie. I'm Dr. Mason. I'm going to be seeing you every week to talk about your psychiatric treatment plan here at The Cardinal. You don't even have to talk to me today if you don't want to, but between you and me... I think you're over medicated." Cordelia whispered the last part and leaned back to cross one long leg over the other. She casually smoothed out the grey material of her skirt and looked to his face, but her attention immediately returned to her lap after she did. Their dark eyes met in that moment, and if she had looked for just a second longer, he would have seen through her disguise. She was just a girl in a woman body, and nothing made her break out of character like being seen for the Tinkerbell she truly was in Neverland.

 

[Black_Out]

Radiohead -Where I End and You Begin
​

Long before Lonnie locked his eyes on Dr. Mason, he smelled her. That rich and pungent aroma of nicotine and tobacco practically billowed around her, rolled out of her mouth when she spoke, and left Lonnie with a craving for a smoke. That would have to wait though, this was an assessment room, and there was so much to assess about his newest acquaintance. So Lonnie remained with his head pillowed against the table, quietly listening while remaining seemingly withdrawn from his surroundings, and more importantly the presence of his guest. That was until her smoky breath murmured her opinion on his regiment of medication.

That got his attention. Their eyes met and a small forced smile crept its way across his lips as they briefly stared into each others souls. She looked away, of course she looked away. No one ever wanted to stare into that abysmal pit of a soul for to long. His smile widened at that thought. "Don't you get any big idea's, Doc. They're never gonna happen. I'm the devil around here, so they say, and they like to keep Satan medicated." The words slithered out of his mouth while his tongue strolled over his dry lips, moistening them with an audible smack. That's when his eyes noticed the lack of a cassette recorder. Which was both an appealing and curious development, since every doctor that had ever sat across from him kept their conversations archived on those flimsy little strips of tape.

In its absence, Lonnie decided to be more engaging with the pretty little doctor. "But really, do you think a statement like that is going to lure me in, make me trust you? " He babyfied the last portion of his words as he gaze remained unwavering, fixated upon the petite morsel that was directly across from him. "It's a disappointing opening salvo Doc, you'll need to do better then that."

Lonnie finally pulled his torso up off the table and leaned back, absently wrestling his arms about within the confines of his straight jacket. His eyes never once moved from Cordelia's face as if he believed he could summon her gaze back to his by simply staring forever. "Why don't we start over, hmm?" Lonnie rolled his neck, sinew and joints popping as he maneuvered himself into a position to take control of the conversation. "Now, if you really want me to open up we need to establish a little give and take here." Like the slowly moving minute hand of a clock, Lonnie delicately rotated his head all while staring intently towards Cordelia. "So you give me a cigarette." His lips puckered up, smooching a kiss her way. "And I'll tell you a story, answer a question, whatever your pretty little heart desires."

Suddenly Lonnie lurched forward, the chains of his shackles rattling against the tiled floor as he extended himself towards Dr. Mason until his bindings jerked and stopped him in his tracks. "What'do'ya say Doc?"

 

[Retrojapan]

The Warlocks - Mean Machine
Linden School for the Gifted, Westlock
June 29, 1951 ​

"Ms. Mason, we have unfortunately run out of options to keep you here, and it has been decided that you will be admitted into the state hospital as soon as we are able to escort you. It's for the best, my dear. You have caused an irrecoverable amount of damage to us here over the years, but to no one more than yourself. I pray for you, Ms. Mason, truly. I do. We are very fortunate that Mr. Cooper is expected to make a full recovery after the horrendous assault you carried out yesterday..." The older man's face is expressionless because he is dead like the rest of them at Linden. Cooper was just another castrated pedophile on the staff roster now. It would be mandatory soon enough. The man shifts his weight in the chair before following an after thought to push a copy of the New Testament across his desk towards the young girl sitting in front of him. "You are, without a doubt, the devil, child."

“Can't I go home?" Cordelia's brown eyes well with tears and she wipes them away with the backs of her hands. The girl desperately wants to fit in, but can never figure out how. It was very confusing to play house with people who knew all the rules. She tried with Mr. Cooper every summer, but she was not allowed to tell anyone about it. He can't play it with anyone else because she made sure of it. Still kept her word, though. Cordelia didn't tell anyone why she mutilated him. Instead she wondered about where the other students went for months at a time during the summer break. Cordelia's only memory of home looked like mother's eyes rolling back in her head while father wraps his hands around her neck. How many times does something need to happen before it feels like home? Maybe after the fourteenth time. That's when she tells father that mother can't breathe. He tells her it's ok, Cordy. It's alright. This is what she needs. She watches and realizes that it was true because mother never moved again. It must have been so good that she didn't need to. When father puts her to bed, he tells Cordelia that her special gift is keeping secrets. He tells her not to tell anyone, and so she never does.

"No, Ms. Mason. Your father is..." The man of course pauses to cross his chest in the name of the father, son and holy spirit. The first time she saw it was at her mother's funeral. "He is making his way back to our Lord."

"What will happen to me, Father Daniel?" The girl sniffles and accepts his parting gift, holding the leather bound book delicately in her lap. A wool skirt, cotton blouse, a New Testament, and a metallic taste in her mouth are her only possessions now.

"I imagine you will inherit your Father's estate once you come of age, and then you can do with it as you wish."

"Do you really call me the devil around here?" Cordelia feels the hard surface beneath her like an electric chair, but imagines it is a throne.

Name something you can smell. Tobacco and lilac shampoo. Something you can feel. The itch of the tartan wool skirt. Something you can taste. Metallic. Something you can hear. Lonnie Norman... The realization that she was grounding herself in a man with a straitjacket didn't go unnoticed by the psychiatrist. Go figure. It worked to bring her feet back to Black Bridge, though. Thanks Lonnie. The words coming out of his mouth told Cordelia the man was either really fucking bored and pushing boundaries, or needed off that cocktail, stat. Join the club.

"Satan can't be medicated, Lonnie. That's why God sends him to the depths of hell." Cordelia straightens herself into the posture only a just-ironed blouse could enforce; stiff like a corset and obvious like the disguise it was. His hell and hers. She was a woman with a foot in two worlds, but the throne was just as damning in both. She became fucking Goldilocks trying to find that shit again. It was in the desperate screams of a man begging to die a few rooms over that she found her place. She was home.

"You want to start this appointment after a cigarette?" Cordelia's intonation assumes a question, but the woman was already reaching into the bag on the back of the chair. He could have asked her for a million bucks. Maybe she felt generous. Cancer sticks turned olive branch at your service. She pulled out the box and a lighter then floated over to him with the bedside manners of a goddamn angel considering he was a serial killer. Cordelia arrived before him like some kind of Mother Teresa, lifting her hip to sit on the edge of the table before placing a cigarette between his lips and then her own. She held it in her mouth and slowly leaned forward to light a flame for both, pausing a moment in the proximity just because she wanted to feel the heat.

"No cassettes. No notebooks. No bullshit, Lonnie. Appointment begins after the smoke clears. Everything you say until then is off the record." Cordelia was so close that she could see a million epochs in the amber specks of his deep brown eyes. Damn him. That fossilized graveyard beckoned her way more than it should have, but she couldn't help herself. She looked into Lonnie's Lost Boy eyes and all she saw was herself staring back for a count of Five... Four... Three...

Cordelia retreats early, sliding off the table and increasing the space between them because homeostasis is all about going back to normal even if you don't have one. When she returns to her chair, she looks at the clock on the wall for comfort. The arms tell her that it's eleven in the morning, and this makes her relax. Clocks were safe because time can never leave. Eleven in the morning comes every day, and if that isn't forever - what is?

"I'm putting a stop order on all your meds tomorrow."

 

[Black_Out]

Tool - Reflection​

The cigarette dangled precariously upon the edges of his lips. The smoke rolled down his throat, poisoned his lungs, and then fled back out through the creases of his mouth. His nostrils twitched as the residual smoke tickled its way along the minute hairs within his nasal cavity. Lonnie could sense his eyes starting to water as the wisps of smoke curled upwards around his weasel carved face. The heat of those grey vapors forced those drug clouded pools of brown to squint as he peered through the haze towards Cordelia. Besides cutting onions, it was the closest Lonnie Norman ever came to shedding a tear.

"Alright then, Miss Mason." Lonnie exhaled, his words mixed with the acrid smoke issuing from his mouth before he inhaled once more. His watering eyes pinched shut as he turned his attention towards the subtle glow of light that bore its way into the drab room from beyond the barred window. Even the windows were caged here in this mockery of hell, as if those inanimate lens that teased escape from this place had gone insane like the rest of the world. Lonnie wasn't a religious fella, but he was sure hell was a lot more fun then this wretched pit of despair known as the Cardinal Institute.

His thoughts drifted backwards to the first time he had killed. Which meant Lonnie went all the way back to that tender age of eight. The world was at war during those summer months of good ole 43'. After his old man had split town to go join the big fight, his mother had been forced to take a job at a nearby factory where she helped put the finishing touches on the newest additions for the war effort. The hours were long and that left Lonnie to fend for himself over the course of that fateful summer. It was a time of unimaginable self discovery and metamorphosis that molded Lonnie into the killing machine he was today.

It started out innocently enough with a mangy stray cat that crossed paths with him while he was playing with his army soldiers in the backyard. He could still remember with vivid clarity how it squealed after he had lured it into his clutches. How his head buzzed as the rest of the world went almost quiet around him. That sensation of its fragile neck as it snapped under the pressure of his youthful fingers. When its warm body went limp as the heat of life seeped out of it. It's death was enamoring. So much so that Lonnie kept its rigid corpse in an old shoe box that he hid deep within the weeds that lorded over the rear of his pops defunct work shed. That cat was the foundation, a cornerstone of death that consumed his tumultuous mind and fueled his malicious curiosity. He checked on it daily, marveling over the stench, how the body bloated before the skin sank inward, how the flesh rotted away, how the maggots festered within and seeped out of its shrunken corpse. It was a daily ritual, checking on that cat. One that little Lonnie looked forward to with feverish anticipation.

Then one day it was gone. If Lonnie could of, he would of cried. He fully suspected that his mother had stumbled across the vile contents hidden within that rain soaked shoe box. Surely the pungent odor must of drawn her attention, caused her to search out the source, because it stank like high hell. And after it had vanished, his mother never quite seemed to look at him same way. Those loving, adoring, and forgiving eyes of a mother had been vanquished from her sockets. He wanted to pluck those spiteful judgmental things right out of her skull. It was a lesson in oversight, and Lonnie learned that lesson well. Never again would he be so careless.

The old Glenbrook Mill was the perfect solution. It was a secretive place buried deep in the woods where nature had all but reclaimed the land. Getting there took over an hour on foot and the lone road that had once led to that rickety structure had dissolved into an unpassable state long before Lonnie was born. There he honed his craft and collected specimens, which were mostly dead birds, rodents, and other small and timid creatures that he either killed with his own hands or stumbled across during his wanderings. But his appetite grew with each addition to the macabre museum that he built in the bowels of that secluded mill. A neighborhood dog, small enough that he could carry up into his cathedral of gore was the largest of his exhibits. Experiments soon followed once the flesh had been eaten away. Bones were plucked, then reassembled using bits of twine, creating monstrosities born out of his over active imagination. It was a summer full of revelation that was nearly ruined by one pesky boy named Billy Squires.

​

The two had crossed paths on his daily journey towards his sanctuary of grisly remains. Even at that young age, Lonnie was never much of a people person. Especially now that he had found a purpose in what was an otherwise dull and meaningless life. "Where ya headed, Lonnie? Mind if I tag along?" He wanted to scowl at Billy for even speaking to him, but Lonnie tried to play it cool. "None of your business, Billy, and no you can't." But Billy wasn't the type to easily be persuaded to leave well enough alone. "Geeze Lonnie, well what if I just come along anyways. It's not like there's anything better to do." Lonnie grumbled under his breath and simply kept his head down as he continued to plow onward. Billy was just a year or so younger then him and Lonnie hoped that the grueling hike would eventually dissuade his unwanted traveling companion from finishing the journey. As each step drew them closer to the mill, Lonnie began to realize that Billy had no intention of giving up despite the occasional complaint about how his feet were hurting. Lonnie already knew what he had to do long before the sound of the waterfall could be heard roaring as the pair neared the end of the journey.

As the ashes of his cigarette crumpled and fell onto his lap, Lonnie turned his gaze over towards Cordelia. There was a momentary pause as he locked eyes with her, his breath held in as traces of smoke rolled out of his mouth. Then he spoke. "So I pushed him over the cliff. The sound his skull made when it shattered on the rocks below was almost as fascinating as how red the water turned when it soaked it up like a sponge. You should of seen the things I made out of his bones. Unfortunately the search party eventually found what was left of him up in the attic. I never quite got to finish his transformation. A fact that disappoints me to this day." Lonnie spit out his spent cigarette, letting it roll over the table between them. "Still, they never figured it out, who killed little Billy Squires back in good ole 43." He smiled before blowing a ring of smoke across the table towards Cordelia. "The papers always thought it was some cult."

 

[Retrojapan]

Metric - Satellite Mind (Unplugged)​

It was out of the bag and straight into the box for that poor cat to be neither dead nor alive forever. Mangey thing didn't stand a chance. Fortunately, the chances of meeting a psychopath in the wild are quite low. They only make up about one percent of the total population, but curiously, ninety-nine percent of that one percent are male. Why? Maybe women are just more likely to be victimized over the course of their lives compared to men, which produces a borderline profile. Maybe it's just a case of Adam and Eve in the DSM Garden of Eden. A rib from schizo, a rib from psycho. Cordelia was comprised of so many ribs now that she built herself a cage. Inside of it her heart was telling her to stop taking chances, but the numbers kept crunching to the tune of a skull smashing into rocky shores. There was a roughly one percent chance for either individuals to exist and three point thirty-two billion people living on the planet in 1965. The woman was enthralled with odds like that. The cigarette fell from Lonnie's lips and plopped onto the table just like Billy Squires off a cliff. Smack. She could never look away from an accident even when she wanted to. It was her move.

"It really is a shame. I bet no one even noticed just how difficult bone is to work with. That shows craftsmanship right there. At least you learned that you need to work quickly after that. There's always a silver lining. Billy taught you time management." Cordelia's comment came as casual as ever. She was desensitized. Lonnie could have just confessed to murder and she still would have taken one final, self-indulgent drag - Wait...

Cordelia butt her cigarette on the table, tossing it in next to Lonnie's as though folding. She didn't curse the dealer, though. Even if the hand was total shit. She exhaled, making a sound of disappointment with her tongue on the roof of her mouth. The final plume of grey billowed around her like the curtains closing on the final act. Nothing was real until the smoke cleared. That was the deal. He upped the ante, but she would always bet him one. Her poker face was still a solid six out of ten even as her eyes floated through the clearing nicotine fog, noting the table turned ashtray. The way his cancer crossed her cancer over the pile of ash looked like it was the final piece of some ritual.

"Let's start from the top. My name is Cordelia Mason and I am a psychiatrist here at The Cardinal. I'm sure you are no stranger to this, but I would like you to meet me here with beginner's mind. Treat this exactly like your first ever visit. Do you remember the first time you ever saw a psychiatrist, Lonnie?" Cordelia's stomach panged. The clock was ticking, and she was still starving for things she couldn't eat. The whole time she wonders if cardinal poles attract each other because the magnets are opposite, or because they are the same.

 

[Black_Out]

REM - Walk Unafraid​

The smoke had cleared, leaving their innocence behind as it vanished into thin air. Lonnie let his eyes drop towards the duo of discarded cigarettes settled upon the table between them. His brows creased with an introspective wrinkle as Dr. Mason ushered the conversation forward. Of course she wanted more, after that tease of a confession disappeared with the smoke that now laid in a lazy blanket upon the ceiling. A tiny part of Lonnie Norman wanted to open up to this waif of woman across from him. Her presence was as alluring as her demeanor was detached. But there was something to her eyes. A hunger, or fascination burned within them that reminded Lonnie of the way some women had looked at him while he was on trial. That comparison barely scratched the surface though because there was so much more behind those eyes that he needed to explore.

​

Silence, save for their pensive breaths filled the pale parlor they shared. Though the hand on the clock said otherwise, it felt as if a lifetime passed between them before Lonnie finally lifted his dulled eyes towards Cordelia. The minute hand ticked forward and Lonnie spoke while his vacant eyes peered forever forward into her own. "I'm anything but a beginner, Cordelia." He savored the way her name rolled off of his tongue while his fingers twitched and shifted about within the confines of his straight jacket. His head flopped to the side as if the hinge of his neck had given out. Truth be told, Lonnie just liked looking at things from different angles. And there were angles all over her expressionless face. A fresh smile painted its way across his lips before he continued.

​

"Yes, to answer your question, yes I remember him." Lonnie paused to smack his lips and savor the taste of nicotine that still teased his taste buds. "But your asking an awful lot, Miss Mason." His unblinking eyes obsessed over every fraction of her face while his jaw kept working. "An awful, awful lot. I want to trust you, I do." His head swung back to the other side like a pendulum making its rounds. "But I think we need to establish the rules for this game of ours because I don't care for yours." Lonnie sank away from the table, his head tilted back as if he was looking down to assesses a virgin treasure sprawled out before him.

"Tit, for tat. My trust is earned." His shoulders slumped as the tension fell away from his posture. "I'll either wait until you get me off my meds, just to prove that you'll actually follow through with your promises." For an instant his grin fell flat as the clouds parted from his brown eyes. "Or you can tell me a secret, a dirty little secret and I'll reciprocate." He inhaled sharply through his nose. "Just don't lie, I'm a seasoned professional."

While Lonnie waited for her response, he couldn't help but visualize his hand settling around her slender throat.

 

[Retrojapan]

Radiohead - Paranoid Android​

Cordelia might have been the only person in Lonnie's life who was going to overlook the broken hinges and rusty pipes. The bad plumbing and cracking foundation. He was a total landmine, but Cordelia Mason had a death wish. She still wished on stars, and asked the universe all the questions she couldn't ask just yet. Did Lonnie like blondes or brunettes? Who was his favourite superhero? How did he like his coffee? Where did he go when he wanted to feel alive? He swayed like a pendulum in front of a woman who always needed more time, and Cordelia was hypnotized. There were so many dirty little secrets she wanted to pour out, but few were hers to spill. One time she told a nurse her secret, but that didn't serve her well. The hospital stopped putting Cordelia in the jacket after she admitted that she liked being restrained.

Callingwood State Psychiatric Hospital, Westlock
April 17, 1953​

"I was tightnin' up the straps for Cordy just now and she tells me 'it feels like a hug from dad' with this big smile on her face. Christ. I'm thinking - this poor child. That's not right, Mary-Belle. Bloody hell. That is just not right. We can't be keepin' that girl in the strait no more. It's messin' with her head, and her head's already's not screwed in all the way! We have to do somethin' else with her. We can't let her out of the room. We can't keep her in. Whud'do we do?" The red faced woman has a Scottish accent which trills breathlessly down the halls.

"Fuck sakes. We better restrain her to the bed, maybe. Give the jacket a rest. She got too used to it cause she's been in it awhile, you know, Eff... We can't just leave her willy nilly or she'll be hurting herself again, though. Poor thing hit her face blue with the toaster last week." The smaller nurse is named Mary-Belle, and she is nodding as if to convince herself that total captivity is justified. She feels guilty. The girl in question is only a teen, and the toaster made sense if you read her case notes. Cordy is surprisingly one of the most likable in a hospital where patients beating nurses with a toaster is usually the norm. This girl's mojo was more refined: non-discriminantly seducing staff and patients, exhibiting attention-seeking behaviors, and self-harm. Run of the mill borderline. They just needed to keep her alive until she was eighteen.

"That's where it went.... I was wonderin' about that toaster. Well. Better get this done and strap her in. Jacob n' Doug are on the graveyard shift tonight and we don't wanna give 'em grief. You know she always cries after quiet time. We'll give her to the boys nice and easy, already tucked in for the night." Effy nods too, thinking back to the previous night's shift change. Jacob and Doug's graveyard report often seemed to be for a different patient than their Cordy. The use of physical restraints and medications to subdue her were noted on a nightly basis sometimes. The girl never remembers what happened, but has bruises on her body to prove that a struggle certainly occurred.

The two nurses apprehend the frail teen with ease. She is fast asleep on a plastic chair in the common area, still wearing the straitjacket. She actually looks quite peaceful there with her tiny head lolled to the side. The black and white tv in front of her is playing cartoons. The sound is on mute. There are no other patients on the floor because Cordelia is out on her scheduled '21:00 - 23:00 QUIET TIME'. She chose to sleep as she usually does. She wants to stay awake at night, it seems.

"Please don't leave me! Effy! Mary-Belle! Don't leave me like this! Please!! You don't understand..." Cordelia's tearful and frantic cries accompany the jangling of her wrists and legs against the restraints. She begs the women not to leave her alone and strapped to the bed. She can't tell them why the graveyard shift makes her hate herself. It's not her secret to tell.

"Dearie, we always come back, don't we? We'll see you tomorrow. Jacob and Doug will take good care of you."

It takes a certain kind of person to blink and smile in the face of criminal insanity, but don't forget - this wasn't Cordelia's first rodeo. She was right at home smiling back at Lonnie. In all honesty, the man could have jerked off in front of her while drooling out Baa Baa Black Sheep, and she would have understood. It was kind of overdone, though. She had seen it all and wasn't expressionless so much as she was muted. Filtered. Censored. Restrained and subdued, though nothing new in her life. In other words - Cordelia was medicated. Her psychiatrist noted strong improvements in her interpersonal effectiveness following the introduction of the mood stabilizer. Shitty part is Lithium dulls emotional lability and reactivity. Plus was no destructive behaviors, and a semi-normal life. The minus was a total lack of interest in anything unless it was extreme. Lithium was like seeing everything in greyscale, but knowing you can see the rainbow. It was easy enough to stop taking the meds, but she needed the focus. If she was going to survive everything in her life in order to write a dissertation on personality disorders then she was at the very least going to see patients once a week at the loony bin.

"I'll see you in a week's time for our next appointment, then. I will put the stop order in today. You will start weaning off beginning tomorrow. Good luck with it." Cordelia stood up, retrieving her bag from the back of the chair and taking the first few steps towards the door. She paused there for a moment before turning to look at him one last time over her shoulder. His unpredictable movements and gestures are disturbing if you aren't used to it, but she is. Her gaze searches the straitjacket, Lost Boy eyes, and blank, strung out expression on his face. This was Lonnie at his worst, but she understands why. She has to be the one to fix him. As soon as she leaves the assessment room, she puts in the stop on his meds. She reads his case file, and falls in love with the graveyard. Cordelia doesn't want to leave. A week in between appointments would be enough to pull Lonnie off of everything and observe his baseline. He was going to reboot. She doesn't know what to expect the next time she sees him.

A minister from the courthouse calls Cordelia the next day and informs her that the judge’s order will take time to retract, if at all possible, and Lonnie will continue with Lupron for several more weeks. The rest of the order, however, was approved, and the pharmacy ceases dispensing his medications.

 

[Black_Out]

Pink Floyd - Brain Damage/Eclipse​

It was like biting into a forbidden fruit, the way that Hershey bar with almonds tasted. He savored every delicious tidbit of that candy bar reward after he had returned to the confinement of his quaint little padded prison. For well over two years now this was home for Lonnie Norman. In is medicated stupor, it had grown to be something that he accepted as part of his everyday life. He didn't necessarily like it, but that wasn't an altogether unusual response, acceptance didn't always go hand in hand with happiness. At least he had his ghosts to keep him company when they were able to find their way to him through the filter of chemicals that subdued his sometimes graphic hallucinations. His victims were his to keep and even the drugs couldn't keep them from being summoned to his side for their erratic introspective visitations.

This was all going to change though for Lonnie now that his medicated fog was about to be steadily drawn away. The transformation began the very next morning when his breakfast didn't include the usual supplement of his suppressive little pills. Paranoia set in. He suspected that his meds had been snuck into his oatmeal, dissolved in his juice container, or somehow secretly slipped into his food. Lonnie refused to fall for those tricks. He was never the victim, so he rebuffed his meals and shoved them away while his body began the tedious process of cleansing itself. As the days passed Lonnie could feel the wheel returning to his hands. Soon enough he would be steering again. But first he had to get through the fits of withdrawal that plagued him.

Time became an abstract concept in his windowless cell. Day became night, or was it night became day. It was impossible to discern when his body shivered all over with manic anxiety. The pounding in his head didn't help matters. It felt like he his heart had decided to rehome itself within the confines of his skull. By the third day the staff was growing increasingly concerned over his condition and had to restrain him in that all to familiar straight jacket again. At least by then he begrudgingly accepted a bowl of spoon fed mush from an attending nurse which satiated that pang of hunger that was only complicating matters. It was a moment of sea change for Lonnie. His body needed that nourishment to see him pulled out of the downward spiral of detoxification.

But like a phoenix from the ashes, Lonnie rose. He pulled up and out of that hellish descent. Time started to come back to him. His madness didn't vanish away but it was his own brand of insanity that returned to comfort and stroke his ego. Calculated thoughts, a cold yet passably friendly demeanor and an increasing ability to steer with a clear grasp of the road before him had Lonnie feeling like his own self. He was peeling himself off the wall, bit by bit. In the back of his mind he was already looking forward to Miss Masons return. She had gone to this length for him, how much further would she be willing to go? Lonnie intended to find out.

By the time the week had passed, Lonnie was his old manipulatively cooperative self again. He hadn't felt this focused in years. The specters of his conquests were a far more normal affair and that pleased Lonnie even though he knew better to get drawn into their manifestations. The last thing he wanted was to give the staff here a reason to suggest to Miss Mason that he be returned to his drugged stupor. So he controlled his fits, kept himself restrained, and appeared as even keeled as he had ever seemed. It wasn't his first time pulling the veil over himself, blending in was part of the act when you were a serial killer. The urges were certainly still there, but with daily doses of Lupron still circulating their way through his blood stream and down into his crotch there wasn't much point as of yet to act on them.

Patience, Lonnie, patience... He repeatedly told himself. Every cage has an exit. With his mind cleared now, Lonnie was certain he could figure out a way to disappear from the confines of the Cardinal. It wasn't like he was locked up in some maximum security prison, like a certain someone had clamored for. Vengeance was going to be sweet. Patience, Lonnie, patience.

When he had returned to that olive green room for his next appointment with Dr. Mason, the straight jacket was given a rest. Cuffs replaced that attire, keeping his wrists all the way down to his ankles shackled. It wasn't his first time being harnessed in chains, but it was a welcome change of direction to be able to manage some minor movements. The clarity in his eyes were the first things that greeted Cordelia as she returned to the room for their second session. Their was an inquisitive look in the depths of his borderline soulless eyes as he examined the petite doctor probably as much as she was assessing him in that initial breadth of a moment until they were once more seated across from each other. Lonnie settled his palms and fingers together in perfect symmetry before his lap.

"So, you want to know about time with Doctor Abernathy back in 45, or would you like to venture somewhere else Miss Mason? And might I add that you look quite fetching today."

 

[Retrojapan]

Placebo - Pure Morning
​

The rituals and superstitions were going to increase in time, but that was her magical-thinking delusions at work. Cordelia was as superstitious as they get. Lucky rabbit foot. Four leaf clover. Talismans and charms. She gathered trinkets and traditions everywhere she went. Performing compulsive rituals was her attempt at regulating anxiety and fear of the unknown. What was there to be afraid of? The psychiatric hospital was a familiar landscape. Crazy people were practically family. This was her longest stretch of stability and sanity following her last hospitalization five years, six months and three days ago. Truthfully, Cordelia was afraid of losing herself again, and there was safety in patterns and repetition. She uses conditional-reasoning to assure herself, even if it doesn't make any sense. If the wind vane on The Cardinal is pointing west upon arrival, then it's bad luck.

It pointed east. She was safe.

Humans are creatures of habit who are, at the same time, wired for novelty. t's no wonder they get stuck. Cordelia was forever in limbo of depending on predictable routines, and wanting something to completely fuck up her life. If you asked a young Cordy Mason what she wanted to be when she grew up, the answer was a clock. Why a clock, Cordy? Well, don't you see the way people watch the clock on Friday's at 3:54pm? Do you ever get jealous of the way everyone depends on time? Don't you wish everything revolved around your hands? Everyone needs a clock or their life falls apart. As long as she stayed on schedule, then she was going to stay together. She was a clock, and right on time the woman smoked until her head was light. Four cigarettes in fifteen minutes for a buzz before the appointment. Donut John. Assessment Room. Knock, knock. Anybody home? Somebody was this time.

"Good morning, Lonnie, and thank you." Cordelia stepped into the room, her black kitten heels tap-tapping the floor. She was immediately taken by the man's gaze greeting hers inquisitively. He was home, alright. He didn't even need to speak for her to feel it. Lonnie filled the room with his unfamiliar presence, and she suddenly felt very disembodied from herself. More than usual. The last time she saw him he was so drugged out on Lithium and anti-psychotics that he was still pissing himself for the hell of it. The case file says he's a highly intelligent individual with severe antisocial tendencies and perverse inclinations. She missed him last time, but Lonnie finally made it to his appointment. This was, truly, their first introduction. The previous session was a dry run. She took note of the shackles in lieu of straitjacket, and his newly demonstrated demeanor. It was evident that Lonnie was returning to a typical baseline for psychopaths: disciplined, manipulative, and deceiving. Now did Cordelia really look fetching in the black velvet dress, or did the white collar just emphasize her delicate swan neck? She took her seat across from him, instinctively retrieving the box of cigarettes and a lighter from her bag. This time she opted to slide them across the table to him. He was more than capable since he was in handcuffs now, and she knew better. She would keep the table between them like a moat around Castle Mason.

"I'm not here with an agenda. I have nothing to gain or lose. This conversation can really go anywhere you want it to." Cordelia's petite frame, pale skin and coiffed hair were made for the iconic design of her dress, and she knew it. She wore velvet when she wanted to hide how ugly she felt inside. Maybe Lonnie knew that he needed to send her flowers before the Trojan Horse. Maybe she knew to do the same. "I read your case file, and I must admit that I haven't read anything like it before... You're remarkable, Lonnie. I surmise only one thing - You have been so misunderstood and over medicated for most of your life. The system failed you and everything I read makes perfect sense, actually. You telling me about Dr. Abernathy in '45 won't change that. I already know he didn't get you. No one has, and you suffered for it. Trust me, no one knows about the injustices of these institutions more than someone who grew up in one."

The plan was simple - fuck boundaries. Relate to the psychopath like it could have been you. It could have been. Appeal to his mistreatment and validate all of the shit that he's put up with. She did. Make him think no one before you ever understood him or ever would. That was the truth. Cordelia didn't believe a single person could understand his story like she did. The man was a rapist murderer, and she forgave his sins before she even read about them. Her complete and total acceptance cost him only one thing. His secrets. She was starving for some new material. A borderline's mind needs something bad to chew on. She needed something totally rotten and worthless to anyone else but her. He knew what it was. She could feel it like everything was going to come hurling all over the table as soon as the dry heaving stopped. There was something dark in Lonnie Norman, and she wanted it. Men always had secrets, and Cordelia was an impenetrable, bottomless chest. Eve was born of Adam's rib, after all. She needed Lonnie to throw her that goddamn bone.

"Can you tell me something I don't already know?"

 

[Black_Out]

Ministry - Scare Crow​

Shackled hands reached forward to catch the pack of cigarettes and lighter as they slid across the table like it was an ice rink. Fingers curled inward like a mantis pulling its prey towards its mouth as Lonnie fixated on Cordelia's luscious moving lips. Of course his eyes were drawn down from there towards the white collar that curled around her pale neck. The thought of a cord of pearls passing around and around that frail neck of hers drifted its way into the eye of Lonnie's mind. Nice and tight. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but Lonnie fought it back into flatness. He was taken by her brazen approach. It wasn't the first time that a psychiatrist tried to reel him in with platitudes, but there was an air of sincerity behind the mask that covered her face.

Lonnie took the bait of course. It showed a measure of respect and admiration, even if it was all a crock of psychological shit being spewed ninety-nine out of one hundred times. There was something in her eyes though that hungered for this. A need, no matter how depraved, to step inside his skin. Some women were just drawn to him like a fly to a spider. To curious for their own good. He could see the fear in those admiring eyes, that made them easy to manipulate and snare in his webs of deceit. But there wasn't any hint of fear in Cordelia Masons gaze. Just pure unadulterated hunger. She was throwing blood in the water, and Lonnie smelled it like the shark that he was.

His teeth snapped down around the end of the fresh cigarette before the lighter rose to breath a wisp of flame. Lonnie inhaled deeply as he carefully placed the lighter down across the top of the open pack of cigarettes that rested before him. His elbows rose and settled on the table while his shackled wrists lingered near his face, attending to the cancer stick in his mouth. Before Lonnie would go on and give her what she wanted, he had a bone to pick with her. "I haven't suffered a day in my life." His head lowered, his eyes drawing even with her own. "I want that to be perfectly clear. I'm the purest form of a predator in a world full of sheep." There was a twitch of his head, a toss of his eyes towards the walls and what lied beyond the drab olive green interview room they shared. "Out there, that's where the suffering is. People don't truly live, they're all prisoners in cells that they can't see." "Now me, I know all about freedom. You can lock me in these cages all you want, pump me full of drugs, and throw away the key. I'll still have experienced more freedom then anyone of those sheep wandering about out there." Lonnie pulled the smoldering cigarette from his lips and without a hint of amusement he mused across the table towards Cordelia. "Baa-aa-aah."

Lonnie leaned forward, a growing brooding darkness consumed his eyes. His elbows slid apart, cuffed wrists crossed as his fingers fell like the tips of feathers upon his shoulders. The cigarette still remained pensively balanced between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. "There was a cheerleader back in high school. You know the sort. The popular girl, the class slut, the teacher's probably even fucked her raw." There wasn't a pulse of emotion upon Lonnie's face, only the coldness of his words seeping out of his throat to show just how unremorseful he was. "I was twenty, a few years out of school myself. She used to jog every night. Took the same trail every time, just like the good little sheep that she was." Lonnie paused to take a drag. "She wasn't my first, of course that was Billy Squires, but there were others between her and the beginning." The smoke plunged from his lips and washed across the surface of the table. "Back then I used a knife. As I chased her down though, it fell out of my back pocket. When I realized it wasn't there, I didn't panic, I adapted. I pinned that pretty little thing beneath me. I wrapped my hands around her neck. I squeezed. It took my breath away almost as much as it took hers, watching her face struggle to cling to life. In that moment I could tell that she knew she had never understood what it was like to live free until she met me."

"I set her free and in return she was my spark of inspiration. After Billy Squires, I started to collect cocoons. They were fascinating. How something so strange and alien could metamorphosis into something so delicate and beautiful. That initial allure fell away and was replaced when I cut one open. Peeling them apart, it was always different, unique. Depending on how far along the transformation was, it could be down right gory. Puss and insect juice might spill out, or I might find a half formed butterfly inside. After I choked that girl, I started to think back to those cocoons, its where my inspiration to suffocate my future victims with layers and layers of elastic wrap came from. I was helping them to be born again, they just had to die first." The cigarette returned to Lonnie's waiting lips and a relaxed drag of that pleasant nicotine stick soon followed.

 

[Retrojapan]

Patti Smith - Smells Like Teen Spirit
​

His case file was really just a big circlejerk of doctors saying the exact same bullshit back and forth to each other for years. Cordelia still read it a thousand times. She read it until her heart didn't race. She read it until she couldn't get off on it anymore. Donut John said she wasn't supposed to show the patient anything in his file, but oh how she wanted to. Cordelia wanted to show Lonnie what he had done. She wanted him to see how Donut John's rainbow sprinkles fell out of the manila folder like confetti, and how the women inside were all so goddamn beautiful. She wanted to be one of them so badly she couldn’t stand it. Maybe Lonnie would see Crystal McArthur under his bed next because Cordelia couldn't stop thinking about her.

"Appointment begins after the smoke clears. Everything you say until then is off the record." Cordelia's even tone came across just as it had in their previous session. She placed a cigarette between her lips with a flick flick flick of the lighter. It felt empowering to inhale something so bad that she had to blow it back out after. She sat perfectly still, transfixed like some bird of paradise about to get fucked. Is she hypnotized, or is she petrified? Cordelia sucked on the filter of her cigarette to think about it. She could not look away. In an olive green room, they were just two dark pits. Lonnie was about to squeeze insect pus and juice all over her beautiful dress, but she was begging for it. Spilling guts is still intimate even if they’re not your own.

"Do you think she recognized you?" Cordelia didn't realize the question slipped through her brain and out her mouth until it was too late. Avian eyes watched Lonnie through the smoke. The only cheerleader she ever met was that one choked out on the trail, frightened eyes widening with horror and disbelief. Cordelia listened to Lonnie and pretended it was her dying body thrashing wildly for her life in one last recital of hip hip hurray. Cordy should have been his slutty cheerleader.

Instead she was as corrosive as the near toxic doses of Lithium her body endured all so that she could think things like Lonnie Norman's not crazy. He's beautiful, and if he were anymore poetic then she was going off her meds too.

Cabaret Nightclub, Black Bridge
June 23, 1961

​

"Crystaaaal!"

“Hah hah!" Too slow! She's already through the doors, escaping out onto the lively night street and giggling as her friends give up chase. Finally. Freedom. Independence. She's nineteen now and they can't stop her. She is like a newborn foal taking it's first few steps into the brave new world. The sound of music is barely contained by the building, and it feels like everyone in Black

Bridge was out on the street. The two shots she just had before leaving the Cabaret were catching up to her, too. She's just a small town girl, and this is her first time leaving home. Everyone keeps buying her drinks and telling her she's pretty because it's her birthday. It feels like it's the best night of her whole life, and she wants to be nineteen forever.

The five foot three manic pixie type is dressed in a white negligee number with a birthday girl tiara on her head and a nicotine addiction to spark. She has a cigarette in her mouth, hands patting her sides with intent, but disappointed. Uh-oh...

Who’s got a light?

​

 

[Black_Out]

NiN - Ruiner

"Do you think she recognized you?"

"No, I'm always careful, the cat taught me that much."

​

He'd been watching the Cabaret now for a few weeks. It was the type of place that drew the sorts of women that revved Lonnie's murderous engine. Twenty somethings, out to have a good time. More often then not leaving in a drunken stupor, or just buzzed enough to be careless. His usual modus operandi was to pick out a hunting ground first. Visit it, just enough to get a feel for the place and to make sure it had the right aura, the right vibe. It had to meet a certain criteria that Lonnie was loathed to budge from. Somewhere with enough solitude and quiet for him to go about his work undisturbed. An area that would simplify drawing his unsuspecting prey right into his hands. Then lastly, it had to offer a way for him to disappear, to vanish without drawing suspicion. Once the foundation was set, finding his target was easy. They always revealed themselves to Lonnie Norman. The sheep that strayed to far from the flock.

The streets were crowded on that late summer night. Humidity drenched the air as Black Bridges nocturnal revelers lived through another moment of indulgent déjà vu. That repetitive pattern of life was about to be broken and torn asunder for the rest of the summer of 61'.

She was the obvious choice as soon as she emerged from the hustle and bustle of the Cabaret. Energetic, youthful, and oh so naïve to the horrors of the world. But most importantly she was alone, all alone in the big bad world. That glistening birthday tiara didn't hurt either. She was going to get her wish tonight. She'd be nineteen forever. Lonnie had a lighter, after all.

"You have pretty eyes, do you know that doc? They're very expressive."
"But that swans neck of yours is your best feature."
"It's draws a mans attention."​

She was meandering down the sidewalk. Her wobbly legs were shuffling her step by step further away from the glow of the club. Lonnie was waiting for her, emerging from a dark and forlorn alley that vanished into obscurity. His shrewd eyes noticed how the petite little blonde was patting around for a lighter while that unlit cigarette dangled from her mouth. "Hey there Princess." He rose out of the gloom like a savior. "You need a light?" The question was mute as he pretended to check over his own pockets. "Shit, must of left it in the car." He offered apologetically as he aborted the brief search. "Come on, I'll get you that light Princess." With a subtle nod of his head towards the waiting alley Lonnie turned to head off.

"Don't worry, it's the least I can do for you on your birthday." His smile eased away the tension in the young woman as she faltered indecisively. "My name's Dan by the way, what's yours?" He glowed with serenity in a way that only a demon could just before it was about to devour a soul. "Unless you want me to keep calling you Princess." He winked, she followed. They weren't strangers anymore.

He waited for her in the shelter of the alley. Letting her catch all the way up to him. Even helping to stabilize her with an offered hand, just like a gentleman should. The chrome of his rear bumper drifted into view within the warm glow from a single light that had been tasked to cover the small secluded parking lot sandwiched between two places of enterprise that had gone quiet hours ago. It was late Friday night, Lonnie's car was the only one around as they approached the passenger door. Lonnie looked through the side windows into the shadowy interior of his dull blue sedan as he reached into his front pocket for his keys. "Ah, there it is, on the backseat." His keys which were right next to a pair of brass knuckles. "No wonder I forgot it."

That glitzy tiara flew from her head as she crumpled like dead weight after he rang her up along side the head. He let her lie there, slumped over herself in a practically lifeless state across the pavement while he opened the trunk. As Lonnie fished through his hidden stash of binding implements he stole glances over towards the birthday girl. She wasn't moving, save for her shallow breathing.

Easy was good in Lonnie's opinion and Crystal was fitting that bill. It didn't take long for him to get her all tied up, slap enough tape around those lips, and stuff her sylphlike figure into the trunk. She came to briefly, those lost eyes of hers found his full of emptiness before she fell back into darkness. He grabbed his cleaning supplies and carefully went to work, making sure to wash away the blood and leave the place like it was when he first parked here. The flimsy tiara found its way back around her head before the trunk slammed shut. It was her birthday, and a princess needed her crown.

​

"Pearls would look divine around your neck, Miss Mason." His eyes moved to survey the tender flesh that was framed by her white collar. "Tell ya what, you wear a nice pearl necklace to our next meeting." Lonnie paused, his eyes rising to find her own. "Then I'll be as candid as can be for you." He gave her that easy going smile that he had perfected years ago. "Whatever is eating at you, whatever your dying to hear from me, I'll tell you all about it." His eyes dropped towards the pack of cigarettes laid out before him. "Otherwise, I think we're done here for today, because I ain't off all my meds yet."

​

Lonnie left the cigarettes and lighter laying on the table right before him where he had left them quite on purpose as he looked towards Cordelia. "Do you think you can promise me that?" His fingers cradled around the half empty box of smokes while his hollow gaze moved between her eyes and throat.

"But if you just let me put my hands around your neck we can keep moving forward."
"Then I'll know I can trust ya."
"Those eyes of yours won't lie while my hands are around your throat."
"What'ya say, doc, ya want to live a little before you die?"
​

​

 

[Retrojapan]

10,000 Russos Self-Titled LP
​

"Heeeey - How did you know I'm a princess?" Crystal gasped, slapping a hand to her chest and feigning shock. Her petal lips smiled with the unlit cigarette still dangling between. She swooned, forgetting about a lot of things like you do when you're drunk and nineteen. Things like stranger danger. Don't go into dark alleys and barely lit parking lots alone. Guys who offer you a light like they smoke, but don't have anything on them are probably up to no good. It was all background noise for the realization that her birthday wish was finally coming true - there he was. A tall, dark and handsome man who knows how to make her feel like the only girl in the world.

"- so I stole this cigarette from my sister Nancy when she was in the shower, but I forgot the lighter! Hahaha! Oh well... I'll remember to next time. Good thing I have you, Danny. Can I call you that?" Crystal's mindless chatter was a motor that didn't stop, puttering after him excitedly. His name was Dan. He called her princess. He was perfect. It was too easy to swap boundaries for freedom when you're from a town of 800 people. Maybe that's why strangers are so attractive. They can't touch the parts of you that you don’t want them to know. Dan, for instance, couldn’t possibly know that Crystal was just a nineteen year old virgin who never had a single bad thing happen to her until they crossed that night. Maybe it was obvious, though. She was going on about where she came from and where she dreamed of going as though she knew it was time for the eulogy. Crystal McArthur. Youngest of four. Born and raised in Newcastle. Smells like cherries and birthday cake. Lives in a trailer park. Had a good life below the poverty line. Never had a boyfriend. Thinks she is going to move to the city and practice ballet in the near future. Her daddy calls her princess, too.

"Where the heck didja park anyways..." She staggers diligently behind Lonnie like a little yellow duckling, flapping her arms out like wings to steady herself every now and again. Giggling like a stupid drunk girl when he offers her his hand. In her mind, she is swaying dreamily onto the set of a sultry Hollywood movie. They are going to come upon the car and act out the reason why she wants to smoke in the first place. The cliche scene that every girl dreams about with her wannabe-starlet Edie Sedgwick to his James Dean, staring into her eyes all smoldering. She wants to swim in the pools of his dark eyes forever.

Crystal waited for his back to turn before hurriedly sneaking on a layer of cherry chapstick. She was ready for her close up. The birthday girl waited by the trunk of the car for it, fixing her blonde hair in the side reflection. She was feeling anticipation for a rush only cigarettes and older men can provide, but the brass knuckles beat them to the punch. She can hear everything so perfectly in that moment. The music from The Cabaret. The drop of her body folding like an accordion on pavement sounds throughout the parking lot. Her tiara flies off her head onto the ground, warbling for a moment in place like a snare drum.

Her face is sinking into a pothole. It's a crack in the cement as big as the one in her skull. A meteor struck and now the tectonic plates were shifting across her brain. It throbbed along with the fax machine screaming in her ears. A car honked, and the traffic droned somewhere in the distance. Good cover noise for her gutted breathing. That birthday beat knocked the wind out of her. There was some hollering coming from the Cabaret. People were pairing off the dance floor, and the crowd was finally dwindling. No one can find Crystal at the end of the night.

Crystal regained consciousness for a split second, but only saw the same deep, dark pools in the man’s eyes. She doesn’t want to swim in them forever anymore, but she’s already capsized. The trunk slammed close just as her birthday wish came true. She felt like the only girl in the world.

"I'll see you next week then, Lonnie." Cordelia ignored the bait, and there was a lot of it. She was a crow for shiny things, but diamonds were the age old cliche. For a borderline like Cordelia, forever was still the best thing that can go around any woman's neck. She was medicated enough to not throw a tantrum, but god damn. He made her want to. The reality wasn't that Cordelia needed to live a little before she died. That was where Lonnie had it all wrong. This was a woman who wanted to die a little before she lived, and the only way was to find an executioner.

Immediately after she left the assessment room, Cordelia took to a phone booth in the lobby. She was still in control even as her fingers impatiently spun out the familiar number. Cordelia knew she was taking it too far, but it was too late. She forfeited her control September 9th of 1965. Something in that man made her set her clock to Thursday’s, and forget about everything else in her life. What better time to realize that she was still a manipulative sociopath even when she's heavily medicated. Lithium salt just couldn't keep her demons away.

"Judge Letendre. Can you call back--"

"Bill. I know it's sitting right in front of you on your desk waiting for a signature, so I'll hold the line while you do that. You've been screening me."

"You're fucking crazy. I never thought I would see your name requesting a stop order, but Lonnie Norman's? Jesus Christ, woman. Stop calling me, and stop calling the house. I'm serious. I'm married now." His voice suddenly dropped. "You haven't told anyone, have you? Your fuckin' therapists? The hospital? Did you tell them everything just so you could become a doctor and fuck things up for all of us-"

"Stop the Lupron. Now."

"Fuck. Seriously - what are you thinking? You're making a bad decision. Just so you know. I'm putting it in right now, but it's not going to look good for me. If anything happens with this, if that son of a bitch does anything, then it's going to come back to us.... To me." He paused. Bill knew he was between a rock and a hard place. Would he rather Lonnie Norman have a boner, or have everyone know that he was into jailbait back home? Still was, actually. This was straight up blackmail. The former youth advocate still signed his name anyways. “Listen... I'm sorry. What I did back then was wrong, Cordy..." The line went dead because Cordelia was in the same cluster of personality disorders as Lonnie, which meant she didn't give a shit.

The next day Lonnie would wake up to his final morning sans wood. No more Lupron injections. It was going to take some time before he could return to his regular programming, but how did it feel after a week went by? If he wanted to tell doc about it then he would have to wait because there was no Dr. Mason the following week. Another week and still no show. Finally, on the third Thursday, a guard arrived to bring Lonnie to the assessment room for his overdue appointment. Cordelia was finishing four cigarettes in the parking lot like she actually wanted the cancer. She just couldn't break a pattern even if it killed her.

Donut John looks up from the desk and finds Dr. Mason standing there for her 10:45 appointment with pearl necklace.

 

[Black_Out]

Marilyn Manson - Sweet Dreams
​

Like most predators, Lonnie preferred to enjoy his feasts in relative peace and quiet. There were a handful of places he had carefully picked out, places that suited his dark designs. Tonight's venue was an old sawmill that Lonnie had once worked at for a spell. It was one of those perfect places located in a part of Black Bridge that went largely lifeless when the weekends rolled around. The business itself had been closed for half a year and left pleasantly vacant when the owners moved their operation into a more state of the art facility. Faded newspaper sealed the windows, doors were barred and locked, except for the backdoor and Lonnie had a key for that. It had an emptied out husk of a basement where Lonnie could really let loose.

"Wake up, princess." Those choice words were as cold and detached as his eyes when Lonnie Norman uttered them as Crystal finally pulled herself out of the darkness of that abysmal pit she had been sucked down into. White toned walls that were decaying framed the young woman's figure, a figure that had been stripped bare of her birthday dress. Her delicate hands had been shackled at the wrists and spread out wide towards her sides where they were secured to the wall. Her toes pressed by their tips upon the dirt laden floor, leaving her to look almost like the ballerina dancer that she longed to become. Except there would be no fairy tale ending for Crystal McArthur, no dainty slipper or elaborate stage gown to prop up her self esteem. She'd be famous though, Lonnie would see to that.

He adored that wide eyed look of terror that she gave him. That pure blissful panic that surged through her when she finally had regained her faculties. How the sweat beaded upon her pale skin even in here in this cold and dismal white toned cellar. The birthday girl belonged to him now, all nineteen years of her. Under the canopy of shadows that laid across his face a thin smile worked its way across his lips. He approached, she screamed a muffled and desperate plea that only aroused him further. She kicked at him, he swatted it aside. He was unstoppable.

He pressed against her young flesh. Pinned her against the backdrop of the decomposing stucco wall behind her. Excitement, iron hard and hot emanated from his trousers and stamped its mark upon her virgin folds. Lonnie slammed his head against the crown of her tiara void skull, rattling the poor girl. His breath glazed over her staggered features while he reached one hand down to unbutton his trousers. He was quiet, save for the harsh huffs of breath that flamed from his lips while she screamed against the tape that muzzled her mouth. She was still nineteen, but she wasn't a virgin anymore.

He choked her, slapped her, yanked on her hair as she trembled upon him. He battered her like she was the mortar to his pestle. And when her nubile body finally succumbed Lonnie hoisted her spent legs up around his waist and forced her to ride him until he finished. It sent an electric tingle coursing through his body, leaving every hair standing on edge as he pressed deep inside and left her to milk every last breathtaking moment out of his invasion.

Like normal, Lonnie was

shackled to the bench by his ankles. His wrists cuffed close together while his head remained down, which left his eyes to be lost under the shroud of his hair when Cordelia finally entered the solemn interview room. When the door announced her arrival, Lonnie didn't bother to raise his head to acknowledge her entrance. Instead his fingers clasped together and wrung out the tension across the neck of a summoned memory. "You lied." The words sent a chill through the room as Lonnie kept his head down. "Don't make it a habit, doc." His head lifted just enough to bring his eyes towards Cordelia. There was an ill-tempered rage festering within them that was mirrored by the foreboding expression etched all over his face. His fingers clenched around that imaginary throat, which just so happened to belong to Crystal MacArthur.

After he had sated his carnal desires, Lonnie left the birthday darling to hang limply from her chains. Her tortured and abused body was streaked with blood, fresh bruises, and caked with sweat. The white washed room hummed around Lonnie as he went to gather up a hand saw that had been left behind. The ridged edges of the blade were still sharp, but not sharp enough for what Lonnie had in mind. While Crystal recovered, Lonnie turned his back towards her and started to meticulously sharpen the saws blade to a razor keen edge. It had to be sharp, sharp enough to cut through bone.

​

As the hostility that had built up in Lonnie bled out of his clenching hands he finally relaxed enough to release the pressure. His shackled hands dropped down into his lap as he looked across the table towards Cordelia Mason. That's when he saw the pearl necklace strung across her throat and he smiled.

"I told ya they'd look good on you."




​

 

[Retrojapan]

TOOL - Vicarious​

The girl's fear was palatable even with the tape over her pretty mouth. Inside her tiny quivering chest was a tiny quivering heart pumping three mammalian response cues to fear. Fight, flight or freeze. Reflexively, her tight young body goes as still as dead in the shackles, muscles clenching tightly like the girl knows being a perfect little fuckdoll might get her out of this alive. Survival instincts. Self-preservation. Crystal still thinks she is going to live through it. She closes her eyes and thinks that if she can't see Lonnie shove his pants down and take his dick out, then the memories of it can't haunt her. She can't cover her ears to the sounds, though. They were going to haunt her. Footsteps approaching. Ragged breathing. Chains rattling. The soundtrack of losing something you can never get back. She braced herself.

The first impact she took was from the stucco. Now that's the stuff trailer parks are made of. That felt a little like home grating into her. That cheap shit tore flesh like knees on pavement, zesting her ribs and back for good measure. She was still a doll even if it's just a crash test dummy. Lonnie’s head knocked through hers, and Crystal felt Pangaea break into continental earth again that night. The second impact was Lonnie's cock ripping mercilessly into her virgin hole and beating her unfucked walls in while Crystal cried out incessantly against the tape, tears burning down her face. She screams for her parents, but all of the noise was just funneled back down into the basement. Her muffled, wailing sobs. His grunting. Her spine cracking and popping into the wall until she's crooked. The chains jangling against dull stucco. The tips of her feet swishing over the floor like a thematic build up. It was half way to a Velvet Underground song.

Even as Lonnie was beating the shit out of her, Crystal shakily attempted to Bambie out of of there like she could. Her limbs thrashed to bolt away over and over again until she was just too exhausted. She shook against the shackles and against Lonnie until she was just a heaving potato sack beaten against the wall. She wasn't even sure she had eyes anymore. In this nightmare, she has no voice. She was stuck in first form pirouette, moving back and forth between life and death like a ballerina in a jewelry box. The musical chimes and dings from her chains echo throughout the eerie room. She's never heard that sound before. Lonnie is sharpening a saw.

It wasn’t Cordelia's fault that pearls laced her milky skin so perfectly. She was only following the direction of the weather vane when she wore them that day, after all. South always meant another ritual was needed to appease the demon. It was a compulsion that she could not resist, which is why she made for the washroom before heading in to meet Lonnie. The necklace was her mother's, and the cold weight always felt like the bottom of the ocean wringing out her neck. Heavy with pearl caskets of whatever parasites mollusk's form calcium sacs around. Those iridescent cysts are really just an expensive defense mechanism, and Cordelia wore them around her neck like a graveyard. She told herself she was still in 1965, but the way she counted them down like a rosary took her back to the late forties. She stopped at fourteen. That's how many prayer beads she would count at home, listening to the sounds of mother surviving thirteen separate strangulations on the kitchen floor. As if possessed, Cordelia wrapped the string twice around her neck and began yanking it back against her esophagus like a noose. Fourteen was a good number.

Thirty seconds and the familiar panic filled her chest. Popping eardrums told her she was close. Cordelia should have been a diver. She held her breath even as her throat burned and began filling with spit. It was only ten seconds before the inside of her head was making that whoosh sound, like when power surges. She kept herself there. Tongue lolling out and gagging, but swallowing it back because everything in her life depended on being perfectly still and taking it, even when her leg was twitching to kick out. The whole time she wondered if Lonnie was able to have erections yet, or if it was still too soon. She held herself in place like a dog on a leash and didn't let go until there was a black spot in her vision from a burst blood vessel. It was for Crystal McArthur.

"I'm sorry, Lonnie. I did need time off to take care of something back home.” Cordelia revealed as she hurriedly took a seat. Her cheeks were still red. She was wearing a black dress with a pearl necklace like she was making an audition for Breakfast at Tiffany's. The cue was for a slow, heavy loaded blink at him from across the table. She just needed three seconds, holding him there for Three... Two... No. She looked away, crossing her legs and shifting in the familiar seat. Even after choking herself back into character, Dr. Mason still couldn't hold prolonged contact. She was too distracted by how a bell seemed to ring to the tune of nicotine, auto-asphyxiation and Lost Boy eyes. Cordelia salivated just like Pavlov said she would.

"I wore pearls for that candid conversation you promised me, Lonnie, which is exactly what I expect when I ask you how you're feeling today. Why don't you tell me about the past couple weeks off your medications." Cordelia eyed him tentatively, teetering the edge of the depraved and unprofessional conversations she wanted to have.

 

[Black_Out]

The Bee Gees - Stayin' Alive
​

"Three weeks, Doc. Three, not two. Seven days, seven days, and another seven days makes three weeks." Lonnie's hands clenched and unclenched as he looked across the modest expanse of the table that separated him from Miss Mason. "So don't come here and give me your bullshit excuses and apologies like you sincerely mean them. I don't give a fuck about your life and you don't give a fuck about mine." He paused while his cold and reptilian gaze lingered upon her face. "Or maybe in some twisted way you do actually give a fuck about my life, that's why you wore the pearls."

The cold blooded killer and rapist exhaled a pent up breath as he pulled his shackled hands off the table and into his lap. "But to answer your question, it feels good Cor, to be able to jack off again. That's all there is to do here." Air expelled out of his nostrils while his gaze roamed over Cordelia. "Whack off, sleep, eat, and whack off some more." His eyes gravitated to her slender and porcelain pale neck as his hands fell around his crotch. Quietly Lonnie counted the visible pearls that adorned her neck while his fingers stroked over the shape of his cock that was buried under his bright orange trousers. The thin smile on his face and the raspy nature of his breathing were the only evident signs that expressed his growing arousal as his eyes drilled holes into Cordelia. He could feel it getting hard, so fucking hard as he pondered what he might of done to a woman like her if fate had dealt a different hand.

Would he of done to her, what he did to Crystal MacArthur?

No. He'd raise the bar for her. Cordelia deserved that much.
​

Lonnie took a moment to inspect the ridged edges of the saw while Crystal rattled the chains that kept her shackled in place against the white washed wall. That was all background noise when he was zeroed in on the task at hand. The only thing that Lonnie really heard was that mimic like electric hum that dimly rang in his ears. It made everything so much more intense. As if he was in the midst of having an out of body experience. That persistent drone had always come to him, ever since the cat. It meant one thing to Lonnie Norman. It was time to kill.

A subtle nod signaled that he was satisfied with the sharpness of the instrument before he leisurely turned about to face his waiting sacrifice. His fingers wrapped around the wooden handle as his eyes met hers. The horror in those eyes threatened to boil over as her gaze was drawn towards the implement of her demise. As panic surged through young Crystal MacArthur, Lonnie remained a stoic sculpture. Yet while the young blonde might see him as the most unfeeling man she had ever laid eyes on, in this moment, Lonnie Norman was as titillated as could be.

Tedious and long strides pulled Lonnie closer to his captivated mess of a blonde birthday girl. The distance between them quickly evaporated. Lonnie was standing just an arms reach away from the battered and bruised ballerina wannabe. His piercing eyes never wavered from hers, no matter how much she tried to escape them he just stared. "Since it's your birthday I'm going to give you a choice, my little princess." Lonnie lowered himself down to a knee and let the hand saw settle flat upon the floor. The tip of his index finger traced over the smooth metal on the side of the saw as if he was caressing a lover. "I'm going to ask you a question. I want my answer by the time I come back into the room." Like a manifesting demon that was rising out of a pit, Lonnie lifted himself back up until he was towering over her.

"Open, or closed, which type of casket do you prefer?"
​

Straight away Lonnie reached up and dug his fingers into the edges of the tape that imprisoned her mouth. He pulled on it so hard that the flesh it parted from was left with welts and streaks that seeped blood. Without a hint of hesitation, Lonnie turned away from Crystal. All of her cries, every ounce of her pleading mattered not to Lonnie as he made his way back towards the waiting work bench. There the rest of his tools sat in silence, patiently bidding their time for him to pluck them up. Lonnie looked over it all like a surgeon preparing to operate while Crystals screams filled the lonesome basement. One gloved hand scooped up a large roll of plastic wrap, while the other fell around the handle of an axe. He turned, clutching the roll of transparent wrap against his chest while gravity pulled the tip of the axe down to the floor where its impact created a brief spark of light. With a delicate sway of his shoulders Lonnie began to make his triumphant march back towards Crystal. The heavy weight of the axe dragged along the ground behind him and followed his every menacing step.

Her answer never really mattered.

​

"They've been tedious." His lips gently parted, leaving a hint of the growing salivations within his mouth as his eyes dropped towards her perky breasts. "It was unpleasant, at first, being pulled out of that chemical stupor." His gaze darted back up to meet Cordelia's while down below the table his hands still churned over his engorged meat. "But I'm a man of great will. I knew what lied ahead of me. I pulled through, in the end." His tongue caressed over the shape of his bottom lip, moistening it as once more his eyes surveyed the dainty and intriguing morsel seated across from him. "Not having that daily injection of Lupron though. That was a game changer." His nostrils hissed out his building excitement.

"It's nice to look at a woman and feel that surge, that need to fuck. To just take what I want from a woman. And you, you are a woman." There was a hefty grunt as Lonnie's eyes bore into Cordelia's. His legs jerked and the shackles about his ankles rattled against the metal legs of the bench they were anchored upon as Lonnie satisfied himself. A final seething breath hissed out of his lips that was followed by a punctual smack of his dampened mouth.

"Is that candid enough for you, Miss Mason?"



​

 

[Retrojapan]

Magic Shoppe - White Coat Syndrome
​

All animals caught in traps flail the same, and Crystal McArthur was no different in how she fought for her life. Wildly and without abandon. Shamelessly and desperately. The more she thrashed, the deeper into her wrists the metal dug, but she didn't feel it anymore. She couldn't feel anything. The battered blonde was bleeding from every limb, but her body was immune to pain now. A thick rope of crimson gushed profusely out her nose like a spout, and the blood dripped off her chin as it followed the curve of hew jaw, finally plopping onto the floor at her pirouette-pointed feet. It's the only sound she can hear aside from Lonnie's footsteps approaching. Her eyes are squeezed shut as she shakes her head over and over. She's repeating "no no no no no!!" in mantra against the tape, so exhausted she can't even scream. Lonnie kneels to lay the saw on the floor next to her feet.

"Please! Don't kill me!! I swear I won't try a cigarette ever again!!" Crystal is already screaming at Lonnie before he can even finish ripping the tape off her face. The broken ballerina springs to action with a second wind, apparently. She can speak to him now and this gives her hope. In her naive nineteen year old heart, Crystal believes she will say the right thing, and it will all be over.

"I won't tell anyone. I swear. Whoever you are, I don't even care. I will forget this. I will forget any of this even happened, and you can let me go..." She pleads, whimpering as she watches Lonnie assemble the final scene. The props are as telling as they are frightening. Saw. Plastic wrap. Axe. Wordlessly walking back to her with his eyes like black pools. Crystal flaps her arms against the restraints like she can somehow take flight. The sound of the chains rattling accompany her loud sobbing. She tells Lonnie there is no casket because everyone in her family is cremated.

Callingwood State Psychiatric Hospital, Westlock
Tuesday, October 2, 1965​

The older man always wore a wool suit even though it made him sweat profusely. It was part of the costume. He looks every part the distinguished doctor at Callingwood State Psychiatric Hospital, despite chewing on the end of a pen and evidently distracted from the current appointment. He is trying to remember a seven letter word meaning allegiance for 21 across. His eyes wander to the feet and long legs stretched onto his desk. The nearly thirty year old psychiatrist across from him is posed as someone half her age might be if she were reading horoscopes at a sleepover. If only. Instead, Cordelia is telling her psychiatrist about how Lonnie hacked Crystal McArthur up with a saw. She was just about to get to the good part where it states Crystal was likely still alive when Lonnie dismembered her, but the doctor interrupts.

"You took him off Lupron too late, then fucked off for three weeks. Now you can't be trusted. Wear the pearls when you get back, and tell him what a bad girl you've been. We've got to play hot and cold with him for a little bit. Power dynamics are everything." He points at the case file Cordelia is reading from her lap. It's Lonnie Norman's. A mighty good read for a fellow psychopath like Dr. Murphy. He was genuinely jealous of Lonnie's violent notoriety. The doctor preferred to work more behind the scenes as a puppet master, though. Less culpability. Keep his hands clean. Make Cordy do it. He had groomed her since the day she told him her greatest talents were doing as she's told, and keeping secrets. Twenty years ago.

"He is going to be angry with me." She responded in her usual robotic flatness, suddenly swinging her feet off the desk and sitting back in her chair with perfect posture as Dr. Cordelia Mason would. It was difficult to stay in character sometimes.

"I sure hope so because we're fucking with him on purpose. I don't know what could be more aggravating for a man than losing the chastity belt for a flaky bitch doctor like you, Cordy. You've got to give him back some of the lead now." Dr. Murphy instructs, turning his attention back to the crossword puzzle and filling in 21 across. LOYALTY. "The only thing you can't do is let Lonnie Norman out because he is the only one who knows..." The doctor's body literally tensed just trying to avoid saying her name. She was the reason so many apex predators like Lonnie Norman were in an asylum, or more commonly prison, in the first place. She was why Dr. Murphy himself looked over his shoulder every now and then - and he lived out of town. See, Dr. Murphy truly believed in chaos. The world needed people like himself and Lonnie. The only person who disagreed was Psyche, the media's glowing vision of a fallen angel gracing mortals from the heavens above. A protector. A vigilante. A hero. Probably just an insider with a savior complex. With her big brown eyes, golden skin and long dark mane flowing over a tight hourglass figure, Psyche was probably a supermodel for a day job. He just needed to know which one. The press frequently named her after Psyche, a beautiful mortal who accomplished impossible feats to prove herself worthy. It was very romantic. Cordy stopped counting on angels a long time ago, though. Now she just wanted to watch one suffer.

"I am so sorry, Lonnie. I've been bad, haven't I? I really hate disappointing you when we should be building trust here. It's no wonder you think I don't give a fuck... But that couldn't be further from the truth. Do you think you could give me a chance to prove you wrong?" As Cordelia spoke, her eyes followed Lonnie's to the pearls around her neck. His focus weighed her to the chair like a bag of bricks. She avoided his deliberate eye contact because that was her weakness. The doctor cast her gaze downwards instead, watching Lonnie's growing erection take shape under the orange standard issues. Triggered. All she could do was grip the chair until her knuckles went white. Every. Single. Time. Her body was in a 1965 psychiatric hospital turned peepshow, but her mind was back in the forties. Cordelia couldn't help it. The truth was, nothing excited Cordy like being a victim. The sterile institutionalized clang of metal chains rattling. Hand rhythmically rubbing against clothes with intent. Nostrils flaring. The leg of the chair scraping against the floor as his hand jerked faster. Heart hammering in chest because she only felt like a woman when a man used her like one.

Cordelia shifted her body to the side, slowly crossing one leg over the other and raising her thigh to let Lonnie see just how little she wore under her little black dress. If she wasn't on so many meds then flashing her hairless snatch to a serial killer while he masturbated would have had her dripping like a leaky tap. It was too bad. Her mental excitement made up for it, though. Even if she couldn't get off, Cordelia was still holding onto the way Lonnie's eyes wandered her body like he was scoping out the centerfold. There was no medication Dr. Murphy could prescribe to diminish a borderline's exhibitionism. No way to stop how Lonnie made her surge in a way that nearly bit through her lip. As he came, Cordelia watched his face and clenched herself so tightly it actually hurt. Cordy still wanted more even after Lonnie smacked his lips, but Cordelia straightened herself proper, and returned to the script.

"I can imagine everything is very exciting for you now that you have healthy levels of testosterone back in your system..." Cordelia's voice was slightly breathless, heart pitter pattering in her chest like a stupid schoolgirl girl with a crush. He made her feel like Cordy again, and she needed a moment to get over the strange feeling of gratitude she felt. Cordelia retrieved a newspaper from her bag before slowly placing it on the table. "I was actually bringing you some new material. I heard you are a fan." She slid it across to him with the bolded headline LONG LIVE PSYCHE typed across the front page for his immediate attention. The elusive heroine's only photograph graced Black Bridge's paper on the daily when Lonnie was in his prime. She appeared to be laying low over the years, though. This was an anniversary piece for her last conquest, who happened to be the man sitting across from her, basking in the afterglow.

"You really took a hit with Crystal McArthur, and I am still trying to figure out why. I can't, actually, fathom why you took such a risk when you could have gotten away with it. You could have killed Psyche right then and there, but you didn't." Cordelia's voice remained flat the entire time she spoke, only lifting her eyes from the table because she was curious. She wanted to see Lonnie's reaction when she asked the question many like Dr. Murphy were dying to know.

"Why didn't you, or... Did you?"

 

[Black_Out]

Tool - Forty Six and Two​

The pits of Lonnie's forsaken eyes were drawn towards the elusive image of Psyche that graced the front page of the Daily. Just seeing that lone picture of Black Bridges Angel dredged up a cacophony of memories that flashed through his mind like a slide show set to a frantic pace. Instincts alone caused his cuffed hands to reach out and grasp the edges of the paper and bring her towards him. Silence followed the delicate sound of the paper being dragged across the table, but for the first time in years, Lonnie could hear that din of buzzing ringing in his ears. They were humming like a refrigerator and his eyes widened with a murderous zeal upon the black and white photo of the heroine that taunted him.

With a sudden slap, Lonnie flipped the paper over so he no longer had to see the vigilante vixen's image. She resonated though, her smell, her taste, the way she felt, all of those sensations flooded his mind as he blinked rapidly before one single deep breath was drawn in by his lungs. When he blew that breath out, Lonnie's focused eyes lifted from the back of the paper and moved to find Cordelia's gaze. His hands remained spread flat across the back of the paper, keeping the darling of Black Bridge smothered against the smooth surface of the table.

"Psyche, Psyche, Psyche, everyone wants to eventually know all about her." Lonnie mused as he spun the downcast anniversary special about in a slow circle beneath his twisting fingers. His palm smacked down over the paper, stopping its twirling cycle in mid motion as he continued to drown himself in Cordelia's gaze. "You look like her, you know, I think I could even imagine you as her." His lips smacked as if savoring a perfectly cooked slice of beef, the kind that would melt in your mouth. "But we'll get to her, after I clear up a few of your misconceptions, you, naughty, naughty, girl."

"Let me tell you something that the police didn't share about Crystal MacArthur. Hell I don't even think her own family knows what I'm about to tell you." Lonnie's fingertips tapped upon the pages of the paper beneath his hands as he licked his lips before continuing. "There's still bits and pieces of their little princess strewn all over the city of Black Bridge. When she told me that her family cremates their remains, do you really think I'd let them have all of her back?" He laughed under his breath, though his shoulders shook with the effort it took to restrain that laugh from turning into a manic howl. "I chopped her up so tiny. I put her chunks in dozens of little bags. I spread her remains to the four corners of Black Bridge. They'll never find every last ounce of her precious little body. She'll never be truly at peace."

Lonnie was in his zone now, his head buzzing with that subtle noise that only he could hear. Words kept flowing out of his mouth, like the spigot of a sink that someone had absent mindedly forgotten to turn off. "Now, do you think I ended up here because I was careless, because I got lazy?" His unkempt and disheveled hair flopped around his face as she shook his head. "We all need to undergo a metamorphosis at some point in our lives. Most people don't even realize that, never cease the opportunity to spread their wings. Instead they just flounder about, living their boring dull lives exactly the same way every single day. Not me." The sink was starting to overflow now as Lonnie took a short breath in as he dared Cordelia to maintain eye contact with him.

He preached on, to his congregation of one. "I changed when I killed Billy Squires and left his remains on display like some mockery of an angel that was made of guts, sinew, and bone. When I found those cocoons I realized just how precious a thing it was to transform oneself. It's our greatest gift, to adapt and so many people waste it and never truly step into themselves because sheep don't know any better. My victims weren't the only ones that were brought into an altered state after they met me, I transmuted too. Every life I took, every soul I squeezed out of existence, every drip of blood and sweat molded me, but to be the man I am today, I had to stop hiding. You see, I wanted to get caught because I wanted my moment in the spotlight on my terms."

There was a breath, a pause from the psychopaths lips, but Lonnie Norman wasn't done talking yet. He hadn't had a captive audience for years and Cordelia's rapt attention upon his every word was demanding an encore. "I'm as free as I've ever been now." He leaned forward, letting his chest fall over the temporarily dismissed newspaper as his shackled hands stretched across the expanse between him and Cordelia. "Did you come to my trial? Was your face in that crowd?" Lonnie whispered seductively as those pools of abyssal black stared into Cordelia's core. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were there, but there were so many pretty little things in that room. They hung on my every word like I was that singer for that new band, The Doors. I was like Jim, fucking, Morrison." Lonnie inhaled before he continued. "I have so many fans now, so many sheep that have seen the light, all because I let myself get caught."



"I couldn't be happier with how this has all turned out, so far." He conceded with a sinister smile as his open hands remained there for the taking. "But don't think for a minute that I'm done making noise. What I want, I always get, in the end." His hands opened, merely a reach and a grasp away from Cordelia's castle walls, all she had to do was lower the gate and let him in.

"Now, as for Black Bridge's angel, I had to destroy her image before I could really ever hope to kill her off. It's not like I was going to let her become some fucking martyr." His eyes danced with delight as the memories of his encounter with Psyche drifted through his perverse mind. "If you think that's the only picture of her that exists..." He let out a puffed laugh as his lips curled wide with amusement. "...I've got some breathtaking footage that only I know about."

 

[Retrojapan]

The Velvet Underground - Venus in Furs
Alley of Ninety-Fifth & Broadway, Black Bridge
5:30pm, June 28, 1961
​

"What we have discovered today is beyond an atrocity. This is truly unfathomable for the McArthur family... Umm.. I cannot find the words right now to describe my condolences...Er..." Mark hates public speaking, and it shows. He isn't used to all the media attention. Reporters weren't his gig, but neither was bagged gut stew, or dismembered limbs. Who the fuck keeps calling the fucking press? "As you all know, this is the third day in a row that we've found remains here in Black Bridge-"

"Is this the work of the Black Bridge Killer?" The assembling crowd roars in unison. The people wanted what they wanted, and they wanted answers. Well, so did Mark. The flash of a dozen cameras blind him. He looks stunned in every picture and reel because he is. For the first time in his life, Mark is stunned. This is the worst crime scene in his twenty-seven years of service, and now he's on for the 6 o'clock news.

"We are not taking questions or doing any interviews at this time." Mark ends it by excusing himself from the hounding spotlight, reluctantly returning to the garbage bin stench of the crime scene. This was definitely the work of the Black Bridge Killer. He was out of control. All the publicity was only adding to his increasing brutality, and so Mark had just been advised to cease all press releases. Easier said then done when there were two government officials pulling pieces of a girl out of a dumpster. The detective arrives back on scene just as the female agent is retrieving the decapitated head. Mark is standing in the way, queasy. "Agh! Jesus Christ." He wretches, nearly throwing up at the woman's feet. The lifeless visage of Crystal stares back at him, open-mouthed, and with icy blue eyes frozen in peace.

"I'll get that." A pair of gloved hands extend from behind Mark. When the detective turns, he sees a dusty blonde and balding Chip Thompson. The man is wearing a white collared t-shirt and aviators with beige slacks. Chip nods curtly, casually holding the head between both hands. "The chances of having a complete skeleton for the pathologist this time don't look good. We'll never have all of her remains at this rate."

"What the hell are the FBI doing in Black Bridge?" Mark wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, frowning. Chip was bagging Crystal's head like he was packing away his most prized bowling ball. The detective couldn't help but moniker them to some Sherlock and Watson duo. He was more of a lone wolf. A camera flashed as the female agent photographed the final scene. Her tall, statuesque form donned a casual fitting suit; belted tanned slacks and black blazer with a turtleneck underneath. Her long chestnut brown hair was tied back in a French braid with a few wisps fringing her brows. The stiff, shapeless fabric of her attire couldn't conceal the round swells of an ample chest and curving figure, though they tried. She looked like she just walked off a runway in Milan. It was uncommon to see a professional woman with such ambition and success, let alone in the flesh. The workforce was straight dick in the sixties. That's why Mark couldn't figure out what a beauty pageant queen was doing in his turf. He was suspicious. "So who are ya? What are you doin here?"

"Agent Thompson." Chip does the whole FBI badge shtick. He's a pro, holding his ID in one hand, and Crystal's bagged

head in the other. Mark grimaces. "We're here because a rampant serial killer is on the loose in Black Bridge, and with all due respect - this is beyond your jurisdiction, detective. You've handled it the best you could, but the severity of the situation requires federal intervention now. I am sure you understand." Chip raises his hand, holding Crystal's decomposing face up higher to emphasize his point.

"What about Elizabeth Taylor over here?" Mark crosses his arms, pointing his chin to the female agent. He had to be a little misogynistic for the times, after all. She walked over to stand next to Chip, also crossing her arms. The young woman's expression was hard to read, and more than that - intimidating. Mark was honestly a little taken back by her confident, and inconvenienced attitude. He could have sworn she just rolled her eyes.

"Agent Presley."

"Yeah? The badge?" Mark's lips purse to gesture at her pocket as if it's obvious, eyebrows lifting. The brunette wordlessly reaches in and pulls out the badge, holding the identification card up for the detective to analyze with a lot more scrutiny than he did Chip's. His beady eyes peer over the vague and scarcely provided information, neck craning forward. He slowly reads it out loud. "Federal Bureau of Investigation... Special Agent... Madison Celine Presley... Out of... CS - Well! That's beautiful Callingwood State." He steps back, shocked. "I wasn't expecting that. With a tan like yours I woulda figured you were from the south. I stand corrected. Apologies are in order." He puts a hand to his chest, taking off his hat with the other. "Welcome back. Nothing like hometown heroes to help us out."

There wasn't a single person in Black Bridge who didn't fantasize about what Lonnie Norman must have done to Psyche when he finally got his hands on her. In many ways, the villain and heroine were fucking each other's brains out long before things even became physical. It must have been the best nut of Lonnie's goddamn life to be worth capture. The Black Bridge Angel arrived in the summer of 61, but departed come winter like Persephone into the Underworld with the changing seasons. Whatever happened between them, she was never seen again. After several months of cat and mouse foreplay, Cordelia imagined the release must have been extraordinary.

In the four years that passed, Black Bridge's police department maintained peace, and Psyche's legacy lived on in things like the Daily's anniversary cover page. Black Bridge Angel sightings and tips called in to newspaper and radio stations. Even the way Lonnie smothered her image into the table. That was how deep she was. His unguarded response made Cordelia's mind stall for a moment. She expected aloof and disinterest. Perhaps a round two in the pants. Instead, the intimacy in Lonnie physically turning Psyche's image from sight made her heart clench. If she was alone, Cordelia would have slammed her face repeatedly against the table to relieve it. Lonnie telling her she looks like Psyche played all her fucked up chords just right. Anxious attachment. Insecurity. Fragile sense of self. Co-dependency. Possessiveness. The other woman syndrome. Runner up. It was a good kick to the balls. Lonnie was right. If Cordelia could eat

regularly, grow her hair long, and see the sun once in awhile - maybe she could glow like a voluptuous heroine goddess too. Cordelia hated only one person more than she hated herself, though, and it was the Black Bridge Angel.

Still, the woman hung onto Lonnie's every word like one of his courtroom whores. She spent her entire childhood listening to men monologue and explain life to her from inside a mental hospital. He was literally preaching to the choir. It was so comforting she almost smiled and fell asleep for the bedtime story, sitting back in her chair and listening to the psychopath with rapt attention. His contempt for boring dull lives and wasted potential was mutual. Cordelia lived it every day. She was a shell of who she was before. The way out was as easy as leaving Callingwood State Psychiatric Hospital in the dust, and taking charge of her own life for once. It was as easy as letting Cordy out.

"I wasn't at your trial, Lonnie. That would have been a conflict of interest. I didn't even know who you were until recently." Cordelia lied. The truth was she became a goddamn doctor to get to him. His words resonated, though. Cordelia toyed with the idea of taking the reigns back instead of floundering on Lithium salts between two cities. Could she ever break free, or did she always need to be someone's hostage? The conflict inspired her to tell Lonnie a story, too. She gazed unblinkingly at him as she spoke, ignoring the outstretched hand. Cordy smiled at him for what felt like the first time.

"You know, I moved to Black Bridge only a few months ago after graduating. I got this job because I let the warden put it in my ass right after he told me I was too fresh to treat a serial killer like you. I knew I was going to talk to you and do whatever it took, but that only made me want it even more. I've done so much to get here and see you, Lonnie, and ... What I want, I always get in the end, too." She echoed his words back to him, eyes unwavering. "I am here because Psyche means something to me. I want to know more about that footage, Lonnie." Above all she wondered if they were portraits or postmortems.

 

[Black_Out]

The Tokens - The Lion Sleeps Tonight
​

Lonnie peered from Cordelia's smiling gaze down towards his empty hands. His fingers flexed and grasped at the empty space before him as he stared forlornly upon them. Tentatively and with some measure of regret, he pulled his opened hands back towards himself. In a fit of disgust at the rejection, his teeth clenched and ground down against one another as he tugged himself off of the table and stared towards the enigmatic woman settled across from him. For a change, Lonnie didn't want to lock eyes with her anymore. Instead he drew those vacant pits down towards the overturned parchment of the paper that had reemerged from beneath the blanket of his rising chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Lonnie spotted a little stamp of red ink emblazoned on the bottom of the paper, where it was tucked neatly out of the way in a corner. Immediately his hands fell over the circle of ink that bordered the name of a place that Lonnie was vaguely familiar with. Property of Callingwood Institute. It was something to consider quietly as he tugged the Daily away from the table and down into his lap.

He couldn't keep her eyes away from his though and soon Lonnie was drawn back to find those equally intriguing orbs that were like slowly opening windows into Dr. Mason's own depraved soul. "So you took it in the ass, just to meet me?" His lips curled into a slim smile that echoed back across the table towards Cordelia. "I'm flattered." There was a spark of renewed interest towards her as Lonnie brushed aside the recent rejection. With the paper firmly rolled up and in his lap, his posture sagged as a coy look worked its way across the sharp features of his face. "Your such a curious little thing, you know that Cor? Did you think about me, when your ass was stuffed by the wardens cock?" His crystal clear hazel eyes drifted between her own and the pearls that so gracefully clung around her pale neck. "Did you want to scream my name because it was so bloody dull to be porked by that pig? You don't have to answer, I think I'd rather pretend that you did."

"But the real question is, now that you are here, what are you going to be willing to do for me, so you can get what you want?" Lonnie rolled his neck casually about upon the narrow battlement of his shoulders as his lips sucked inward in silent contemplation of that statement.

"If you want to know about Psyche, if you want to see those pictures I'm willing to share, but that's going to cost you a pretty penny my sweet little fallen angel." Lonnie found his hands tightening around that rolled up paper that was hidden in his lap. He pretended like it was a voodoo doll and he was squeezing the life out of the aforementioned heroines fragile neck. "I'm going to want things in return, and we aren't talking about simple things like sodomy. Those pictures I have, they aren't just pictures. I have video footage of what I did to that precious little whores body. I have so much footage, of what she did for me." His tongue slipped free from the corner of his mouth as the topic evoked choice memories of that luscious encounter.

Lonnie smacked his wet lips. "But for now I'll be a good sport, candid, just like I promised you. If you really want those pictures, if you really want to see what happened to her, you'll get your chance to earn that right." He let the words linger in the air to decay between them before he shifted gears and moved their conversation in an entirely different, yet parallel direction. "But enough about all that delicious footage eh? Let me tell you about the Fall of 61, when I worked at that place I made famous. The Mansion of Terror. Taking down Psyche, well that was going to take some planning, and if there is anything you should be learning about me, its that I do love to plan, and plan, and plan." Lonnie's thoughts shifted back towards those Autumn days, weeks, and months that led up towards his confrontation with the Angel of Black Bridge.

Saturday, September 23rd, 1961
The Mansion of Terror
1:16 AM​

Steve Yurzdale was a hippy before hippies were a thing. A free spirited soul if there ever was one. Black Bridge had been his old stomping ground before he left for the big city lights of Hollywood. There he took a gig at an up and coming movie studio as a special effects assistant. Every fall he'd roll into Black Bridge and stay for a few months while working at The Mansion of Terror. He didn't need a place to crash, the Yurz as he was affectionately known would just park his van in the woods behind the attraction and squat there until it was time to move on. Nightly gatherings by the Yurz's party van were a common affair. Some nights there'd be a dozen or more people, other nights just a handful. Around the confines of that campfire is where Yurz, among others, met Lonnie, the Black Bridge Murderer.

Like Steve, Lonnie had a thing for the fall season, but their reasons were forged from vastly different perspectives. Watching the life seep out of the landscape was something that struck a chord with Lonnie. It was like mother nature was putting its own hands around its neck in an effort to snuff its own life out. As fascinating as that transformation was to observe, Halloween dwarfed the shifting of Fall into Winter. It was the only holiday that Lonnie Norman ever felt an appreciation for, a kinship even. It resonated deeply within him, so deeply that he'd count the days away every year when it approached with the promise of secrets that it would reveal to him.

Watching how it affected everyone and everything was an introspective affair for Lonnie and one that he cherished. The decorations, though often childish and tame by his standards, put a smile on his face still. He dreamed of a day when people would dress up like him. It was a longing of his to be oh so influential over the masses of sheep that he normally hunted down the other eleven months of the year. At least for the better part of October the sheep forgot who they were as they played dress up, and for that Lonnie granted them a reprieve.

For the past three years Lonnie had worked the weekend shifts at The Mansion of Terror. The place had grown into a Halloween staple for the city of Black Bridge with their own pseudo famous Steve Yurzdale bringing some of the latest scare tactics back home with him from the land of big budget movies and bigger stars. Every year crowds of eager sheep flocked towards the fringes of the city where the old castaway manor waited in the woods to greet them with a new season full of mystery, fright, and terror.

The staff was full of wanna be actors, and morbidly curious fans of the horror genre that filled out the ranks as seasonal help. There were school aged kids, drop outs, and weekend warriors who either volunteered their time or got a little stipend for their help. Lonnie was part of that later of that grouping. Initially Lonnie thought he would get his kicks out of scaring the bejesus out of the guests who toured their way through the mansions winding halls. His expectations fell severely short when he discovered it was nothing compared to the all to real reactions he had personally witnessed during his reign of terror. That's when Steve swept in and took Lonnie under his wing and showed him the guts of the entire operation. Lonnie was a natural, he was always fascinated with the guts of things. The fact that Lonnie got to be the hands that reached out and groped and grabbed people as they worked their way through a narrow hallway that passed right by the brains of the operation where Steve lorded over the effects was a perk that Lonnie looked forward to with the passing of every new group. He got to fondle so much ass, grab so many tits, and revel in so much lewdness that he found himself strangely at peace when his anonymous hand would reach out to grab some unlucky girl.

Steve had a warm and welcoming presence, or at least he thought he did. The truth of it was he was a bizarre man who you either had an acquired taste for, or you didn't. Most of the typical city folk didn't, but the outcasts on the other hand? The ones that Lonnie thought of as lost sheep? They were drawn towards the Yurz's free spirited peace and love aura like a mosquito was drawn to blood. Lonnie's curiosity had nothing to do with love and peace though. To him this was the perfect time to hone his social graces while his murderous spirit hibernated out of respect for the season of the witch. The people he met back in those woods. Those that gathered around the flickering glow of Steve's campfire late at night after a taxing evening of work. Some of those people were the closest thing that Lonnie Norman ever came to having as friends.

"Here, have a beer Lonnie my man, you look like you could use one." Steve would flash Lonnie a grin and peace sign before a can of domestic beer arced across the camp fire and into his waiting hands. Those hands that had strangled, sliced, and ruined so many lives caught the can of beer in mid rotation before a smile mirrored its way back through the smoke towards Steve. As he cracked that warm can of beer open, Lonnie would let the shadow of his eyes drift over the circle of lost souls gathered around good old Steve's fire pit.

Some of the faces changed every year, but enough familiar ones rotated in and out of the flickering light around Steve's campfire that Lonnie had gotten to know them fairly well. They in turn, only thought they knew who Lonnie Norman was, because let's be real. If they really knew who Lonnie was, most of them would of turned right back into the sheep they were and ran for their pathetic lives.

Tonight the crowd was intimately small. From left to right there was Samantha Bertanelli, a hippy in waiting who had dropped out of high school before the start of her senior year this fall. For the time being she was shacking up with the Yurz and hoping for a free ticket to west coast where she wanted to be a star. She was leaning into Steve, puffing away on a fat joint that was making its way around the circle towards Lonnie.

Skipping right past Steve and moving to the next ember orange tinted face on the edges of the camp fire was Pete. The disenfranchised runaway of a youth was the fresh face in the crowd. In Lonnie's eyes Pete was just a sheep that had wandered away from his flock and was just looking for a place to fit in. Right now, fitting in for Pete meant getting drunk and stoned out of his mind. Come tomorrow he'd shake off the cobwebs from the night that he barely recalled and get back to work as the general errand boy at The Mansion of Terror.

Directly next to Lonnie was Martin "The Ox" Steinburgh. He was a young man that was a grade or two behind Lonnie and the product of a secular and private Jewish institution of some prominence in the city of Black Bridge. The atrocities of World War 2 had left Marty with a stained and soured perspective of the world at large. Unlike most of his ethnicity, Marty's size was befitting of his nickname. That girth served him well for the two years that he spent at the University of Notre Dame where he played offensive tackle. He had what his coach called a hope and a prayer of making it into the pros, but when his fibula was snapped in two during summer practice those hopes and dreams were shattered. From there Marty fell into a downward spiral that was fueled by booze, painkillers, and self loathing. By the time Summer was ending, Marty was being shown towards Notre Dame's exit and sent back home in a state of dejection.

Tonight though the usually reserved, bulky man to Lonnie's right had something to share. As the joint cycled around the fire and into Lonnie's hands, Marty was busy pulling out a brown paper bag from under his Notre Dame green sweat shirt. From across the fire, Steve perked up and leaned to look beyond the blazing warmth towards the vials that Marty was fishing out of the crumpled up brown bag. "Hey Marty, what'cha got there? Is that LSD, you been holding out on us brother?" There was a flash of amusement from the Yurz while the rest of the inner circle's dulled attentions were shifted over towards Marty.

"Nah, this is different man, way different." Marty proclaimed as he held up one of the small vials full of clear liquid and turned it slowly around, letting the light of the fire play across its transparent surface. "My doc's been giving it to me, it's some new experimental pain killer. It's called GHB, and man it puts you in a good place and the women." The Ox paused as he glanced over towards Samantha's not all there blood shot eyes. "They let loose, like really loose with just a few drops." Marty lowered his voice to a murmur that was just audible over the crackling of the fire. "They don't even remember a thing, I'm selling it, if anyone's interested?"

Lonnie was already reaching for his wallet.

"This is my list of demands, for now." Lonnie began after he had finished recounting the tale. "I want a room with a window. I want some outside time, and I want access to the Cardinal Institute's Library." Lonnie leaned back, crossed his shackled legs at the ankles while he held the paper in his lap. "Oh, and I want this paper too."

 

[Retrojapan]

A Perfect Circle - The Outsider
Cabaret Nightclub, Black Bridge
9:12 pm, July 1, 1961​

"Cab's the only place in town with these dancing go go chicks, man. I'm tellin you, Chip, I'd drink straight piss so long as they're dancin." Mark leads him through the night club, a lit cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth as he swaggers through the crowd. He's not thinking about the dead girl anymore, but Chip is. The special agent surveys the venue, methodically taking in every detail. Anything could be important in this business. The bartender has a limp - left foot. The live band overpowers everything. The bodies thrashing were distracting. Crystal's friends said she left by choice. The only exit she had to have taken out led to the main street. That's where Madison found the trail, tracing the girl's footsteps through the alley and into the parking lot where Lonnie stashed his getaway vehicle. She stood in the exact same spot where Crystal got her head smashed in. Just like that night, a single street lamp lit the scene like a light bulb flickering overhead. Madison remembered feeling the fractures in Crystal's skull when she lifted it from the dumpster. He must have used brass knuckles. The impressions matched the cranial bruising she noticed. In those moments, Madison could almost feel him there. She knew Lonnie a little better every time they met like this.

"You work in pairs, don't you? Where's the other one?" Inside the Cabaret, Mark is leaning back in the booth, tapping his ash into a tray on the table. He loosens his tie for the long haul. They were seated in the back corner, distanced from the crowd and shielded from the music. "That one's kinda weird? Your partner. Always lurking in the background... Going through the paperwork... Not saying much... What's her deal? I think she has read every police report that's been filed in the city of Black Bridge since the 18th century-"

"- your records only go back to the 20th century." Madison slides into the booth next to Chip. The woman is an Intelligence Specialist, so go figure. The FBI depends on her to understand criminals well enough to capture them. Criminal profiling was just taking off in the sixties, but she was well on her way to fleshing one out. "I noticed there's been a steady increase of criminal activity in Black Bridge for the last decade..."

"You're tellin me, boss! Don't know how long you been gone, but newsflash - this shithole is run by criminals." Mark proclaims, interrupting to down his drink. "Come all the way here to tell me we're fucked..."

"So the killer's deliberately setting himself apart from all the competition." Chip interprets, nodding his head at Madison before snorting with amusement. "I mean, it takes guts to do what he's doing, heh heh."

"Nice one." Madison raises the martini that's just arrived at the table, her glass ringing out as she chimes it against Chip's. "It does take guts, which means he has set the bar really high for us to outshine him somehow. We have to make him reckless, take risks he can't afford to take. Block him from what he's after..."

"Outshine him?" Mark repeats the foreign concept, arms crossed as he stares at Chip and Madison. He isn't biting their methods. He's a detective, not a psychologist. "How do you outshine a guy who grinds up birthday girls for the press? Nothing is gonna compete with that for the front page!" He shakes his head, eyes wandering over to a dancer shaking her hips to the music. He liked that. When he drags himself back to the federal agents, he can practically see the gears in Madison's head move as she slowly sips at her cocktail.

"Gotta have some good bait." Chip agrees, sipping a scotch and also watching the go go dancer go go go go.

"Now hear me out," Mark puts both hands flat on the table. He's drunk and sloppy, so he's pretty sure he can get away with what he's about to say. "We all know sex sells..." The detective only looks at Madison with his glassy, beady eyes. He is seeking permission because he is expecting her to shut him down. Surprisingly though, Madison is waiting for the punchline along with Chip, both holding their glasses in unison. "I mean, who doesn't want to see a beautiful woman on the front page these days, am I right, Chip? Am I right?" He bites the cigar he's still smoking between his teeth, grinning.

"Go on," Chip nods his head to the detective, who then tells them that only a beautiful crime fighting heroine could steal the front page now.

A Perfect Circle - Pet​

There was no way Lonnie could have known how hard it was to not take his hand immediately, pull it across the table like some needy bitch, and caress herself with him. She wanted to place his hand where she was budding unfamiliar urges between her legs, and hold it there. It had been so long since she wanted someone to touch her. Dr. Murphy applied medication to her abnormally high motivations towards physical affection. It stopped her from getting off track and becoming too sex-driven. She could remember how good it felt, though. Lonnie's hands looked so fucking good. "I did, Lonnie. I took it in the ass for you." Cordelia watched the earlier rejection fade from his features as she knew it would. Hot and cold. Give him back some of the lead, just like Dr. Murphy told her. She didn't answer Lonnie's question only because the details would diminish her confession. The warden only lasted twelve seconds in her asshole. The irony was that she really did want to hurt and suffer for Lonnie Norman.

"There is nothing I won't do to get what I want." She repeated her answer as she watched him roll his neck. Someone once told her that everyone actually dies twice.

Once when the doctor says so, and second when your name is spoken for the last time. Cordelia wondered who would die first - Lonnie or Psyche. If Lonnie could have wrung the second life out of her through that paper, then Cordelia would have watched Psyche go right then. She felt a strong pulse in her neck. Jealous, and impatient. The pearls around her throat were like a constrictor tightening too slowly for her to bear. The problem with Cordelia Mason was the very answer to the serial killer's question. Perhaps Cordy should have been called Psyche. She was the one who couldn't stop doing whatever it took to prove herself. Nothing filled her with pride more than keeping nasty, horrible secrets for depraved men. Going as low as it took to be the one over them. Cordelia truly believed that a greater proportion of men were filthy, undisciplined animals. She had the ammo to prove it with almost everyone involved in Lonnie's court case now.

"The paper is yours. The rest is up for debate, though. We can talk next week after you finish telling me about the fall of '61." Cordelia responded plainly, gathering her things and leaving with a fuss in order to reinforce the power differential. Her upper hand. She could leave whenever she wanted. She could give him things, and take things away. Maybe he saw through her charade, though. Cordelia was going to do everything in her power to give Lonnie what he asked for. Dr. Murphy told her the only thing she couldn't do was let him out. She didn't need to go too much out of her way for this one.

Donut John called after her as she passed his station and headed up the stairs to the offices. He made no motion to stop her. The woman's kitten heels clicked against each step as she made her way to the warden. She knocked and stepped inside, finding him alone at his desk with a coffee and a magazine on hairy muffs. Typical. She's already smiling like a fucking clown before she even opens the door. Her mask showed happiness, naivety, and gratitude. "Oh George! I can't believe it took me this long to

stop by. I really wanted to thank you in person for this opportunity."

"Dr. Mason, pleasure." George slips the magazine into his desk, and spreads his arms wide for a hug. "Absolute pleasure."

"Yes, yes." Cordelia embraces the man, feeling his one hand wandering down her hip onto her ass. "I also need to ask for your permission to move Lonnie Norman to another room." As soon as she says it, George drops his hand.

"Absolutely not." He drops the formality act and scoffs at her.

"He's getting an hour of recreation plus access to the library too." Cordelia remained standing close to the warden, their legs grazing as he returns to his chair. "I don't want to have to report you to the

College of Physicians, George. You abused your power of authority in that interview to fuck my-" Cordelia is genuinely surprised when he abruptly stands, slapping her across the face before roughly shoving her against the desk just like before. He lifts the hem of her little black dress. Nine seconds this time.

The next day, Lonnie is relocated to a room with a window. He has some furniture comforts for the first time - a desk, chair, stool, bed with sheets and pillow. Five days a week, from one in the afternoon until two, he is escorted by a guard to walk around the Cardinal's gated grounds. Lonnie is permitted to access the institute's library for two hours in the evenings. Donut John supervises.

 

[Black_Out]

Tool - Intolerance

The Cardinal Institute of Mental Health
The office of Warden Carpenter
3:15 PM, Friday, October 5th, 1965​

The first day went by quietly. The second day caused a little bit of a stir. By the third day the Warden was all to aware of the mounting discordant voices amongst the Cardinals staff. George Carpenter was used to running a tight ship. He didn't exactly rule with an iron fist, but ever since he took over at the Cardinal things had been running relatively smoothly. Then along came Doctor Cordelia Mason and that ass of hers. Just thinking about her had Warden Carpenter pouring himself a glass of scotch.

She seemed innocent enough, naïve, and eager to please. All traits that the Warden appreciated in a woman. At first her request seemed like a fools dream, but once he had her bent over his table and was stuffing her anus with his cock her desire to interview that psychopath, Lonnie Norman, sounded rather harmless to grant. It wasn't like the Black Bridge Murderer had ever opened up to any of the other psychiatrists on the Cardinals staff. He was so drugged he probably would just sit across from her and drool puddles into his lap. It was a totally harmless proposition. What harm could possibly come of it?

Just one month, one single month after that bitch of a Doctor's first visit had left Warden Carpenter seriously reconsidering every step that had led him to this point. Lonnie was off his meds, Dr. Mason was obviously off her rocker, and George was seething on the inside at his inability to see just how manipulative Cordelia was. Maybe he was over reacting. No, no he certainly wasn't. One glance at the small stack of formal complaints that were sitting all tidy before him upon the surface of his desk told him he needed to wake up.

God it felt to far and fucking late now though.

Not only was Lonnie off his meds, all the way down to the Lupron that mattered the most, but he was now in a new room with a view, strolling the grounds, and reading books at his leisure. All things (except for the meds) that the Warden had signed off on. Sure it would be easy to reverse direction and roll things slowly back towards the way they had been before Cordelia Mason and her tight ass came along. But that wouldn't fix the meds, that was court ordered and doctor approved, there wasn't anything the Warden could do to trump that. Then there was the simple fact that Cordelia Mason did come along and she wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon. No, in fact, George was pretty sure that Ms. Mason was just sinking her talons into the walls of his institute. He already felt like she had him firmly by the sack.

A solution needed to be found. He wasn't about to let some cunt lead him around by the balls. The Warden scooped up the phone and called down to his secretary. "Sally, get Ben Armstrong for me, tell him I want to see him in my office before the end of the day." George hung up the phone and looked towards the modest handful of complaints that his index finger had been absently tapping upon. If he didn't do something, he was sure that stack would grow and when something went wrong, because there was no if's as far as he was concerned when it came to Lonnie Norman, the weight of it all would fall on him.

It would be settled. Swiftly. Cordelia wasn't the only one who could pull some strings.

The Cardinal Institute of Mental Health
Interview Room 3c
Tuesday October the 9th, 1965
Shortly before 10:30 AM​

Lonnie was abnormally stoic this day as he sat in the interview room waiting for Dr. Mason to arrive so they could continue their sessions. He had so much he wanted to tell her today, to show her about himself. For now though, Lonnie Norman couldn't draw his head up from out of his lap. He just kept starting at his clasped together hands as they shifted and twisted against one another in a quiet quest for dominance over the other hand. The tic toc of the clock's second hand grabbed his attention away from his unshackled wrists as he looked up towards the minute hand that was closing in on their scheduled time. Outside the viewport of the heavy security door that led into the room, Lonnie could see the back of the cap that belonged to a guard he hadn't crossed paths with before.

Lola's on 5th
Saturday October 6th, 1965
Between the hours of 7 and 8 PM
​

Lola's wasn't exactly the Cabaret Nightclub. What it was though, was a gentleman's only club. People came to see the girls. At Lola's the men kept to themselves. It was the perfect place to knock back a few cold ones and slap some ass while the wife wasn't around. It was also a convenient place to resume the brief conversation that the Warden had started with the ever dutiful and loyal Mr. Armstrong.

Warden Carpenter had brought Ben Armstrong along with him when he took over at the Cardinal back in 55'. Ben was the type of man who was unwavering in his dedication to the Warden. Whenever there was a problem that needed solving, something that would go against the ethics of the day, Ben was there to solve that problem. After a few cordial beers and some gratuitous gropes of the homely young broads that sauntered across the lacquered wooden floors of Lola's, they slipped into a corner booth and discussed the unethical means to bring about Cordelia's end.

"When this all goes south, which it will if we don't do anything, I don't need that woman pointing her finger at me." George took a swig from his mug of watered down beer. "That's why I'm making some staffing changes for next Tuesday. I'm gonna shuffle things a bit. You'll be in charge of the door. You'll let her in when she shows up." Warden Carpenter took another deep pull from his beer while Ben Armstrong leaned forward to listen to his bosses directions. "Once she's inside you shut the door and lock it just like normal, and then you leave. When that sick fuck Lonnie shows up, you take his restraints off before Doctor Mason shows up. That shouldn't be a problem, because ever since that quack took him off his meds he always shows up first to their meetings." A pause of silence echoed between the two men before the Warden added a closing thought. "She wants to keep giving him freedoms, let's see how she likes it when he's really free."

"So you want him, to do her in?" Ben whispered and the Warden responded with a simple nod. "Then what, and what if he doesn't?"

"Oh, he will, I'm sure of it. When you come back, you'll shoot him dead, plant the shackles and a paper clip. We'll make it look like he planned this out all along and you had to kill him in self defense. I don't think the city of Black Bridge is going to mourn the loss of Lonnie Norman or Doctor Mason for that matter."

A shot of whiskey sealed the deal.

The Cardinal Institute of Mental Health
Interview Room 3c
Tuesday October 9th, 1965
10:43 AM​

Donut John wasn't around today to greet Dr. Mason upon her arrival at the Cardinal. A fresh new face, young and full of the uncertainty that a novice might display when they were called upon to learn a new skill was there in place of the old reliable donut muncher. His lips didn't have much to say beyond what his light brown eyes had already revealed when Cordelia showed up to sign in. "Morning, Dr. Mason, right?" He inquired with some level of hesitancy to his wavering voice as he slid the sign in sheet across to her. "Lonnie is already in the room, Mr. Armstrong here will show you down."

Another new face was in turn introduced to Cordelia's gaze as it was directed over to the weathered features of guard that was sitting close by. Ben Armstrong was buried in the funnies of the morning edition of the Daily. A smoldering cigarette stuck out from between two fingers, leaving its wispy grey trail to snake upwards towards the ceiling. Upon hearing his name, Ben pulled his eyes out from the depths of Snoopy's latest antics and began to fold up the paper. He set it aside, straightened himself up in his chair and took one last drag from his smoke before butting it out in the ash tray next to the Daily.

"Right this way, Doctor Mason." Ben said, his flat tone clearly expressed how he would rather be finishing up the comics right now then leading Cordelia down to interview room 3c for her 10:45.


"I got it from here Eddy, you can take off." Ben said in his deadpan way towards the other guard that had been stationed outside the interview room that Cordelia had just entered. "Thanks." Ben Armstrong had seniority amongst the guard staff at the Cardinal, and when he closed that conversation with his thanks Eddy departed without any fuss. Ben waited a handful of minutes, made sure the door was locked and then went back upstairs to fetch his paper. He had an hour to kill, which gave him plenty of time to finish reading the comic strips.

Keep your hands down Lonnie, and your ankles crossed.
She won't be able to see unless she comes around the table and she hasn't done that in weeks. ​

Lonnie looked up from his hidden away hands as Cordelia made her way into the room. As always he was curious what she would be wearing to their weekly meeting today. "Good morning Doc." Lonnie chirped up as he licked the fringes of his lip with the tip of his tongue. Already his eyes were undressing her while his fingers intertwined with one another beneath the cover of the table. "I just want to say how thankful I am for everything that you've done for me. You've really gone out of your way. I'm impressed." The pits of his eyes roamed over Ms. Mason's lips and neck before he lifted them up to meet her own.

She doesn't need to know that your not restrained.
Not right away.
Just let her think that everything is normal.
Even if her normal is about as fucked up as mine.​

"Now, you wanted to know more about the Fall of 61'." Lonnie hunched over and let his biceps rest against the rimmed edge of the table between them. "What exactly did you want to cover? Did you want me to tell you about that hooker I killed in early September?" His head tilted as he weighed the various topics he could indulge upon. "Or would you rather I skip past all that petty stuff and tell you about the Massacre at the Mansion?" Carefully Lonnie shifted his feet, making sure his unbound ankles stayed clearly hidden from her eyes. From the door, the sound of the lock being latched unobtrusively clicked in the background.

Outside, far up on the peak of the Cardinal's steepled rooftop the weather vane shifted in the breeze and pointed towards the west.

​

 

[Retrojapan]

Crosss - Mountain King​

Dr. Cordelia Mason is standing in a hospital parking lot next to her black '63 Riviera, hands in the pockets of her knee-length skirt. There is a cigarette pressed between her lips, unlit as it has been for the last ten minutes. She sucks wetly on the filter, though. Willful. The woman's gaze is trained up on a weather vane atop the grand peaks of the Cardinal. It points west just like all of the bad things in her life. Bad luck. Bad secrets. Bad men. Her hometown of Westlock, most of all. Nothing fucked her up like the west. The doctor abruptly spits the cigarette out from her lips onto the pavement and heads into the appointment, unhinged.

A silk scarf is bowed neatly around her slender neck with a white knitted sweater, cropped and narrowing in at a slender waist. A thin silver chain wraps loosely around her hips and over top a black wool skirt. Mary-Jane flats on her feet. Her black hair is waved like an old Hollywood starlet, and pulled back by several gold clips. The over all impression, and perhaps intention, is that Cordelia looks far younger than her twenty-eight years of age.

There is a polite smile on her lips as the school girl slash psychiatrist greets the fresh faced guard just like she would Donut John. The confident expression is unwavering even as everything continues to go off script. She hates deviations from the norm, and Cordelia's naturally paranoid obsessive mind immediately turns the blame to George Carpenter. Dr. Murphy had warned her about the Carrdinal's warden, after all. He hated George Carpenter in ways that beyond the pre-existing Westlock-Black Bridge rivalry. "Hi, yes, good morning. It is Cordelia Mason. I'm here for Lonnie Norman."

A well played second guard appears next to throw her off. Too bad Cordelia Mason likens more to a highly-educated con artist than a doctor most days. She is quick on her manipulative bitch feet, already frowning at Ben for her intrusion on Snoopy and friends. Her eyes are playful, though. The more of a deadpan, uncaring prick he is, the harder she tries. It's her curse. Cordelia preens her hair. "Sorry for interrupting..." Her gaze falls to her feet like a scolded school girl. She knows the guard is part of the peanut gallery. "I won't keep you too long from Betty and Veronica, Mr. Armstrong." Cordelia flashes a grin, hoping he's more of a Veronica type. She thanks him before entering the room with a serial killer inside.

"Good morning." Cordelia nods, taking her usual seat at the table, tucking in her skirt and long legs. She retrieves the cigarettes and lighter. With utmost control, she slowly slides them across the table to him. She is craving it more than she can bear after missing out in the parking lot, but the compulsion is always to let Lonnie smoke first. She pines desperately. "Tell me the part that makes me scared of you, Lonnie." Her nicotine-deprived body is tense as she waits for the cold jangle of his handcuffs. Of course, she is expecting Lonnie to reach for his cancer stick.

 

[Black_Out]

The Toadies - Possum Kingdom
The Cardinal Institute of Mental Health
Interview Room 3c
Tuesday October 9th, 1965
10:46 AM
​

Lonnie didn't move for the cigarettes when they skidded to a stop before him. He didn't even flinch. "Come on Doc, don't talk to me like you don't know the answer to that." There was amusement in those otherwise barren eyes that stared mischievously across the table towards Doctor Cordelia Mason. They might of even been considered disarming to the naïve or gullible. But they did little to cloud the fact that they belonged to a man who had murder on his mind. That could never been hidden, not when you knew who Lonnie Norman was. A none to subtle flirtatious twirl of his tongue passed over his lips as he admired the silk accent piece around her neck.

Steadily the Devil of Black Bridge leaned forward until his chin was just in front of the waiting pack of cigarettes. Lonnie inhaled and a steady breath that quickly grew in strength plumed out of his mouth and down over the table. The pack of smokes shifted, sliding their way back towards Cordelia. "Those thing's will kill ya, ya know." His smirking hazel eyes laughed across the table, ignoring the lighter that had barely moved from in front of him.

The Clock Tower Projects, Black Bridge City
The Apartment of Benjamin Ross
Friday the 13th, October 1961
Shortly after 8 PM

"He get's all the adulation, all the attention, and rightfully so! I mean look at you, you disgust me. Women can't even look at you..."
"Your a nobody, a puddle of piss is worth more then you are..."
"Your Dad was right you are a little fucking sissy boy..."
"Isn't that right, sissy boy?" ​

Benji Ross was a haunted, disturbed, and deeply troubled man. Right now that trifecta was staring him straight in the face and berating him. He always hated looking into the mirror, or any reflective surface for that matter. Benji was never sure what he was going to see looking back at him. When that faceless vision of horror appeared, he wished he could of summoned up the courage to turn away, to run from that mocking presence. That presence called itself Fury, and Benji Ross always grew roots when Fury came to visit.

"What, it's been five years now and you've managed to do almost a tenth of what he's done. You think he's going to recognize you for that? You think that foot you found in the dumpster makes you special? Like he came here to give you some kind of sign? No, that's his way of mocking you. He didn't come to pay his respects, he came to laugh at you."

Benji slapped his palms repeatedly across his ears as he screamed back at the shifting faceless vision upon the mirror before him. "Shut up! Shut up! I'm not a sissy boy!" That scream of defiance was short lived as Benji crumpled under the strain of Fury's taunts. They were worse then nails. "I'm not a sissy boy..." Tears welled up in the delusional eyes of Benjamin Ross as he looked up towards the looming faceless expression of hate that stared down at him from the surface of the bathroom mirror.

"I'm not...a sissy boy."

"Then man up and quit your blubbering. Stop letting him take all the credit for everything you do. Take charge for once in your pathetic life, Benji. Or was pops right about you all along, and your just a little fucking sissy boy?"
​

The rubbing of his palms shakily parted to reveal his sobbing and tear streaked visage to the distorted and foul reflection of himself that stared dispassionately back upon him. The words choked up in his scrawny neck. "I'm, I'm not a sissy, boy. What do I have to do? Tell me what to do, just tell me what to do." As Benjamin Ross listened to the otherworldly voice that was born out of his psychotic mind a thin and creepy smile started to take shape. "Yes, yes, I understand. I'll make you proud, Daddy. I'm gonna be on the front page of the Daily."

The University of Black Bridge
Campus Park
10:45 PM​

Benji lurked under the offered shadows that belonged to an intimate little cluster of trees that hugged the lonely brick path that weaved its way through the October gloom of the University of Black Bridges park. This was the darkest stretch of the trail and far enough removed from the gothic architecture of the University that he felt comfortable for once in his own skin. It wasn't lost on Benjamin Ross that the Black Bridge Murderer had left his mark somewhere along this trail nearly a decade ago. That gruesome murder was splashed all over the front page of the Daily back then. Benji had a copy of that paper back home, carefully kept in his chest, with the rest of his collection of memorabilia that was dedicated to Black Bridges infamous killer.

The pit pat of approaching feet caught Benji's attention. From under the canopy of darkness his bulging eyes gazed towards the softly lit trail. A pair of figures came into view from out of the shadows. They were stumbling, laughing, embracing each other as they worked their way down the brick path towards the place where Benji waited, knife in hand. They were so oblivious they never saw him until the knife had sunk into the back of Johnny Mackenzie. Tina Summers froze when she saw that blood bubbling out from between lips that had been so full of promise just moments ago. But when she saw those bug like eyes peer around from behind her gurgling escort, Tina screamed and ran like a lost girl into the woods. Benji pulled the knife free and gave chase, leaving Johnny to bleed out on the trail.

The Cardinal Institute of Mental Health
Interview Room 3c
Tuesday October 9th, 1965
10:47 AM​

"What scares you the most about me, is yourself." Lonnie's shoulders swayed as he lurched forward and bumped the table with his chest. The lighter skipped forward just enough so Cordelia could stretch out across the table for it. "You've gone to great lengths to be here. You've made so many sacrifices to meet me, up close and personal. It's obvious, your not doing this for any research project. You don't take notes, you don't record our sessions. Your obsessed with me, and that scares you, but you like being scared, don't you, Cordelia?" Lonnie took a breath, tilted his head and whispered across the table. "I wonder what they think of your visits, what the boys say about you around the cooler, back at Callingwood State."