Indebt Us Not!

Chapter 1

Infinitesimal, but not insignificant - those words were resonating in John Ashton’s mind. They were the prelude to an answer he had given on that first day of class a week previously…which now seemed like a lifetime ago. But right now, he was feeling very significant - hugely so!

It would have been inconceivable to John, when the second semester started in his junior year at William & Mary – that seven days later, when he should be enjoying spending time with the very fine Diane Wilson, he would end up here. And, he wasn’t really sure where here was! He could barely recall which snow covered streets he had slipped and skidded on as he tried to make his way out of Williamsburg, Virginia. John was pretty sure he was off of Jamestown Road somewhere, maybe up Mill Creek Road. However, he definitely knew himself to be, metaphorically speaking, up an entirely different creek. Granted, he had been a little too preoccupied to read road signs in his mostly successful attempt to escape and now evade.

A scant twenty minutes ago, he had answered a knock on his apartment door. Fully expecting to find an impish-looking Diane Wilson with a bar of soap in her hand, instead John came face-to-face with a stone-faced man with a gun in his hand - a minion of the behemoth.

When he could coax no more out of his beloved, just paid for, bullet riddled Saturn Outlook; he had no choice but to abandon it. Standing in front of his SUV in the rapidly falling night, amidst the swirling snowflakes, John examined the last of the life-blood antifreeze dripping from the violated radiator. Crazy thoughts swirled through his mind, like pulling an imaginary pistol out of his imaginary holster and shooting his trusty steed in the head, after it had, sputtering and clattering, gallantly carried him out of harm’s way and had gotten him this far.

Now, racing, stumbling, but mostly falling forward, John made his way deep into some thick woods. Leaning against a stout oak tree and between ragged, halting breaths John strained to hear any tell-tale sounds of his pursuer or pursuers closing in on him. The thick falling snow dampened his less than stealthy escape into the woods. Likewise, it would surely dampen any sounds of his pursuers. But, if they were of the caliber that he suspected they were, it would not matter what the weather was like. Whoever they were, they could probably walk across a floor covered with Corn Flakes and not make a sound.

Chance favors the prepared mind, or so says Louis Pasture, but John felt this quote should be abridged with a warning about amateurs proceeding with caution. But now he was in it. No more wondering whether they would extend out a tentacle and try for him too. They had tried and almost got him.

He had no idea how long they may have stalked him, laid in wait for him. He desperately wanted to believe they didn’t have Diane. John prayed they didn’t have Diane! The instruments of persuasion he had seen in the old farmhouse two days ago terrified him beyond belief.

Little could he have suspected that what had started out as a weekend in the country at his home in the Shenandoah Valley, would end up with his recruitment into a battle that had waged on for years, decades, centuries, and even millenniums. Back as far as history had been recorded this war had raged, and probably even farther back than that; for if there was a benefit to be achieved or an advantage to be gained, war had been waged for it. It had been fought with sticks and stones, bows and arrows, guns and knives, and most recently with briefcases and boardrooms where chicanery reigned supreme.

Sadly, there had been no stopping it, only a temporary halting of its manifestation through its clever manipulation. It has always managed to survive by reinventing itself. Or more aptly stated - like a Phoenix rising from its ashes. It would resurrect it itself yet again, and then take up where it left off… each time more powerful, more conniving, and ever more ruthless in its quest. Nothing or no one has ever been able to stand in its way – at least not for long – many have tried and many have failed. Some have died.

There has always been a basic need and desire of mankind to build, to expand, to possess, to control, and to dominate. This behemoth, as an enabler provides the means for mankind to act upon these basic needs and desires; then it sets the hook, with a simple line of credit. Once this beast resurrects itself, it then deploys its time-tested methods of either making its victims dependent on it, or worse yet unable to shed the shackles of the debt burden. It is these victims from whom it draws its life blood. It needs them to feed upon.

If it should be opposed, it will fight viciously to re-subjugate it victims. War, recession, depression, all of these social and economic calamities and more are within its arsenal of weapons. Time and time again it has shown that it has the capability to create and manipulate world events on a scale unfathomable to most people. John always believed himself to be realist, a pragmatist actually but not an idealist and certainly not an alarmist. But he was alarmed now! He desperately wanted to believe they hadn’t made his connection to Diane.

John stopped running and leaned against a broad oak tree stripped of its summer garb by the harsh winter winds. The snowfall was heavy. His outer shell of clothing was covered in snow. Night was falling. His breaths were less ragged, but he could not suppress the torturing thoughts that battered his mind – had they found Diane.

Mentally trying to dislodge the oppressing thoughts of Diane and what if… John found himself physically shaking his head as if that action would help eradicate such thoughts from his mind. In a semi-delusional state his mind retreated to a safe harbor of pleasant thoughts.

~~~~

John would never be able to forget the first time he met Diane. It could only be described as nothing less than a full-blown disaster - assault and battery notwithstanding. If there are better words to describe the quick succession of events surrounding their initial meeting, John could not think of them. The reason he would never be able to forget their first meeting was because Diane Wilson would not let him. She loved telling and retelling the story, even when she was in the hospital. Any attempt at an embellishment to the story would be detracting, for the truth is far better than any possible fabrication. One just can’t make up something this good!

What story could one possibly fabricate that is any better than this? On the first day of class, this buffoon would make his first impression, by initially knocking this beautiful girl out of her chair! Then, as if once is not enough, knocking her off her feet for the second time in less than three seconds, while giving her a bloody nose in the process. And, to make sure this buffoon leaves a lasting impression on the girl, he squishes her dainty little toes in her new Prada shoes under his heavy, rough-soled work boots.

In spite of Diane’s delightful retelling of the story, John’s mind has tried in vain to retire that memory to the farthest recesses of his mind and bury it. But if the story had to be told, his version was the least painful.

So once upon a time this bumbling duffis whose name is John, attempts to take his seat in Professor Augustus Wright’s Money & Debt Market’s class – a class he really should not have been allowed to take due to the fact that he did not have the required prerequisite class. Nonetheless, he proceeds to the front of the class and attempts to take his seat. But as he places a pencil on the desk and it starts to roll off, he quickly spins in a vain attempt to catch it before it falls to the floor.

However, when making this sudden spinning turn his backpack, which is still strapped over one arm, swings around with intensified force and strikes this lovely petite girl in the back of the head, neck, and upper shoulders, cleanly knocking her diminutive little frame from the chair and sending her and her books sprawling across the class room floor, in front of twenty to thirty fellow students.

Mortified at what he had just done, John leaps forward, sliding over on a knee to scoop up her stuff he knocked to the floor. Then when quickly standing erect to hand her the scattered books and other stuff he had gathered, the back of his head slams into her petite-little-nose-that-would-fit-in-a-bottle-cap as she was bending down. The splattering, cracking sound could be heard around the entire room. Over and down she went again! Now there was blood to deal with. It was like a faucet was turned on. The blood poured out her nose, over her elfin like little mouth, down her chin and splashed on her fashionable Talbot’s sweater. John doubted that she would ever get the bloodstains out of the fancy embroidered little sweater. The girl was teetering on semi-consciousness. Mortified and now horrified, but not petrified, John sprang into action. Scooping her off the floor, he unceremoniously deposited her back in the chair she had unintentionally vacated. Whipping a handkerchief from his pocket, (his father always said to carry one - said it would come in handy. Yup! Thanks for the sage advice, Dad.) John gently placed it over her once petite little nose, which was now starting to resemble the nose one would see on a circus clown.

Without any preliminary how-do-you-dos, John instructed the student sitting to his immediate right to go to the men’s room and return with two handfuls of paper towels – one handful was to be soaked in water. The wiry little Asian fellow sprang from his chair and disappeared out the door and immediately returned with two handfuls of paper towels prepared as instructed. John then asked his newly recruited assistant to call campus EMS. The Good Samaritan told John he already had. John nodded his thanks.

John replaced his blood soaked handkerchief with the wet paper towels and placed Diane’s slender hand over the cool, damp paper towels to hold them in place. With the dry paper towels he began to wipe off the rapidly drying blood from her face, cheeks, chin, neck, blouse, sweater, then abruptly stopped, petrified - when he realized where he was wiping and his eyes shot up to meet hers to apologize.

For the first time since this whole debacle started, he found himself looking into her eyes. Pretty emerald green eyes were looking back at him. Ok, maybe they were a little glazed over, but tantalizing, lovely green eyes nonetheless. More importantly to John, they were non-accusatory. The wailing sirens grew louder and louder, then subsided. Soon hurried footsteps could be heard coming down the parquet hallways and the EMS personnel appeared in the classroom shortly thereafter.

John could not take his eyes off her eyes, nor apparently could she from his either. She probably just wanted to affix in her mind the image of the clod-hopper who had assaulted her, so that later she could pick him out of a lineup. Even when the EMS people asked him to move aside, he reluctantly obliged, but he could not take his eyes off of hers. Her eyes remained fixed on him. So when attempting to move aside, John stepped on and smashed her little foot under his size eleven boot. Now the green eyes flared with righteous indignation!

~~~~

An involuntarily shiver against the impregnating cold brought John back to the stark reality of the constricting darkness. The blowing snow pelting his face and the icy cold dampness wrapped itself around his stiffening limbs. The flood of possible scenarios of what could have happened to Diane came crashing down upon him again sweeping away the last remnants of images from their first meeting.

He was supposed to pick her up for a study group meeting later on this evening after he got off work. He earnestly hoped she wouldn’t go over to his apartment looking for him. If he was going to be of any help to her, he was first going to have to evade his pursuer or pursuers. He recalled Uncle Bill’s commentary about a man on home soil fighting for family and loved ones. He had called it a force multiplier. Yet no matter how John did the math, he was still a party of one, and an inexperienced one at that.

If history is any indicator, these pursuers would be the best money could buy, and the most frightening part about that was - money was no object. This behemoth historically had disgorged money in unprecedented volumes to secure its desired objective. Money was no object for them, nor should it be… they printed it! But the guns-for-hire who were after him were mercenaries who understood the very basic concept of their job requirement – if you want to get paid… fill the contract. And, ah… yes, how could he forget. There was this other little reminder of this red-letter day – a bullet wound in his side. It is not like he got shot on a regular basis or for that matter at all. The rapidly approaching night and the heavy snowfall were eroding his field of vision down to mere yards now.

There! Did he just see a darkish shape moving through the falling snow or was it his imagination. Was it in fact the culprit who had tried to abduct him from his apartment and who was also responsible for making the ugly, raw crimson furrow in his left side? It was completely dark now. John literally could not see his hand in front of his face. He felt unsteady on his legs. Had he been able to see anything, his vision would have been blurred. Without any visual input, John felt disoriented. His equilibrium finally failed him and he sensed himself falling. His last conscious thoughts were of Diane and that first day of class - while only a week ago, it seemed like an eternity. The stone-cold forest floor raced up and smacked him square in the face.

Chapter 2

Professor Augustus (Gus) Meriwether Wright sat in his new office in the new Alan B. Miller Hall which housed the Mason School of Business, preparing for the first day of classes scheduled to begin tomorrow. This building would always be new to him, even though he had been in it since the fall semester of ‘09. It still smelled new. The Alan B. Miller Hall was touted as an architectural masterpiece, a state-of-the-art learning center with all the bells-n-whistles. It was heralded as being environmentally sensitive in its uses of natural resources and even had a gold seal to prove it.

All that was just fine with Professor Wright, but he really missed the old Tyler Hall. His office in the old Tyler Hall was small, cramped, smelled of decades old books that lined every square inch of the walls, and covered much of the floor. The old building had character, a living essence. It was as if the building had, by osmosis, absorbed a miniscule quintessence from each energy form that passed through its halls; and it was this assemblage of spirit that gave the old gal her mystique. Gus had no doubt that in fifty or so years Miller Hall would acquire its own mystique.

His new office was opulent and sterile by his standards. Every wall, floor, and ceiling seemed white, almost crystalline in comparison to his old office. Gus tried in vain to politely decline the office he had been assigned. Apparently the administration felt that his two score and ten year tenure status entitled him to the most grandiose of offices facing westward with a full view of the grand courtyard.

There was a janitor’s closet down the hall which had been recently cleaned out in preparation for installing some data junction boxes. Gus would have preferred that janitor’s closet as an office. He had even asked Billy Williamson, the Director of Facilities and Operations, if he could have that space for an office instead. Billy also had been a figure around the old Tyler Hall. While not having as many years in as he, Gus saw Billy nearly every day of his thirty-two year tenure. They had coffee together at least three times a week, and Billy knew the Professor was serious about moving his office.

In response to Gus’s request, Billy had placed a kindly hand on Gus’s shoulder and told him, Rank hath its privileges, Professor. Seniority has its rights.

Great, Gus had replied! Let’s move me tomorrow.

Gus could still recall Billy as he walked off down the hall outwardly laughing heartily at his request to move his office. What Gus could not see was that inwardly the tears flowed.

Billy loved the Professor like the father he had been to him, but more important, Billy had the utmost admiration for the Professor. Billy came to work for William & Mary because of the Professor. He was going to miss having him around. He owed everything, up to and including his life, to the Professor and his wife Mary.

~~~~

Poor, black, and functionally illiterate was the initial impression Gus had of Billy Williamson, when he first met him. Street-smart, savvy, and intelligent were other descriptors that Gus quickly come to learn were far more accurate. The two first met when Gus answered a knock on his front door one hot, humid, summer afternoon.

There on his front porch stood a young slender black boy dressed in well worn clothes. He couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. Extending his hand, he had shook Gus’s hand in a firm business-like manner. Billy introduced himself and explained that he cut lawns for a living, and proudly pointed to an old push rotary lawn mower.

Gus immediately took note of Billy’s use of the phrase cut lawns for a living as opposed to saying something like he cut lawns as a summer job. There was something about this young black boy, standing on his porch preparing to negotiate for work that intrigued Gus. He was confident and self-assured, but not cocky. While Gus had always cut his own lawn and did his own yard work… he was taken with this young lad and decided to hear him out.

Mary Wright apparently heard Gus and Billy talking, because she soon appeared by Gus’s side. Mary had taken one look at Billy and without any introductions or pleasantries had asked… no, more like demanded to know when the last time Billy had eaten. That confident and self-assured young man wilted.

I think I had a package of crackers yesterday, replied Billy slowly trying to remember.

What is your name, Honey? Mary then asked in a kind and gentle tone. Mary called everybody Honey.

Billy Williamson.

Come with me, Billy, instructed Mary. Mary gently took hold of Billy’s hand and escorted him off to the kitchen. Walking past Gus, Mary shot him a look that would freeze fire. It was then Gus noticed that the clothes were hanging off of the boy. He had missed that one and he would hear about it too! Gus knew right then and there, he wasn’t going to be called Honey any time soon.

Gus could not recall ever having seen anyone pack away as much food as Billy did in one sitting. Mary could hardly make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches fast enough. While the boy was eating Mary began to do what Mary did so well. It wasn’t long before Billy was telling the abridged version of his life’s story. Prostitute for a mother who was now dead, heard tell of who his father might be - but didn’t know for sure, didn’t really care; living on the streets, sleeping wherever he could, eating out of dumpsters until he would get run off, mowing lawns for a living, planning on raking leaves this fall.

When he was finished, Billy sat stoic in his chair, as he stared down at his half eaten sandwich. He had never told anyone about himself. No one had ever asked. Mary had her kitchen apron to her face trying to stem the tidal flow of tears streaming down her cheeks. Gus had a lump in his throat that restricted his breathing. His vision was blurred. Finally, with no small amount of effort Gus was able to take a deep, replenishing breath. Gus leaned back in the kitchen chair he was sitting in. He had worked mightily to clear the lump in his throat, as he processed the information he had just heard.

This lad knew he was the product of a financial transaction and that the sperm donor was white. It was apparently someone who was a prominent person in Williamsburg. That fact seemed immaterial and unimportant to Billy. However, when Billy spoke of his mother, there was a depth of sadness that transcended a normal, strong parent-child relationship.

Chapter 3

Brenda Williamson had not planned on becoming a prostitute. The career path of being a member of one of the world’s oldest professions had come looking for her. It would become a means to an end. Jobs were hard to find, and if you were black… it was even harder. Add the fact that she was uneducated as she could neither read nor write, may have been an insurmountable obstacle for some, but not for Brenda. Being a polite, persistent little pest, she badgered the manager of Phil’s Seafood Restaurant on SR 646 to give her a job washing dishes. Maybe she got the job because she was so persistent, or maybe it was because she was drop-dead gorgeous.

Despite the advances made by the civil rights movement at the time, in some rural establishments in the south it was still the accepted practice that the whites entered through the front entrance of the restaurant and the blacks received their food delivered through the rear door. There were no signs that said so… it was just how it was.

Behind Phil’s Seafood Restaurant under a sprawling live oak tree were a couple of worn and weathered picnic tables. Around these tables would sit the local black folks who had come out to eat, as well as the occasional black chauffeurs who drove the rich white folks out from Williamsburg for some of Phil’s famous seafood.

The food was truly exceptional. Locally caught fish, clams, scallops, oysters and the like were packed in ice and delivered fresh every day. Local farmers brought milk, cream, eggs, chickens, pork, and garden fresh vegetables to the restaurant on a daily basis as well. The black gals in the kitchen were masters in their own regard – and did country cooking at its finest. And the finest of the finest food they prepared made its way out the rear door and onto the picnic tables under the enormous live oak tree. While the portions of food plated up and elegantly placed on the white linen table cloths in the main dining room were a hallmark of Phil’s, the food piled on the plates delivered out the back door needed side boards.

One balmy day after the noon hour rush had subsided, a highly polished Cadillac Deville eased into a parking space near the old picnic tables. Everyone knew the Caddy to belong to a one Mr. Benjamin Preston Randolph III, a young well-to-do banker from Williamsburg. Ben was old money from an even older family, who could trace their roots all the way back to the Jamestown settlement. Young Ben, as he was called by those who knew him and to differentiate him from his father, liked to take a late lunch at Phil’s Seafood Restaurant nearly every Wednesday.

After grandly delivering Mr. Randolph to the front door of the restaurant, Ol’ Dan, Ben Randolph’s chauffeur, would park the Caddy behind the restaurant and take a seat at the picnic table. No one knew how old Ol’ Dan was, nor could anyone recall having heard tell what his last name was. Ol’ Dan had driven Ben’s father, Benjamin Preston Randolph II and his grandfather, Benjamin Preston Randolph as well. Ol’ Dan had been around that bank a long time. He heard things, he saw things, and he knew things. If anyone knew where the bodies were buried, it was Ol’ Dan.

Brenda had served Ol’ Dan his food several times. He had the same thing every time he came; the small seafood platter, sweetened iced tea, and homemade apple pie. When Brenda saw him from the window over the dishwashing sink, she called out to Sally Mae, the head cook on duty and announced Ol’ Dan’s arrival.

When his food was ready, Brenda carried it out to him and placed it before him. When she asked him if he needed anything else, his usual pleasant voice and grandfatherly smile was noticeably absent from his face. In its place was a look Brenda had not seen before. It was as if Ol’ Dan was about to do something he didn’t want to do, something very distasteful to do – but it seemed as if he had no choice.

In a voice that sounded hollow and dead, Ol’ Dan told Brenda that young Mr. Ben had a job offer for her, and if she was interested he would pick her up here after work. Brenda looked shocked. A job offer! What job might she be able to do in his bank? She had a number of questions.

The job pays fifty dollars, Ol’ Dan spat out. If you are interested, I will pick you up here after you get off work, was all he would say. All Brenda’s questions just got answered. She was only illiterate.

Then in a kinder more familiar tone, he softly said, Don’t worry Brenda, I’ll see to it that you will be ok. With that he stood up, leaving his food untouched on the table, walked over to the Caddy, got in and sat there like a statue until it was time to pick up Young Ben.

Brenda was an uneducated, back-woods girl, but she wasn’t stupid. So rich ol’ Ben Randolph wants to have sex with her, and he was willing to pay her fifty bucks to do so. With her looks, Brenda got hit on a lot. She wasn’t a stranger to sex. She gave up her virginity to Roscoe Smith when she was thirteen years old. She had sex as often as she wanted, which wasn’t that often, because truthfully, she didn’t really enjoy sex all that much. Having sex was just not that big of a deal.

But fifty dollars was a lot of money! It was more money than she could make in two months working at Phil’s. And it would solve some medical problems facing her maternal grandmother, who was old and had what the doctors called Alzheimer’s disease. She needed better care than what Brenda could provide at home.

~~~~

That evening after work she found Ol’ Dan waiting outside the restaurant. However, he was in his old dilapidated Chevy pickup truck. Makes sense thought Brenda. Horny Ben can’t have it be seen that he is sending his Caddy out to pick up some black piece of ass, thought Brenda sarcastically.

Ol’ Dan didn’t say a word as he drove her out into the country to a place deep in the woods. The place was the Randolph family hunting lodge, which apparently doubled as a love shack.

If you need me, just call out and I’ll be there. said Ol’ Dan, in a low rumbling voice, when he had pulled up into the driveway. When you are done, I’ll take you home.

Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Brenda said as she reached over and gently touched his arm.

Brenda steeled herself, got out of the pickup, and walked up the wooden steps to the large rustic wooden structure and firmly knocked on the door. The door was opened by Ben himself, who stood there in casual, but regal splendor.

Won’t you come in? he said, oozing with practiced, southern charm.

Brenda walked in and looked around. Seated on the couch and chairs were three more men. What she didn’t know was that one was Ben’s long-time golfing and fishing buddy and the other two were potential business associates. What she did know was that she was not going to screw all four of them for a mere fifty dollars. She may be illiterate, but she did have a head for business.

Turning to Ben, she said Its fifty dollars for you to have sex with me. If they want to have sex with me too, its fifty bucks apiece!

When Ben started to say something in rebuttal, Brenda slid out of her well-worn cotton print dress, draped it across one arm and cocked it on her hip. She then jutted out her other hand toward Ben - palm open. Then with a slight tilt of her head, her jet black eyes lanced a look straight into Ben’s blue eyes conveying the simple message…deal or no deal.

And with that…Brenda Williamson started her new occupation.

Chapter 4

Billy’s mother kept regular business hours during the day and her customers knew the routine. The evenings were dedicated to spending time with Billy and visiting her grandmother in the nursing home. Since their house was but a one room shack, Billy mostly sought refuge in the nearby woods during the hours of operation. When inclement weather drove him from his refuge, he took shelter on the porch sitting on an old wooden peanut crate. Occasionally, the men when leaving would give him a dollar or two. Billy felt a little uneasy about being given money for doing nothing, so he started washing their cars. That turned on a money spigot and the cash really flowed.

Billy was born into very little, and grew up with not much more; yet happily unaware he was poor. Most everyone around these parts lived in ramshackle houses and was poor. Most of the money Brenda made went to paying the medical bills and nursing home care her maternal grandmother had incurred when she was alive. These bills were in the thousands, but Brenda was determined to pay them off and Billy insisted on helping. She gave thanks every night that her Granny Emma had Alzheimer’s, and hardly recognized Brenda and Billy when they came to visit. Grammy Emma didn’t know that Brenda had started a new occupation – it would have killed her. Blessedly, she had been recently spirited off to heaven.

Billy understood the business his mother was in. Brenda had explained it to him in a matter of fact manner. It was sex, just sex and nothing more than that. She explained the difference between sex, loving someone, and making love. Brenda explained about the birds and the bees, about how she made her customers wear condoms so she would not get pregnant. And when they were done and they left, she would take a bath and wash away the smell of those men, and then she would be just as fresh and clean as the day she was born.

When Billy was old enough to understand she explained to him about her first customer, who the man was, how she thought he had a condom on, and the end result of that one time was that she got a wonderful little boy to love for the rest of her life. At ten years of age, it was just Billy and his mother. They didn’t have much, but what they did have was enough. There was food to eat, he had clothes to wear and they had a roof over their head. At Christmas time he would get new clothes - crisp, new smelling clothes wrapped in bright colored paper, tied with equally bright colored ribbon. But this Christmas he would receive the Christmas gift of all Christmas gifts. Under their little scraggly pine Christmas tree, with its slender limbs bowing under the weight of homemade Christmas ornaments, laid a long thin rectangular box, carefully wrapped in colorful Christmas paper and tied with a big red bow.

Billy knew exactly what it was. He should – he had dropped enough hints, subtle and down-right overt; as to what he wanted for Christmas this year. The last Christmas gift he would ever receive from his mother was a Model 102 pump-action Crossman .177 caliber pellet gun. A few older boys up the road a piece had BB and pump pellet guns. He had learned to shoot theirs, and under their tutelage he had become quite proficient. But none of them had the Model 102 pump-action Crossman .177 caliber pellet gun. This pellet gun was not a toy. It was a tool.

On that wonderful Christmas day Billy had arrived at the pinnacle in a boy’s life. He now had stature among his peers, and within the day, he would transition into being the man of the house. He had dreamed of this day, planned for it, prepared for it; the whole time imagining how he would earn his new standing.

With new gun in hand, first he set up his pre-planned shooting range, which consisted of four old rusty tin cans lined up on the top rail of the wooden fence separating the yard from the dusty one lane road terminating at their house. Turning his back perpendicular to the fence, he stepped off twenty paces and turned facing the old tin cans, newly designated as targets. Next he worked the pump on the air rifle ten times, and with each successive pump, charged the air chamber with more and more air pressure. With the tenth stroke of the pump completed and the pump handle snapped securely back into place, Billy lifted the tiny bolt and pulled it back. Carefully placing a pellet in the groove and sliding the bolt forward, and then locking it down, his new pellet gun was loaded.

Now he was ready. Leveling the front post sight down and placing it between the two pillars of the rear sight, he then settled the two horizontally aligned iron sights half way down the cylinder of the tin can. Billy had anticipated and planned for what seemed like an eternity for this inaugural shot. A smooth pull on the trigger and the air piston released, expelling the compressed air and propelling the pellet down range, striking the top right half of the can.

Billy spent the next hour tweaking the sights on the air rifle until he was able to shoot dead-center on the cans. Gathering up the pellet-perforated cans and disposing of them, he headed off into the woods surrounding his home in quest of his aspiration. Billy knew exactly where to go. This wasn’t going to take long!

His previous failed attempts with box, twig, and string to capture a rabbit were about to be rectified. Easing around a dead-fall pine tree and scanning the small open hayfield, Billy saw the object of his quest – a plump, swamp rabbit. Previously, they had been too quick, or too smart for his amateurish attempts at trapping them, but not today. With a single shot, Billy had arrived at manhood and was sprinting back to the house with his trophy clutched in his hand.

Bursting through the door, Billy skidded to a halt in front of his mother. With a broad smile spread across his entire face, he held up the main course for dinner. Billy’s mother was beside herself with pride. Her little ten year old boy was not only an entrepreneur, but now a provider. Not that she knew what those words were, she couldn’t spell them and wouldn’t recognize them if she saw them – but her little Billy was all that and more.

~~~~

That spring Terrance Wells came into their lives. He was a small-time drug dealer. He was also a customer. At first he was pleasant and charming, taking Billy and his mother to the picture show and dinner at nice restaurants, or at least the ones they could get into. He bought her nice presents. Terrance was also benevolent to Billy. He taught Billy to drive. Even at such a young age Billy was adept and quickly learned the rules of the road. Occasionally, he took Billy fishing.

By the fall, Terrance moved in with them. Within a month he changed. He was mean and cruel when he was sober – but if he was drunk or high, he became demonic. Terrance started demanding that Billy’s mother give him part of her earnings. At first she refused. Terrance would beat her until she gave up some of her money. Terrance would take that money and go on a bender. Several days later he would return, hung over, and demand more money. And so the cycle continued.

During one of Terrance’s absences, Billy’s mother told Billy to take his money and divide it up leaving some in the wooden cigar box Billy used as his ‘piggy bank’ and to take the remainder, put it in a mason jar and bury it out in the woods some place. She specifically told Billy not to tell her where he hid it.

Billy was scared because his mother was scared. He had never seen her like this before. But he did as he was told, halved his money leaving some in the wooden cigar box, and the rest he placed in the Mason jar his mother had given him. Making sure Terrance wasn’t around; Billy slipped out into the woods and buried the Mason jar. Terrance showed up the next day, hung over and mean. When he stormed into the house he demanded that Billy’s mother fix him some food. Billy saw the defiant look on his Mother’s face, a look he had only seen but a few times. He last saw it when a customer refused to pay.

Billy saw it coming and he became terrified. His mother squared her slight shoulders and flatly told Terrance - no. There was only enough food in the house for her and Billy. She told him to leave and pointed to the door.

Terrance sprang from the chair he was sitting in, and in one step and a mighty swing of his powerful arm, knocked her across the room. Billy, blind with rage, hurtled all ninety-seven pounds of himself at a man who easily had one hundred pounds on him. His slight body slammed into Terence’s back, knocking Terrance away from his mother. Billy gathered his feet under him to launch a second strike at his family’s tormentor, when he saw a flash of Terrance’s fist hurtling towards his head. Then all went black.

When he woke his mother was kneeling beside him, dabbing his head and face with a wet towel. Blood was everywhere, on the floor, some on the wall, but mostly on him and his mother. When Billy’s eyesight cleared, he saw that his mother’s face was swollen. She could only see out of one eye. Her lip was bleeding in two places. Blood covered her face, neck, and much of her dress.

Billy began to cry, which caused tears to flow from his mother’s good eye and a red wetness to ooze from the slit in her swollen eye. They held each other, drawing comfort from their loving embrace and slowly gained the strength to get up, dress their wounds, and put their home back together…again. Billy vowed then and there he would get Terrance out of their home for good, and he began to develop a plan.

Deep within the recesses of a person’s mind resides the primordial instinct for survival. Absent in this nadir is any sense of decency, decorum, granting quarter, or any semblance of law other than the law of survival. It is innate in all of us, but thankfully most are never compelled to descend to those depths. Yet, it was in this realm that Billy began to devise his plans.

As the days passed, their wounds began to heal. His mother didn’t want to see any of her customers during this time, as she had during the other times Terrance beat her. So Billy would explain to the regulars that his mother wasn’t feeling well, but she hoped to be better next week. Because no money was coming in, and Terrance had taken most of what they had, Billy would slip away into the woods very early in the morning to shoot squirrels, rabbits and birds for their meals. He knew Terrance liked to sleep late and would not come around this early, so he felt it was safe to leave his mother and head off into the woods in search of food.

A week had passed and no Terrance. What money Billy had stashed away was soon used up buying food, medicine, and bandages. Billy was hopeful, prayerful actually, that Terrance was killed in a car accident or something, anything that would kept him away from his mother. He never wanted to see him again. Yet, deep down inside Billy knew that Terrance would be back. Billy had thought long and hard about what he was going to do and how he was going to do it. He had carefully laid out his plan in his mind. He had spent the last few days doing a dress rehearsal, or as much as a ten-year old is able, when devising a plan to kill a man.

Billy would sit at his mother’s bedside during the night and watch her fitful sleep. Tears ran down his cheeks. Recalling scenes from cowboy and action movies that he had seen with his mother, Billy began to finalize his plan, and ran scenarios through his mind. Terrance was probably about twenty-five years old, had a hundred pounds or more on Billy, and was as strong as an ox. His plan included the hope that he would be going up against Terrance in a drunken state. Also, Billy hoped Terrance wouldn’t be jacked up on some of those drugs he sold. He had seen him when he was drugged up. He was the devil incarnate then. Billy shuddered at the thought.

~~~~

The scarcity of game around their home had taken him farther away than he had wanted. Billy was quickly making his way back home. His spirits were high, as he had two rabbits and a squirrel in the canvas game pouch slung over his shoulder. Rabbit was his mother’s favorite. They would be able to eat on these for two days. As Billy rounded the corner of their little shed his heart sank.

Parked in the middle of their dirt driveway was Terrance’s car. Fear gripped Billy so hard he could barely breathe. His mother’s shouts and Terrance’s yelling could be heard from the house and that galvanized him into action. Billy unfurled his murderous plan and made for the house.

Racing up and onto the porch and throwing the front door open, Billy saw Terrance standing over his mother on the floor, holding her with one hand while he was preparing to strike her with his other hand. Fresh cuts were upon old bruises. Billy’s heart broke, but his spine steeled. Raising his pellet gun to his shoulder, Billy took careful aim at his intended target. Terrance released his mother who slumped to the floor in a semi-conscious state.

Just what the hell do you think you’re going to do with that little pop-gun punk? roared Terrance.

In the briefest of moments of clarity, Terrance must have figured out exactly what Billy was going to do with that pop-gun, for his eyes flashed wide open, just milliseconds before the .177 caliber pellet pierced his right eyeball dead center in his retina. The eyeball literally popped and its cytoplasm spewed forth from the punctured sphere.

Terrance bellowed an unearthly roar and cupped his hand over his useless eye and tried to lunge towards Billy, but found he was hobbled. Wrapped around his right ankle were two dainty and bruised arms in a python-like constriction. Continuing to roar from the pain, Terrance reached down, tore Billy’s mother’s arms from around his ankle, then picked her up and threw her like a rag doll across the room at the stone fireplace.

Billy heard a faint pleading from his mother, which was mixed with his panic-stricken ‘Noooo!’ The plan - it wasn’t supposed to go like this! Terrance was supposed to chase him out of the house and away from his mother. He hadn’t planned that his mother would grab ahold of Terrance in an attempt to keep him from hurting Billy again.

The sickening crack of his mother’s skull against the rough stone fireplace brought an eerie silence to the room. As Billy’s mother’s limp body slowly settled in a most unnatural position at the base of the stone fireplace, her face turned angelically towards Billy. Her one good eye twinkled brightly at him. She blinked once… blinked again and then the light of his world went out.

Terrance looked down at Brenda and realized what he had done. He then looked over at Billy. Their eyes locked in a primordial stare. The two combatants faced