|Blogs > electricbob3 > Nobody's Child Electrified!!|
I was running late as I slipped on my jacket and one of my favorite hats. It was a hat I'd bought at an auction in Chicago 20 years ago and inside the brim the name 'Al Capone' was sewn. A real classic, hand made and crafted of the finest leather it fit my head to a tee. I called it, 'my hunting hat'!
I started hunting when I was 13 years old and would sneak out of the second floor window of my bedroom, shared with 4 brothers, creep out onto the roof and jump out into space and darkness as my hands searched for the giant old oak tree. You only had one chance to grab the huge limb before falling 30 foot to the hard ground and certain serious injury, if not death.
I didn't fear death though, on hunting nights, I was death.
I recalled how easily I snagged the limb and swung my feet into place on a lower branch that had a way of shuttering with the acceptance of my weight. Taking a deep breath I reminded myself that it was that shuttering of the branch that never failed to send a tingle up my spine. It was almost a sexual release that often confused and angered me at the age I was but had not by any means, kept me from my hunt.
Our farm sat on 360 acres of rich black soil some 3 miles west of the Mississippi River and 30 miles south of St. Louis. Settled by a mix of Irish, German, Italian, and Scottish farmers the people were as diverse as the food, dialect, and the farmsteads their ancestors had claimed in order to work 16 hour days in the clearing of virgin timber so to be better able to the land. Faster, easier, and throughly so that in only 200 years society sought to salve their collective and inherited conscious.
It was this diversity that I counted on so that my hunts could continue and provide a positive outcome without the risk of identification and inevitable capture.
Walking down the dark gravel road that led to the nearest small town of Pevely, I kept my hand on the 12" Butcher Knife fitted snuggly inside a sheaf I'd attached to the jackets lining. The knife gave me strength. It emboldened me and stroked my ego to the point that I considered myself formidable during those hunts. Totally invincible.
Each step along the country road towards my next victim brought me closer to that orgasmic rush of pleasure that death caressed me with. Like a siren of the forest, dancing naked under the stars winking through the canopy of trees overhead, that indescribable feeling became a need in which it surged dancing through my veins. The need became action, and action ended another life so that the rush that I couldn't live without, became my souls own ambiguity and nourishment.
I'd spent 13 years as a God fearing Christian attending Sunday school, church, and Lutheran grade school and so those lingering, questioning thoughts were forever attacking my peace of mind. Was this God's work? Or was it the Devil's?
"hey kid?" a loud voice called from a ravine along side of the road causing my heart to jump into my throat, wit my stomach threatening to flip out of control. I instantly grabbed the knife, keeping it out of sight, but ready in case this man was a tramp intent on robbing some farmer checking on his cows but found me instead.
The man, what I could discern in the ever-weakening moonlight, was only about as tall as me but had years spent scratching for meals or what would pass for meals, to the point where his skin hung like sheets draped over a pole. He spoke in a soothing voice as he neared, as if he was talking to a skittish horse or restless herd of cattle. It was both unnerving and hynoptic in nature and I struggled in an attempt to tear my mind from his grip until after what seemed an eternity I was able to ask him a question as to how he'd come about to be sleeping in the Steinbachs field so far from the main roads. He just laughed a hidious laugh and without so much as a movement of arms or hands shot straight up into the nights blackness with the laughter carrying across the valley and hills.