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Twins in Death: Chapter Two – Part Two

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay



Chapter Two: Love Lost



March 27th, 2002

9:27 a.m.


            The figure was dressed very oddly indeed for an early spring morning. The leather and silk ensemble would have been better suited for a summer’s night rather than a March morning, when it was still cold enough to see one’s breath. The machine gun would have struck some one as odd as well, but there would have been no one around to see it under normal circumstances. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone there to see it any way. That had been part of the agreement. The person with the machine gun was to have privacy to do their work.


            The Weirdo’s massive home stood on what was more or less a private island, and there were large gates keeping the very few occupants on the other half of the island off his half. It wasn’t like anyone could get to the grounds anyway. People seemed to loose their will to invade half way to the house, there was just something about the grounds that kept people off. This one had managed though, by means which will become obvious later. The fact that The Weirdo had made it his business to eliminate as much crime as he could manage while still having a life of his own was not a factor in the home life. They were never attacked at the home, no one ever came there, it was safe.


            The house was a fortress, like the castles of old. It was as unassailable as a massive stone building on a cliff face. It looked like a Pre-Victorian mansion, but felt like the last modern temple to security. There was something about the house, something that would not allow it to be assailed, but there had been the agreement. The agreement had allowed the person with the machine gun to perform this terrible task.


            The figure stood in front of a huge picture window at the front of the house, and watched the woman come down into the front room. A feeling of energy rushed through the blood as the eyes fixed on her body as she came down the stairs tossing her long brown hair, which fell in gently, loose curls about her shoulders. She was a vision of sex and beauty, which had the luster of a Goddess about it. She looked like a life bringer, and the person with the gun shuddered. It was a mixture of hatred and envy and self pity that moved through the figure.


            In a large and thick bush near the house, a child stood waiting. She wore a pale yellow rain coat, with the hood pulled up over her fair hair. She had the look of a child whose gentle beauty would only enhance with age at which point she should be elected to the office of goddess and be asked to live in the sky. She touched the side of the hood and gripped it with her hand in a worried way. She was only about four years old if that much, and she knew what she had come to watch. She had come to be the witness, to verify that certain things had, or was it, would happen? How do the threads of causality run?


            She couldn’t tell any more, but she had to watch this, that much she knew. Her eyes fixed on Shannon and for a moment, she thought about using her plastic backpack to break the window and scare her, to ruin the moment of opportunity. That would send the world into a spiral of uncertainty and she knew that it wouldn’t work. Her heart thumped in her tiny chest as she watched the inevitable come forth. She could feel the waveforms of possibility collapsing around this situation. There was only one path left in the universe. She wanted to do something, to stop this, but it wasn’t allowed. There were rules, she had been told all of them. She couldn’t step in and stop this, she could only observe. Her tiny heart pounded in her chest and the sound of rushing blood was all she could hear save for her breath. She clutched at the hood, waiting for it all to be over.




March 27th, 2002

9:28 a.m.


            The Weirdo had been able to fight his hand from taking the broach for a full minute. He knew that his strength wouldn’t hold his hand from its evil purpose. After the minuet had passed his hand began to move slowly but steadily towards the broach, ready to take it for all its evil intent. A chainsaw, a chainsaw, his right hand for a chainsaw, which was his intent really. When his finger came in contact with the thing, the sound began and distracted him.


            When you stop bad people from doing bad things all day you get to know the sound of a cheaply made Mac 10 like a biker knows the sound of a Harley Davidson. This was such a sound, a fast loud snapping of machine gun fire. The short sharp and rapidly repeating sound of the machine gun was accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. His mind didn’t get into gear so much as his body did, the knife flipping open and his body throwing itself into gear.


            The Weirdo turned, with what seemed to him to be infinite slowness; he began to run, leaping down the stairs. It wad like moving through a dream, one where he couldn’t make it in time. The Grey Man’s hand slipped and the broach fell and clattered against the stone of the balcony. One of the gems popped from its setting and spun in the air, catching the light of the sun. The Weirdo jumped over the stairs and furniture to the front room. The Gray Man’s eyes closed, holding back tears, which trickled from the tightly held lids. He had succeeded in his mission, and had never hated himself more. He felt the shame of the betrayer as he watched The Weirdo leave. He wanted to put that pistol he had been given against the side of his head and see if he could indeed die.


            The Weirdo had flown down the three flights, his legs barely touching as he leapt. He had moved so fast, and yet not fast enough. She had already fallen when he got to the room and the blood had already begun. It was already too late, and he knew it.


            “Shannon!” The Weirdo screamed as he entered the front room.


            Blood pooled on the floor, streaming past and around the broken shards of glass. It formed a mosaic on the floor, which was horrific and terrifying. It was puddling in places, leaving her at an alarming rate. If she had lost that much blood in such a short span of time…


            Her hair was matted in the stuff, her blue eyes stared wildly and she seemed to be unable to breath. She frightened, hurt and going into shock. She looked confused and lost, like some one who’s just fallen off a horse on a carrousel that hadn’t even started to move yet. She tried to breathe, but the sound was like the gurgling of a faulty water pipe.  He slid towards her on his knees and scooped her up in his arms. He held her up against him, her blood soaking into his clothes, the warmth seeping against his skin.


            “No, no, no, no.” He whispered as he held her.


            His hands began to spark with magic; it tickled at her wounds but only served to close wounds that had let out as much blood as they reasonably could already. He held her close to him, his face desperate. He concentrated all his power in but it was useless, the wounds had closed but the damage had been too severe. She tilted her head back and looked at him. He looked down into her face, which had taken on the look that he had seen in the faces of many terminally wounded people. It was the peaceful face of some one who knew all their problems were over.


            “Weirdo.” She said, her hand touching his cheek. “I love you.”


            The fingers left a spot and then a streak of blood on his face, her fingers slipped away and she smiled again. He couldn’t think of anything else, but to say the one thing that must be said. He couldn’t have her moving on without having him say it one last time.


            “I love you, too.” He said.


            Her eyes began to close, but he was not about to give up on her. He held her close too him, using all his power and magic to try and keep her longer. Sparks danced from his hands and her body glowed golden, and yet it was all to no avail. His own hands began to burn from the power. Small cuts appeared across his hands, and a long gash appeared above his forehead. Her body stiffened for a moment, and then went limp. He pumped more of his magic into her, but she didn’t move.


            He buried his face in her shoulder and tried to breath in her scent one last time. He stopped trying to save her and the wounds on his body closed themselves immediately. He wanted to scream, but what would be the point? There was only one person he would want to cry his woes to and she was gone. He had come to that realization already, and some cold logical part of him had already accepted that. It would be waiting for the rest of him when it caught up.


            He looked up and a pale figure in a black dress looked at him as she left. The image was fleeting, like seeing a ghost or trying to remember a detail from a dream. He knew who the woman in the black Victorian dress was though. The Lady Death had come to collect the soul of his love, and had taken her away.


            One of the problems with being The Weirdo was that his mind had so much processing power for random thoughts that he had once actually considered all the possibilities of what he might do in this situation. He had several suggestions to choose from, but couldn’t manage to perform any of them besides pressing his face into her limp form.


            Max had run from his room when he’d heard he shots, he had been asleep but had come awake suddenly when he heard the shots. He had been slowed by fumbling his gun from his coat before running down the long hall and then the stairway. In truth he was working more on his body’s automatic pilot than he was with his brain. He came down the hall and felt something terribly wrong as he made his way towards the silent room. His heart was sinking in his chest, because of the ominous silence. If things were all right there would be gunshots or some one crying out how much The Weirdo was hurting them.


            He pushed the door open and looked at The Weirdo’s back and somehow, he knew instantly. The Glock nine millimeter he had brought from his room dropped from his hand and clunked on the ground. His eyes filled instantly with tears as he walked forward his throat choking itself closed as he tried to walk.


            “Oh my God.” Max managed.


            “Pick your gun up.” The Weirdo didn’t shout, but his voice was commanding. “Might still be out there.”


            Max reached down and his hand picked up the square Glock. He then began to skulk towards the shattered window, looking out at the trees and bushes. He couldn’t see anyone, and the wind kept blowing enough to make everything move making it impossible to judge by them.


            “What?” Mrs. Pendleton asked as she came in.


            She stopped as she looked at the scene, and her heart nearly failed her. The Weirdo was on his knees, holding the bloodied form of Shannon. His clothes had been soaked through and for a moment it was hard to tell which of them had been hit. She then noticed that The Weirdo was still moving and it occurred to her which one of them was dead.


            She often had a though about The Weirdo’s sanity, that it was being kept in tact by the thin thread that Shannon maintained, and if she were ever to go, then so would the great mind. She now feared that he would become totally unhinged, in fact she knew it. There was going to be no place of solace for him now, and he wouldn’t be able to handle it.


            “Oh no.” She whispered.


            Her eyes failed to focus and tears dripped down from them, she held the doorway for support and her thin hand covered her mouth to suppress a cry. The old woman’s heart felt like it was breaking in two as she looked at the two figures on the ground. The tears kept rolling down her face as she wept silently.


© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions



May 21, 2012 Posted by | Fiction | , | Leave a comment

This thing

IMGP0505 by greyweirdo
IMGP0505, a photo by greyweirdo on Flickr.

This thing

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IMGP6314 by greyweirdo
IMGP6314, a photo by greyweirdo on Flickr.

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IMGP1021 by greyweirdo
IMGP1021, a photo by greyweirdo on Flickr.

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Picture Post #65

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Picture Post #64


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A few more photos


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Twins in Death: Chapter Two – Part One

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay



Chapter Two: Love Lost



March 27th, 2002

9:24 a.m.


            The Weirdo was happy, there was really no other way to describe his mood, at least no way that wouldn’t spoil the perfection of the moment. The moment had that kind of simplistic perfection that was like making a single perfect brush stroke. You couldn’t and shouldn’t add to it, for that would ruin it. If one tried poetry the words would fall flat and ultimately destroy the simplicity of the moment. There are times when heavy handed words should be pushed aside and the most flowing verses should be told to go flow somewhere else.


            There was no other way possible to explain The Weirdo’s state at that moment, he was simply happy. His eyes opened as the late March sun shone into his room, Shannon’s head on his shoulder. There was hardly any weight to her and what weight that was there was the confidence building sort of weight. It was a weight that told him he wasn’t in a dream; he was in a stark reality. It was a weight he could believe in and belief in her was all he’d ever need. He smelled her hair and felt her warmth against him. He held her tight, squeezing her.



March 27th, 2002

9:25 a.m.


            He was dressed in gray, and stood outside, watching the man with the machine gun. He thought, for a fleeting moment about leaving, but he had to be here, it was part of the narrative that he was entwined in. He could feel his insides gathering up, tightening. He knew what was to come, and it broke his heart to even consider the idea. However, he had a part to play, and he would play it. He watched as the other man checked the breach on the small sub-machine gun. He looked at the piece of jewelry in his hand, and considered again what he was about to do. He wondered if perhaps he hadn’t gone too far.


            There was no time to think about that now though. He had a job to do, a part to play. This wicked playlet would unravel itself, as it had to. He could almost hear the gun clinking against the extra clip of ammunition. He knew that the story was moving unrelentingly forward now. He would play his part as the directors had planed for him to do. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, and began to move to his position.



March 27th, 2002

9:26 a.m.


            “Morning.” She said, a smile on her face.


            “Morning.” He said.


            “How did you sleep?”


            “Well.” He said. “I actually slept well.”


            It was then that the question he had been tossing back and forth in his mind came to him again. He hadn’t been stalling on this question because he was afraid of the answer, because he knew the answer. If anything he was worried about the effect asking this question could have on him. The existence of the question and her observation of it could change both himself and the question.


            He could feel two paths open before him, like waveforms of probability. On one hand he could ask this question, lay down his arms and walk into the glorious sunlight. The other path was much darker, lonelier, and would eventually lead to his ruin. Either was possible, indeed many were possible, but these were probable. He postulated the probability matrix in his head because he was a very odd person and he felt like doing it. He could make his way down either path, but he preferred the one of light. He began to walk towards the lighted path.






            “Would you like to get married?”


            “What?” She propped herself up on one arm, exposing a breast.


            “I mean it. Do you wanna get married?”




            “Good,” He said, “That’s settled then.”


            He fell onto his back and proceeded to stare at the ceiling with his hands crossed humming an old harvest tune from the 15th century. At least it was a song they sang during the harvest of 1432. He didn’t move, simply stared at the ceiling and looked at the ceiling and hummed his tune. It was a happy tune and about eighty percent of the words were double entendre, which he liked. There was something about singing a song and having people wonder, when you say lets thrash the wheat, what you mean by that. She looked at him, and looked at his crossed hands. She knew his little game; he was doing this so that she’d ask him why he was doing it. She’d ask why he was doing it and he’d respond that he was doing it to see how long it would take her to ask him what the hell he was doing. It was one of the things he did to be obnoxiously cute.


            However, Shannon was not going to play his little game today. After all it was she who had the shocker, and it she who was going to get to see the look on his face. She was going to win point match and set. For now though, she was going to defeat his little game, by not playing. It was the best way to win against him anyway. The best way to win was to change the game.


            “You want breakfast?” She asked.


            He thought about this for a moment, trying to see if he could get her to play but figured that in an instance like this he should cut his losses. He considered carefully because even though his manhood could easily survive the loss, it didn’t mean he necessarily wanted her to know that. He thought about this as he did about everything, he was a carefully thought out person. He was also thinking about what to have for dinner and would he shoot a bull elephant if he was being charged by one. It might seem odd to consider such a thing but The Weirdo thought about everything in advance, just in case the situation ever came up. He decided that he would simply try to find cover in the case of the bull elephant, after carefully considering the options that he could see before him.


            What he was considering even more was that Shannon was still leaning over him, her blue eyes piercing into his mind, looking for the nugget that was thinking about her. There was always a bit of his mind considering her, as it was impossible for any one thing to hold his attention, and that part was considering the idea of her naked covered with maple syrup. This was a silly and sticky thing to consider, but he was enjoying the image. It was one he thought he might try to arrange at breakfast if no one else was awake. He wondered what her reaction would be if he tossed her up on the counter and began to pour the syrup on her while lifting her nightgown. The idea he finally came to was this, he should stop acting silly and just get on with his life. This would include answering her question, which meant he would loose this round, and have to admit his adversary a clever one, but what the hell. If you going to loose to someone, it might as well be the best.


            “Yeah.” He said.


            “You wait here then, I’ll go make some.” She stood from the bed, dressing barely in a silk dressing gown.


            “I love you.” He said.


            “I know.” She said smiling; she walked out of the room and began down the stairs. “I’ve got a surprise for you, something very important to tell you about.”


            She floated out of the room like a leaf on the breeze, at least the way a leaf would if it had hips like hers. His heart ached as he watched her walk away from him. Actually, yes it did. It may sound silly to us but he did actually experience a momentary ache in his chest while watching her leave. This is because, as I stated earlier, he was happy. The Weirdo was also in love and love is something that is difficult to discuss on any rational level. Any discussion in which love, real love, enters into becomes very embarrassing, sickening, and uncomfortable for anyone who is not directly part of the love that is being pontificated. There is no other way to put this really. We all know what love is like but when we are not part of that love we all tend to have the same thought i.e. “Is that what I look like when I’m that in love?”


            Besides, all that could be said about the greater points of love has been said on a thousand pop records. The great poetry of love, that was once so important that it seemed that was all anyone sang about, has been sung about so often by so many prepubescent idiots who don’t know the first thing about it that to speak of it has become trite. It has reached the point where to speak of the most important subject makes it the least important subject and an embarrassment to all.


            So since we already know how embarrassing the pontification of love can be and we already understand that The Weirdo and Shannon were very much in love perhaps we should move on. In fact perhaps we should make some attempt to stick to the facts, the true events, and go no further into the perhaps or those sticky subjects than we must. Feelings, emotions and syrup will be discussed later but for now perhaps we should simply let the moment lie.


            The Weirdo was getting up, about to follow her down the stairs, when he caught sight of a figure on the balcony. He stopped cold and looked at the shadow of the figure that was cast on the floor. Usually The Weirdo could sense the approach of anyone, and he wasn’t the sort of person to not observe someone’s approach. He began to stretch his legs to the floor, thinking of how many steps it was to the nearest weapon, and realizing he’d probably just grab the side chair that sat next to the balcony’s door if nothing else. He stood and looked at the figure, watching it with the careful movement of a hunting tiger. The figure didn’t seem to move at all, just stood where it was.


            He walked toward the balcony slowly, making a detour towards the desk instead of directly towards the doors. He reached towards the desk, picking up a pocketknife from the desk where he had carelessly tossed it preceding night. His hand reached out and he noticed for a moment how his fingers looked against the gauze curtain that fluttered ever so gently in the wind. He took hold of them, feeling the smooth soft texture of these particular curtains, which he had chosen for their softness rather than durability. The Weirdo was not someone who could put up with synthetic or particularly rough fabrics.


            The figure was looking at the ground, when the curtain was tugged away, his eyes lifted and the two men locked gazes. The Weirdo’s eyes fix on the sad gray eyes of his visitor, the eyes looked as though they may begin to cry at any moment. They were not gray as in a very light blue, but gray as in the color of a battle ship or the clouds on the prairies of North Dakota. They were the lack of color, or of joy. There was something profoundly sad about the color of those eyes.


            His hair was also gray, not white nor silver but a dull gray. His entire outfit was also gray. Not one single shade that made him look like some sort of computer villain  from a late 80’s TV show but rather a colorless panorama of shades, ranging from one shade of gray to another. The colors ranged from a gray blue to a charcoal near black. It was as if some great stress had taken the pigment from not only his hair but also his eyes and clothes. It was like they had turned the color down on a television screen, yet his face and hands still had their flesh tones. There was certainly the sadness enough to suggest that, such a profound sadness.


            “Good morning.” The gray man looked at The Weirdo as they came face to face.


            “You again?” The Weirdo asked. They had met on a few occasions, but this time The Weirdo could feel a difference.


            The man’s gray eyes had a particular sorrow in them. His gray hair was disheveled and his gray clothes looked as though he had slept in them. He wasn’t as well pressed as usual and looked as if he’d had a bad night, not as if he’d slept in a gutter, but simply he’d tried to sleep in his clothes and failed several times. The sleeping had obviously not gone well because along with the sadness was an incredible exhaustion.


            “You lost this.” The gray man said extending his hand, a small diamond broach in it.


            The stones, in their invisible style settings, were like teardrops that had been collected in his hand, shinning and shimmering as his hand moved. The stones glistened like tears plucked from a young child and frozen in time. A million years of pressure and a volcano’s fire had turned the coal into the sparkling crystals before him.


            “I don’t recognize it.” The Weirdo


            “It belonged to your mother.” The Gray man said. “You should have it.”


            “Ah.” The Weirdo said.


            There was a moment when The Weirdo thought if he reached for it something horrific might happen. It was a sort of precognition, but not like he usually had. This crawled like a worm under his skin, wriggling as it moved through his body. If he reached his hand out towards it the crawling feeling grew, and his stomach tightened. He could feel something emanating from the thing. It was as if there was something evil within the broach.


            There was an unaccountable feeling of dread attached to the broach, like a memory he couldn’t quite get at, or a memory of something yet to happen. He could only think that there was a terrible event attached to the thing. Grandma had put the idea in his head. He couldn’t stop his hand from reaching though. Grandma commanded him and she wouldn’t take any excuses. The Gray Man looked at The Weirdo’s hand as it reached slowly out for the thing. It seemed to be taking him forever to take the broach, but it was time well spent.


© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions



May 13, 2012 Posted by | Fiction | , , | Leave a comment

Another set of photos. Mostly of things


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IMGP0704 by greyweirdo
IMGP0704, a photo by greyweirdo on Flickr.

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