A Jax Falcone Novella

Brush Stroke of Death

The rain hampered his itch. He sat prepared with his brush and blade. His soul desired the withered flesh. The flesh, that, of the youngest of breeds. A blonde, brunette, a redhead, it wouldn't matter. Shit, he'd settle for a bald bitch. The fucking rain hampered his hunger and his needs. Where the fuck is the dryness? His art needs to breathe.

Rain, rain go away, he needs dry land so he can play-
So, he may draw where body lay, the one he'd slay, then take away.

On the 14th of April, the rain did stop. And it was most unfortunate for 19 year old Sara Inetta. As she was leaving her job at a fast food dump, in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn. A stalking shadow was the last thing she had expected. As she reached for her car door, latex in the shape of a hand covered her mouth. It was there to prevent her screams, it was there to subdue her struggle.

Trapped in a trunk, Sara knew she was in a shit load of trouble. Wet with her own urine, she laid bound and gagged. Her destination was not important at the moment. Her survival was. She just didn't know that there was no way to survive.

Heading towards industry city, via the Gowanus overpass, Floyd Bennet, Benny, paid close attention to all the traffic laws. With the bitch in the trunk, he didn't want to attract any eyes of the night. He needed this, Oh, so bad. His lust was already dripping. His creative juices were flowing like the falls of Niagara. With his borrowed car, he zipped towards the 39st exit. He started to think about his first taste of being an artist. His motivation had been like a compound fracture. One thing led to another, without his consent. His young mother, that slut, had fucked some punk in Floyd Bennet Field. Hence the name, that dumb cunt. Then the bitch had the balls to leave him to the state. The sperm donor had left right after his deposit. They just let him for the stray dogs of back ally hate. Now at 23 years old Floyd heard his calling. He enrolled in private art classes, his classes. He's his own student. He is the master of his designs. He is the artist of death.

Turning off the exit ramp, he then headed towards 4th avenue, and he thought of his buddy Issy. A nice jewish kid from Boro Park Brooklyn. Israel Peckler, what a name, his dad was a reformed Rabbi who used to pack a straight edge incase of an emergency briss. They worked together as CPA's. That's car parking attendant at a garage at 2nd ave, and 74st in the city. Hence the car. He'd tell Issy that he had a date and took a car for a few hours. Fuck those cheap cocksuckers. Let them deal with the law when all is done. Issy didn't know of Floyds attending art classes, he'd never approve. You know being Jewish and all. Floyd planned on telling him about his bloodstain canvasses at just the right time, but for now he'd keep quiet. Yet Issy was a real pal.

Floyd's face was flush with excitement. It would only last moments. But his brush would soon be in his hand. The taste of his own sweat was a warning sign. His talent was not that of the canvas, his art was of the flesh. His blade was his tool. His brush his signature. When the lawman came, they would look for an MO, or a signature. Floyd would oblige. He did enjoy the outcome of his work, even if it was a decoy. He created each pose, each detail dripped from his burnt brain. On the 14th of April, he would title his work to crucify.

Sara had no choice but to stare at her faith She was was yanked from the trunk and thrown to the cold ground like a sack of shit. She was. The figure in the night swayed around her, she couldn't make out the face, yet she tried. Like it would make a difference. This night held nothing but trouble for Sara. Rape, at this point, was her only friend. Then against the dark sky, the steel waved frantically. This was to be the last sky she would she before she entered it.

Floyd swung his blade with swiftness, pain was not in his plans. No time for torture. Not on a dead end street. Time to create, was more important. The blood splatter provided a nice back drop. He then laid Sara out in a Christ on the cross pose. Hands spread at her sides, palms up. Her feet were place just like in history, waiting for the nails that would never come. He crazy glued them into position, with enough glue to reincarnate a horse. As the glue set, Floyd dipped his brush into Sara's open wound and proceeded to outline her body. Tracing her upon the cobblestone. Stepping back to examine his work, he smiled and then added the finishing touches. Her outline was complete. He then hack away at the hands and feet, removing the rest of the body for the ride home. He'd admire his work for only a moment, for that, was all he needed. His memory would not fail him.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

One Step Futher

According to the police report, Peter Louis Ganci, AKA "The Piano Man" had violated the 10 year girl with more than one object, in more than one place. The objects had seemed to range from a bottle to a power drill. Cause of death was credited to the blunt impact she had taken to the back of her head with a mallet found at the house of Peter Louis Ganci.

As I read through the fine details, I wandered off to the hole in my mind, where no one could find me. A place where reality hid me from the deciet all around me. A place of logic and of common sense. A place where the door to others is always locked.

The papers in my hand was telling me one story, while in my hole, I was indulging in a whole different concept of the death to this little girl.

Taking into account of what I already knew before receiving this report, that Peter Ganci does not do kids. I felt that shadow above me, the shadow of death was calling me.

Why or who, I was clueless, for one reason or another, I was being supeoned into another war with the crazed. The kind of killer that the public was not willing to believe in. Oh yes, they prey and the public is protected from some of them. And, this is one of them. That's why I'm here, cause nobody else wants to be. Nobody knows the backroads in their minds the way I do. And nobody knows Peter Ganci like I do as well.

The how, is what was telling me that this is an invite waiting at the door to hell for me. Someone, who knows me has sent it, and I never missed a invite to hell. The place that makes me feel most comfortable. The place I call home.

In my hole, I was talking to Peter. We was just passing the shit back in 1981 in the observation room of Bellevue Hospital.
I was doing my standard bid of testing for mood control and anti social behavior. Peter, was in as a short timer, 72 hours tops, since he walked in on his own.

Apparently, Peter was drunk, and roaming the streets of Brooklyn, when he ran out of cigarettes and noticed a pack of Marboros, on a dashboard of "79" Pontic Bonneville. He kicked in the window and opened the door to reach in and grabbed the free pack of cancer.

As he reached over, a sudden pull on his hair started to inflict pain upon his scalp. As his body was dragged from the car he used both feet to push off the console and power drive his attacker to the ground. Rolling off, Peter dropped with a elbow into the softboiled lump in the guys throat. A snap and a crackle, and Peter was up and reaching for his pack of Marbolo's again.

Leaving the corpse behind, he took a cab ride into the city and wandered somemore. When he found himself in front the hospital, it came upon him that this would be his alibi. The state would have him, but not for the guy with the crushed neck.

So, he claimed, he was feeling depressed and needed to talk to a doctor. Knowing full well, he'd be held, but with good behavior he be out within 72 hours, or as soon as they had a doctor talk to him.

Cry him a river, about the wife and kids, and how your job is getting on your nerves. All the standard crap and you may even end up with a script.

Peter, must have reconized me from one of my visits to 20th ave Pork Store. A Pork Store a friend of mine owned, a friend since childhood. Tommy Inzzets, he was the area boss, the capo that ran things in that neighbourhood. And Peter was working for Tommy.

I was nursing my 400 mg of Thorazine, when he approached me and asked if I was Clay. I nodded and he introduced himself.

We sat for hours passing the shit back and forth, but nothing of real importance, when he finally said.
"Hey Clay"

with a nod I let him know that I knew the storyline was gonna change and that I was ready
"Want to know why I am in here?"

"Shoot" I told and and he did.

But when he finished telling me the events of his evening, he continued on to tell me that he was known as the "Piano Man" and how he always has and always will kill by the piano string.

Just his signature of death, and tonight was the first time he wasted someone without his piano string.

He continued on how, upset he was, and how was he gonna explain it to Tommy, how he shouldn't be killing on his own personal time, and how, he's gonna get hell for it.

"Well, Peter" I started off leaning into him, and lowering my tone.

"No one knows you did it, except for me. I'll keep it buried, if you want me to. No sweat to me."

"You'd do that for me?" he whispered back "You'd forget what I said here tonight?"

"Like I said, no sweat to me" confirming my stance.

"Thanks Clay, you need something you ask, anytime, anything!" with a burden lifted he continued.

"I just had to tell someone, you know get it off your chest. Thanks"

Within the few hours Peter was on his way home, while I still had another 6 days to stay and take my mind candy.
Maybe because of this I had forgotten our conversation, untill today.

I knew Peter would not kill in this way, and so did someone else. That someone, somehow knew me. That someone was out there creating victims, cruel treatment to human flesh, young human flesh was his signature.

But, he was taking things One Step Further, beside giving us victims, he was also on the prey to offer us perps.

He was doing the crimes then taking the time to set up outsiders with no motive to the actually do these murders.

I had to wonder how many more he has done. How many more innocent people were serving time for his actions.

This sick motherfucker was playing both ends of the law. And, for some reason, he wanted me to play along.

Focusing back to the papers in my hands,

I turned towards the window and searched the cobblestone below, looking for a answer.

Who would be that fucking crazy to want to get involved with me?

Copyright ©2004 D. Walsh

Sunday, March 2, 2008

So here I am...

I am still in the no write mode, and it is getting to me. I go around posting in threads about war, politics, religion and design, but I have yet to continue on my novella.

The beginning, middle and end are plastered within my head, but my finger tips seem to lack the control to lay it all out. I do plan on getting it going, and maybe by just entering this post I'll get motivated and continue writing the rest of Jax Falcone.

I know it will turn out to be a tight ride full suspense and nail bitting thrills. Or, close to it at least.

Sp here I am...

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Jax Falcone 2007

Back in 1996, I was developing a story line with another writer, we would do a chapter then pass it on and have the other pick it up from there. It was going well, except the writer I was working with was a bit too compassionate about the villains motives and methods.
To me a villain should have a non-remorseful attitude when it comes to murder and the destruction of life. He, must be relentless in his quest to fulfill his needs that his mind needs to be fed.
So I took the story and ran with it myself, originally the main character was name Russell Clay, in which he was gonna be referred to as "Clay" throughout the storyline.
But the name Clay had lost it's feel, with so many "Clays" popping all over the place.
So, it took a bit of time till I had the name I felt comfortable with and hence
"Jax Falcone"
So, with a new character, with a new name, we will start to develop the Novella,
"Brush Stroke of Death"
So, keep an eye out as we continue to add bits and pieces of this suspenseful mystery novella.
Thank You, and we hope that you will enjoy!

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