tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54820946470646202572024-02-08T11:41:39.448-08:00Vultures & LionsWilly's Toyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11619080730151892568noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5482094647064620257.post-65237344799732863932010-08-27T03:00:00.000-07:002011-02-07T16:02:26.828-08:00Chapter I<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The day is October 6th, a warm fall afternoon. The clock in the corner reads 6:18pm; the roman numerals are thick and dark, from the early autumn evening sunset. Mr. Blackart sits in a cool waiting room, alone staring at the considerably large grandfather clock, ominously lurking in the corner of the room. He is growing more impatient with every loud tick in the quiet cluttered space. He reads the lettering above the clock: “Salem Psychiatric Institute.” Mr. Blackart’s appointment was a scheduled 6:00pm, and it was now 6:25pm.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A heavy-set woman from behind the clinic’s window called Mr. Blackart’s name, pulling him from his rage spoiled cessation. He sits up and walks across the room. He opens the wooden door and steps into another cluttered room. The room is dark and overly decorated, with a red velvet couch, and a tan leather chair supporting large armrests. In this chair sat a man; an older man, early fifties maybe, aged from years of countless layers of healing rage and confusion. He wore a fine suit, black as the color, with a face that bared a large gray beard and glasses with thick black frames. He introduces himself as Dr. Jonathon Buelock.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Please, have a seat” he says. Mr. Blackart, without haste, sits on the large red velvet couch. “So what brings you here mister…Blackart?” Dr. Buelock says puzzlingly as he studies a piece of paper that he is holding. “It doesn’t seem to say a first name here.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Blackart is what you will address me by, and that is all, Doctor.” Mr. Blackart says. He speaks for the first time; a soft, deep, eerie voice laced with a sound of wisdom. “Well ‘Mr. Blackart’, along with omitting any other names or aliases, you have also failed to list your reasons for this appointment. Why might that be?” Mr. Blackart, leaning back against the plush red couch, responds, “I feel that the points are irrelevant on a piece of paper. I would much rather confess my thoughts face-to-face. You understand, Doctor?” Dr. Buelock asks, “What do you mean ‘confess’, Mr. Blackart? Typically such confessions are to be withheld and confided in a priest, taking place in a house of God. I believe you have come to the wrong place, sir.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Such spiritual devotions for a therapist” Mr. Blackart says sarcastically. “Do you believe in God, Doctor?” Mr. Blackart sits up from his comfortable position, and walks over to the large wooden door at the entry of the room, and stands as he waits for Dr. Buelock’s response. “I am man of faith, and a man of science, Mr. Blackart” Dr. Buelock says. Mr. Blackart stands ominously as he pauses. He then reaches for the golden knob which locks the handle of the large wooden door. Dr. Buelock shifts in his chair, uneasily fearing what Mr. Blackart’s motives could be. “What the hell are you doing?” he exclaims. Mr. Blackart responds as he locks the door, “You see, Doctor, there are many types of men on this earth. Some are good men, who sing the praises of life and live through faith of a protector that they cannot see. But some men, well, are just dark, disturbed, sinister beings. They are very, very, bad men. Such men, I believe, should never step foot in such sacred grounds.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“And which man are you, Mr. Blackart?” Dr. Buelock asks, with a feeling of discomfort. “Well let’s just say, if I were to step into a house of God sir, I believe I’d burn.” Dr. Buelock begins to perspire as he fears the worst of this nightmare has yet to begin. Mr. Blackart begins to make his way across the cluttered office towards Dr. Buelock. He pulls a large, polished steel, razor sharp knife from the waist of his slacks. “You see Doctor; I am a very disturbed man. I live my life with the feeling of disgust towards this human race. The disgrace that humanity proves to be evident every day, the world that birthed such a horrible man as me, and proves to me that there can be no God in this existence.” Now truly in fear, a less composed Dr. Buelock begins to perspire in fear. “What are you going to do to me?!” he exclaims. Mr. Blackart responds, “I’m a very corrupted man, and you are going to sit here and listen to what I have to say, the tormenting thoughts I experience every day of my life. And if you can’t fix me, Doctor…let’s just say it’s bad news for you.”</span>Willy's Toyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11619080730151892568noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5482094647064620257.post-14260779493767605382010-08-26T13:31:00.000-07:002011-02-07T16:03:36.071-08:00Chapter II<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mr. Blackart was not a large man. Rather average, he was built like any other. Not too large or too small. However, Mr. Blackart carried a sinister gift; the gift of strength. With ease, he lunges at Dr. Buelock and subdues him on the burgundy-carpeted floor. Dr. Buelock struggles for several seconds to escape from Mr. Blackart’s grip, but soon gives in. Mr. Blackart delivers a deafening blow to the right side of Dr. Buelock’s head, rendering him unconscious. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Upon returning from his assault-induced coma, Dr. Buelock sees Mr. Blackart sitting directly in front of him, on the large velvet couch he had been sitting on earlier. When Dr. Buelock attempts to move, he realizes he has been bound to the tan leather couch in the middle of the room. He exclaims, “What in God’s name are you doing?” Mr. Blackart responds, “I would watch the level of your voice Doctor. We wouldn’t want anyone else getting hurt because of careless ways…would we?” Suddenly a knock door sounds at the large wooden door at the entrance of the room. “Dr. Buelock, is everything okay?” a voice questions from the other side of the door. “I thought I heard you yell.” The voice belonged to the heavy-set woman that had escorted Mr. Blackart into the office. Dr. Buelock looks to Mr. Blackart with a face of worry. “Tell her everything is fine” Mr. Blackart tells the doctor showing no emotion. “Everything is fine Edith” Dr. Buelock tells the receptionist, exposing her name to Mr. Blackart for the first time. “Okay” the receptionist responds with a sound of concern in her voice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Dr. Buelock looks back to Mr. Blackart after looking to the large wooden door. Mr. Blackart begins to speak. “Nice to see you can actually make some good choices. You don’t see that often in today’s world.” Mr. Blackart says. Dr. Buelock without breath responds, “Why are you doing this? What do you have to gain?” Mr. Blackart replies, “My sanity, Doctor. I gain my mind back. All I want you to do is fix my broken moral doctor. That is all I ask.” “But why put an innocent soul through all of this? I surely didn’t do anything to deserve this.” Dr. Buelock says. “To feel pain, torment, and helplessness. So many people take their mental clarity for granted. I can’t stand it.” Mr. Blackart says. Dr. Buelock replies “So you feel you must make others suffer for your lack of optimism?” Mr. Blackart shakes his head with a look of disappointment and then proceeds to walk to the window where the blinds are slightly shut. “No, no, no. You have it all wrong Doctor. I feel that human kind deserves a little redemption but as long as there are men like me on this earth, we will never survive.” Mr. Blackart explains. “This world is full murderers, thieves, rapists, and liars. With inhabitants like that, we will all surely destroy ourselves.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Please Mr. Blackart, I beg you, just let me go. I swear I will turn my head and forget this ever happened.“ Dr. Buelock pleads. Mr. Blackart turns back towards the large velvet couch, seemingly ignoring the doctor’s pleas. “You question why I must do this. The answer is simple; how would anyone listen to a crazy man willingly? Hmm?” Mr. Blackart says. Dr. Buelock looks to the floor silently. Mr. Blackart continues, “You can’t answer that question. No one would. I have dealt with people like you before. You are all the same. We pay you to see us for an hour or two, only viewing our psychological state through this tiny window once a week. Then you all act like you give a damn about us. You don’t care, and you’re all the same.” Dr. Buelock responds, “We’re not all the same. I’ve never just shuffled my patients through like pieces of paper.” Mr. Blackart shakes his head once more with disappointment. “You sure you could swear by that Doctor?” Dr. Buelock pauses with a moment of confusion. “What are you implying?” Mr. Blackart turns to the window and looks out to the retreating sun. “Think Doctor,” He says, “Why would I choose you?” “I don’t know! I’ve asked you that several times!” Dr. Buelock exclaims angrily to Mr. Blackart. Dr. Buelock begins to sob quietly as he tries to speak, showing a break in his composure. “I don’t know what you want from, just please don’t kill me.” Mr. Blackart turns back to face the doctor, showing an expression of annoyance. “Look at my face! Don’t you recognize your work, Doctor?” He exclaims. Dr. Buelock looks up and stares into Mr. Blackart’s dark, deep brown eyes. A sharp pain grabs at his stomach, as he suddenly realizes what Mr. Blackart has been implying. Mr. Blackart sees the expression of shock on Dr. Buelock’s face. “You’re starting to remember, aren’t you Doctor?” he asks Dr. Buelock. “Oh my lord, you’re Edward Crane. You’re an old patient of mine.”</span>Willy's Toyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11619080730151892568noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5482094647064620257.post-43343732087851663192010-08-22T18:25:00.000-07:002011-02-07T16:01:50.977-08:00Chapter III<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Both men are placed in the middle of the cluttered office. Mr. Blackart stands directly in front of the bound Dr. Buelock. The realization of this revelation has stunned Dr. Buelock into a shocked silence. He sits, speechless, in the large brown chair in the center of the room. Mr. Blackart eagerly awaits for the doctor’s next response. “But Edward, why?” he asks. “That’s not my name!” Mr. Blackart snaps back. “I no longer go by that name anymore. Edward Crane died a long time ago.” Dr. Buelock debates, “I now see it’s you Edward, because you’re running away from your problems, just like you always have.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mr. Blackart turns his head and closes his eyes angrily. He takes a deep breath and turns back towards the Doctor. “I’m running from my problems?” he asks. “It looks to me like I am facing them head on, Doctor,” he says with a sound of sarcasm to his voice. “What happened with you Edward?” Dr. Buelock asks. “I thought you were doing better.” Mr. Blackart sits on the large velvet couch across from Dr. Buelock. “I told you Doctor, he died a long time ago.” Suddenly, Dr. Buelock experiences an epiphany. “Wait, I remember. The last time I had heard, you had passed away in a tragic fire at the Psychiatric Hospital,” he says puzzlingly. Mr. Blackart rebuts, “They only thought I did.” Dr. Buelock shifts uneasily in the big tan chair. The rope for which he is bound by tightens around his arms and legs as he moves. “What did you do?” he asks in fear. Mr. Blackart responds, “I think you can guess what I did. I escaped from that hell of an imprisonment. Every day was a living hell. I was constantly treated as a common criminal, without ever committing any sort of crime. Every night I feared for my life being surrounded by psychopaths.” Dr. Buelock responds, “What was I to do Edward? You were sick, and you needed help.” Mr. Blackart sits up quickly and shouts at Dr. Buelock. “Do you actually believe depression is sickness?! I came to you for help; I needed a voice of reason. But all you could do was right me off as a madman.” Dr. Buelock responds angrily, “I did what I had to do Edward! You were a danger to yourself and everyone around you.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mr. Blackart walks to the window, peering through the slightly closed blinds at the now-dark sky. The sun had completely fallen, and it was now pitch black. The small cluttered office was lit only by one single lamp that rest on the Doctors Desk. After a slight silence Mr. Blackart begins to speak. “Would you like to know how I made my escape from the asylum, Doctor?” he asks. He turns his head only for a moment to see Dr. Buelock give a faint nod. He turns back towards the window and continues to speak. “After over a year in that wretched place, I had enough. I knew that the time was approaching that something terrible would take place. Late one night, I lay in my bed, starring at the ceiling above me. The guard was making his rounds as he did every evening, walking by and locking every door as he passed.” Mr. Blackart pauses for a moment. He walks from the window to the large velvet couch in the center of the room, directly across from Dr. Buelock. He sits, reclines, and rests one leg on top of the other. He continues, “You see, the guard looks into every room through a tall, thin window to check on each patient. I knew this, and this little detail was crucial to my plan. As I starred at the ceiling that evening I waited silently to hear the guard approaching. He walked down the hallway, same time every night and whistled the same song.” Mr. Blackart leans his head back against the large velvet couch and begins to mimic the whistled song. The sound is eerie and causes Dr. Buelock to feel very uncomfortable. Mr. Blackart stops, and leans forward to look to Dr. Buelock.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The two men both sit at the center of the cluttered office, their faces dimly lit by the small lamp resting on the Doctor’s desk. There’s a brief silence, as Mr. Blackart looks as though he is thinking of his next dialog. He begins to speak, “Closer, and closer the guard neared my quarters. His footsteps grew louder with every step on the cold concrete floor. I quickly sat up, and rushed to the wall beside the door. The shadow of the man showed through the window to the floor of my room. The knob began to turn, my heart beating faster as the large steel door slowly creaked open. The guard walks in with haste. My palms began to sweat, my heart beating fiercely, my breathing frantic. The guard began to turn his head. Without any delay I pounced, knocking him to the floor. He squirmed on the ground, fighting for what he knew would be his life.” Mr. Blackart pauses and stares to Dr. Buelock. “Do you know what happens next, Doctor?” he asks, with a bit of sarcasm to his voice. Dr. Buelock shakes his head, waiting for this nightmare to conclude. Mr. Blackart breathes a deep sigh and continues. “What happens next is something that tragedies are made of. Things that only a true monster, a madman could do. Things that only a Doctor could cause.”</span>Willy's Toyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11619080730151892568noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5482094647064620257.post-66871905727855759692010-08-21T18:26:00.000-07:002010-08-27T18:26:30.042-07:00Chapter IV<a name='more'></a>Willy's Toyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11619080730151892568noreply@blogger.com