Chapter 1
Dr. Halt found out the hard way he was not immune from drug tests. He always knew there was a very slim chance he could get caught. The Veterans Administration rarely pulled psychologists in for random drug testing because they didn’t prescribe pharmaceuticals. The psychiatrists, the physician assistants, the nurses, and the medical doctors got tested all the time. Dr. Halt was a rising star among the VA’s psychologists. He was being fast-tracked as the top researcher in traumatic brain injuries in the state of Iowa after writing and securing a $2.2-million-dollar federal grant creating a partnership between the VA and the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics. A Harvard graduate, leading researcher in traumatic brain injury of veterans, a father, husband, and lifelong pot smoker now had a gun in his mouth. The VA would fire him, the state of Iowa would pull his license to practice, his wife would leave him, and there would be no other work. It would hit the newspapers the following day and be forever cemented at the top of internet searches. His career would be over in a matter of days, and he would soon be out on the street.
The irony in all of it was that he knew marijuana was helpful to vets coping with depression, anxiety, and alcoholism. He could never say this to his patients because he would lose his job. He never shared his opinions around marijuana with his colleagues because he feared it would draw unwanted scrutiny to his life as a government employee. In fourteen years of working for the VA, he had never been called for a urinalysis. He incorrectly assumed he would never be tested and often smoked a joint and shared a bottle of wine with his wife after the kids went to sleep. The reality was that his wife was beautiful, and she would find another doctor, lawyer, or dentist to take care of her and the kids. He had no real-world job skills and was far too educated to get hired at any entry-level job. He had zero connections outside his world of quasi-government intellectuals and his family. Soon, he would be unemployed, bankrupt, and looking at a life of meaningless trivial jobs in some town far from Iowa City.
There would be no way to challenge the failed drug test as the VA would require a hair follicle retest on any positive result that was being disputed. Unfortunately, for Dr. Halt, a hair follicle test would reinforce the results of the first test. This was an abrupt end of the road. He was foolish and took a risk that was not worth taking. He put his entire family in jeopardy. Killing himself was the rip cord and would end all of it. The family would get to keep the life insurance proceeds if he pulled the trigger while still employed. It would be money to start over, moving back to the East Coast. The local newspaper would pounce on the story of a top VA and U of Iowa researcher killing himself over a drug test and sending their $2.2 million dollar grant down the toilet. The liberals would be shouting that the suicide was one more log on the fire for outright legalization and the expansion of medicinal cannabis research. Unfortunately, for Dr. Halt, he would not be around to see any of it.
Dr. Halt leaned back in his chair with tears in his eyes, put the gun in his mouth, and was about to pull the trigger when the office door suddenly opened. Before he could put the gun under his desk, he heard the shutter sound from the smartphone being held by a tall, hard-looking guy in his forties. “Nice pic, Doc. The Man will love this one. By the way, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Didn’t they teach that to you back in Harvard?” Dr. Halt sat silently in shock as the large man closed and locked the door behind him. He was two meters tall and all of 100kg. He put his phone in his pocket and extended his large hand offering a handshake. “What, no comment?”
Dr. Halt sat frozen with the gun now in his lap and the piercing blue eyes of his visitor burnt didn’t blink. “Give me the goddamn gun before you hurt yourself, champ. We need to talk. After we are done talking, if you still want to end it, I’ll have no problem shooting you in the head if you prefer.” The visitor lifted up his tee shirt, pulled out a 9mm with a laser-pointing scope and silencer. He flicked the red laser beam of the scope on and guided the beam across his desk, up his shirt, and right between Dr. Halt’s eyes. “It will be easier on everyone if you took a bullet from a pissed-off vet with a gun than to be the dumbass who shot himself because you got caught smoking weed. Don’t worry, I will take your gun with me. By the time they find you, I will be long gone.”
Dr. Halt sat in shock, staring down the barrel of a pistol. His head began to tilt, and he felt faint. The visitor reached across the desk with his left hand and slapped Dr. Halt across the face hard enough to knock him out of his chair and onto the floor. “Are you listening? You freakin’ pussy, get your ass up and sit back down in your chair, Doc.” The man said as he reached down and picked up Dr. Halt’s revolver from the floor. “You dumbass, you got the goddamn safety on. You ever even shoot a gun before, sweetheart?” He said to Dr. Halt as he watched him struggle to find his glasses that were knocked off his face. He casually examined the old revolver and emptied the bullets. He sat his own pistol on Dr. Halt’s desk before seating himself on the other side of the desk as hundreds of Dr. Halt’s patients had before.
“Who in the fuck are you?” Dr. Halt muttered as he tried to compose himself in his chair.
“Whoa, shit for brains, I ask the questions up in here. Actually, there is really only one. Do you want me to just shoot you in the head now, or would you like to discuss an alternative that will make all of this go away?”
Dr. Halt was confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Simple. Do you want me to shoot you in the head or not?”
“I…I mean,” Dr. Halt was at a loss for words.
“Times have changed. What’s it gonna be, bozo?” The muscle-bound visitor stared right into Dr. Halt’s soul and waited for a response.
“I don’t know what you want from me? Do you want my wallet?” Dr. Halt didn’t want to get slapped again. His mother slapped him once or twice as a teenager, but no one ever dropped him to the floor with a single stroke.
“Mother fucker, I don’t want your goddamn wallet. You’re in debt up to your eyeballs, and most of the credit cards you tote around are tapped anyways. You’re lucky you even have a government credit card to abuse when you take your family and these other flunkies out to your gay “consulting” dinners.” The visitor replied.
“What do you want from me?” Dr. Halt whimpered.
“Yo, dip shit. You seem pretty smart. Do I need to repeat myself?” He cocked his head and looked at the doctorate degree on the wall. “Are you sure you went to Harvard, or is that official-looking degree some shit you found on the internet?”
“Do you really have to be so rude?” Dr. Halt tried to bring some semblance of civility to the encounter.
“Rude? You piece of shit. I walked in here and found you with a gun in your goddamn mouth. I am here to make your life, or at least your family’s life, better. So before you say any other stupid shit, just answer the question already so I can get on with my day.”
Dr. Halt put his hands over his face and felt faint again. The visitor stood up and declared, “You got 5 seconds, or I am just going to smoke you.”
“How can you possibly make this go away?” Dr. Halt felt like he was having an out-of-body experience.
“Now we are talking, Harvard.” The visitor sat the gum on the desk and sat back down in his chair. “What do you know about lifers and death row?” The man sat the gun on the desk in front of him and sat back down in his chair.
“You mean prison?”
“Of course. What the fuck do you think I mean?” The guest shook his head in disappointment. All these guys were soft and worthless, he thought to himself. They sit in their little offices listening to dipshits talk about their feelings and learning to cope with their shitty lives.
“I have never been to prison.” Dr. Halt confessed.
“Congratulations. That’s all about to change.” The visitor put his boots up on Dr. Halt’s desk.
“All these political windbags and their get tough on crime bullshit have basically filled up the prisons as you are aware. We are going to be testing a new prisoner population reduction plan here and you could be an important part of the research, Doc. I am not sure why they picked you, or this shit hole of a state, to start with.” The visitor took his boot off the desk, stood up and walked over to the window leaving the gun on the desk, confident Dr. Halt knew better than to reach for it. ”What do you fuckers do around here? You guys just hang out waiting for the next meal?” The visitor turned his gaze from the boring parking lot and snooped around the office.
“How can I possibly be of value to prison research?” Dr. Halt asked.
“Not just prisons, pothead. Death row prisoners.” The visitor corrected him.
“Iowa does not have capital punishment. You mean guys doing life sentences?” Dr. Halt repeated.
“No shit, genius. How do you think we got into this kind of jam in the first place? You liberal pieces of shit with your equality, diversity, and save the whales bullshit. You fuckin’ hippies kill me. Well, we are going to change up some of those low-information opinions. Of course, there is going to be a little twist for you.” The visitor replied.
“Imagine that.” Dr. Halt raised his eyebrows and replied.
“You getting smart with me, frat boy? You say some stupid shit like that again, and that little slap you just got upside your helmet will feel like finger-banging a fat girl compared to the beatdown I’ll issue you right here in this shitty little office. Can you imagine that?” The visitor lurched towards Dr. Halt. He was all of six feet three and well over two hundred pounds. The visitor was a hard man both physically and mentally. The handprint from the last left-hand slap now showed bright red on Dr. Halt’s cheek and was a reminder he didn’t want another.
“Sorry.” Dr. Halt had no doubt his new guest would choke him out in the drop of a syllable.
“You should be.” He continued as he sat down again. “Now, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, there is going to be a little twist. You see, without the death penalty, the lifer scumbags are taking up resources that could be better utilized. The entire American prison system is going to be going through some changes, and the first thing that needs to be done is get rid of the worst guys first. All of these guys cost a ton of money, paperwork, and time. Now, this new stunt by the liberal drug companies of not supplying lethal drugs to the prisons because they don’t believe in the death penalty was the final straw. It’s much easier and cheaper to just gas them. If it works here, I suspect the idea is going to be expanded across the entire US prison system. One by one, killers, rapists, terrorist, junkies, and child molesters will all be exterminated.”
“How is that even legal?” Dr. Halt asked.
“It’s not, you fucking bozo. That is why you are coming into play. What you are going to do is sit down with them for a session, listen to their bullshit. The Man wants confirmation and documentation that these crazy fuckers were worthless. It’s classified, but somewhere down the line, someone might ask how and why. The funny shit is these assholes aren’t going to be told they are going to be walking into a gas chamber that fills with nitrogen right after you talk to them. They will be dead in a couple of minutes. If any autopsy is performed, which I doubt, it will look like they all died of natural causes. Most will be unclaimed and cremated or buried in the prison cemetery.” The visitor replied with a sadistic smirk.
“Won’t the guards or the warden figure it out?” Dr. Halt tried to understand.
“Good question, Doc. The guards have already been rotated out, and we are bringing in our own guys to do a little role-playing. The warden has been briefed.”
“He agreed to this?” Dr. Halt was baffled.
“No, you fucking idiot. We got so much dirt on that sick fuck that he knows better than to…”
Open his mouth. We got his entire life wired just like yours. One peep out of either of you scumbags, and you will be taken out before your next meal.” The visitor was not lying. Dr. Halt shrunk even further, knowing he had been unwittingly spied upon.
“What about my patients? What am I going to tell my wife?” Dr. Halt asked.
“Your patients? That’s some funny shit. If you really gave a fuck about your patients, you probably wouldn’t be buying weed off that dip shit vet patient of yours, would you? You got ripped off. You paid $400, and he only paid $250. It’s one thing to be an academic flunkie doing therapy to pay the bills. It’s quite another to be buying weed from a patient. They teach you that shit in Harvard, or you just kind of had your own experiment running?” Dr. Halt knew he was done. They had him. “Oh, as far as your wife goes, it would probably blow your mind to know that she is fucking the nigger at the gym, Demetrious. The guy is a real shit head. Every Wednesday afternoon, he starts with group yoga and ends up sticking his huge black cock in her mouth after class in his aroma therapy room. You probably don’t get much pussy on Wednesdays, do you, Doc?” The visitor laughed as he finished his sentence with a question.
Time seemed to move in slow motion for a minute. Dr. Halt reached for the trash can beside his desk and vomited. It was true. He could feel it in his bones. No one knew about the relationship with the sailor. He was a patient for years who ended up selling weed to him a couple of times in the office. It was years ago. His wife had also been going to the yoga class every Wednesday afternoon for months now. She raved about the black guy Demetrious whom she said was gay. The thought of her getting sucked the black guy’s dick made him want to reach for the gun. Life as he knew it was over. The reality of the matter was sinking in; he had been under surveillance and spied upon for years. His wife was cheating on him, and his finances were a disaster. He wanted to ask the visitor what else he knew but was afraid to. He vomited again into the garbage can.
“The good news for you is you’re still alive, and you start Monday. If you manage to do this correctly, your bullshit life improves, the failed drug test goes away, your credit card debt will get squashed, and you can buy the wife some mouthwash. For America? Slowly but surely, thousands upon thousands of worthless pieces of shit will be exterminated. The prisoners, one at a time, will all be given the same line of shit about clemency and early release. You are going to get in their heads for some last thoughts. The beauty is their families will think they died of natural causes, and the dead don’t speak. Did you hear what I said, Harvard?” The visitor asked.
Dr. Halt raised his head from the trash can and nodded his head once.
“Hey, shit for brains. Answer the goddamn question.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Good. You will be going on sick leave as of tomorrow, and Monday you will report to Anamosa State Penitentiary. You go to the visitors’ area and ask for Officer Santiago. You don’t ask any questions and do exactly as your told. Is there anything you don’t understand?” The visitor clarified.
“I got it.” Dr. Halt replied as he wiped the vomit from his face.
“Good. You fuck this up or say a single peep to anyone and you will be dead before sundown. Monday at 8am sharp. Don’t be fucking late, retard.
“I got it.” Dr. Halt repeated
“Get that piece of shit BMW fixed too. Your catalytic converter is going out and you better not be late. Now if you will excuse me I need to get to church. Have a good day.” The visitor got up, picked his gun off the table and threw Dr. Halt’s revolver in the trash can filled with vomit.
Chapter 2
The weekend offered Dr. Halt little sleep, and what sleep he did get was on the couch. He couldn’t look at his wife without thinking of her sucking a black cock. He had never felt so impotent. He knew he had been spied on for at least two years, and his mind raced at warp speed again with thoughts of suicide. He knew the visitor to the office was an agent for the government and was telling the truth. He didn’t need more proof. Each and every epithet-filled rant was true. He wanted to walk out of the house, the marriage, and the VA and never return, but he had nowhere to go. There was no way the marriage was going to make it. What else was she lying about? There was no chance of paying off the debt, almost $60,000 on credit cards, in this lifetime without filing bankruptcy. This was impossible as it would be published in the paper and far too humiliating to be the guy who can secure a $2.2 million dollar grant but can’t balance a checkbook. Who else already knew any of this?
He began frantically searching the house, his car, and office for cameras and microphones when he was alone but found nothing. The catalytic converter was going out on the car too. He wasn’t sure what was wrong, but it made sense. It had been losing power and sputtered when he accelerated. There was no way this could have been known unless his phone was tapped. “Are they watching me right now?” Dr. Halt thought to himself as paced around the kitchen and living room. He looked and felt like a dead man walking, and there was nothing he could do other than wait until Monday morning and drive to Anamosa.
What Dr. Halt couldn’t figure out was why he was selected. He had zero experience with prisoners. The visitor’s story sounded more like some sort of CIA black site where terrorist get waterboarded for information more than any interview or evaluation. Why even ask them anything at all? Why try it in Iowa and not start with terrorists in Guantanamo Bay Cuba? The thought of being inside a maximum security prison anywhere gave him the chills. He played lacrosse at Harvard years ago but that physique had dwindled to pasty, pudgy and slow courtesy of lack of exercise from the long days at the clinic and a two liter of soda every day. He hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in years. He felt his cock shrink as he thought about being behind the prison walls of Anamosa
He explained to his wife he had to fill in for another state psychologist on the prison board for a review of veteran prisoners’ psychological health care for the week. She believed the story as she knew he was always on boards and committees discussing veteran psychology issues across the state. She noticed little except he brought his work home and stayed propped up at the kitchen table until he slept on the couch. She decided against prying further.
Monday morning came and Dr. Halt jumped in his sputtering BMW at 6:30am and headed towards Anamosa. It was more than enough time to get to the prison and he rode along in silence. The corn was already as tall as a grown man and the entire landscape was a sea of rolling cornfields interrupted by farms, roads and occasional bean fields. The air conditioner in the BMW had stopped working and now he was already sweating at 7am with the windows rolled down. In all the years in Iowa he realized he had never driven past Cedar Rapids. There was no reason to. There was nothing there.
He arrived around 7:20 am and proceeded to cruise around the small town of Anamosa. It finally dawned on him that Grant Wood was from Anamosa, Iowa. Wood was the guy who painted the famous farmer with a pitch fork and his wife in front of their house he had seen several times before, American Gothic. Grant Wood and the prison were the entirety of Anamosa. He Knew from interviewing several vets from the area that meth was a huge problem in the town. Small rural farming communities were racked by the scourge of methamphetamine. Meth was as devastating to rural white families as crack was to inner city black ones. Instead of illiterate gangsters with their pants pulled half way down their asses it was rotting teeth and scabs on the face from the chronic itching. In the end, it was zombies, devastated families and communities.
The tour of the town lasted less than five minutes. He drove up to the prison cemetery trying to kill some time and witnessed the countless small headstones. Most were barely legible in the soft limestone quarried from the nearby Stone City quarry. The cemetery was empty and eerie. He walked around staring at the headstones and realized it was impossible to tell what crimes the deceased had committed. The cemetery was full of unclaimed bodies in old wooden boxes. No one claimed these lives and the headstones offered no hints as to what crimes landed them in prison for life. Dr. Halt figured this final resting spot was probably a fitting tribute to some lives that had gone far off the tracks, much like his own. He jumped back in his car, drove down the hill, and parked his car in the visitor parking area.
The massive building was a beautiful piece of architecture from the outside, resembling a giant limestone castle with guard towers. He walked through the tiled visitors’ area and looked at the display case of the prison’s history. The entire prison was built by prisoners at the turn of the 19th century. At one time, it was almost completely self-sufficient with livestock, massive gardens, a boiler room, a small factory to pump out license plates, and industrial-looking machined furniture. That was then. The aging behemoth was now run almost entirely off a state budget. The livestock and massive gardens were gone and replaced with an empty open yard; blacks on one side and whites and Latinos on the other.
“Dr. Halt?” A friendly voice with a Latin accent asked from behind. Dr. Halt turned around to see a short and smiling older gentleman in an expensive-looking suit. “I am Officer Santiago. Welcome to Anamosa.”
“Odd to be welcomed to a prison.”
“You are fortunate. You came through the visitors’ entrance. The majority of inmates have never seen this part of the prison. Unfortunately, when they are released, they try to get as far away from here as possible.” Santiago said.
“It is a beautiful old building. Things were quite a bit different back then.” Dr. Halt pointed to an old black-and-white picture of a man strapped into an electric chair.
“Indeed, it is. It is one of the oldest prisons in America. Unfortunately, it is slated for closure like Fort Madison. Who knows, one day maybe it will be a tourist destination like Alcatraz in San Francisco, except this one is surrounded by corn and not the Pacific Ocean. Please, follow me.” Santiago turned and walked down the hallway, through two security checkpoints, and then down an adjacent corridor. He stopped and stood in front of an anonymous-looking steel door. He entered an electronic passcode on the keypad, and the door automatically unlocked and slid open.
“This is where you will conduct your interviews.” Santiago stood aside and allowed Dr. Halt to walk around the small office. The walls were antique white and in desperate need of a paint job. One wall was dominated by a large two-way mirror framed in a wood casing. The opposing wall had a single government-issue-looking clock. Behind the small desk was a similar door to the entrance. In front of him was a heavy steel-framed chair with a worn plastic seat. “In the file cabinet, we have placed the case files of each of the individuals who have been selected to be interviewed. Please take a moment to read the corresponding file prior to your interview with each prisoner. The notes you will take will be handwritten and later transcribed. Please write neatly. The files are situated in the order of each of the prisoners. You will be given thirty minutes to review each file prior to your interview if time allows. On the side of the desk, you will notice a black button. At the end of each interview, press the black button on the side of the desk, and the guards will then escort the prisoner through the door behind you. If one of the prisoners gets out of hand, or you feel unsafe, press the black button, and the guards will come through the door. The prisoners will be handcuffed to the chair during your interview, and their legs will remain shackled. The interviews are being filmed, and any notes you make will be preserved in their files. Do you have any questions?”
Dr. Halt replied, “Yeah, I have about a hundred. I just have a feeling I won’t get the answers I am looking for.”
Santiago smiled, “Our work here is classified, and I myself have many questions. Time is of the essence right now, and we can discuss this later. Your first interview will begin shortly. There are several interviews, and if we are punctual, we should complete all of them within a few days. I will leave you to the case files.” Santiago turned and exited through the entrance door.
The iron door clanged shut with an ominous resonance. Dr. Halt walked around the desk and looked into the top drawer of the file cabinet. There were several files, and the first file bore the name of one Cleetus Stump. Dr. Halt removed the thick file and returned to the desk. The file was stamped “ State of Iowa” on the outside, and the documents inside all looked like standard-issue government documents and forms. However, there were also hand-scribbled notes in tiny writing that had been confiscated from Stump. There was a scary-looking undated mug shot and a lengthy newspaper article about a police raid on a farm being used to manufacture methamphetamine.
The documents in the file on Cleetus Stump were horrifying to Dr. Halt. Stump was from Alabama and a convicted murderer. He was deemed a senior member of the white supremacy movement inside the prison. He killed a black inmate approximately seven years before and had been a lifer on death row ever since. The rest of the file read like a crime novel; orphaned at a young age, documented sex abuse at a juvenile institution in Alabama, theft, drugs, guns, and several misdemeanor arrests across America. He was caught on a farm deemed a motorcycle club hangout and meth lab by the Iowa Department of Criminal Investigation. Stump also tested positive for Hepatitis C and was noted to have several violent interactions with prison staff and other inmates. Dr. Halt had seen many veterans with difficult issues, but this was a violent and hardened criminal that scared him just by reading his case file.
The clock displayed 8:30am and the steel door slid open. Two serious-looking giant prison guards escorted a shackled and smiling Stump inside the office and handcuffed him to the chair. The guards refused to make eye contact with Stump and, after an initial glance at tattooed and bearded skin head D. Halt, understood why. Most people would go out of their way not to make eye contact with Stump’s tattooed face. His entire neck and most of his face were covered in a blurry bluish-green ink. The symbolic significance of the tattoos escaped Dr. Halt but the presence of Stump handcuffed to a chair in front of him commanded all of his attention. Without saying a word, the huge guards turned and exited with the door closing behind them.
“Are you the fucker that got me out of here? Hey, thanks a lot, bro. I knew that shit would get overturned eventually, but getting released is a miracle.” Stump sounded like a red neck with his uneducated-sounding Southern accent. He was beaming with joy.
“Ummm…” Dr. Halt stuttered and looked at his own reflection in the two-way mirror. “I am here to interview you prior to your departure. The interview is designed to judge your suitability.” He said without offering his name. Stump didn’t even bother asking.
“Suitability for what?” Stump looked confused.
“Let me just start by asking you a few questions. Can you tell me about the crime you were convicted for?” Dr. Halt began.
“Yeah, it was a bunch of bullshit.” Stump leaned forward. Dr. Halt was glad he was cuffed to the chair. “The cops are trying to kill off the brotherhood before we get too deep in Iowa. They planted a bunch of meth and guns on our compound and then swarmed it in the middle of the night with about 100 cops. I had a warrant out on a drunk driving charge, and they arrested me. Once they had me in cuffs, they threw on all these other bullshit charges. My public defender was a piss ant who threw me under the friggin’ bus. Good to know the Supreme Court overturned all this bullshit.”
“Interesting. Do you have family?” Dr. Halt asked.
“My brothers are my family.” Stump answered proudly.
“How about biological family members?”
“No.” Stump did not elaborate.
“Where do you plan to stay when you get out?” Dr. Halt was hoping he said another country.
“I have connections.” Stump replied confidently.
“Your brothers?”
“Something like that.” Stump was elusive.
“What will you do for work?” Dr. Halt suspected the answer was get drunk and make meth.
“I will be taken care of. Don’t worry about that.” Stump replied.
Dr. Halt shifted in his chair. “It says in your file that you are involved with white supremacy. Is this true?”
“White power, forever.” Stump looked right at a confused Dr. Halt. He continued, “You should be proud of your race. The fucking Jews and niggers are scum and should be wiped off this planet. That day is coming soon.”
Stump had been radicalized years ago. Dr. Halt elected not to comment but continued with another question. “It says in your file that you killed another black prisoner, and that is what gave you the death sentence.”
Stump attempted to raise a hand that was cuffed to his chair. “Fuck him. I stabbed that piece of shit about ten times and cut his eye out with a shank before the guards shot me. He was a punk bitch who ran his mouth. He wouldn’t roll over on some other coon, so the guards put him on the yard. He was done by the end of the day.” Stump stated proudly as if he were reciting a war story for another veteran.
Dr. Halt didn’t doubt him for a second. The thought of Stump chasing him on the yard with a shank made his blood run cold. Dr. Halt didn’t bother asking him if he felt the attack was justified or if he had any remorse for his action. Stump believed it was justified, and that was all that mattered to Stump.
Dr. Halt moved on. “Are you taking any medication?”
“I don’t take shit. They gave me some bullshit years ago that didn’t even get me high, and then they stopped.” Stump smiled and offered a half laugh.
“Do you have a woman or girlfriend you plan to meet?” Dr. Halt tried to transition to a milder subject.
“I’ll find me a bitch or have one provided. Pussy makes a brother weak.” Stump obviously had never been in love with a woman.
“It says in your file you were sexually assaulted in a juvenile facility in Alabama when you were younger. Is this true?”
“I don’t know. Is it?” Stump became agitated at the question.
“I am asking you.” Dr. Halt continued.
“Who reads your fucking report?” Stump grew uncomfortable.
“I am not sure, honestly. I would suspect it has been reviewed many times, as you can see here it’s a pretty thick file.” Secretly, Dr. Halt knew every single person gave up on Stump a few seconds after meeting him.
Stump looked over at the two-way mirror and then back to Dr. Halt. “Yeah, it’s in there. Some fucking niggers jumped me and raped me when I was fourteen. You ever have a black dick stuck in your asshole? Those fuckers held me down and took turns burning me with cigarettes while they stuck their dicks in my ass. How is that for a confession?”
Dr. Halt had never known such violence in any of his veteran patients. “That is terrible. I am sorry.” He replied.
“You’re fucking right, it was terrible. You can feel free to look for those niggers today. You won’t find them.” Stump smiled while responding.
“What happened to them?” Dr. Halt asked.
“I ain’t that fucking dumb. I have no idea what happened to them.” He smiled again. The record did not indicate who the juvenile perpetrators were or what their status was.
“Do you think you have an issue with violence?” Dr. Halt probed further.
“I don’t go out of my way looking for trouble unless I have to settle a score. But, between you and me, I wouldn’t fuck with me.” Stump seemed cocky and confident.
“Do you think you will leave the life of crime?”
“What fucking life of crime? I am a soldier.” Stump was clearly insulted. “You may figure out one day in our lives we sometimes need to step outside the rules to take care of our business. There is a war going on and the last thing that is going to stop the brotherhood is some bullshit laws and some faggot cops trying to earn a stripe.”
Dr. Halt wanted to close the file right then. “I see,” he replied.
“What? Are you a Jew and nigger lover?” Stump asked, looking for Dr. Halt to self-identify.
“There are good and bad people in every race.” Dr. Halt offered up.
Stump slowly shook his head. “Wrong. Those motherfuckers are a disgrace to the human race, and some people have just had enough of it.”
“Have you ever travelled outside of the United States?” Dr. Halt changed the subject again.
“I have been across the border to Mexico on business a few times.”
“What business was that?” Dr. Halt asked.
“The business of the brotherhood, motherfucker. Why don’t you just rap this shit up and get me the fuck out of here already?” Stump demanded as he looked at Dr. Halt in disgust and saw a quivering college boy.
“As you wish.” Dr. Halt pressed the black button on his desk. The two large guards promptly walked in together. They cuffed Stump’s hands together before they uncuffed him from the chair. Dr. Halt sat back in his chair as Stump was escorted behind him through the steel door that automatically opened as they approached.
“White power, motherfucker.” Stump said as he moved around the desk in his shackles with a guard holding each arm. Dr. Halt said nothing but felt relieved as the door closed behind all three. Then there was silence. He wanted to put his ear up against the door and listen like a nosy neighbor in a cheap apartment with thin walls but did not. There was the two-way mirror. He didn’t want to be observed acting curious.
Dr. Halt was trembling and felt nauseous. The interview lasted a total of ten minutes. Dr. Halt’s mind came to an immediate conclusion; that was the worst human being he had ever met.
Chapter 3
Dr. Halt looked up at the clock; it was 8:45 a.m. Dr. Halt looked at his legal pad. He had written nothing. He didn’t even have a pen. He looked in the desk drawer, and it was empty. He was told to complete an interview without a pen? He closed Stump’s file and slid it across his desk. He stood up and moved to the file cabinet. He paused for a moment to collect himself and then opened the top drawer. He removed the next file, Rudy Kosmo.
Kosmo had been in Anamosa for almost four years. He was an Army veteran who was dishonorably discharged. There was nothing indicating why he was dishonorably discharged. Kosmo was a convicted Iowa pedophile who was arrested attempting to sell his kids on the internet to be used in a sex tape with another convicted pedophile. During the investigation, investigators found thousands of pornographic pictures and videos of children on his computer, and several were with Kosmo and his children.
When Kosmo was taken into custody, he was taken to the Delaware County Jail in Manchester. Apparently, one of the prisoners found out Kosmo was arrested for molesting his children and was attacked. Kosmo survived the attack by biting the assailant on his penis and then bashed the prisoner’s head against the concrete floor until he was dead. Kosmo was taken to the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics and treated for a broken nose and collapsed eye socket. He tested positive for HIV and was moved to isolation at Oakdale Processing Center when he was discharged from the hospital. He was then subsequently convicted of aggravated homicide for the death of the other inmate on top of the pedophilia charges. A newspaper article in the file said the jury took less than half an hour to convict Kosmo. He was sentenced to death but suspended to life without parole.
The case file further documented Kosmo had been evaluated by a prison psychologist at Oakdale last year after he was found in his cell covered in his own urine and feces. He had numerous encounters with both Oakdale and Anamosa staff while in isolation. The second incident report from Anamosa staff was another trip to the university hospital for Kosmo after sticking his toothbrush in his rectum and getting it stuck. Kosmo was clearly insane and should have been pulled off the streets long ago before his disease manifested itself into crime and victims. He was taking large doses of Prozac, lithium, and a literal cornucopia of other pharmaceuticals. There was a handwritten word on the bottom of one document that simply read: hopeless scumbag.
The front door slid open, and in came two different burly-looking guards wearing surgical masks. Both guards looked big enough to be professional football players, one black and one white. Kosmo was pasty white, tall, and skinny. He was unshaven with long brown hair. He didn’t make eye contact and seemed to be exhausted or heavily sedated. His body odor was pungent and overpowering, the reason the guards were wearing the surgical masks. He almost fell into his chair and was then secured to it by the guards. The one guard turned his head and winced as he had been trying to hold his breath and unfortunately got a close-up whiff of Kosmo through the mask. The guards exited, and Dr. Halt was left alone with Kosmo, who sat silently with his eyes closed and his head down. Dr. Halt looked over at the mirror and then back to Kosmo. Kosmo sat motionless, but the expression on Dr. Halt’s face looked like Kosmo had just shit on his desk.
“Mr. Kosmo? Are you with me?” Dr. Halt asked. Kosmo said nothing. Dr. Halt repeated himself louder, and Kosmo raised his head and opened his eyes. He looked around the room, unaware of where he was or what was going on. “Mr. Kosmo, my name is Dr. Halt. I am here to interview you. Do you understand me?”
“Why?” Kosmo muttered. The single-word response floored Dr. Halt. The single blast of Kosmo’s breath stunk even worse than the body odor. Dr. Halt lost focus. He didn’t know what to tell him. Dr. Halt looked at the mirror, and there was nothing except his reflection with Kosmo.
“I would just like to get to learn a little more about you. Can you tell me why you are in prison?” Dr. Halt asked, bracing for the answer.
Kosmo opened his glazed-over eyes and tried focusing in on Dr. Halt’s face as if he were missing his eyeglasses. After an uncomfortable moment, Kosmo spoke.
“I am the fucking devil. They don’t want Satan out on the streets anymore.” If the first blast of breath was an eye-opener, the full sentence amounted to flame-throwing. Was he eating his own shit? Dr. Halt tried to compose himself.
“It says here, in fact, that you were convicted of trying to sell your own children to an undercover agent for a sex act. It also says several images and videos of child pornography were found in your possession. Are you aware of this?”
“I love children. They love me.” Kosmo smiled, exposing his rotten teeth.
Dr. Halt thought about his own children at home in the presence of Kosmo and was disgusted. Dr. Halt continued. “Why do you think children love you?”
Kosmo seemed to fade out and lose focus. He finally cocked his head and replied, “They love me because I make them feel good. They know I am special.”
A disgusted Dr. Halt closed his eyes for a long blink, hoping this was all a dream, and then immediately reopened them, realizing it was not a good idea to close your eyes around Kosmo.
“You think having sex with children makes them feel good?” Dr. Halt wanted to know what it was that actually aroused Kosmo.
“It makes me feel good. Maybe them too. Maybe not. You should see their eyes…” Kosmo didn’t finish his sentence.
Dr. Halt continued, “What do you see in their eyes?”
“I see the pleasure in their pain. I release them.” Kosmo said with his eyes closed again.
“What do you release them from?” Dr. Halt probed further.
Kosmo said nothing. Doctor Halt repeated, “What do you release them from?”“
“Their innocence.” Kosmo answered.
“That would be one way of saying it. Another way of saying it is that you forced yourself upon innocent children for your own deviant sexual gratification.” Dr. Halt exclaimed.
Kosmo lowered his head back down to his chest and closed his eyes. Was he falling asleep?
Dr. Halt spoke louder. “Have you seen your children since you were arrested and convicted?”
Kosmo raised his head and looked right at Dr. Halt in an odd moment of clarity and stared him down. “I want to fuck your children.” Kosmo screamed and tried jumping out of his chair. Dr. Halt was terrified. Kosmo saw the fear in Dr. Halt’s eyes and then spit across the desk, hitting Dr. Halt in the face with his saliva. Kosmo started convulsing in his chair and pulling on the chains that restrained him. Dr. Halt immediately reached for the button on the desk and pressed it. He then remembered Kosmo was HIV positive.
The door slid open. The two guards with surgical masks entered as Dr. Halt removed his glasses in disgust and wiped his face with the back of his hand and shirt sleeve. The muscular black guard pulled out a baton, placed it under Kosmo’s neck, and violently jerked him back in the chair, cutting off his air while the other guard attempted to unsecure the cuffs from the chair. Kosmo struggled for air, but his hands were cuffed behind his back. The huge black guard then literally pulled Kosmo out of his chair with the baton still under his neck. Kosmo’s feet kicked the desk and chair over before the other oversized white guard snapped out a sturdy black asp that extended out like a car antenna. He swung down with the force of a blacksmith on an anvil across the shins of Kosmo, causing him to gasp and get out a scream of pain. The black guard cinched down again on the baton even harder as the white guard dealt a series of brutal blows to Kosmo’s torso with the asp, beating him into submission. In a matter of seconds, Kosmo was unconscious. The burly black guard released his baton from under Kosmo’s neck, and Kosmo’s limp body crashed to the floor. The guards made no attempt to pick Kosmo off the floor; instead, they each dragged him face down and by the feet to the door behind the desk that slid open as they approached. The door closed, and there was silence.
Dr. Halt was horrified by what had just happened. He had seen a couple of fights in high school and college but nothing in comparison to what just took place before his eyes. His mind raced to the thought of Kosmo’s HIV-tainted body fluids on his face. He pulled his tucked-in shirt out of his pants and pulled the bottom of his Oxford dress shirt and tie to his face, desperately trying to wipe off any remaining saliva from Kosmo. While he frantically wiped his face, he was startled by the front door opening and seeing a smiling Santiago walking in with a towel. Santiago threw the towel to Dr. Halt and picked up the chair. “Kosmo, what a peach, huh?”
“Hey, that fucking guy is HIV positive and spit on me? Why didn’t you give me a mask to protect myself if you knew he was HIV positive?” Dr. Halt angrily asked as he wiped his face with the towel.
“Government cutbacks, I guess. Don’t worry, it is only transmitted by blood. You will be fine.” Santiago smiled and said as he turned back towards the front door.
“Are you kidding me? That fucking guy might have just given me AIDS.” Dr. Halt was pissed.
“I doubt it. Get a grip, Doc. We have another prisoner waiting.” Santiago replied as he walked towards the door that slid open on his approach and then closed behind him with again the ominous resonating metal clang.
Chapter 4
Dr. Halt’s heart was racing. His mind flashed between thoughts of Stump out on the streets and Kosmo approaching his children. That pervert spit on him now, and he might now be infected with HIV. He paced around the office nervously for a moment. “Who in the fuck is behind this mirror?” he said out loud, staring directly into the reflection. There was silence. There was nothing except the empty legal pad on the desk and no pen. He paced around the office for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. He was alone except for the smell of Kosmo still lingering in the air. He wanted to vomit. He sat back down in his chair and laid his head into his folded arms. He wanted it all to end.
His mind flashed back to the visitor in his office at the VA clinic. He felt now it would have been better just to let the guy shoot him. This perverse experiment was not science or a social study. He wanted to leave. Unfortunately, he knew he was being observed and more than likely recorded. “What possibly could be the reason to even have the interviews with these guys?” he thought to himself aloud from his chair towards the mirror. The days of sitting quietly in his office listening to vets tell war stories last week now seemed a lifetime away. Dr. Halt felt like crying but could not. He was emotionally tapped.
The entrance door slid open, and again it was Santiago with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “I thought you could use a cup of coffee.” He said as he approached Dr. Halt at the desk.
“Yeah, I could.” Dr. Halt was surprised to be offered coffee just like another day in the office. His instincts accepted the cup, and he took a healthy sip of the hot coffee. The comforting taste was the typical cheap and watery coffee that plagues all government facilities.
“Don’t worry.” Santiago looked at a disheveled Dr. Halt. This will all be over sooner than later. We got another waiting. The longer you take, the longer we are going to be here.”
“I haven’t even looked at the next case file.” Dr. Halt answered as he pointed to the file cabinet.
“Like I said, the longer you take, the longer we are going to be here.” Santiago turned and headed back towards the front door. The door again slid open as he approached and then slammed shut behind him.
Dr. Halt shook his head in disbelief. This entire arrangement was surreal and unbelievable in every regard. He wanted to run or disappear, but that was impossible. He became cognizant of the mirror again. He walked right up to the mirror and stared at his own reflection. He shook his head. He wanted to scream at the mirror, but he had no idea who was behind the mirror. “What happens on the other side of the door behind me?” He asked aloud to the mirror. “Are you killing these guys?” There was no answer. “ How about a pen if you would like me to take notes? Is that too much?” Again there was silence.
Dr. Halt returned to the file cabinet and pulled out the next case file. The name on the file was Tyrone Thompson. Dr. Halt closed the drawer and sat back down in his chair to review the case. Thompson was only 26 years old and already on a lifer on death row. He was a known gang member from Englewood, Illinois. Dr. Halt recognized the town name from an article he had recently read on the internet. It was the epicenter of south Chicago gang shootings. Dr. Halt shook his head and thought to himself, “A true shit hole in America and proof of racial genetic intelligence theory.” No one wanted to say it in public sector publications or the psychological periodicals and journals. It was true, the studies are there. The inhabitants of Englewood are doomed because they are genetically too stupid. They just happened to be black in color. They commit crime because they are intellectually inferior. It was the same for the southern white hillbillies or the dirt-dumb moonshiners and coal miners of the east. Stupid men almost always find even dumber women to have children with. After a few generations, the entire area becomes stupid. He had done hundreds, if not thousands, of tests himself on veterans over the years. He knew the evidence; all the dumb ones dwindle down to needing government assistance or crime.
As Dr. Halt kept reading, he realized this was the Chicago gangster idiot with the stupid hair in the news. He had caught another piece somewhere about the story, but he was convinced this was the guy. Thompson had been convicted of killing two other gang members in Des Moines in a drive-by shooting. The evidence linked him to a heroin deal gone bad. While in custody for the gang killings, he was also questioned, and now a current suspect, in another headline where he stands accused of pushing a missing white woman to her death from a six-story parking ramp. Thompson denied it, but the 20-year-old white woman from Cedar Rapids had been reported missing two weeks earlier. Her autopsy revealed a semen sample and DNA evidence linking Thompson to her. In his initial appearance in that case, he had to be restrained and was charged with contempt of court for threatening to kill the judge. The evening news said he was undergoing a psychological evaluation to see if he is mentally fit to stand trial.
There was very limited information about his background other than a lengthy rap sheet. He had been arrested, prosecuted, and sentenced at least seven different times for theft, burglary, possession, assault, and several public intoxication charges before he was twenty-one. Most of the charges were pleaded down to misdemeanors only because he was a juvenile or not captured with a gun. All of the convictions amounted to short stays of weeks or months in Cook County jail before he was released back to the streets. Apparently, Thompson took his game on the road to Iowa.
The door slid open before Dr. Halt was finished going through the file. Again, two different guards of gigantic stature, one Asian-looking and the other Latino, escorted a short and scrawny, dark-skinned black man with a perfectly combed afro that stood almost a foot off his head. He shuffled into the room with the chain shackles dragging on the ground between his feet. The guards held Thompson firmly under each arm as they secured him to the chair. He looked right at Dr. Halt, “Yo, mother fucker, you shit your fucking pants? I thought you mother fuckers were letting me out of this fucking cage? What the fuck is this shit? Who is this white mother fucker? Man, fuck this noise. Where is my mother fucking attorney?” Thompson started yelling while he was still being secured to the chair. Once the cuffs were in place, the Asian-looking officer turned his back towards Thompson and looked at the coffee on the desk. “You might want to finish the coffee or move it out of the way.” he said to Dr. Halt.
Without hesitation, Thompson kicked the desk, spilling the coffee on the desk and over his file. “Man, fuck this cracker-ass punk. Where is my mother fucking attorney? You said I was…” Thompson was cut off by a perfectly placed backhand karate chop from the Asian guard right to his throat. The perfectly placed stroke seemed straight out of a Kung Fu movie. Thompson slumped over in his chair, gasping. The large hand of the Latino officer grabbed a handful of Thompson’s thick afro and yanked it backwards. “You shut your fucking mouth, Thompson, and you answer this man’s questions. You got that, asshole?” the guard said loudly into Thompson’s ear. Thompson just gasped. The Latino guard shoved Thompson’s head forward hard as he and the Asian guard exited through the front door.
Dr. Halt said nothing. He looked at the clock. It was 9:10 a.m. His entire career of psychology had been turned upside down in about an hour. He picked up the wet case file and let the remainder of the coffee run off the file and onto the floor. He turned his attention back to Thompson. “I saw you on television the other….” before he could finish, he was interrupted by Thompson.
“Mother fucker, I don’t give a fuck about what you see on television.” Thompson yelled across the desk.
“OK then, Mr. Thompson.” Dr. Halt tried to begin again.
“Motherfuckin’ white boy, you call me Thumper.” Thompson demanded.
“Thumper, that is an interesting name. How did you get that?” Dr. Halt asked, trying his best to remain clinical.
“Thumpin’ fucking niggers in the hood. What the fuck do you think of that, you cracker ass mother fucker?” Thompson cocked his head and scrunched up his face as if he was in physical pain.
“Not much to be honest. It says here in your file you were convicted of killing two rival gang members over a heroin deal and pushed a woman to her death from a parking ramp in Des Moines.”
“Man, fuck that. Them niggers got what was coming to them. That white junkie bitch was nothing but a trick. That bitch was high as fuck on smack and jumped off the goddamn parking ramp.” There was some truth in Thompson’s words. Dr. Halt just couldn’t determine which ones.
“Is that so?” Dr. Halt tilted his head in the same direction and manner Thompson had done, mimicking his posture.
“Of course it is, mother fucker. I just told goddamn told you.” Thompson sat back in his chair.
“The jury seemed to think differently.” Dr. Halt said as he sat back in his chair.
“Yeah, fuck them white ass country folk. They just don’t like niggers.” Thompson replied.
“You think people in Iowa have a predisposition against blacks?” Dr. Halt asked.
“Are you the dumbest mother fucker in this entire goddamn cage? Fuck you, white people?” Thompson turned and stared at the mirror as he yelled.
“Why are you angry with me? I didn’t do anything to you.” Dr. Halt probed.
“You junkie fucking white people have been fucking the niggers for centuries.”
“I am not a junkie.” replied Dr. Halt.
“Yeah, I bet your fucking wife and kids take pills, right? Then your insurance runs out, then the pain pills run out, and you hit the streets looking for smack. Next thing you know, the white bitch is sucking black dick for a $5 piece. Right now, your dumbass is up in this motherfucker talking to my ass about why your wife and kids are out there looking to get high.” Thompson spit out his assumption.
“I doubt that as well.” Dr. Halt continued. “Do you have kids yourself?”
“I got a few bitches pregnant and shit. I even got me a pretty little white bitch knocked up. Bitch up and fucking over dosed on some shit after she spit out that pup. Man, fuck that, I don’t wanna see them little niggers no how.” Thompson’s facial expression confirmed his words.
“You don’t think it is important to play a role in the lives you created?” Dr. Halt had to hear him answer.
“Yo, fuck you and that bullshit. You’re just a dumb ass white mother fucker working for the man. Get me the fuck outta this motherfucker.”
“As you wish.” Dr. Halt reached over and pressed the button.
The entrance door slid open, and Thompson turned in his seat. The Latino and Asian guards returned to the office. The Latino guard grabbed Thompson by the back of the neck. Thompson lashed out with his feet, kicked the desk into Dr. Halt. The Asian immediately reached for his asp, snapped it into extension, and thrust it down on top of Thompson’s knee. Thompson screamed out in pain from the blow. The Asian quickly secured his asp and worked his way behind the chair. Dr. Halt stood behind his overturned desk while Thompson began loudly weeping and crying out in pain. “My leg. You fucking broke my leg.”
Thompson was unchained from the chair and had his hands together behind his back. Each guard put one hand under each of Thompson’s arms and physically dragged him to the door in the back of the room. The door opened, and this time there was a definite wisp of smoke that entered and then disappeared when the door opened. It was almost as if it were dry ice drifting across a stage and then disappearing. The guards took no notice of the vapors, and neither did the weeping Thompson. The door slid shut behind them.
Dr. Halt approached the door in the rear of the room to see if it would open if he approached it. It did not. He sniffed in the air. There was no scent of smoke from the vapors. There was no door handle, and the door looked identical to the entrance door but made no sound at all when it closed, whereas the entrance door thundered the steel-on-steel crash in stereo when it closed. Dr. Halt turned his attention to the entrance of the room when he heard the entrance door slide open behind him. It was Santiago and the visitor from his office in the clinic. The visitor was sharply dressed in a black designer suit that looked more Las Vegas than Anamosa.
“Nice job, Doc. I see why they wanted you.”
“What in the hell are you talking about? What is going on here? I want a fucking lawyer right now.” Dr. Halt tried to stand up for himself, just once.
“Wrong.” The visitor replied. He looked at Santiago and nodded. Santiago pushed the black button on the overturned desk.
Two guards came into the room immediately. Again, totally new guards. The scent of perfume entered the room, and these guards were females. At first glance, both appeared suspiciously too beautiful to be working as prison guards. The women were unarmed, and their uniforms hugged their athletically toned bodies. “Dr. Halt, you will need to come with us.” The blonde woman with huge blue eyes and large breasts said.
“What is this some kind of joke? Are you kidding me?” a surprised Dr. Halt asked.
“We are quite serious, Dr. Halt. Do you feel safe?” The brunette with big doe eyes and a perfect smile asked.
“Do I feel safe? Are you kidding? Did you see who I just got done talking to?” Dr. Halt replied.
“But do you feel safe right now?” The blonde looked right into Dr. Halt’s eyes. Dr. Halt was captivated by her beauty and forgot his thoughts. Dr. Halt turned and looked back at Santiago and the visitor; both were smiling. He turned his attention back to the women. “Fine. Sure, I guess I feel safe enough at this very moment. That seems to change pretty quickly around here though.” He replied.
“Are you hungry or thirsty, Dr. Halt?” The brunette asked politely.
“Am I hungry or thirsty? Are you serious? No, I am fine. What in the hell is going on in here?” Dr. Halt was confused.
“Come with us.” The door to the rear of the room opened, and now the smoky vapors were pouring into the room. The women held out their hands in a friendly gesture. They were not armed and drop-dead gorgeous standing in front of him. He looked over to Santiago and the visitor again, and both were still smiling. The visitor winked, and Santiago raised his eyebrows at the proposition. Dr. Halt returned his attention to the women, who were also smiling in unison. Dr. Halt froze for a minute. He didn’t know what had happened to the guards or the prisoners once the door closed. He only assumed, like the visitor told him in his office, that they would be gassed. Did the guards get gassed too? Was it all bullshit? He didn’t see anyone get gassed. What about the interviews? Was this it? Was it over? Was he going to be walking out in the parking lot? Why the beautiful women? There was no way the women were in on it, were they? If the next room was a gas chamber, no one would use these babes to escort the convict. They would use brutes like the previous guards, right?
Dr. Halt shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and touched the hands of both women. The women stopped and began kissing each other right in front of him. He felt aroused. The ladies turned toward the door and disappeared through the cloud of vapors. Dr. Halt tried to follow, but his feet were stuck to the floor. He reached his hand out as far as he could, but the women escaped. The whole room filled with smoke, and then it stopped.
“Honey, get up. You’re going to be late again. Every time you bring your work home, you end up getting drunk and smoking pot and crashing on the couch.” It was his wife looking down on him in her new athletic outfit. He fell asleep on the couch again. He sat up.
“Oh my god, I was dreaming. Holy shit, that was crazy.” He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember as much as he could.
“No, what is crazy is my day today. You didn’t even think of that, did you? The BMW guy called, and your piece of shit car is broken, and it is something expensive. You are supposed to call him and have him stop calling my phone. I also saw that weirdo pot dealer friend of yours walking around downtown yesterday. He wouldn’t be half bad if he cut his hair and got rid of those creepo friends he hangs out with.” This was his wife’s way of reminding him they were out of pot.
“What day is it?” Dr. Halt asked his wife, who was already walking towards the kitchen.
“What day is it? Are you serious? Try taking a shower. You smell. The coffee is made. I am going to the grocery store after I take the kids to school. I am then going to the gym with Cynthia. We also have dinner tonight with Dr. Santiago and his slutty Republican fundraising wife, so don’t be late. I guess there is some visitor from out of town who is supposed to make some dumb speech about the death penalty. It’s not like they stand a chance of winning any votes in Iowa City.” Dr. Halt’s wife checked her look in her pocketbook mirror and then headed towards the stairs to get the kids into the minivan.
“You only want to go because they always pay for the drinks and meals.” Dr. Halt stood up and shouted.
“I know. That is why we are going to the country club.” She replied as she followed the kids down the stairs and out the front door. “I will meet you back here after I pick up the kids and my yoga class. I will shower there so make sure you pay the sitter for her and sister last for the last two weeks when you get home. I’ll see you tonight.”
The End