Who Is Mercy Wild Chapter 5
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Who Is Mercy Wild? Chapter 2 free porn video
Who Is Mercy Wild? Chapter 2
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WARNING: You must read Chapter 1 first, or this won't make any sense at all.
If you are unsure how to find it, look under the authors' names search, find
mine, and Chapter 1 of the story will be there for you.
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by Jacquie Windsor
[email protected]
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Unaware of Scott's fate, Terry guided the whimpering Brent into the
cheerless castle corridor. The architectural splendour of delicate friezes
high up on the wall, regiments of torches marching in file ahead of them
along each side, and the series of squinches, arches and vaults spaced in
the overhead stonework were lost on him. He was just a human crutch
upon which Brent relied heavily as the lead guitarist tried to catch up to
the rest of the group.
Against the regular echo of their own ponderous footfalls, Terry heard
the reverberation of heavy boots pounding on the floor tiles ahead of
them.
"Boadie. Wait up. Wait the fuck up. Brent's gotta have some goddamned
help. Serious."
Terry's desperation drowned out the other sounds in the long hallway. His
vocal pleas were aimed at a pair of figures he detected far ahead. A long
time ago, he remembered, the same kind of illusion greeted Alice in
Wonderland. There was something about an egg in a shop, seated on a
shelf that seemed to recede from her more quickly than she could approach
it. Alice didn't have to put up with a whimpering companion leaning heavily
on her shoulder, though.
The sound of boots on the floor stopped abruptly, and the hallway returned
only the echoes of his breathing and Brent's sniffling. With nothing to guide
him, Terry depended on guesswork to figure out where they were going.
"Well, it isn't that tough," he told himself. "The hall only goes two ways.
Where we came from and where we're going to."
Torchlight guided their progress, brightening the elaborate carvings in the
stones that joined the walls with the ceiling. The carvings were crude, as
though an amateur had scraped them out of the rock. Most were painted,
in dull colours suffused with grimy dust, probably from the settling smoke
coming from the torches. The procession of animals and people appeared
to portray an army of some kind. Above their heads ran a series of unintelligible
symbols, perhaps spelling out words in a language that Terry didn't understand.
At one point on their tiring journey through the corridor, Terry paused.
Several individual sculpted elephants, tinged in a subtle gold,
intermittently appeared in the frieze. The yellow elephant again? He
recalled the first meeting with the strange woman in the parking lot.
"Terry," Brent whined, "let's go. Please. I can't stand here waiting. We
gotta go."
Brent's voice disappeared into a whispering echo, and the pair resumed
their laborious pace. After an indeterminate time, with Terry glancing
frequently at the sculptures, they arrived at a doorway set in the wall.
The slide guitarist took in the entire story told by the frieze, of an armed
group of soldiers from long ago, marching through mountains, across plains
and over rivers, to an exotic destination where they met another army.
Angels and devils flapped overhead, appearing to scheme together
against the first army. The opposite force unleashed showers of arrows
upon them, and the inhuman host carried each arrow through its flight,
plunging it into the body of one of the attackers.
It was a picture-story of pride and defeat, and of an unholy alliance of
beings that Terry didn't believe in. He knew they were supposed to be
devils and angels, because they had wings and other fabulous
paraphernalia.
Before leaving the corridor through the doorway, he gazed up one final
time, to see a carved inscription. It was in plain English, which was a
mild surprise: "We make a stand upon the ancient way, and then look
about us, and discover what is the straight and right way, and so walk
in it."
"Whatever the hell that's all about," Terry thought. He helped Brent
through the doorway, into a chamber where Boadie and Johnny
stood.
"Where's Scott?" asked Johnny. "Wasn't he with you guys?"
"Nope," Terry replied.
"You sure took your sweet time," growled Boadie, turning his wrist to
look at his watch. "Damn, I'd say it's a half-hour, but my watch's
busted."
Terry changed the subject. "Where'd the guys in the robes go?"
"They said to stay here and wait for you," intoned Johnny, "which
we've been doing for, I'd guess, about a half-hour. Boadie, my watch
isn't working either."
Terry guided Brent towards one of the massive wooden columns
jammed against the room's interior. He left the wide-eyed rhythm
guitarist propped against the pillar and wandered back to where
the other two musicians stood. The space was larger than a
one-bedroom apartment, with two more entrances apart from
the doorway through which they had entered.
"Have you tried either of those doors?"
"They're both locked or jammed," Boadie replied, drawing a heavy
breath. "What's his fuckin' problem?"
Terry and Johnny followed Boadie's contemptuous leer towards
Brent.
"I dunno. He started mouthing some sort of shit about birds and
pipes playing and some other god-awful crap. Actually, he's
starting to sound like he's snapping out of it, though."
Boadie was ready to demand the truth when one of the heavy doors
opened. Two figures appeared, one in the coarse robes of the guides
who had lead them from the plane to this building, and the other in
a business suit.
"Greetings, Muses," smiled the man in the suit. "My colleagues and I
are pleased you could make it. Our pact is certainly being fulfilled
properly. If you'll follow me, I will take you to the area to which you will
be confined in until your performance is due. Do I make myself clear?"
Terry expected Boadie to begin peppering the well-dressed stranger
with demands and threats. It was odd that the drummer was so silent.
"Not totally clear," began Terry. "We were all wondering where Scott is.
We won't be much of a band without our bass player."
"Oh? I take it this 'Scott' is the fifth person. Minor misunderstanding,
I suppose. We simply required a quartet. Come this way, please."
Terry looked over his shoulder as the robed man walked to the pillar
that Brent rested against. The Dutch boy was helped along as the
entire group followed Suit Man out of the chamber.
"So that didn't answer my question," Terry insisted, walking swiftly
past the others to join Suit Man in front of the group. "What did
you do to Scott?"
To the right of the procession, at one point in the wall, another
open doorway allowed Johnny to see into a spacious hall. The glimpse
lasted no more than a couple of seconds.
At the far end of the large room sat a lone figure. It was a balding
red-haired man, probably in his late forties, cloaked in a red robe. The
robe covered most of his body, but the snapshot glimpse revealed he
was also wearing an armoured breastplate. Odder still, as the silent
figure relaxed on a chair that seemed more like a throne, he held a book
in both hands.
In spite of how quickly the vision appeared to him, the portrait was
etched in Johnny's mind.
Suit Man, meanwhile, led the group down a small flight of stone steps
while Terry continued to ask him about Scott.
"We'll go to the apartments where you'll stay. The others can stay there
and we'll go somewhere else to discuss it. It is my hope and intention
that you will all happy here, and that the performance is successful."
Terry turned to reply, and saw a calm confidence in Suit Man's face. "OK,
sure, that'd be cool."
"These are your apartments. Five rooms. Should be more than enough
space for you. Your instruments will not be an issue until we are
thoroughly prepared for the performance."
As the quartet stood quietly, Suit Man explained the conditions of their
stay. "Your nourishment will be brought to you. This hallway and those
rooms that join it on that side are yours to use according to your needs.
Clothing. Sleep. Entertainment. Whatever your requirements are, any
of the attendants will be available to do our best to live up to your
expectations."
Suit Man swept his arms around, indicating the area that was prepared
for Gearjammer during their employment. He turned to point down the
hallway in either direction. "You can't go past the doors at the end of this
hallway, at least not without permission. It may sound a little inconvenient,
and I am sure that it isn't the best arrangement in the world, but the
contract's quite specific about your accommodations. So, we'll leave you
three while Terry and I continue our parley."
The serene confidence that Suit Man exhibited acted like a cloud of
reassurance on the band members. His GQ qualities felt like a cool breeze
in the Corcyran heat. As Terry and Suit Man walked further down the corridor,
followed closely by the robed guide, Johnny turned to the two who
remained.
"I don't know about you guys, but I could really use a bath." He poked his
head into one doorway, then another, and turned back to grin at Boadie.
"It's right in here, too. Looks pretty nice for a dungeon."
Terry and Suit Man went through one of the forbidden exits. Presently they
found themselves in a room that had all the appearances of a law office.
Books lined heavy shelves along three of the walls. The usual stone face of
the castle interior was completely covered by polished wood panelling. The
furniture was modern twentieth century leather, wood and metal.
"Sit down, please," motioned Suit Man. "I am not an impatient man, but I
believe that your idle curiosity is not getting us anywhere. And I mean you
and your band mates, Terry, as well as myself and my employers."
Terry sat on the edge of a large, deep couch and listened intently. The
steely, handsome style of Suit Man was perplexingly enchanting to him.
"You're looking around you, at all this luxury, in the middle of a big stone
castle. You see strange men in robes wandering around. You have
detected changes in some of your own perceptions, and you know, also,
that things are appearing to your friends. This should be no shock to you,
Terry. Things change. I believe in second chances, even third chances.
Opportunities to do things this or that way, and opportunities where you're
actually in control of the outcome, more or less. Are you with me still?"
Terry shrugged.
Suit Man smiled at the docile guitarist and continued. "You and I have a
lot in common, Terry. I lived for five years in a town not far from your
hometown. You wouldn't recognise me from then, even if you had known
me.. As you might guess, I am a lawyer. I had the fortune or the
misfortune or the accident of being somewhat of a child prodigy. I graduated
from high school at the age of fifteen, and both of my parents were
jurists. My father was a Superior Court Justice and my mother was the
deputy assistant Attorney General for the state of Wyoming. I took an
undergraduate degree at the Bemidji State University by the time I was
eighteen, and won a scholarship to Stanford to take my law degree. Nowhere
to go but up. That's the way I thought, then, like the universe owed me a living
and that it was there to be taken at my discretion.
I graduated in 1976 at the age of twenty and took an internship in my father's
own legal trust. Now, while I was at Stanford, I came across the seeds my own
undoing."
Suit Man stopped speaking and wandered over to a cabinet, withdrew a pair
of crystal goblets, then moved to a second cabinet containing a selection of
bottled wine. He swiftly and efficiently withdrew the cork and filled each of
the goblets with the deep red liquid. "Here, have a drink."
Terry thanked him, and took a slow, long sip. The story intrigued him.
Everything about Suit Man intrigued him. "Please go on. I'm listening."
"At the law school, I met a fellow named? Well, the name's irrelevant. This
fellow was a graduate chemistry student who attended Stanford at the
invitation of a rather unsavoury collection of individuals. Basically, he was
there to learn how to manufacture a legal version of Dilaudid. One thing led
to another, and eventually I tried some at a party. It didn't get me hooked or
screw me up or make me forget why I was there at the university. But those
kind of people, a little rough, a little dangerous, really made me think I was
missing something.
That whole scene was going to come back to haunt me. About four years
ago my Mom became very ill. She had cancer. She left her job and went
to a clinic in California in the hope of finding a cure, or at least to stop it
from progressing. The therapy didn't work and she died just six months
after the first diagnosis. Pretty overwhelming stuff that early into my career."
The lawyer took a short sip from his own glass and stared balefully at
Terry.
"I'm so sorry," offered Terry. "I mean it's not like it's my fault, and I
didn't even know her, but it sounds like such an awful story."
Suit Man looked into his drink and sauntered over to sit on the edge of the
couch next to Terry. He licked his upper lip and sighed. "Oh, it got worse.
My father, who lived a short distance from a house I bought, didn't show up
for work one afternoon. His office phoned me and I drove over. I found him
in the garage with the car engine running. He'd plugged the ventilation grates
with towels. He was grey. Awful.
My first reaction? Not calling the authorities. All I thought about was the
synthetic Dilaudid. I was so stoned for a month after phoning my old school
buddy and having him courier me enough of the drug to last me a month, maybe
two, that I really didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know what the right dosage
was. I just kept doing it until I didn't hurt any more. I was so out of it that I
missed the old man's funeral."
"Holy shit," winced Terry. "That's really really awful. I feel so sorry for you."
The lawyer placed his left hand on Terry's thigh. "I'm here. And I'm quite OK,
as you can tell." He stared deep into Terry's eyes with a searing glow that
caused the guitar player's skin to flush. This man, this remarkable male
model, was a fragile victim of horrible circumstances beyond anyone's control.
Terry could feel it and his heart throbbed in sympathy.
"The nightmare just kept on. I continued to half-heartedly continue my practice,
taking on heavy and intricate cases that I hardly understood. And more artificial
Dilaudid. I was on the verge of crashing and burning. I tried to control my moods
by using Halcyon to counteract the after-effects of the Dilaudid. I started
losing cases and clients.
The whole toxic cocktail started to do me in. I was arrested, ploughed out of my
brain on MDA and Halcyon, stealing rental movies from a grocery store. And by
this time I was owing money to the dealer friends that my college acquaintance
had turned me onto. I was completely fucked. A store detective had seen me
steal the movie from a shelf, and he grabbed my jacket as I left the store. I wriggled
out of it and ran about fifteen blocks to a wooded area by the river.
Smart guy. I'd left my chequebook in the jacket. My address, everything, was
still in it. The cops were waiting at my house when I returned. I was booked
and everything, just treated like a common criminal. Because I was a common
criminal. A common, stoned, son of a wealthy suicide victim, lawyer, creepy
criminal. How was that going to look on my record? How were my parents,
looking at me from up in heaven, or down in hell for that matter, going to
feel? Even then I didn't give a damn."
He squeezed Terry's thigh tenderly. Tears welled in the guitarist's eyes. He
was enchanted by the confessional monologue that Suit Man was unravelling
for him in the sanctity of the law office. It felt all right. All right to cry, to
empathise and to listen.
"I got off the rap. I used something called the 'Halcyon defence'. That was
a gambit developed in the upper courts of Nevada where it was proved that
prescriptions of Halcyon resulted in erratic and unusual behaviour. So, I
learned nothing. I was rewarded for my trouble by having my costs paid for,
and my lawyer pressed for damages to my reputation. We won that, too. I
now had a regular income from my father's trust and a big pile of free cash
from the grocery store chain for impugning the character of such an
outstanding citizen as myself. Oh yeah, and I had to pay the grocery store
chain $8.99 plus tax for the video.
"I was ready to rock, as you might say. The guys that my old college friend
had turned on to me found that no matter what they fronted me, I was good
for it. So pretty soon, they found out I sometimes took trips to Canada. I
got in good with them by taking whatever they wanted across the border.
Either way. I figured with a haircut, a shave, breath mints and deodorant, I
could cover anything from the border guards. It worked. I was laughing.
What I didn't know was that the authorities knew about my 'second job' all
along. They just wanted to find out who I was delivering for. I thought I
was a big shot, but they knew I was just a drugged out nobody."
Terry watched the smooth delivery of this increasingly twisted story as it
escaped Suit Man's lips. He gasped a bit with each sentence. Without
thinking about it, he allowed his hand to slip over the lawyer's gentle
grip on his thigh.
"I had picked up a delivery in Edmonton and I was driving to the airport.
I see these lights in my rear-view. I was perfectly ready for the trip, not
even stoned or anything. But for some dumb reason, instead of just pulling
over, I started driving faster, trying to outrun them. I won't give you all the
gruesome details, but I ran over a spiked belt eventually and had to stop.
They found the shipment. I apparently had three loaded guns in the car.
I don't even remember how they got there. I was set to do serious time.
By the time the trial was done, I was already disbarred. I owed the gang
in the States about a quarter of a million dollars for the lost shipment.
There's no insurance in that business. I took the risk and I lost. Simple.
By the time the whole thing was finished, I was looking at extradition and
a big debt to people who'd be able to get me in prison. That was the first
time in my life that I stopped to think about who I was, what I was doing,
and why I was doing it. Time to acept responsibility. To stop blaming
everyone else for my difficulties. How do you think that went over?"
"Went over?" asked Terry. "Went over with who?"
"Everyone involved. I'm here today, talking to you, so you know something
good had to happen somewhere along the line."
"Yeah, I guess so. Aren't you going to tell me?" Terry felt the words leave
his lips. He felt vulnerable after the lengthy confession of this handsome
stranger.
"Your suspicions are right. Things got better, but not right away. I did go
to prison. I was extradited. Doesn't sound better, does it?"
"No," admitted Terry.
"I wound up in a prison in North Dakota, serving a ten year sentence I knew
I wouldn't survive. There were already seven men there who belonged to
the group I still owed money to. I had a cellmate there who wasn't with
that group. The first weird thing I noticed about this guy was that he had
a most unusual tattoo on his arm. A yellow elephant.
We got to talking, and he realised I had a lot of raw talent, unused ability I
guess you could say. One morning, maybe the second week I was there, he
said he had heard that the seven guys I had been worrying about in there
were going to kill me that Saturday."
"How did he know that?" asked Terry, astonished at the mention of the
yellow elephant.
"Connexions. He knew who the people were, what organisation they belong
to, how much I owed them. Everything. His proposition was to ensure my
safety in return for a pledge to his friends. I wasn't ready for that. I believed
I could do it myself. Or die trying. I was that willing to admit my mistakes.
He said he recognised that, and as a gesture of good faith, he told me that
a sign would be revealed by the same week's Thursday. It was Tuesday at
the time. I figured he was jerking me around, so I said if he could prove his
intentions to me, I would take that as a sort of a God-like sign that my own
transformation was genuine."
"What was the sign?" asked Terry, enthralled by the suspense that Suit Man
generated.
"Four of the seven men were suddenly transferred to another facility. Just
like that. It made no sense to me at all, but even three men would have
been too many for me, and I had about forty-eight hours remaining.
I told the guy I was ready to deal, but that I had nothing left to deal with. My
trust was being held in escrow under a new law about proceeds of crime. He
said I didn't need anything material to deal. My mind, my imagination and
my education were enough. I called him Doctor Faustus. Can you believe
that? Faust?"
"What's a Faust?" wondered Terry aloud. "Or who's Doctor Faustus?"
"No matter, honey," smiled Suit Man. "I wound up making a very similar
deal to the one that you made. The man in my cell offered me a position in
a corporation run by some lady named 'Mercy Wild'."
"Who is Mercy Wild? Have you met her?"
"No, honey. I'm afraid you're looking at a small, but very satisfied, cog in
a mighty complex organisation."
Terry realised that Suit Man was not only massaging his thigh, but also
calling him 'honey'. And his heart and head were pounding with an oddly
stimulating passion for this man, his history and his sensual style.
"I appreciate your listening to my incoherent babbling, Rebekkah. You are
a very beautiful woman, and it's a true honour to gain your attention and,
perhaps, your affections."
"Rebekkah? Why?I?"
Terry paused. He looked down at Suit Man's gentle massaging hand. Where
a pair of unwashed jeans had covered his thigh, now there was a naked leg
covered in sheer hosiery. A short skirt covered his lap, barely.
"You were saying?" grinned Suit Man. "I have learned that honesty is of
utmost importance. And that change is also possible, through the good graces
of Mercy Wild and her corporate affiliates. But why bore you with the details?"
"Oh, God, bore me," gasped Rebekkah, drawing her delicate hand across the
sculpted cheekbone of her GQ hero. Her companion returned her show of
affection, drawing his lips close to hers, running his hand across her other
thigh to clasp her waist, and kissing her with the depth and emotion of a
man possessed by lust.
Terry had utterly vanished in a physical sense.
As the embrace deepened, he felt in his soul that he was Rebekkah, is
Rebekkah, and always would be Rebekkah, because this man without a name
had so thoroughly opened his own vulnerability to her that she could not deny
her strong desire to be Rebekkah.
As she continued to kiss his sensuous lips, he laid her back on the couch,
undressing each of them in turn.
"You are a beautiful woman, Rebekkah," he whispered. "Everything I have, I want
to share with you."
As two bodies entwined in unbridled passion in the office, the three other
members of Gearjammer remained in the isolated area of the castle. Johnny
had found a bathroom with an enormous porcelain pool in the centre. Brent, the
whimpering rhythm guitarist, and Boadie, the brash drummer whose promise of
success had led them to Corcyra in the first place, entered another room.
The room was lit partly by daylight inching through arrow slits in one wall, and a
solitary torch near the doorway.
"Brent, dude, are you gonna be OK?"
"Yeah, I think I'm feelin' better," answered the other young man. "I don't
remember much about getting here though."
"The Terror was mumbling some shit about you hearing music. You still
hearing it?"
Brent shook his head.
Boadie looked around the room, which was sparsely furnished, his attention
focusing on a large stone box in its centre. The object appeared to be set in
the floor, was roughly eight feet in length, waist high, and a couple of arm's
lengths wide.
"Kind of breaks up the space, don't it?" he grinned at Brent. "Like a big fuckin'
table or something."
"An altar. A crypt or something," added the guitar player.
"You must still be fucked up, dude. What would make you say that?"
Brent shrugged off the challenge. In better times he would have taken Boadie's
words in the worst way. Today he merely felt like sitting down and letting the
big drummer blow off steam. He found a sturdy chair along the wall and parked
himself there, gazing intently at the enormous stone box that filled the centre of
the room.
"Hey, you just sit yourself down there, Brent, ol' boy. I gotta admit this thing
here has me all curious."
Boadie drew his hand along the surface of the stone box, which was smooth,
flat, and remarkably free of dust. He looked at the side of the big rectangular
object, noticing that it was riddled with unfamiliar patterns and lettering.
"K-E-something-A-E-P. Funny looking A, though. Ke-app?"
Brent rested his chin on his hands as Boadie tried to puzzle out the strange
words carved into the side of the stone box.
"Carvings on the side here," said Boadie. "An elephant. A couple of elephants,
actually. Some kinda coincidence, ain't it? What's with this elephant shit?"
"Elephant shit, sngkgk," Brent snorted. "That's pretty funny, Boadie."
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