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I. beneath the tall trees

Jack bit down on the end of a cigarette like it was a sausage stick. In the dim of the red light his charcoal eyes glowed amber, pupils rolling up slowly to stare at his sergeant. It was humid; sweat made his back itch and his skin shine, and the thick coat of camo paint he applied to his face earlier was dripping down. He licked his lips and regretted it, spat out a slick of grey and green onto his fingers then rubbed it off on the pants of his uniform. His sergeant held unbreaking eye contact with him, looking at him, beyond him, eyes wild, wide. “You know something,” Jack said almost teasingly. “You know something and you’re dying to tell me.”“You oughtta be asleep, soldier,” the sergeant murmured and his voice was air, disappearing into the wind like a cicada’s scream. “I am asleep, aren’t I, sergeant?”The sergeant laughed silently but his mouth didn't move. The laughter was in his eyes. “You’re scared shitless,” he said. Jack tried to smile smartly but his mouth was stiff; the smile was a regurgitation. The sergeant snatched his cigarette and breathed in, swallowing the smoke. Plumes danced out of his nostrils. “Isn’t that right, Jack? You’re scared.”Unwillingly, Jack nodded. The sergeant laughed again. “See what happens when you stick your cock in places it shouldn’t be?” This time he let the smoke escape from between his lips, forming little “o”s in the air. “There’s worse things in this world than the Viet Cong.”“I believe it, sergeant,” Jack muttered, and the sergeant stuck the cigarette back in his mouth, but his hands lingered, toying with him, moving the cigarette around, wiggling it between his lips. Suddenly, he grabbed Jack by the shoulders, pulling him in tightly. Jack’s entire body stiffened and his fingers curled; his breath hitched as the sergeant whispered into his ear: “Meet me at these coordinates tomorrow at 04:00, sharp, Delroy,” he said, muttering a string of numbers. His voice carried such a demand, such an urgency, that the numbers imprinted themselves into Jack’s memory immediately. He repeated them in his mind like a song. “I’ll see you beneath the tall trees.” “You want to be famous, Delroy?” the man addressing him could’ve been a general, or a lieutenant, or even a private– he could’ve been anybody , but Jack wouldn’t know, because he was naked, ignoring the fat centipede crawling up his leg at a snail’s pace. Jack wore his fatigues, looking uneasily at the scene around him as he sat on the ground cross-legged, flipping through a deck of cards. “Four,” said the man, and Jack, grimacing, conceded a card, merrily collected. A dim fire crackled in a small clearing deep in the heart of a  jungle somewhere in Cao Bằng, a location Jack had to brave many a beast and trap to find. “Sure, fame could be nice,” Jack responded absent-mindedly, mind not on the game, not on the conversation– how the hell could it be?All around him were men, naked men, soldiers, some stripped down to the dog tags, some wearing just their pants, some just their blouses, boots, helmets. They laughed and spoke in a strange manner that was certainly English but Jack couldn’t seem to follow, using elusive wording, phrases, terminology. He followed a line of men to his sergeant, half-naked and smoking pot. The sergeant caught his gaze and shot him a crooked smile. Jack averted his eyes. He lit a cigarette and drew in deeply, shakingly. Play it cool, Jack. “Three,” he muttered, and the naked man across from him sighed and conceded his entire deck to him. “There’s not a lot of intention behind those words. Fame could be nice. Fame should, would, be nice. No, Jack. It’s fame will be nice. I will enjoy fame,” the man murmured. Jack bristled, furrowing his brow. Before he could speak, the man continued, “ How the hell do you know my name?” He held up a card and smiled as Jack’s expression fell. He took his cards back, with Jack’s to boot. “ How did you do that?” He tapped his head. “I know everything, Jack. I have perfect foresight. You could, too, if you were in the Grove.”“The Grove.” Jack tried to hide his expression of disbelief with a half-smile, trying to force a laugh. “What is that, some branch of the Boy Scouts?”The man’s smile dropped. A few men surrounding immediately stared unashamedly at Jack, their gaze piercing into him like bullets. Jack’s abdomen suddenly stung, as he felt the memory of a bullet that scarred him there just a month ago. Lucky miss. Unlucky for the guy he nailed in the head right after. The man left Jack, muttering, and something about the atmosphere of the place suddenly felt off, heavy. Jack wanted to curl into a ball and die then and there, but he was saved from the ball of fate by the sergeant, who casually approached him, handing him what was left of his joint. Jack gratefully inhaled, and, truthfully never having smoked marijuana before, immediately started coughing, wheezing at the must entering his nose, his lungs. The sergeant patted him roughly on the back. “How’s the party treating you, Delroy?”Jack wheezed out a few puffs. The sergeant deeply inhaled. “Is this a party?” he choked weakly, waving the smog away from his face. “Breathe, Delroy,” the sergeant instructed, and somehow, Jack felt compelled to listen, calming down a bit under the presence of an authoritative figure, an anchor. The sergeant gestured with his hands, breathe in. “Relax. The fellows are a little tight because you’re new here, but I know you’ll fit right in. You’re cool. Delroy.”Corporal Jack Delroy. Two years in Vietnam and counting, maybe . The longer he spent in combat, the less he missed home. When he was home, it felt so… boring. Monotonous. The grocery stores with their never ending, identical aisles, the women with their painted smiles, the hippies with their signs of protest and their ragged jeans. White picket fences– no, not quite that high class. Run down trailers next to the atomic dream homes with kids behind chain-linked fences and cussing neighbours, growling dogs. All the same. At least in war there was action. There was a little bit of excitement. Just a little. Jack grew suddenly appreciative of his bizarre surroundings. Excitement, strange things. Like this.  “I’m cool, huh, sergeant,” Jack mused. “Shit, I never thought you of all people would be the one saying that to me.”“A sergeant can never be honest with his men,” said the sergeant, lighting a new joint. “Just like a man can’t be honest with his wife.” There was a strange glimmer in his eyes and again it was all red. The men were red, painted by the fire’s flames. The trees were red, the faces were red, the smoke was red. Jack suddenly grew worried. “Aren’t you worried about the Viet Cong?”“The Viet Cong don’t exist,” the sergeant murmured around a drag, his face disappearing momentarily in a puff of smoke and reappearing in a way that made Jack’s skin crawl. “Can I be blunt with you, Delroy?”Jack grinned and held up the roach of the joint he was offered. “I thought you already were, sarge.”  The sergeant’s face betrayed no signs of amusement. Jack nodded soberly. “Have you ever done it with a man?”A breeze that had been passing through the trees stopped in its tracks, and with it, so did the movement of the men, as all eyes fixed on Jack and the sergeant. Jack squirmed and hesitated. The sergeant snapped. A younger, maybe early twenties, man, probably a private, flew to his side and in seconds his lips were on the sergeant’s, their tongues intertwining like mating snakes, the sergeant’s eyes all the while upon Jack’s. It struck Jack that he’d never before seen a pair of men kiss, let alone so shamelessly, and the realisation sent a cold chill up his back and a blush up his throat. “Like that, Delroy. Have you ever done it?”Jack swallowed nervously, chuffing the remains of the roach then flicking it, useless, onto the ground, rubbing the embers out with an olive green-and-black boot. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his face paint had been washed off, mostly by the rain and his own sweat, still streaking bits of his face here and there, his nose, his brow. His pants were tucked into his boots– good mosquito protection. In combat, dress code had a habit of receding to, do what works for you, and the men of Jack’s platoon certainly fit the bill. He looked around the men gathered, the Grove, apparently. There was no one he knew there but the sergeant, in spite of how familiarly many of the men had treated him. He looked up, up at the tall, tall trees, and they suddenly seemed infinitesimal, looming, climbing higher and higher, their lush, dark green leaves contorting and twisting into the sky, wanting to get away from him. Away from the Grove. “Should I say yes?” he finally stammered nervously, and a roar of laughter erupted, unsettling as the men’s faces were all stoic in spite of the oceanic noise rupturing the sky. Jack paled. Did he hallucinate it?“You should say what’s true, Delroy. Have you?”Jack shook his head.“That’s fine. You can answer with your body.” The sergeant leered next to Jack, his cold gaze calculating, scrupulous. “Would you want to?” Jack hesitated then nodded slowly. Another man joined in, a laughing tilt to his voice as he asked, “You a virgin, Delroy?” Jack shook his head, flushing as a roar of laughter erupted again that caused his hair to stand on end. “You got a sweetheart back home, then? She waiting for Johnny to come home and screw her?” Jack shook his head. A lie. He had a girlfriend, one he’d met before the war, as a matter of fact, at a little bar in nowhere, Illinois. Madeline, or as he liked to call her, Minnie. He… forgot about her. Laughter. His head started spinning and, as though he read his mind, the sergeant passed him the other half of his joint. Jack desperately sucked in the marijuana and closed his eyes, letting colours pass by his eyelids in kaleidoscopes for about ten seconds before he reopened them, and the world seemed somehow more vivid. “Do you want your first time to be special?” somebody asked, “with a guy, that is.” Jack swallowed, tearing up. He was overwhelmed. The earth felt like it was breathing, trying to swallow him into its cavity, and he felt hyper-aware of the throng of men amassed around him, breathing on him, their breath like hot air balloons searing his skin, scorching through his clothes, undressing him, naked. He closed his eyes again. He nodded, verrrry slowly, as if nodding slowly negated the fact that he was nodding at all. It didn’t. Another cacophony of laughter. He was really tearing up, now, and he heard a voice, he thought the sergeant but he wasn’t sure, telling the guys to leave him alone and back up. To his relief they did, and the crowd dispersed, not totally but enough for his claustrophobia to fade away. “Who do you want to do it with?” said the same voice, and Jack was almost certain it was the sergeant, but it was too gentle. He was used to the sergeant yelling, screaming, grunting, barking, shouting. He had never heard him speak so gently before. He wasn’t sure if it was the marijuana or if he had somehow instantaneously fallen in love with the sergeant, just based on this sudden shift in tone. He opened his eyes, not sure if he hallucinated the question. He didn’t. It was the sergeant, who repeated: “Who do you want to do it with, Jack?” –and he noticed that he wasn’t Delroy anymore, not 467847889, but now Jack, a real man. “Anyone here,” said the sergeant, looking indifferently at Jack, then at the men surrounding them. “You,” Jack responded, so spontaneously that he surprised himself and flushed red with embarrassment, wanting to take back his response, properly assess the men at the Grove, take the “fine pickings.” He hadn’t had play in Vietnam; didn’t trust the village girls– but it somehow never occurred to him that he could have play, it just didn’t necessarily have to be with a woman. Of course, getting caught would get his ass court-martialed and booted to Leavenworth, not to mention cost him a fine girl back home. Not that he cared. Something about the Grove, something about the tall trees, about the flickering fire, the silent laughter, calmed him as much as it frightened him. Somehow, as he melted into the sergeant’s embrace, he knew that he was going to survive the war. Vietnam wouldn’t be the end of Jack Delroy, no, sir. “Do you want to go somewhere private or do you just want to do it here?” the sergeant whispered intimately, already undoing his belt. His uniform top was long gone; he wore an olive green, loose-fitting tank top stained in blood and napalm, like his boots. Earlier in the day, the platoon had run from a section of the jungle set on fire by napalm planes. The military’s not known for seamless communication, and Jack had the feeling the guys in the plane had some sort of beef with the sergeant based on scattered conversation he’d heard brewing in mutters among the men of the platoon for the past week. Gossip’s cheap in the civilian sector but indispensable in the military. Gossip can get you killed, and a petty grudge can, too. Jack’d seen guys killed over bottles of baking soda, village girls. The majority of history never gets written in books. “Whatever you want,” Jack responded quietly and again immediately regretted his decision, as the sergeant pushed him onto the ground. “Can I get another hit?” he rasped, and the sergeant took a deep inhale of his blunt, then pressed his lips to Jack’s, blowing. Jack coughed a bit and more gracefully inhaled from the blunt, greedily inhaling again and again until he felt he’d had enough, feeling bliss, feeling shameless enough, to do it in front of a throng of men. He fought an erection with his pride but the other deadly sin, lust, won over ultimately, and he kept his eyes wide open the entirety of his first time with a man.  “Where does Delroy end, and Jack begin?” one of Jack’s platoon mates jostled him for a cigarette, which he reluctantly handed over. Jack marched stiffly and blamed the rain, which made for jokes about midwestern superstition, which he gladly took over the alternative possibilities. The day passed in a haze and night fell, passing groggily. A collared scoop owl wood at him from a branch high above en route to the tall trees, and Jack paused in his tracks, entranced by its deep-set black eyes and rotating neck, which turned entirely with his motions, following him in his descent into the deep dark green of Cao Bằng, guided by a faint red light. At every rustle, Jack froze and readied his M16, then lowered and treaded on, nearly firing at one point at another collared scoop, which whizzed at a hair’s length past his head. He did it again with his sergeant under the tall trees. Then he did it again with two men, no, three, the next time. Then he did it with four, maybe five––six, maybe seven. It had been two months since Jack Delroy’s introduction to the Grove, but it already felt like it had been a lifetime, in the best way possible. There was something about the sex that was almost hypnotic–  in perfect rhythm with the others, each man fulfilling his own role. And it wasn’t just sex, either. They talked, too, and when they did there was something almost therapeutic about it– each man had his own gnarly experience to share. Sometimes they tried to outdo one another, and each tale would be taller than the last. Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they laughed, and sometimes they just danced wildly to a distorted radio transmission around the fire, embracing one another tightly. Sometimes there were new guys. Sometimes there’d be a guy with an ugly injury. Sometimes faces would switch, and bodies would contort and grow, but Jack paid it no mind, finding all of them quite interchangeable by now. The end of ‘69.Jack stared wistfully out of the helicopter sent to retrieve him from Vietnam, and for the last time, he gazed upon the lush jungles, the burning masses of fire and napalm and the clouds of Agent Orange. He coughed and lit a cigarette, closing his eyes, wondering about what a strange experience he’d had. He knew in his heart that of all the war stories to tell when he returned to Illinois, that certainly wouldn’t be one of them. No one would be able to get that story out of him even if it killed him. 
II. all those glorious, naked bodies 
 
 
Madeleine– Minnie, he liked to call her– Piper, recently Delroy, was beautiful, an image of prestige he couldn’t quite place & knew deep down he didn’t deserve. When she smiled, it was love, inexhaustible, burning love. When she cried, he cried, and her laughter could light up a room, revive the deadest party. She had long, spidery lashes, hair like gold silk, and big teeth made for smiling, brilliant white with pink gums. She was perfect. Jack didn’t love her. No, he did love her. He loved her like a child loves a butterfly he keeps in a jar until it dies and tosses out when it rots, forgotten and no longer a shiny object to play with. Like the child knew what the butterfly’s innards looked like, Jack knew that in spite of her outward brilliance, Madeleine was a calculating & careful woman, mistrustful & with a penchant for holding a grudge. It had taken him months of courtship back home, then writing letters and visiting on leave during his time in Vietnam, before she finally agreed to date him, and as for marriage, she gleefully agreed to his proposal upon coming home… to say the least, Jack truly felt he had captured his rare butterfly. She was safe in his jar, or so he liked to think, as she suffocated silently.Madeleine’s hands were like raven’s claws, digging into Jack’s back as the pair half-heartedly swayed through a slow song at the discotheque, Respect, Rotary Connection. “It’s my birthday, Jack. Did you know that?” Minnie growled lightly into his shoulder blades, eyes rolling up slowly to glare at him behind a brilliant smile. “ Happy birthday, Minnie,” she whispered breathily, threateningly. Jack couldn’t focus on her. “Minnie, honey, look.” Madeleine sharply whipped her head around; he tsked with frustration and redirected her to face him. “No, don’t draw attention. I’ll just turn you around. But look. ” Awkwardly, Jack shuffled, tripping a little over Madeleine’s feet. He moved his hand from the small of Madeleine’s back for a moment to take a proper drag of his cigarette, which had been dangling uselessly in his mouth. He breathed the smoke directly into her face. She coughed, making an uncomfortable expression as she frantically waved the smoke away. “ Jesus, Jack, you ought to get a licence for that.”“Well, bitching about it isn’t gonna make it any better,” Jack mumbled under his breath, earning a hard glare. “Don’t look at me. Look. Do you see it?”Madeleine’s expression lightened slightly. “You wouldn’t happen to be talking about the man in the owl suit, would you?”Jack grinned at her. “The scene’s becoming a freak show, Minnie.”Madeleine laughed lightly. “You’re one to talk. Front and centre: husband who still hasn’t wished his wife a happy birthday.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, God. He’s coming over here, Jack.”“Happy birthday, honey,” Jack said quickly, leaning in for a quick peck, then stood straight again, expression quizzical. “Who, the owl?”Keeping her eyes shut tight, she nodded, pursing her lips. Jack jostled her. “Closing your eyes isn’t gonna get him away from us,” he laughed, then froze as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around with an awkward smile, making a shooing gesture. The owl-man wore a white, flowing robe that shimmered under the strobing lights reflecting from the disco ball overhead, and on his head was a mask of a barn owl that covered his head entirely, front to back and even his neck. Jack laughed nervously.“Sorry, she’s spoken for– and, uh, I don’t have any pellets.” “You’re going nowhere fast, Jack,” the owl-man whispered, and Jack froze. Madeleine opened her eyes and furrowed her brows, looking at the owl-man, then at Jack, then again at the owl-man. “Do you know this guy, hon–” Jack dismissively put a finger to her lips, swallowing. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” The owl-man put a finger to Jack’s lips, and Jack grimaced as Madeleine coolly glared, removing his finger from his lips. “Put your finger on my lips again and I’ll bite you,” she warned, half-jokingly and half-dead serious. Jack paid her no mind. “I think you know the answer to that question better than I do,” the owl-man whispered, and as Jack took a step back, he took a step forward. Madeleine let go of Jack entirely and stepped away from the two of them. “Jack, what’s going on here?” Again, ignored. She scowled, biting her finger. “You’d better come with me.”Dazed, Jack shrugged apologetically at Madeleine, then left her to follow the owl-man. Excitement pulled at the strings of his heart which beat faster in turn. The disco pounded with energy now, as a more fast-paced song came on, and heat emanated from bodies dancing in a tangle. The excited and rushed chatter filled the air, energising Jack, as he rushed after the owl-man, staring at him unbelievingly. “Were you in Vietnam?” he whispered. “Your voice sounds familiar.” “Don’t talk,” the owl-man responded coolly, and Jack shut up immediately. The owl-man handed him a pill. “Take this. You’ll need it, where we’re going.” Jack placed the pill on his tongue, and was surprised to find it dissolved, fizzing and spreading, searching the corners of his mouth, nesting under his gums, sitting uncomfortably between his teeth. The thought, I should’ve asked what the hell he’s having me take, came of course after he had already taken the pill. His pupils dilated slightly, and a sweeping rush sprinted to his head, making his brain feel numb, his face feel heavy. His body felt like it weighed six hundred pounds yet nothing at all, and he found himself tripping as well as gliding and falling across the dance floor. Some people giggled at his imbalance, but the light laughter fell like the roar of a tsunami upon his ears, and as he tried to balance himself, his condition only worsened, his legs becoming sea legs on the land. He covered his ears but the roaring worsened, and eventually he felt himself falling, felt the owl-man, somebody, picking him up, carrying him over his shoulder. He could feel it, he was vaguely aware of it, but not for long, as his world faded to black. He woke up in a black room– black walls, black decor, black furniture, figures that vaguely resembled humans clad in black. A single candle flickered dimly in the centre, disturbed by his motion as he came to, dancing, contorting, wildly in the breeze wrought by his movements. He felt for his pockets. Only skin. He felt for his underwear. Again, only skin. He became aware of the slight, cool breeze blowing against his body, of his nakedness, and he blushed a bit, instinctively covering his body with his hands. The figures around him seemed unaffected. The owl-man was nowhere to be seen. Or maybe he’d just changed outfits. Jack looked around and moved his wrists, his ankles, freely, pleased to find that at least he wasn’t gagged or bound in some way. “Greetings, Mr. Delroy,” said a snakish, pleasant voice that slithered and hissed through the air, swirling in his ears like a toilet. He swore he could feel the words descending down his ear canal before the sentence ended, a minute after it had been uttered. “Greetings,” he replied hesitantly. “Do I…” he felt dumb as he asked, “...do I… know you?”“We met beneath the tall trees.” Jack’s body numbed all at once and he could feel his heart in his throat. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember…? All those glorious naked bodies…”“I remember,” Jack said shakily, rushedly. “I, I remember. Oh God, it was real? I mean– of course it was real, I– I wasn’t expecting to…”“...thought you were the only one who got out of the ‘Nam, Jack?” an unfamiliar voice laughed raspily. Jack thought, almost spitefully, that it could’ve been someone he sucked off personally and would have no idea. Those wild encounters felt almost inhuman, surreal in his memory, and they blended into one, with the only one standing out being his time with the sergeant. His “first time,” after all, and his introduction to the Grove. How could he forget? “N-No, of course not, I…” he cleared his throat, hoping it would help against the stammering. It didn’t. “I… I thought I…”“Disappointed, Jack?” Another voice. He flushed further, terror and a strange sense of camaraderie gripping his heart at once. “N-No… again, o-of course not, I just… gosh. It’s been a while, I didn't know how to find you, I... I– I never thought I’d have the…. have the luck– the pleasure, of meeting you folks again.”“The pleasure’s all ours, Jack,” said another unfamiliar voice, and this time a distinct figure emerged from the shadows. He was clad all in red, and wore a finely groomed goatee. His eyes were wild, and Jack shrunk under his gaze, discerning, examining. He felt like a hostage abducted by aliens aboard their UFO. A naked specimen. “You have friends in high places, Jack. Your friends at the Grove tell me you’re really breaking out on the radio, if not in television.”Jack felt a pang of misery thinking about his show– Night Owls, a real sad number on local television that now aired a little after the local pornographer’s “art films” he was able to get away with only because of the new definitions of “art.” He'd started it before the war, and it was hardly a success then, certainly not now. And back then there wasn't the goddamn porn channel to deter the good Christian viewers before his spot. You could never tell the guy who ran the channel, but his films, whether he put plastic roses in them or not, were just… porn. The word hypocrisy flashed in Jack’s mind for just a second but he didn’t really pay it much mind. He did well on the radio in Chicago, another career briefly interrupted but considerably more successful than his stint in television, but he couldn’t stand the radio. It was boring, it was repetitive, and he never got the chance to be himself, not really. He wasn’t famous for face. He was famous for voice. There was a difference. Besides, for a job, the pay wasn’t that great. His house, which Madeleine hesitated moving into in spite of the fact they were married, showed for that much. “Not really,” he responded sheepishly.        The man laughed. “So humble for America’s future sweetheart,” he cooed. He tilted his head. “I hear you have a real sharp… tongue, Mr. Delroy.” He sighed. “Could you give me a sample? Turn on that radio announcer charm.”“Do you– do you want me to suck your dick?” Jack asked, not indignant but taken aback nonetheless by the sudden severity of the situation. He hadn’t done it with anyone but Madeleine since his return. Madeleine. God, Madeleine was still– Like he read his mind, the man in red said, “That’s a fine wife you left there in the disco… Aretha Franklin ought to write a song about that sort of heartbreak. Let me see. My baby left me on the floor, on my birth-da-a-ay… ” He sighed. “No, I don’t have the rhythm, do I? No, I don’t want you to suck my dick.” He lightly rapped Jack atop the head. “Such dirty thoughts for a married man– and I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Xander Diablo– old friend of your friends, and I for one still believe in a concept this country’s long abandoned in the excesses of capitalism… do you know what that is, Jack?”Jack swallowed. He felt a hundred different emotions coursing through him: terror, fear, worry, nervousness, arousal… he shook his head. “No, sir… Mister Diablo, I can’t say I do.” “I still believe in helping friends when they’re in a dark place. You are in a dark place, aren’t you, Jack? I mean–” Xander Diablo looked at the cloaked men in the room, and as he laughed, they laughed in echo, an eerie chorus. “–I’ve never seen a man look so miserable in the disco. You’re broke, right?” He put a hand to Jack’s forehead, shuddering with a deep breath in. He looked at the ceiling, past the ceiling. “...you can’t find a new job… you’re getting haunts from the war that interfere with your work ethic… Madeleine… Minnie, right? Minnie’s miserable because she loves you, she really does love you, but she’s working three jobs and wants to settle down, have a kid, have you take over the responsibility for a while, but you keep evading her… you’re a running man, Jack, running away from problems, away from life. That’s okay.” He removed his hand and smiled self-assuredly at Jack’s slack jaw, impressed, confused, terrified expression. He put a finger to Jack’s chin and closed his mouth. “Don’t worry, Jack. Don’t think about it too hard. Doctor Diablo’s here to fix you all up. What do you want? One thing. One minute.”Jack didn’t need a minute. “I want… to be famous,” he gasped in awe. “I want… my television show, I want… Johnny Carson.” He nodded, satisfied. “I want to be as big as Johnny Carson… I want to shove my cock in Carson’s mouth, and make him choke on it…” He laughed nervously, shaking his head. “S-Sorry, that was a joke– not part of… the wish.”Xander roared in laughter, but not at Jack’s sorry joke. “I’m not a genie here, Jack; don’t be so fucking literal.” He looked at the men around him and again there was an awkward, ominous synchronal laughter. He drew a dagger from the sheath of his red robe. “Lie down, Jack,” he instructed, and Jack quickly positioned himself on the ground. “Men, light the candles.” A few robed figures came forth and lit candles Jack hadn’t even seen, though one or two he had felt, knocking them over as he got into position. One flame flickered alongside the central candle, then another, then another… there was a grand total of ten candles, each flame dancing to a different tune; one lapped slightly against Jack’s toe but he didn’t dare move. Xander stood over Jack with the dagger and lowered himself, until he was directly on top of Jack, straddling him as he leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “What shall you have first, Mr. Delroy? Pain or pleasure… dinner or dessert?”“I’ll have dinner first,” Jack said shakily, and Xander nodded sagely. “You’ll do well, Mr. Delroy… yes, I see it now. You’ll do very well for yourself… that’s a good business ethic to have… though of course, we’re doing the heavy lifting for you from here on out. You won’t see it. Stay humble. Just remember to whom you owe your coming riches, and you’ll do just fine… keep that mentality.” He chuckled lightly. “Dinner, then dessert. Nothing in life comes easily.” Jack gasped and yelled as the dagger plunged into his flank, hard, and his head spun as he swore he felt it hit bone. Xander nodded towards one of the men in the room, who shut him up by– not kissing him, you wouldn’t call it a kiss. Their lips smashed together, and whenever Jack yelled, the man yelled with him, and when Jack cried, the man cried with him, and when Jack received a particularly painful puncture wound, the man would bite his lip until it bled, sucking blood gently, yet forcefully from the wound. “Don’t cry, Jack,” another man would then whisper into his ear, erotically, and it would only cause Jack to cry harder, and then another man would lick his face from whence his tears fell, at one point even directly licking his eyeball, an indescribable sensation as wet scraped against wet, creating a pink, smudgy block in Jack’s vision. Finally– “It is done,” proclaimed Xander, standing triumphantly over Jack’s body with a tiny slab of flesh in his hand, which he proceeded to devour. This finally broke Jack, and he struggled to get up, sobbing and gagging, trying to cover his mouth, close his eyes, anything. His every effort at resistance was stymied by the men, holding him down everywhere possible until he calmed down. “How do you feel, Mr. Delroy?” asked Xander, smiling in a manner all too placid for a man who’d just devoured a scrap of another’s flesh. Jack contemplated his answer. “I feel… lighter… I feel… like a great burden… was just lifted off my chest.”“The burden of the flesh!” Xander roared, and the men clapped wildly. “Hear how they applaud, Mr. Delroy… yes, this is it– your first proper round of applause– they are applauding you! What a show you put on Mr. Delroy! What effort, what stamina, what endurance! I cannot tell you how many men I have lost to that simple ritual alone… for it is not but a ritual of the flesh… it is a ritual of the mind, the body, and the soul, Mr. Delroy, as they fuse into one. From this point on, you will find life passing you at a more leisurely rate, you will find yourself shaking more celebrities’ hands, you will find more women throwing themselves at you, famous women, models, and actresses, and… oh. ” His voice dripping with faux pity, he murmured, “Oh, Minnie, but Minnie… poor, poor Minnie. What about Minnie, Mr. Delroy? What about your poor beautiful wife who’s stuck with you through thick and thin, who would stick with you through fame, through misfortune? What about her? ”“Fuck Minnie,” Jack breathed through his teeth, eyes wild as he imagined himself in a luxurious mansion he could only ever otherwise view driving through the gentrified bits of the midwest, bathing in pearls and getting massages with gold rollers. Xander Diablo laughed and the men began to make animalistic noises, grunting and hooping and hollering and chirping and barking and meowing, and in the excitement Jack joined in, emitting a low, guttural growl. The hold was released on him and he sat up, ignoring the fact in his ecstasy that he was covered in blood, a pool of red growing where he had lie, simmering and gleaming in the candle light. “Fuck Minnie!” Xander yelled over them, and they responded in chorus, “ Fuck Minnie!, ” cheering like a troop of soldiers come home from war. The room gradually quieted, and Xander patted Jack’s head like a dog. He snapped. A cloaked figure flanked him and handed him a card, which was then handed to Jack. “Tonight,” Xander said. “Your reward.” It would be the first orgy– a real, pulsating orgy, a mass of writhing human flesh moving like bacteria under a microscope’s lens– of many, and as the months passed Jack found them not to wear on but to fly by. It started when his show was promoted from local to being granted a proper spot on a state television channel in January ‘71, which for about a month he cherished: Sundays at 12, on Channel 12… but the excitement of that was quickly replaced by newer and bigger and better when in February he got a call from Hollywood, that a company– a big company, known as UBC had seen his show, and wanted to talk. Of course talking became something bigger than words, as talking tended to do, and Madeleine barely had the time to process it as she was whisked from Jack’s small, desolate trailer in Illinois to an art deco townhouse in San Francisco, overlooking the Atlantic. “What do you think, Minnie?” Jack said excitedly as he whisked Madeleine through the townhouse, most eager about the window overlooking the beach, where distant silhouettes of surfers and swimmers dotted the ocean’s lapping waves. Madeleine smiled in a slightly sad way, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, I don’t know, Jack… it’s nice, but….” “But…?! Minnie, are you kidding me, this is great, just look at this! – we’ve got a veranda, for Christ’s…”“The house is nice, Jack,” she interrupted, looking at him with a storm brewing in her eyes. “I like the house. I love you. It’s… it’s not the house; it’s you, Jack, you…”He looked into her eyes, searching. His smile fell. “What? What is it, Minnie? Oh, God, I forgot your birthday, didn’t I… oh, God. I’m sorry, Minnie, this new schedule’s been murder, I just…”Madeleine gently put a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “My birthday’s not for a week, Jack,” she whispered sadly, softly. “It’s nothing you did, it’s just… I’m worried, Jack. You’ve always been such a small town boy, Chicago was… Chicago, but now, out of thin air, you’ve got… you’ve got all this… stuff, big house, Hollywood contracts… I mean, UBC? UBC did Golden Valley Girls, Jack,” she said heavily, referring to a short-lived rip-off of Laverne and Shirley, which was, “Hardly worth nothing, Minnie,” Jack said incredulously with an off smile, shaking his head, putting his hands on her shoulders. “UBC isn’t that big, honey. Everything just seems so big when you live in the middle of nowhere.”  Madeleine wasn’t convinced. “Whose finger did you have to pull for us to get here?” she asked quietly, creasing her brow. Jack opened his mouth for another, “...don’t give me another half-assed excuse, Jack. I’m your wife.” Jack somehow half-regretted marrying Madeleine as soon as he got out of Vietnam. He felt slightly bad as he remembered that he’d visited her during leave only as a way to waste time that he would’ve spent fighting, to combat the unbearable monotony of everyday life. It was Madeleine’s bad luck to have ever fallen for him, doubled by the fact that, in spite of everything, he’d fallen for her, too. Of course, he immediately swallowed down the regret, or I should say it was stifled by his dreams of imminent success. In the time it took him to pity Madeleine, he did craft a golden pony of an excuse. He smiled, moving his hands from her shoulders to hold her hands in his. They felt so… small. So dainty. So delicate. He wanted to crush them, just to see how easy it was for the bone to break. He gently stroked her fingers with his thumb.“You know I don’t like talking about Vietnam,” he said quietly, and led Madeleine, staring piteously, lovingly, into his eyes, to the antique couch, seating them both down. “But…” he breathed in heavily, nodding to himself, playing up the momentum. Maybe he should’ve gone into acting. Earnestly, he lowered his gaze and continued, “In Vietnam… I had a sergeant… Dixon…” his voice cracked and he looked lower. Now it was Madeleine squeezing his hands, tilting her brows sympathetically and slowly nodding. “Sergeant Dixon… I talked about him once or twice, you remember…”“Yeah. I don’t remember the name, but… I remember a sergeant. The one with the stomach of a goat and humour as lethal as a tank?” she asked as Jack nodded, sniffling, a sad smile. Forming tears. He had no clue who she was talking about. “ Was… he taught me everything… he’s the reason I made it out of Vietnam alive. Oh, God…” Jack wiped his tears before Madeleine had the chance to wipe them for him. “I owe him my life, more than one time, too… poor bastard… I didn’t even get to see him die, didn’t get to say some proper last words… one day he just disappeared… vanished, into the night.” Madeleine nodded, puckering her lips slightly. “Anyways… like I said, I… I don’t want to get into it too much, but recently, his brother found me… just so happened to be travelling through the midwest, and heard the radio show, liked my voice… his brother…” he smiled damply, looking up. “...well, as you might’ve guessed… just so happens to work at UBC, he pulled some strings and… and…” Jack started sobbing, and Madeleine rushed to embrace him fully, brushing her long nails through his jet black hair, rubbing his back. “...you… you can guess what happened after that,” Jack blubbered, and choked, wet dripping from his nostrils and his eyes onto Madeleine’s chest, but she didn’t mind. She teared up as well, fighting against it for the sake of her thick mascara, nodding slowly, blinking rapidly. “I’m sorry, Jack… it’s just, you never talk about the war, and… and I understand, I do, it’s just… it all happened so fast… but you don’t have to say anymore. I understand, baby…” She kissed his head, scratched his scalp. “I understand… I love you, Jack.” Another kiss. “I love you… honey…” Against her chest, Jack’s pitiful expression remoulded itself into a sly smile, tears falling uselessly from saddened eyes. Sergeant Dixon. He never knew a Sergeant Dixon– there’d been an equivalent, but he was quite alive, and a member of the esteemed Grove, which turned out to be a rather affluent all-men’s club so conveniently nestled in the thrushes of golden California, a convenient twist of fate for an aspiring television star.  In California, years felt like months, and months felt like days. Jack landed a five year contract with UBC in ‘72, and after a tumultuous but exciting first year, it felt like smooth rolling. It didn’t feel like guess work. It felt like an up and coming career, a legacy. There were nominations for television show awards, but he quickly learned to quell his excitement for those … goddamn Carson always ended up winning, and although somewhat resentful for it, he swallowed an acceptance of the possible fate of always being second to Carson, second to Carol Burnett, second to…  “That wife of yours.” A pair of hands was wrapped around Jack’s throat, and another pair was wrapped around his dick, stroking it as yet another pair held his ass, as somebody’s dick steadily thrust in and out of it. Jack searched for the voice and his eyes landed on an elderly man, a chair at UBC, he remembered vaguely from a few handshakes and lunches ago. This certainly wasn’t a dinner at an exclusive restaurant, but it was good enough payback for the one he’d attended just an hour earlier, as he now gave himself freely to his generous hosts. Jack Delroy was painfully aware of the position he was in, but he somehow didn’t mind too much– he was used to being a bottom feeder. The UBC fellow wasn’t presently engaged with him in fornication, but he made an effort to be included, grabbing one of Jack’s hands and guiding it to his dick, which Jack made his best attempt at stroking while he himself was getting sucked and fucked alternatively. Now that he thought about it, the pornos he’d watched– mostly sourced from his former neighbour in the television industry– were utterly tame compared to what he was experiencing at present. Unsatisfied with the divided attention, the UBC fellow shooed away a few bodies and replaced himself in front of Jack’s exposed anterior. He nodded towards his dick and Jack set to work with now two hands, concentrating as well as he could. “She’s not going to be a problem, is she?”“Minnie?” Jack almost-laughed, abruptly cut off by a moan as the fellow to his posterior must’ve felt a bit of competitive spirit, slamming into his behind with brutal force. “Hell no. She’s as tame as a mouse.”“Good woman,” the UBC executive murmured as he winced pleasurably, contorting himself with an orgasm which he made no effort to cover; Jack fought a grimace as the spunk landed all over him, dripping thickly from his skin. Thank God for showers. “She doesn’t know anything, does she…?”“Should she?” Jack did laugh a bit this time. “Sir, don’t worry. Minnie’s smooth sailing.”The UBC fellow nodded contentedly, lazily. He had to be at least seventy. “Good to know,” he said to himself, moving away from Jack as another executive replaced him. “Good to know.” Jack had at first splurged to the point of excess for his first few years of fame, tirelessly attending orgies and other sexcapades, whether with the Grove or with bored who’s-whos, but his body– he had to remember that he was middle-aged; he’d been one of the older soldiers in the ‘Nam, volunteer army– quickly tired of them, and he decided to restrict himself to twice a month, then eventually just once, unless specifically called upon, in which case he saw no case to voice rejections. Sex with Madeleine felt like a chore and he didn’t even notice that it had been a year since he’d done it with his own wife . He didn’t really… want to, either. Madeleine had been sickly recently and it grew worse and worse as Jack’s fame increased, what at first had been weak coughing gradually evolving into nasty expectorations, leaving clumps of yellowish matter and sometimes even black slime in the sink. Madeleine refused to tend to it herself, slightly maddened by neglect, wanting Jack to notice, wanting Jack to do something about it, just to show that he saw her, that he still cared about her. Finally, Jack decided to get her a personal doctor, who finally assessed in September that she had cancer– this annoyed him, in part because now he had a sickly wife to take care of in between his busy celebrity schedule, and in part also because it resulted in a slew of accusations, crushing him out for his smoking habit– “ Remember all those times you blew smoke in my face, you bastard?” Part of Jack was crushed. He wanted to abandon the fame, abandon the Grove, and be by Madeleine’s side to the end, make sure she was comfortable, make sure she knew she was loved, make sure she… oh, what the hell. It didn’t matter. His mind was elsewhere. Whatever magic the Grove had worked with that– Alexander? Xavier? Whatever, Diablo character, it was working. It was 1976, and Night Owls was climbing to new heights after a slow period– for a bliss month, it had topped Johnny Carson, his parasocial rival, in ratings, a discovery after which Jack had chosen to get piss drunk then piss directly on the screen as Carson aired, laughing wickedly as Madeleine reprimanded him, cackling until he passed out from drunken revelry. Madeleine briefly considered reviving him, briefly considered carrying him to bed, briefly considered cleaning up his mess, then seriously considered and acted upon doing nothing of the sort, choosing to spend the night in a hotel instead. Jack didn’t notice. The monthly orgies were of importance to Jack beyond his carnal desire, which he more recently satisfied just through the occasional hook-up, call girls, escorts, whatever felt easiest in the heat of the moment. The monthly orgies were mandatory, more meetings than anything, a matter of nearly sacred importance to keeping membership in the Grove– something about the enforcing of trust and bonding and privacy between the men, something about enhancing testosterone, something, something… Jack had at first, to include his military days, felt an almost worshipping adoration, respect for the Grove, but as he reveled in the spoils of success, he grew lazy, sloppy, and had attracted reprimand a time or two for disobedience, or insolence, as Grovees liked to call it, which resulted in a firm ass spanking. He wondered if he should worry that the spankings didn’t even elicit pain in him.  Being such… formal events, the monthly meetings required a dress code, mostly for members to be able to identify one another, but also to ensure that conformity and respect was upheld among the ranks. Higher officials’ faces were seldom seen, and if they were, you’d fucked up somehow, and it would be the last thing you’d see before dying some unfounded death. It was that fear that increasingly fueled Jack’s ambition to attend the meetings. The uniform of the evening was high school prom style tuxedo suits, and Jack felt slightly humiliated as he dressed himself in too-tight satin pants with white lining, a ruffled shirt, a ridiculously curved lapel on the blazer, all baby blue, a colour he did not find flattering, but it was the cheapest rental at the formal store, so he sucked it up. He slicked a bit of pomade into his hair. It was three AM. He stared at himself in the mirror until he didn’t recognise himself anymore. Perfect. He was… ready. Madeleine crawled out of her bed, fighting a cough as she moved soundlessly to the door of the bathroom. As Jack stared at himself in the mirror, she stared harder. When he left, she waited a beat, then slipped into the bathroom herself, staring madly into the mirror. Lung Cancer. She had gotten lung cancer and she’d never smoked, not once in her life. She tenderly touched her head where once long golden blonde locks of hair had rested, but now was only flesh, scabby and scarred. Her eyes were bare and she sometimes didn’t recognise herself; it wasn’t so much the absence of the makeup as it was the heavy eyebags she’d developed while undergoing chemotherapy, a relatively new form of treatment Jack had rushingly assured her would work wonders– you’ll be good as new in no time . It had barely been a month and already it had pushed her body this far. She couldn’t help but to be skeptical.  Rushingly . The ‘70s were a maddening blur. Jack had gone from radio host to TV host thanks to reconnecting with his friends of the Grove. Madeleine had moved with Jack from Berwyn, Illinois to San Francisco, California. Jack had become a real famous TV star. She’d watched a few episodes of his show, the new version, once, back in ‘71, when it first aired. Never again since then. She didn’t like it, and she’d told him that. That didn’t go over too well. An argument and he slipped away into the night. Although, it didn't necessarily take even an argument for him to slip away.   Tears brimmed in her eyes as she touched the eyebags tenderly, wincing at how soft, mushy, they felt. She turned on the light of the bathroom, pawed around in a drawer for her makeup. She bitterly reminisced as she applied mascara, stretching out her lashes as far as they would go, then tenderly glueing extensions between the existing fibres. “I don’t like your show ‘cause it’s not the real you, Jack,” she whispered to herself, pausing and blinking, swallowing tears. “Your old show… the old Night Owls… now that was television. You were real on it. You were calling local politicians just to take the piss out of them. You were talking about your hopes, your dreams, sometimes about Vietnam… I remember when you had crazy man Fike on as a guest, and the whole town came together to get him rehab, get him homed… that was so nice of you, Jack. But now… there’s nothing there, Jack. People love you, Jack. But they don’t love you.” She ran a finger under her eyes. “That’s what I should’ve said,” she said shakingly, as she applied concealer to the eyebags. “My magic wand…” she shook her head. “I know… I know you’re seeing somebody else… I know, Jack. But… I know… you… I’ll get you back.” She thickly applied mauve lipstick, corpse-like powder and dramatic blush. She stared at herself as though she were a self-constructed Frankenstein’s monster, and finished by wrapping her head in a silk scarf, one of the few gifts Jack had gotten her since they moved to San Francisco. “I want my Jack back,” she said haughtily, and her voice wavered. She breathed in deeply, quickly shook her head. “I’ll get you back. I’ll get him back… my sweet, sweet Jack Delroy from Nowhere, Illinois.” It was early October, and the thrill of Halloween coming up seemed to certainly stir the air with a buzz of excitement. Jack didn’t mind the older guys too much, but he was pleased to, for a change from the past few months, be paired with younger men, mid thirties, early-mid forties. He eagerly stripped himself of his tacky blue suit, which he placed neatly into a pile on the edge of the “thrush,” a circle mown in the middle of a gnarly woods off the coast, illuminated by a raging bonfire, into which the men were encouraged to throw a “mortal possession” before they engaged in “liberation.” Jack had chosen to throw in a box of pasta, his imagination failing to conceive something better to bring. He watched as the cardboard curled and the strings of spaghetti snapped and blackened until there was nothing. He had a sudden guilty pang, thinking of Madeleine. A horrible vision crossed his mind of her withering away into nothing, blackening, curling, and fading away into ashes like the objects tossed in the fire. He felt a longing to return to his townhouse off the coast and tend to her, maybe even make love to her if she was up to it, tell her how pretty she still was, how he’d love her no matter what, how hard he’d fight to make sure the damn cancer didn’t eat her alive, how sorry he was that he’d always laughed off her criticism of his smoking… his thoughts didn’t have long enough to conceive themselves to reality, as suddenly he felt a hand around his neck, and, leaning into it, snaked into an embrace with another man. A familiar, familiar man… his eyes widened. It had been years, at least six, maybe even seven, but he recognised him immediately– his sergeant, the sergeant, from Vietnam. His in to this whole mess– this whole– sensation– to begin with. He didn’t give him time to voice his recognition, however, as at record speeds, the sergeant pushed Jack onto the ground, shoving his hand down his boxers, which he hadn’t even had the time to take off. Jack reciprocated the motion, grasping the sergeant’s hips and grinding against him. He removed his lips in favour of licking the side of the slightly older man’s face, savouring the slight salt of sweat that tinged his palate. He shivered as the sergeant recognised him– “Jack,” he breathed, squeezing his hips. “Holy hell, you’re still alive.” Jack briefly felt a flash of despair that he didn’t recognise him just from his show– he had a sort of odd expectation that everybody in the US would just… know who he was, like… Carson. He scratched the name out of his brain, feeling madly jealous. “Sergeant,” he said, breathing in sharply as the sergeant felt for his ass, angling him for… “That’s sergeant major now, Delroy,” the sergeant laughed. “You’re still in the service?”“You can leave the army, but the army never leaves you. I learned that the hard way, tried to retire after Vietnam… nah. I went right back in, reenlisted. I’m sure you know what I mean. After all.” He grinned cruelly, and Jack closed his eyes, sucking in air as he entered him, hands gripping the earth below. Dirt dug its way under his nails. “You’re still chasing that high, aren’t you, Delroy? With the Grove, with… Hollywood, yeah? I hear you landed some big contract.”“Yeah.” Jack grunted, rocking his hips with the motion. “With… UBC.”“Haven’t heard of ‘em. But hey. Congratulations.”Jack’s ego was wounded again. He almost went flaccid. Almost. The sergeant-major’s hand darting to his cock prevented that. He shuddered and exhaled deeply through his nostrils. “You get more experience in the army?”The sergeant-major laughed. “Hell no. When I screw, I screw here. I can’t play that shit outside the jungles. It’s been…” He pushed vigorously into Jack, who strained against him. “...so… long.” Their private moment didn’t last long, as within the hour, four other men busied themselves in the vicinity as well, but neither Jack nor the sergeant-major had any complaints about further helping hands. The low, atmospheric hum of music selected by the Grove’s leaders buzzed through the air until finally the fornication ceased, called to a halt by the leader, the owl-man, known by no name, no title, nothing. As he had expressed himself, he was air, he was space, he was nothing, apparently on some higher plane of existence none of the average members of the Grove– rich hippies, businessmen, old money types, celebrities… you get the type… could hope to attain. Not that they minded, either. People like following. The members of the Grove were just that. Followers. And each of them knew, somehow, that this high wouldn’t last forever. Jack only half-listened, too entrenched in his own thoughts, worries, woes, to pay attention. The owl-man spoke in whispers and hisses exclusively, never raising his voice higher than the wind. Jack never really fell for that spiritual BS anyways, and his years in Vietnam, his years in the Grove, his years in the Hollywood scene, had only disenchanted him to certain types, which of course was hypocritical, as he himself was the lowest of those types, the suck-up. The bottom feeder. He still wasn’t Carson. Strangely, he felt some sort of resentment about that, deep, deep, brewing in his gut. But he was too much of a pussy to do anything about it. He hated himself. He wondered sometimes, in those dark, dark moments, if he should even be alive. How pathetic was that? He wasn’t sure what he did with that Xander Diablo character, but if he were to take a guess, he’d land the dart on something along the lines of, sold his soul to the devil, and then he felt superbly pathetic… I sold my soul to the devil to become a goddamn nighttime television host, he thought to himself, the owl-man’s words vaguely swirling in the din. He thought again about Madeleine, and felt that intense self-loathing swelling in his gut again. I have a beautiful, loving wife and I’ve neglected her… I’ve cheated on her with a number of people I can’t even count, and I’ve been fucked more since coming here than she has been… and then she got goddamn cancer because of me… oh, I should really do it. I should really throw the towel in. He rubbed his eyes, grimacing. His forehead throbbed. No. The last thing Minnie needs now… the last thing she needs is to be alone. She needs me. She needs someone to help her fight, someone to… he felt tears, real tears forming, and as he felt disgust at the outburst of emotion for a moment he simultaneously panicked as he realised that he didn’t even know who he was. On television, he was the amicable Jack Delllllroy (the long rolling L is obligatory) with lovable homely co-host Gus and asshole manager Leo. He performed the asshole in front of Gus– pie to the face, jokes about fat, jokes about his baldness, but in a funny way, right? In a way that was just to make the audience laugh, right? Surely, Gus thought it was funny, too, right? Now that he thought about it, he’d never even taken Gus out to lunch. He made a mental note to do that sometime. He did like Gus. He was a decent guy, and he took the piss pretty well. Never retaliating, which was slightly concerning. He probably hated Jack. And Leo… Leo was Leo. He wasn’t hard to perform in front of. He was an asshole, and truth be told, Jack was a bit of an asshole, too, so he just catered to that bit a little and he and Leo got along jussst fine. At home, he was the amicable Jack Delroy, and he was the asshole neglectful husband, and he was the sweet midwestern bumpkin, and he was the… his head started spinning. He rubbed his forehead, pinching his thick eyebrows together. He didn't like to think about himself. Who did? He wished he was at home, he wished he would’ve skipped the orgy– even if it was, admittedly, a great lay that time, not so tiresome and pandering, so chore-ish as it usually was. He suddenly blamed that as the reason he hadn’t been sleeping with Madeleine– not because he didn’t love her, but because his relationship with sex had transformed from one of pleasure to one of business, strictly professional, obligatory, or just because he felt that as a celebrity, he ought to.This somehow made him feel more self-assured in himself. It’s a shame internal monologues aren’t discernible by the outside viewer. This refers specifically to a horrified Madeleine Delroy, who watched wide-eyed from behind a tree as her devoted husband got fucked in ways she couldn’t fathom in her imagination. 
III. dreamer, you are… awake
 “Folks, I’m excited to announce tonight’s special guest stars… first up, we have an exclusive spot by the lovely Maryann Farra and Satin Soul… now, I warn younger viewers– first, you’re up past your bedtime–” He tsked and wagged a finger jokingly, “–and second, this song does contain a bit of… adult content, if you catch my drift, so it’s time to turn off the television. With no further ado… ladies and gentlemen, Just a Little Timing !!” Cheers and applause erupted on cue from the studio audience, quelling as Jack spoke again, “Then, world-renowned hypnotist Carmichael Hunt, who you may remember from last season…” More applause. “And last but not least, the most gorgeous woman I have laid eyes upon in my life… the love of my life, and the woman of my dreams come true… my very own wife, Madelinnnnne Delroy!” The audience applauded more vigorously than they had for the previous guests, shouting and hollering praise. Jack smiled humbly, pointing at the camera. “All that and more, viewers, in store for you… right after this short commercial break.” A man behind the camera made an “o” with his thumb and index finger, and Jack’s smile immediately fell. “Water, damn it, can someone bring me a water?”A studio assistant promptly rushed to his side with a cloth and a bottle of water, which Jack downed immediately, wiping the sweat as he stormed backstage, confronted by his manager Leo Fiske, a shrewd middle-aged man who wore perpetual aviator sunglasses, night or day, and had a wild, curly mop of hair. And a leather jacket. Always a leather jacket. “America’s sweetheart’s in her dressing room,” he said with dripping sarcasm, then jabbed, “Oh wait, she’s standing right in front of me.” Jack glared at him for a beat then elbowed past him, grumbling something as Leo followed him, grabbing his elbow. “Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking, Jack? Bring your wife on TV? You might as well tell the whole nation, you can’t fuck me, America.” Jack ignored him. “Do you hear me, Jack? Wives, husbands… they’re what kill celebrity. It’s bad enough you wear your wedding ring on air. Come on. She’s a nobody. We have time to fix this. I can bring on… shit, who can I bring on. I can bring on Vincent Price, that’s it. I hear he’s in town doing publicity– God knows why– for the old Batman series. Probably DC tryin’ to bring that franchise back from the dead.”Jack halted outside his dressing room, turning to Leo rigidly. “Look, Leo– I’m not budging on this, alright? She’s dying of cancer… she was practically begging to be let on the show.”Leo was unimpressed. “I’ve heard more emotional ruses in Hogan’s Heroes.”Jack wrinkled his forehead. “Have a fucking heart.”“I can’t afford one,” Leo yelled after him as Jack entered and slammed the door behind. Leo sulked away, running his fingers through his hair, lighting a cigarette. “Jesus wept,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I’m babysitting goddamn Shirley Temple here.” Gus appeared out of nowhere, smiling at Leo. “Anything I can help with, boss man?”Leo groaned. “Get the fuck out of here, Gus,” he muttered, and Gus’s smile fell. Madeleine was transfixed on the mirror at Jack’s vanity table. She had been obsessed with mirrors recently– it had been three weeks since the October orgy at the Grove’s Garden of Eden. Jack worried Madeleine was obsessing over her own mortality, thinking of death. She had barely said a word to him since then, where he in contrast had made a genuine effort at being a better husband– it had been breakfasts in bed, random gift baskets, bouquets of flowers, sweet talk, even attempts at sex, but she had shot those down. Every time she looked in the mirror, she saw the one person she could rely on– herself. She was still young. She was still beautiful. If she recovered from the cancer, she determined internally, she would leave Jack’s sorry ass for good. It would be tough, but she’d worked three jobs before… she could do it again. She knew. She could do it. Ignoring Jack, she smiled at herself, perfecting her long lashes, her dramatic eye makeup, her bronze foundation, her golden skin. If she couldn’t have golden hair, she’d at least have golden skin. Jack had asked if she’d wanted to wear a wig for the show. The answer was no. She didn’t want to wear a painful reminder of what she had lost. Besides, she liked her wrap. It was disco. It was modern. It was hip. She carefully adjusted it, puckering her lips as she fussed over her lipstick. “Any idea what you want to say when you get on, honey?” Jack asked tentatively, trying to massage her shoulders. Madeleine felt nauseous the second his skin made contact with hers, thinking at once of him… no. She wouldn’t think about that. Not now. She had to focus. “I know what I want to say,” she said simply, smiling, frowning, nodding, shaking her head at herself in the mirror, practising expressions. Worry, guilt, anger, confusion, sadness, kindness, love, joy. Jack smiled awkwardly. “Well, that’s great honey, but… well, you know, with TV stuff, it’s good to have an… idea of what your guests are going to say. For example, today we’ve got a great hypnotist, and he’s… spontaneous, sure, he’s spontaneous, but we still rehearsed a little… got a general idea of what he’s gonna do.” Jack heard Maryann’s voice filling the air distantly behind him, and he was grateful to himself for choosing to do the musical segment first, for a change. It bought him time, at least until Carmichael’s bit. Madeleine held a placid, glassy smile, then dropped it for a cold, hard glare that frightened Jack; he stepped back from her as she glared at him in the mirror, still glaring with her eyes as she smiled. “Okay, Jack. I’ll throw you a bone. I want to do… a sob story. When I was little, I always sort of wanted to be on TV… and you know I did theatre for a bit, but... I'm not quite an actress, now, am I? You might remember I gave that up when you went to Vietnam.” She laughed bitterly, and coughed a bit, then spewed violently, spitting into a paper bin by the vanity. “I don’t think I have a lot of time left, Jack,” she said dourly. “I want… my fifteen minutes of fame.”“I’m sorry,” Jack said quietly, and as he moved to say something else after a stretch of tense silence, the studio audience cheered, and a sharp knocking on the door told him he was wanted by Leo Fiske. “You look beautiful,” Jack said meaningfully, but it earned him nothing; Madeleine’s cold eyes followed him until he was out of sight of the mirror. Once he left, she flicked away a tear forming at the outer corner of her left eye, and smiled again.Jack entered the stage to thunderous applause, humbly ducking, waving to his audience. Gus stood at the side clapping, and Jack waved to him; as Gus waved back enthusiastically, Jack faked a cop-out by pretending to have been waving to a studio audience member instead. Gus’s smile fell. Jack laughed. “How did you like that Maryann Farra and Satin Soul?” Thunderous applause. “She’s a talent, for sure…” He shook Maryann Farra, and then the rest of the band,’s hands, all smiles. She smiled and bowed, then the band was swiftly disassembled and replaced by two humble chairs by stagehands. Jack turned around, then back to the audience, then back to the chairs. “Gee, they move fast! Faster than you can say…”“Alakazam?” Jack jumped with fake surprise as Carmichael Hunt strode onto the stage, bowing, smiling deviously, stroking his mustache, curled into tight coils. He wore a velvet mauve suit and a ruffled shirt, long, shiny black leather loafers. Jack put a hand to his chest, breathing in heavily, smiling. “Ladies and Gentlemen… give it up for our next guest here in honour of Halloween, the eeeeeerie Carmichael Hunt.” Carmichael faked modesty as the audience erupted. When they finally quieted, he pouted a bit, putting a hand to his ears. “Oh, come on. Surely that’s not all you’ve got for the great Carmichael Hunt?”More applause. Again, when it was quiet, Carmichael cued the audience to applaud again. When the silence came, Gus interjected, “You’re a real hoot, Carmichael.” Silence. Someone backstage played a badum-tss. Quiet boos. Carmichael Hunt, “Does anyone know this guy?” Jack laughed, and then the audience laughed, too, as Gus hung his head, trudging towards backstage. “Aw, Gus, don’t leave so soon,” Jack said earnestly, standing up to place a hand upon his shoulder. “You’re a valuable addition to the show. I mean that.” Gus’s expression lit up a bit. “You really mean that, Jack?”“Sure I do, Gus. Where else am I going to find someone who’s just so easy to poke fun at?”Again, the audience erupted into shockwaves of laughter and applause, and Gus hung his head again, returning to his usual spot. “I’m just joshing you, Gus. We love Gus, don’t we, guys?” A few hoots. “Come on, night owls, I’m serious now. Give it up for Gus. We love you, Gus.” Gus beamed as the studio erupted into applause. “Alright, now settle down folks. Mr. Hunt here has a trick he says is guaranteed to….” He made a “scary” gesture with his hands. “... blow your minds.”“Who are you hypnotising, Carmichael?” A member of the audience shouted, prompting a sly smile from Carmichael. “None other than America’s sweetheart,” Carmichael responded suavely. “Ann Margret?” Someone else yelled, and while Jack felt a bit helplessly annoyed at how independent the studio audience was being, he said nothing, as they burst into laughter. “No, no,” said Carmichael, curling his moustache. “He doesn’t know it yet, but today I plan to work my… devil’s magic on your very own… Jack Delroy!!!” The audience went wild, standing and cheering and hooting and hollering, as genuine shock and horror crossed Jack’s face. He quickly replaced it with an amicable smile. So quietly only Carmichael could hear it, he hissed, “Carmichael, what the fuck? It was supposed to be a random member of the audience?”Not breaking face nor eye contact with the audience, Carmichael responded from the corner of his mouth, “Oh, I just find you late night hosts so terribly pastiche… I watched a few episodes of the show after my last appearance; I only agreed to come back because I felt sorry for you. I’m here to bring your show a little… flavour, Jack.”Albeit fuming, Jack returned to the theatrics, standing up and staggering a bit, smiling nervously, hand to his chest. “Gosh, Mr. Hunt, but it’s my first time!!” Audience laughter, which Gus took as an opportunity to jab, “Never thought I’d hear that coming from your mouth,” and Carmichael chuckled smugly. Jack hated this. He hated, hated, hated this situation. The audience, he was certain, was against him. His guest star was against him. His wife was against him. His co host was against him. He felt like going on a rampage like a chimpanzee, tearing everything and everyone who had ever contributed to his humiliation to pieces. He wished he was in the army again. At least the army had order. Television was a lawless land. His mannerisms betrayed nothing of his emotions. Dramatically, he sat himself back down, feigned indifference through his expression but set his body a-tremble to convey the exaggerated semblance of fright. “F-Fine, Mr. Hunt… I… I’m at your disposal. D-Don’t think for a second that I’m scared to be hypnotised.” He wasn’t scared. He was terrified. He had always been strictly in control of his emotions, strictly in control of him self– he had to be, for how perpetually terrified he was recently. He drank here and there, but he didn’t allow himself to ever get drunk, not since the Carson TV incident, which he did regret, but had never been able to bring himself to apologise for. He hadn’t touched marijuana since Vietnam, and he vowed to never take any pills after the Xander Diablo incident. It seemed Jack Delroy’s amendements were always too late. “Look into my eyes, Mr. Delroy,” Carmichael demanded, and Jack straightened up. He was getting straight into it, huh? He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Now, look into this pocket watch… are you watching it, Mr. Delroy? I’m going to count to ten, and then I’m going to count backwards from ten… and you’re going to watch the second-hand of this watch, Mr. Delroy, alright? Okay… one… two… three…”Carmichael Hunt counted and Jack followed. The audience leaned forward in anticipation; some also watched the pocket watch; some averted their gaze, some covered their ears, also terrified to be hypnotised but at least able to do something about it. Jack Delroy would never, ever do anything to potentially trigger negative ratings on his beloved late night show. If the hunter must go into the lion’s den, then so it be. Carmichael snapped in Jack’s face. “Do you feel it, Jack?” “Feel what, Carmichael? Jack laughed a little, seeing his hands in the snapping position. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be having me obeying your command with the snap of a finger.” Carmichael snapped. “Bark like a dog.”“Err… woof. Woof. Woof.” The audience laughed, then stopped as Jack joined them. “Oh, please. Night owls, I love you, but you have to admit that was just ridiculous. I saw better hypnotists at the talent show in elementary school.” A reserved chuckle. Jack measured laughter, and he measured applause. He measured everything in his audience, like a science. He measured ratings, reviews, scores. He felt like a mad scientist in a lab analyzing specimens when he did so, and he was sure Madeleine felt likewise about the situation. “Look out into the audience,” Carmichael instructed, and suddenly, something felt wrong. Jack felt he was split in two– there was him, in the seat, in his seat, staring dumbly at Carmichael, and then there was him, standing next to himself. He looked down. His safari suit was gone. A crimson crept onto his cheeks. Naked. He was naked. He crumpled onto the stage, gasping and looking frantically for his clothes, even trying to pull the clothes off his seated self, but it was to no avail. He heard a cough, and slowly turned his head to the studio audience– the audience from before was gone. Seated in the rows were all members of the Grove, and as he stared at them, hesitantly standing up again, they began to clap in perfect sync, rhythmically and tediously. He distantly heard Carmichael’s voice. No, it wasn’t Carmichael’s. It was… someone else. Leo? Was it Leo? “Tell me your deepest secret, Jack,” said the voice. Jack unwillingly cried out, “I’ve been a horrible husband. I’ve cheated on Madeleine… oh, god.” He felt tears forming, falling in fat gobs down his cheeks. “Oh God, I’ve cheated on her, and I… I… I’m still not… there’s…”“Say it, Jack.” The voice was calm. Impatient. “It’s like… ever since…” He swallowed. “Ever since the… ever since the army, ever since… no. It’s like I don’t exist. I died, I think… I think I died in Vietnam. I’m a ghost. I’m a ghost. I’m a hole… a black hole, that swallows energy, that swallows people, that swallows… everything, but is never satisfied, always empty… I’ve swallowed… I’ve swallowed Madeleine, oh God… it’s all my fault, I…” He began to sob, genuinely sob, unworried about theatrics in front of the Grove, who he knew knew everything there was to know about him anyways. “I’m so sorry,” he cried, and went weak, falling to his knees. “But what do you want, Jack?” Asked the disembodied, maybe-Leo, voice. Jack noticed suddenly that Gus stood at the side of the stage, as usual, but his gaze was locked upon him coldly, maliciously. I’m sorry, Jack mouthed to him, shaking his head. I’m sorry, I’m sorry… “Jack, what do you want? ” Again, calm yet impatient. “I want…” Jack breathed in deeply, and suddenly he felt as though he were being replaced by another person again, as the tears disappeared, his disposition shifted, his expression grew pleasant, distant, calm. “I want… to be… fucked.” He panicked internally. No, that’s not what I want. I want to make it up to my wife, I want to… I want to take her to a country, any country she wants, I want to do as much with her as I can before… no, regardless, I want to… His thoughts… just…. disappeared. “I want…” He touched his own body, vaguely mimicking what he spoke about, “I want… to… have… every orifice in my body filled. And even then… I can’t… get… enough… i want… to be the most famous man in America… in the world… but even that… wouldn’t… be… enough.” A pause. “I want… to be loved… by…” By? “...my…self…”“Well, Jack… I appreciate the spiritual journey, but I’m afraid that’s not what your studio audience wants… nor what they care about. Ain’t that right folks?”A resounding cheer for Leo. Jack cringed. Gus took center stage suddenly, grinning grandiosely, gesturing into the air. “That’s right, folks! Sit tight and watch eagerly, as for the first time in television history…. well, need it any further introduction. Watch, viewers, as on live television, America’s sweetheart gets fucked! ” Slowly, members of the Grove, the audience stood, disrobing, migrating to where Jack stood on stage like homing pigeons returning to nest. Confidently, Jack stated to nobody with a dazed expression. “I want… to… be… loved.”He was swallowed in the throng, and the bodies from a distance resembled a hornet’s nest that got hit by a bat, buzzing with motion, friction, bodies rubbing against one another, humming, undulating, the combined auditory input producing an indescribable noise that deafened Jack underneath, and he couldn’t breathe, gasping for air but drowning in ecstasy, and he was certain he was going to die, and–“Dreamer, you are awake.” Jack startled as he was suddenly pulled back into his own body. He was beet red, he could feel it in his face, and judging by Carmichael Hunt’s smug, shit-eating grin and Gus trying not to laugh with all his might, he had the feeling whatever had just been… exorcised out of him on live television hadn’t been all too flattering. He looked madly at the audience. It was the same studio audience from before. It was hard to believe that had been a hallucination. It was hard to believe this was real life. Everything was moving so fast. Too fast. Maryann Farra. Satin Soul. Carmichael Hunt. Madeleine for God knows what reason insisting upon being on the show, not just for a quick spot, but as a goddamn guest star. He felt a headache impending and a bad feeling rising in his chest. “Sex orgies of the rich and famous!” Carmichael explained incredulously, laughing. “Gee, Jack, I didn’t know they had any of that down in Idaho…”“Illinois,” Jack muttered, gripping his head, then, wondering why he was even entertaining this, “God. Shut up, Carmichael.”“Guess we know what comes after Eagle Scouts, folks,” Carmichael laughed, and the audience erupted into applause and laughter as he bowed. Jack realised thanks to a wild wide-eye from Gus that his shirt was unbuttoned, pants undone, tie loose, and he quickly righted himself with a groan, rubbing his temples. Straightening his tie, he staggeringly forced himself to get to his feet, finding it in himself to smile and announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, give it up one last time for world renowned hypnotist and returning guest star Carmichael Hunt.” “I love you Carmichael!!” A woman shrilly screeched. Carmichael looked around and whisper-yelled, “Meet me at the Bar 52 for cocktails after the show!”“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be right back,” Jack used the last of his energy to say, then collapsed. Gus rushed over at the same time Leo emerged from backstage. “Jee-sus Christ, Jack,” he muttered, halfheartedly fanning the host, then looking annoyedly at Gus, who shrunk under his gaze. “Help me get America’s sweetheart backstage would ya?” he said, and Gus snapped to action, grabbing Jack by the feet as Leo grabbed him by the shoulders, leaving a murmuring studio audience with a story to tell their friends later. When Jack came to, he was being fanned by a stagehand, and Leo leaned over him with a tall glass of whisky in one hand, an empty glass by his side. As soon as Jack’s eyes opened, Leo passed him the whisky and Jack downed it desperately, not caring as it dribbled down his cheeks and all over his suit. Leo snapped and promptly another stagehand appeared to wipe the whisky from him. “Hell of a performance you gave out there,” Leo muttered around a cigarette, offering Jack one, which he also gladly accepted. “What the hell did I say,” Jack asked, not having the energy to emote. Leo raised his brows. “Were you being serious?”Jack was annoyed, now. “How the hell could I know if I was being serious if I don’t know what the– fuck – I said?” “Jesus.” Leo couldn’t help but to laugh a little. “ Crazy shit, man. You were going on about your wife– how much you loved her, some soggy bullshit. But then– good God, Jack. Orgies? You? Cults ? Seriously? Was that serious?” Sensing that Jack wasn’t in the mood for sensationalism, he sobered up for a second, “You’re in serious deep shit if you’re in with the Grove, Jack. You gotta get outta there, and for once I’m saying that for your sake, not mine. Granted, my info’s from tabloids, but I hear what they do to guys who, you know… rise against them get a fate handed to ‘em worse than death.“I’m dead,” Jack said miserably, and another stagehand handed him, thank god, another glass of whiskey. He drank this more carefully. “Oh my God, I’m dead. I’m– I’m going to be dead, I’m going to get the death penalty… I’m going to kill him, Leo. I’m going to kill Carmichael Hunt.” He tried to stand but was ushered to sit again. “Calm your tits, Jack– nobody’s killing no one, and you ain’t gonna die.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, which meant the gears of his mind were turning at top gear. “Lotta people think Carmichael’s a con, anyhow… we can spin this as a sensationalist gimmick… say you and him were on it to drive up ratings.”Jack’s expression fell from the glimmer of hope it had built. “But… that’ll make ratings drop.”“Jesus, you’re a nut,” Leo muttered, shaking his head. “Look, just for the tabloids, okay? Anyone who really gives a damn about, oh, I don’t know, dropping a late night show host because of his alleged involvement in…” he pinched his eyes shut, seeming pained as the words “gay sex orgies” fell out of his mouth. “Those three words alone, Jack, my god. That’s headline news, not just a celebrity tabloid. Look, let me cover the publicity ok?” A stagehand interrupted, muttering something to Leo. “Look alive, Jack. Five minutes ‘til you’re on. We still got ten minutes for wifey.”“Oh my God,” Jack said, realisation washing over his face. He stood and clutched Leo’s lapels. “Oh my God, Leo. What are they using as… filler?”“Gus is doing a comedy bit,” he said nonchalantly, as Jack almost fainted again, quickly brought water by a stagehand that he shooed away. “No thank you, sorry, sweetie. I’ll throw it over myself if you give me that.” The stagehand rushed away. “Look, Jack, I told you, I’ll wave my magic wand and all your little problems will fly away, ok? If anything, this is a good thing–” Muffled booing from behind the door brought Jack’s hands to his face in humiliation. “–listen, princess– that bit– it’s embarrassing for you, I get it. But it’ll drive up views, sensationalism, you know. You’ll get high enough ratings it’ll cancel out Hanoi Hannah out there.” He patted Jack on the back. “You’re on. Madeleine’s ready. Readier than you.”And he was off, and Jack wondered just how he could keep so nonchalant, so unaffected. Admittedly Leo's cool demeanor rubbed off on him and he felt strangely assured as Phil rolled up on him, patting him and asking, “You cool, boss man?” Jack nodded shakingly, adjusting his tie and breathing in deeply and––emerging to a stumbling Gus, desperate to make his jokes work somehow, someway. A dead bored audience that roared to life when Jack took stage again. “Carmichael Hunt,” Jack decided to open with a joke, “Would have a better and brighter career if he teamed up with me to form a stand-up comedy duo, now wouldn’t he? We’d bring Laurel & Hardy to the seventies.” Laughter, applause. Gus seemed somewhat relieved as he returned to his spot on stage left, clapping along to Jack’s joke. He couldn’t stand Jack, but he loved him all the same. There was no denying that the man had an awful charisma about him, which backstage, Madeleine had confessed was part of the reason she stuck around. Gus liked Madeleine; they’d only had a few, brief exchanges over the years, but she was cool, a lot better than her husband. She could spin a story, and she could listen, too. She was sweet. It made Gus wonder what the hell Jack used to be like that he’d ever managed to land her. “Jokes aside, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you all to meet someone very dear to me… a beautiful soul, who’s unfortunately… unfairly, going through a very, very rough spot in her life…” He lowered his head, and as Madeleine entered through the heavy door separating backstage, he rushed to her, taking her hand in his and kissing it tenderly. He was relieved that, at least for television, she seemed willing to play the role of loving wide, as she wrapped her hands around his, holding them to his face. She waved, all smiles to the studio audience, as Jack ushered her to the guest seat, crossing his legs. He felt that familiar dread creeping into his body again. Another fucking unfamiliar element on his show– great. Just great. The only thing he’d been able to rely on that day was dear Maryann Farra, and maybe Leo. He could use another whisky just about now. “It’s so nice of you to have me on your show, Jack. This sure isn’t like the stages in Illinois, huh?” He hadn’t realised it so starkly until now, but her voice had deteriorated horribly in the last few months. He barely recognised it. Even with all her heavy makeup on, he barely recognised her. He held her hands in his, rubbing them. They were soft, in spite of the hard look of the skin around her ears betraying the condition of her scalp. She was beautiful, but there was something sinister about her that he couldn’t quite place. She smiled at him assuringly, then leaned over, kissing him on the cheek. An aww from the audience. She laughed nervously. “Gosh, Jack, I feel so… watched.” “Nobody tell her how many people tune in to Night Owls,” Jack japed. A light laugh. “So, Madeleine, let’s get right into it. What do you want to say to my audience– and all our loyal viewers at home?”“Well, first of all, I want to thank you all for all the joy you’ve brought my husband…” she rasped, smiling at the audience. “I can’t believe it’s been… what, five? Years? Since Night Owls first aired on UBC… I feel like I’ve been living in a dream,” she laughed airily, and for just a second, Jack saw the old Madeleine, his Minnie, carefree, unburdened, unsick. He felt a bit nauseous thinking about how much better her life had been before she met him. She didn’t have any friends in California, not really. She hardly ever left the house, especially now, constantly under intensive medical superstition. In spite of the beautiful tan and sun-kissed hair she’d had, she didn’t really like the beach, and she despised the ocean. He swallowed. “I mean, can you believe it, Jack?” she asked, smiling at him. “Should I tell them about how we met?”Jack smiled awkwardly, but nodded obligingly. “Sure, darling.”“Oh gosh. We met in Calcutta, in '66…” She coughed and laughed weakly. “Don’t get your hopes up, that’s not Calculutta, India… you’ve got to love the midwest for its… creativity in naming. I’m talking about Calcutta, Illinois.” A light round of laughter. “Oh, God… he was on leave, and he came into the bar I was performing at, the Eden… I used to perform with a little local theatre, I was doing Oh! Calcutta! that night… a parody play, think Lawrence of Arabia if his camel was a jalopy and the sprawling desert sands were the mystic cornfields of Illinois.” Another laugh. She rubbed his hand again. “You were quite good,” Jack quipped, nodding along. “He’d meet me backstage…. but of course, I was nothing compared to…” she coughed a bit and motioned for a tissue; Jack quickly passed her one and she expectorated a chunk of black phlegm, tearing up from the strain. “Oh, I’m sorry… anyways… of course, I was nothing compared to the remarkable Jack Delroy… he’s a real stud, you know. Do you remember, Jack? All those glorious, naked bodies…” Jack froze and his complexion paled; he slowly turned to face Madeleine and in three seconds they exchanged a day’s worth of dialogue, her expression calm, calculating, cool. “ Remember, darling?”Fucking fantastic. First Carmichael Hunt, now this . If he didn’t believe in the power of human unpredictability, Jack Delroy might have thought the Grove were behind this particular turn in events. “Madeleine, I don’t think we need to talk about…”“See,” Madeleine purred, dazzling the audience with a full smile. “He’s blushing right now.” Her eyes were vicious like he had never seen them before. Jack wished Carmichael were there right now just to say, dreamer, you are awake. He had to be dreaming. This had to be some sort of twisted hypnotic spell, right? Such misfortune didn’t just randomly besiege a man, right? Randomly. He first cheated Madeleine in 1969, when he hooked up with that sergeant in the first Grove meeting. Again in 1970. Again in 1971. Again in… there wasn’t a clean year leading up to ‘76. In fact, in ‘76, he hadn’t touched Madeleine, at all. He was gripped by a vicious cold dread, and he felt his legs going numb, his face paleing until he was certain he looked like a ghost, fitting for the Halloween slot. This was certainly a fucking horror show, if nothing else. He hoped he’d never have to face such catastrophe on live television ever again.“Minnie,” he hissed, but Madeleine ignored him. “My Jack can handle anything. He’s so brave… he’s so, so brave… it’s no wonder our marriage has lasted… what, six years? Seven, maybe? You wouldn’t know, would you.” She giggled. “Poor Jack’s just terrible about keeping his dates straight. But that’s alright… I can’t think of anyone who’s better for me… anyone who would give his wife more loving treatment, more… love, more undivided attention, sympathy… devotion, as she fights…”Her expression turned somber. “... lung cancer… yes, that’s the main reason I wanted to be here today… I’m saying this to you,” she said, turning to face a camera. “All my brothers and sisters out there fighting cancer, never, ever, give up, and know that, no matter how bad, how crooked things get, you’re never alone…” she bit her tongue not to say unlike me, remembering that she was not only competing with America’s #2 sweetheart, but also fighting him, in her own way: turning the medium he was so obsessed over against him. She knew he wouldn’t do anything to her on air. He wouldn’t yell at her, wouldn’t drag her off set. She breathed in deeply, feeling more alive now than she had for the past seven years. This…. was…. television….. this…. was….. real….. life….. for….. her…… husband. She couldn’t help but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, bursting into a fit of it until she coughed up a lung, wheezing into the tissue Jack had provided for her. He closed his eyes. Dreamer, you are awake. Dreamer, you are awake. Nothing. This was real.With Carmichael's stunt paying off in terms of sensationalism, & the meaningful, heartfelt speech Madeleine proceeded to give, inspiring cancer survivors and families dealing with the affliction across the US, it would be the highest rated episode in Night Owls' history to date.
IV. a little respect
 The Grove called an emergency meeting, and the steady, unrelenting feeling of dread Jack Delroy had been feeling became a beating monotony, like a mosquito that got stuck in his ear and he couldn’t get it out. There was nothing to be done about it; he relented to the fact his fate was largely in others’ hands. No dress code. No orgy. Nothing. Jack Delroy and the top dogs of the Grove, each outfitted accordingly. Jack sat directly across from the owl-man, who tilted his head at him, then shook it. “That was quite the… episode that aired yesterday” he reprimanded softly. “I would be shocked at UBC choosing to air something like that, but… you know. Live television. There are drawbacks.” Jack wished he could explode into a million subatomic particles right at that very moment, no, better yet, disappear off the face of the planet, the universe, entirely. No such luck. There was a static silence in the room, finally interrupted when the owl-man asked, “Any response, Jack?”“Leo’s on damage control,” he said quietly. The owl-man tilted his head. “What’s the story?”“He’s writing the tabloids, even some of the more legitimate magazines, newspapers, just in case. He’s… he’s been ringing journalists left and right; you’d think he was running the Yellow Pages.” Deafening silence. “Go on.”“Well…” Jack stammered. “The story he’s spinning is that Carmichael & I were in on a bit together, preparing for Carmichael to dip his feet into comedy… erm… taking the piss out of those people who weave wild celebrities about conspiracies, I mean, c-conspiracies about celebrities... you know… American as apple pie Jack Delroy, in a… satanic sex cult.”“And in... gay sex orgies,” the owl-man said calmly, sliding a tabloid over to Jack. He cringed at those exact words, plastered bright and red on the cover. “I do commend you on not naming anyone in our organisation,” he cooed. “That requires a rather remarkable level of willpower under such extraordinary hypnosis, so you get a point for that.”He sighed. “And people do talk. This isn’t the first time our name’s been in the press, you might remember the George Dick scandal from a few years ago.” Jack nodded.“We discussed it prior to your arrival here… the hypnosis incident is forgivable. I’ve never been under hypnosis before, but a few council members have been, and came to the agreement there was no way you had any control over your actions. And it could have been worse. You could have been dry fucking the stage, so thank God you didn’t let it go that far.”Jack didn’t feel reassured. The owl-man was the most terrifying of the lot: he’d been there from the beginning, and he knew Jack, inside and out– if he started buying a new brand of cereal, he knew it, if he had a kidney stone, he knew it, if he was contemplating suicide, he knew it. Jack knew that he could kill him, or plunge him into a fate worse than death, at the drop of a dime, and there’d be absolutely nothing he could do to argue it, left to the claws of fate. It was a happy coincidence Jack’s show was already called Night Owls. He was certain that if it had been, say, Night… Vultures, there would have been a very urgent request to have the name changed. Owls. Harbingers of death. “The hypnosis, fine. What I’m interested in– and I need a… firsthand account here, of… is the wife . What did she say? All those glorious, naked bodies… not much more. But with Carmichael in tow… that’s hard to pass off as a bit, Jack. We think she was out to sabotage you… you know women. Jealous lovers. You have two choices, Jack.”The owl-man slid a dagger to Jack, and he recognised it instantaneously as the one Xander Diablo had used to perform his flesh-cutting rite all those years ago. His hand trembled as he took the dagger. “Would you like to guess what they are?”“Kill… kill myself, or kill my wife?”The owl-man laughed slightly. “No.” His voice was irritatingly tender, smooth like honey, soft like silk. He tilted his head. “No, you’re not getting off that easily. Kill the wife, or leave the Grove.” Jack’s blood ran cold, recounting horror stories he’d heard of men who left the Grove, let alone men who’d left on bad terms. Something he hadn’t been fully aware of signing his blood-soaked contract was that it was lifelong. “You have two weeks,” the owl-man cooed, and stood, shrieking suddenly, his shriek joined by the animalistic grunts of the council fitting to the animals they masqueraded as. “I trust you’ll make the right decision, Jack.” The council left, and after they did, Jack meekly exited from the other doorway, trudging back to his house, the dagger heavy in his hand, heavy in his pocket, heavy on his heart. As soon as he returned to his room, he buried it in a drawer, and spontaneously burst into tears, crumpling into a heap on the ground. “Goddamn you, what are you feeling sorry for yourself for,” he whispered harshly to himself, gritting his teeth. “Your wife has lung cancer that– by the way– you caused, and you feel sorry for yourself? Kill yourself, you stupid bastard.” But no– that would still end in Madeleine’s death, he knew it. In fact, leaving the Grove would, too– no way would they let anyone, let alone a woman, who had witnessed what happened in the men’s club live to tell the tale to anyone else. It was really only one decision. Jack bawled for a solid three hours, then resolved– he would at least try to give Madeleine the best two weeks. It would never make up for all those years. It would never make up for how poorly he’d treated her, neglected her, especially, in that time, too busy playing the part of the obsessed artist, the fool . He hated how good he was at retroactive reflection. No, passive reflection. He’d definitely been aware of how he did Madeleine wrong in the time he’d spent parading around at UBC, playing puppet for all those old fools. He caught her wistful stare as he headed out the door, he saw her longing side glances as he talked on the phone for hours, heard her calls ringing on the rotary while he serviced various men in his office, felt her hands crawling up his sides as he pushed her off at night, too busy thinking about the day ahead to pay her any mind. He finally crawled out of his room, and followed the sound of music to Madeleine, sitting in the living room, overlooking the ocean. The record player played Respect, by… “Rotary Connection,” Jack said with a small smile, tentatively approaching her. “You still have that old thing?”“It was the first gift you got for me when we got engaged,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I still have it?”“I figured you hated me by now,” he half-joked. She finally looked away from the window to cast him a cold, hard stare. Her eyebags were heavier than he remembered, and the anatomy of her neck strained against her flesh, threatening to burst out. “At least you finally figured something out,” she muttered. “I should hate you, Jack. But I just can’t bring myself to. That’s funny about you, you know?” An insincere smile flitted at her lips. “Everyone hates you, but they never show it, and they love you, too. Gus hates you, he loves you. Leo hates you, he loves you. I don’t know them, but I’ll take a good guess… that those boys at your scout club feel the same way.” She sipped from a tall martini glass filled with something that looked like liquified mush. “It’s no wonder I got cancer,” she said resentfully, “I’ve been living with a carcinogen.”“I’m sorry,” Jack said uselessly, the words feeling empty the moment they left his mouth. He repeated them, hoping they’d sound different, somehow. “I’m sorry.”“Why do you care what I think now?” Madeleine whispered, eyeing the cigarettes in his breast pocket. “Go ahead, light one, Jack. Remind me of the good times.” He didn’t move. He startled as she snapped, “ Light one! ”, and with unsteady hands lit a cigarette. The noxious smoke penetrated the atmosphere. Madeleine breathed in deeply. “That’s better. You know, you’ll probably live to be a hundred, Jack? Scumbags like you always do.”Her resent slipped into remorse, and Jack cringed at the sound of her voice cracking with tears. “How long, Jack? How long have you been… doing it… with those… creeps?”Jack didn’t answer. She breathed in again. “Just nod when I’m on the money. One year?“Two years?“Three?” Worry was plastered across her face, and she coughed wildly. “You’re killing me here, Jack. “Four.“Five. “Six. “Seven. “...eight.” Slowly, Jack nodded, and Madeleine began to really cry, “Not before our engagement. Oh my God, Jack,” she wailed, and Jack didn’t feel right about it, but nonetheless he felt compelled to comfort her, standing from his seat to stand by her, awkwardly, wrapping his arms around her in a hapless embrace. “Oh my God. I married a… a fucking…. gay… Satanic… cult…. whore, ” She choked again and Jack uneasily patted her, wincing as a slew of phlegm and God-knows-what unlodged itself from her throat, tacking itself to the windowsill. “Not gay,” he said quietly. “I love you, Madeleine. I mean that. I love you.”“ Love me. Oh my God.” Her face twisted like a dish rag, her mouth quivering, nose red, dripping. “You love sucking dick and television, Jack. I don’t even know you.” She breathed in, gasping, panicked breaths. “Oh my God. My parents, they loved you… they still do, Jack. But they, they, they… they don’t know… knowww you. They don’t know about the… the Grove… the cult… the sex, oh my God… how many people have you fucked, Jack?” Silence. “How many people have you been fucked by, Jack?”Silence again.“Oh my God. You don’t even know. The nice, Christian boy I married in Illinois has been run through by more men than a steam train,” and again, she sobbed in chokes. Jack haplessly remained by her side, expression blank, mind blank, everything, just… blank . He thought briefly about what a great soap opera this would make, then promptly turned that thought off, zappo . Nilch. He couldn’t say anything to refute her, to comfort her. He couldn’t say, ‘you weren’t supposed to find out,’ because, wouldn’t that make it worse? Morbidly, he wished she would have died of cancer before she followed him to the Grove, then at least……no, this was his fault. His world was collapsing at hyper speed and he didn’t know what to do. He thought of the men in the Grove, how they were all so… successful… bankers, politicians, A-list actors, engineers, military generals, surgeons… and they nearly all had wives, hell, even families… guiltily, Jack admitted to himself that he wouldn’t have been much better even without the Grove; he would have still been obsessing about ratings, views, publicity polls, personality opinions, tabloids… oh, God. It was all so sickeningly artificial. The record skipped, repeating a line, “ All I’m asking, baby, is a little respect… all I’m asking, baby, is a little respect… all I’m asking, baby, is a little respect… ”Jack didn’t see it, but as his tears fell onto Madeleine’s head she– just a little bit– smiled, and leaned into where he stood, staring vacantly out the window.  The two weeks passed– the first Jack spent as he hoped, devoting as much time to her as possible, taking her to nice restaurants, taking her to the nicest places California had to offer. The second week not so much– her condition had deteriorated hopelessly, and she chose to spend her last week in bed, the colour drained from her face, the life drained from her expression. She smiled weakly as Jack approached her bedside with much trepidation, clutching the dagger shakingly between his hands. “Finally,” she whispered, stroking his face as he leaned over. “Finally, you’re taking accountability, Jack. This is a big day for you.” She hummed, scanning him with her eyes. “I want you to remember, Jack. I know this won’t be like the army. I want you to remember this forever, Jack. I want you to engrain the look of the life draining out of my eyes into yours. I hope you feel my despair– I hope you carry it with you for the rest of your life, heavy-hearted… I hope you always remember that you killed your wife. And I’m not talking about the dagger, Jack… I’m not talking about the cancer, either. I’m talking about me. You… killed… me. Just remember that. Madeleine Piper died in… 1970. You have nothing to feel guilty about, then.” Madeleine pulled him down for a kiss, coughing into his mouth. Jack closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and….