The One Percenters

Damnation Books, LLC.

P.O. Box 3931

Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

www.damnationbooks.com

The One Percenters

by John W. Podgursky

Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-013-2

Print: ISBN: 978-1-61572-012-5

Cover art by: Daniele Serra

Edited by: Heather Williams

Copyright 2009 John W. Podgursky

Printed in the United States of America Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced , scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The One

Percenters

By

John W. Podgursky

Dedicated to

My mother, for her unyielding support.

Acknowledgements:

I wish to thank the people who make me feel semi-normal. You know who you are.

Page 1

My mother used to say I have a tendency to dwell on the subject of death. I tend to disagree with the bitch. I don’t dwell; I savor. Here’s why: Her name was Samantha James. An all-American name for an all-American girl. She was born just before the Zeldas, Phoebes and Zoes inherited the Earth—back when there remained a small measure of sense to life. Before the pixie dust of the new millennium stole our innocence. Sam worked as a checkout girl at the market on Fifth, and we met on a rainy morning that now feels like a lifetime ago.

I won’t get bogged down in tedious detail; there’s no need to make it messy. Samantha was methodical in her daily schedule, a fact that made for simple timing on my part. And timing is essential in matters such as these. I waited beside the dumpster until she exited the grocery on her lunch break, and together we made for the woods, though she needed a little prodding. I understood that. We would take it slowly, one step at a time. It was best that way.

I had packed what little I possessed into two neatly tied plastic bags, knowing I would soon be on the move again. It was not my intention to befriend Sam for long. I needed only to spill my guts, to regain my sense of dignity. I lost that back at the lake when the screams echoed in my ears.

Sam’s entrance into my life was far from random. Young, bright, and beautiful, she represented the naiveté and denial running rampant in the world today. It would be easy to convince someone of my own grain; I would be preaching to the choir. Rather, I felt I needed a new and different challenge. Sam would have to do. She was a pretty doll indeed.

It was midday when I began my discourse. The rain had tapered, though the sky was still a hostile gray.

There was no noise in the forest at that time, which is unusual. Forests are full of buzzes, whistles and hums.

Page 2

Sam stood facing me, tied to a tree, whimpering from behind the bandana. This hurt me. I didn’t want to see pain on her face. Who would? I had seen and experienced enough pain in my lifetime to that point. I only needed her to listen, to be my friend for a while. I hadn’t had many friends.

Her sadness seemed decidedly ironic. Here I was, trying to let her in on perhaps the most important process in the world around her, rescuing her from a few hours of mindless and unfulfilling labor, and she was in tears. She should have been rejoicing to the heavens!

As Sam stood before me tied to that tree, she was shaking noticeably. I suppose I can’t blame her. There is, after all, no magic pill I could give her to show her what kind of a man I was. There is no quick trust in this lifetime. You can’t fake time spent. Whatever I wanted to instill in her had to come through the spoken word, and what better and more natural form of expression is there than systematic grunting?

I removed the gag from her mouth, slowly and with an expression that made it plain she was to maintain her composure. Even if she was to be trusted, I could not trust the world at large to understand. Not yet, and probably never.

“Samantha.”

There was no response from her. I tried repeatedly to elicit an answer, but did not wish to resort to violence. I was out to help, not to hurt.

“Samantha.”

Still nothing. Fine then. I would wait. I am, after all, a patient man. It’s a gift, I know. Some folks must learn patience, slowly and with great frustration.

An hour passed, and she cried a lot.

Tears are funny; their calming effect. Crying stabilizes. I knew it was only a matter of time before Sam came to her senses. I was right, and she did. At last, she motioned awkwardly at me with her head. She was free to speak, but was apparently uncomfortable in doing so. I edged closer to her. Finally:

“What do you want?” Her words were weak and choked upon. They came out as one long, forced word.

Page 3

I’d been rehearsing my response all morning.

“I only require you listen. I am not here to hurt you. In fact, if I knew you better, we could be having this conversation right in front of the market. Although it is quite beautiful out here, wouldn’t you say?” Forest aesthetics— humble, splendid, even eerie—are among my favorite.

Again it took her a long time to respond.

“H-How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been watching you, and I asked around a bit. The details aren’t important, really.” Indeed they weren’t. Details are for the compulsive, the anxious-minded. I had learned that from years in the advertising business. Go with the flow.

Suffice it to say we spoke for a while that day in the woods on Fifth Street. In the end, she asked me:

“What are you going to do to me?”

The inevitable question. I didn’t immediately answer.When we met in the parking lot that morning, I had hoped that Sam would turn out to be one of
them.
It would have made this so much easier for me—

two birds with one stone and all that. After our little therapeutic dialogue in the forest, she would help me in my mission, passively. I thought I could do it without so much as batting an eyelash, just as I had the other times. But it wasn’t turning out that way. In the course of our discussion that day, I sensed a big heart within her. I sensed passion and wit, and strength. These are rare assets. I hadn’t planned for this discovery, and in truth, I wasn’t sure I could answer her question yet. I didn’t know
what
I was going to do with her.

How had it all come to this? I only know how it began.

Page 4

I found her body on a Tuesday; that much I remember.

I had been infatuated with Jill from the start, and in the end, we had shared the type of selfless, warm love that perhaps one in ten will encounter in their miserable, self-centered lives. Then, she was no more than a cooling corpse at the edge of the woods. Her eyes were half-shut, which of course means they were also half-open. I didn’t feel comfortable closing the world off to them for the last time, so I sat there under her creepy gaze. I felt for a few moments like she would spring up from the ground with a sharp “Boo!” and it would all be over. It would mean that my nightmare would never have started, and I’d be sleeping much more comfortably these days, unaware of what I now know. Sometimes it’s better we don’t know.

It was raining cold upon her form, and there was leaf litter in her hair. In a state of combined shock and grief, I picked the leaves out and covered her with my coat, shielding her body from the weather, preserving her dignity. Dignity was all I could grant her now; someone had assured that. Some
man
.

The articles in all the papers opened with Jill’s name, but after the initial courtesy mention, she was known simply as Number Seven. Lucky number seven.

My Jill was one of the eventual nine struck down by the Solemn Stalker in the autumn of ‘05. His calling card was one small Bible placed alongside each of his victims. I’ve always wondered if perhaps it was a sign of a strong sense of irony. I know now that it was indeed a “he,” though I had assumed it from the start. Jill’s panties were in the down position upon my arrival on the scene.

The late-night talk show hosts had a feast joking about this guy. Originally, I found myself laughing right along with them, but a situation seems very different indeed, when it affects you personally. Perspective becomes skewed. After Jill died, I was hoping someone
Page 5

would knock off the comedians. Maybe they’d die laughing, if you’ll pardon the hackneyed pun. Laughter comes hard for me these days, like breath after a blow to the sternum.

I will say this: you have to be pretty good to kill nine women in three months, and pretty angry too. Having thought it over, I didn’t buy the insanity bit—the excuse eventually given by the Solemn Stalker (even while maintaining his innocence!). There are mutations and fuck-ups in nature to be sure—I’ve met plenty of them—but insanity is a little too convenient for my liking. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who is both calculating enough to kill, and cognizant enough to get off on the sick power trip rape provides him, is all too aware of what’s going on. Cuckoo people don’t give a shit about power. They have enough on their minds.

Jill was wearing a white sweater when her throat was cut. I remember the blood showing up well on it. There was a lot, as you would imagine, although I suspect it wasn’t quite as bad as my mind remembers.

These things always look much worse when clothing becomes bloodstained. Her sweater looked like it had been washed along with several dozen tubes of lipstick—

the color all the neo-bimbos wore those days.

They found her killer a month (and two murders) later. Jeffrey Simons was his name—the name of an accountant, not a felon. I thought that then, and I think it now. He was a short guy, wiry and bearded. Stable background, loving family. Worked as a bartender, and was well liked by folks at his restaurant of employ. He even hosted an annual holiday party for his coworkers.

How nice. This was the man who stole my life and my happiness. Apparently he just snapped. That’s the best the so-called experts could do. We think we’re so damn smart, we
H. Sapiens
do. We pretend to have it all figured out. I guess we all just want to feel in control, like Jeff Simons.

I saved the news clippings for a while, but tossed them in protest of the glorification they provided this guy. Some things are not worth remembering. Now I just cry in memory. Yes, even now. Some man
I
am.

Page 6

I was happy they found him, but I suppose that much is obvious. Besides providing closure, it got the police off my case and out of my life. Cops are generally good people, and certainly necessary for society to function (such as it does). But if you don’t need to encounter one for a good long while, chances are your life is going okay.