Dark Dream

5. Ode to the Sinners

Charley had a feeling of déjà vu as he approached the Gothic doors that his Boss and Danny now blocked. The halogen security lights pulsed and flared a slow and languid rhythm.

"Listen, Sir, you can't come in. Those are the club rules," his Boss said, in a calm but firm voice.

"Why the hell not, you let all sorts of weirdos in here? What's wrong with me?"

"Sir, I've already told you why. Firstly, you're wearing a suit and secondly you look as if you've had too much to drink. "

"So if I come back wearing a gimp suit or a dress it would be acceptable?" He waited as if the pure logic of this sentence would gain him entry.

His question hit a wall of silence.

"Listen, I want one last drink before I go home. I've always been curious about what goes on here and thought I'd see how the other half live. What's the harm in that?"

"Club rules forbid suits, jeans, or any other casual wear. Plus, you have to be a member. Rules are rules, Sir. "

"Rules? I thought this place was all about breaking the rules?" The man was convinced he had a winning argument and came forward to receive his prize. Expensive shoes scraped along the tarmac, almost as if he lacked full control of his legs.

"Even a place like this has certain rules, Sir. We're only doing our job."

Charley inwardly cringed at the man's approach. The strange feeling he'd had earlier returned. On closer inspection, the man's face looked deathly pale, his hair dull and gray. His suit looked tired and rumpled, as if he'd slept in it. A smell of earth and leaves came with him, as if he'd slept in the surrounding woods.

Charley sensed something not quite right about the man that went beyond his appearance. It was hard to pinpoint and nagged at him. It was like watching someone struggle against gravity, trying but failing to regain the easy movement that most of us took for granted. It was possible he suffered from a disability but his voice and manner suggested otherwise.

"Ha," he laughed, "call this a job? You call babysitting a bunch of freaks a job?" He raised his arm and pointed at them with an accusing finger. Charley thought he looked like some Bible-belt evangelist, beating out some moral code to his eager flock. He imagined him doing a jig while shouting praise the lord and hallelujah.

The man continued with his moral tirade. "You people make me sick! Doing your job, you say. I suppose that makes it all right, then. Bunch of fucking miscreants, is all you are!"

"Sir, we'll have to call the police if you don't calm down." The man's words were getting to his Boss. Hardly surprising because they wanted a quiet night, chatting about footie or what they'd seen on TV. If the man didn't calm down, he'd get invited to an old school kicking. Charley had seen this scene played out many times.

"You!" he said, pointing his wavering finger at Charley. "What do you think of all this?" Absorbed by the exchange, he found himself taken by surprise. He had started to feel like an invisible bystander. He cleared his throat to say something but his Boss interrupted.

"You're dealing with us, buddy; don't be looking over my shoulder." His Boss was pissed and the gloves were off.

"Do you agree with what they're doing? Don't you think it's wrong that these vile and repulsive children are allowed to play out their wanton fantasies in the house of God?"

"I don't know, it's been awhile since I was an altar boy," his Boss said, a tight smile crossing his face, "but aren't we all children in the eyes of God?" He could tell that his Boss saw this bloke as nothing more than a fly on the windscreen of his 16 wheeler. Charley wasn't so sure about that.