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Duct Tape of the Gods

2005 by Christopher Wagoner and Lisa Gilbert

The last thing Jack Hurley expected to see this lazy Sunday May morning when he opened up one of his kitchen cabinets was nothing. Jack's brain wasn't even sure how to process this abnormal state of affairs, and his face froze in a look of bewilderment seconds before he slammed the small cabinet door shut. He stood there and tried to convince himself of what he had just not seen. Jack opened the door just a crack and braved another quick peek inside.

The cabinet space itself was very small, almost claustrophobic. Whoever built this particular cabinet hadn't designed the rest of the kitchen layout very well. It hung just off to the right above the old kitchen sink, lay between two larger cabinets that converged at right angles to each other, and conformed to the corner of the small kitchen. A plumber's nightmare of pipes ran underneath and alongside the diminutive cabinet, and from across the kitchen, the small cupboard wasn't even obvious.

Jack had got up early this morning to take measurements and strip the dingy white paint from the old kitchen fixtures, and in the process of getting up close, noticed this rather odd storage space. When Jack first measured the size of the cabinet, the sides didn't equal each other. Upon close inspection, Jack noticed the outside corners weren't accurate right angles. At first Jack considered just leaving the whole mess in place, but after closer inspection with a flashlight, Jack grudgingly realized that when the contractor would take out the old kitchen sink, the mess of pipes alongside the stubborn cabinet would also have to be taken out as well.

At first the cabinet door would not open, and after he scraped away some paint near the door sill, Jack noticed that someone had nailed the cabinet door shut and painted over it. After some deliberation, Jack had gone to his tool box and picked up a hammer. A few minutes, and several colorful adjectives later, Jack had managed to pry the small door open.

Now he wish he hadn't.

Jack peered around the tiny space, but could not see the kitchen wall behind it. It wasn't dark inside the cupboard, darkness would be at least something. The interior was simply … a void.

His mind slipped.

Without realizing it, Jack found himself at his cluttered writing desk in the den, with no idea how he got there or how many minutes had passed. He glanced at the clock on his laptop. It was just a bit past one o'clock in the afternoon. How long had he worked on those stupid cabinets?

Jack forced himself to mentally retrace his steps, and found his memory piecemeal at best. He recalled pacing through the upper level of the country house, muttering to himself. At some point he walked into the wine cellar and pulled a beer out of the cooler. It sat warm and opened, yet still full.

Jack sighed and halfheartedly swallowed the piss warm beer. He wished his boyfriend Derrick hadn't chucked the old Volkman refrigerator, at least then maybe he could get some ice. He considered going down into the cellar and getting a new beer, but the sudden thought of smashing all of Derrick's imported wine gave him pause.

After a moment he realized that he had a right to be angry, it was Derrick after all who suggested they buy a country home in the ass end of nowhere and renovate it to Derrick's liking. It was Derrick after all who suggested they renovate the quaint kitchen first. By “they" Derrick meant Jack, and whoever Jack would pay out the nose to do most of the difficult carpentry and plumbing. The only thing Derrick did around the house was complain about the lack of arts and entertainment in rural Massachusetts. When they lived in Boston all Derrick could do was complain about the crowds and the nauseating sea air. If it had not been for Derrick, he would not have bought this house and have to deal with that damned cabinet.

The cabinet …

Jack leaned back into his armchair and wondered how the cabinet had gotten there. The more Jack pondered this, the more his curiosity grew. He decided there must be a reason for the existence of the cabinet and its lack of contents. Jack grabbed his beer and headed back into the kitchen. He found his tools laid out as he left them, but he noticed the back door was ajar. Small smudges of mud in the size and shape of Jack's boots trailed in from the doorway to the cellar door. When had he gone outside?

He sat his beer on the countertop and moved to the back door to close it. At some point he would have to deal with the mess on the linoleum floor before Derrick came home. The cabinet door was still open just a crack, and Jack picked up the flashlight. With a flick of the switch, a bright beam poured from the flashlight and Jack opened the door. Just as he expected, the beam ended were the void began. Jack was now able to see more of the interior of the cabinet. The lip of the door was no more than an inch from the emptiness. Jack began to move his hand to touch the edge of the frame, but stopped as he felt an undeniable pull on the flesh of his fingertips. He edged his fingers closer to the void, but yanked his hand backwards as he felt the entire weight of his hand and more pulled towards oblivion.

Jack examined his hand to make sure it was intact, now only a phantom tingling of the pulling sensation remained in his fingers. He stared at the emptiness in front of him. He picked up his tepid beer off the kitchen island countertop and jerked the can towards the opening with a quick flick of the wrist. A spray of stale beer flew towards the void and looked like it was going to splatter across the kitchen cabinets, but before the vicious fluid made contact with the old wood, the spray condensed and vanished into the doorway. Jacked edged closer to the open cabinet warily, and examined the petite door and frame. The wood was still dry. Jack tossed the rest of the can into the opening, and it disappeared without a trace as well.

Jack scratched his head. He paced around the kitchen. He even made a sandwich, but the nothingness remained. He wondered how long this hole in the fabric of existence had existed. Why hadn't the realtor, his best friend, even told him about it? Had Maurice even known? Maybe the previous owners didn't tell her, he could only guess what a rip in known reality would do to the property value. Why didn't they seal up the cabinet in a more permanent way?

Maybe, he reasoned, there was nothing that petty mortals could do to affect it. If so the, why hadn't the Gods fixed this tear? What if it started to grow? Would they even care? Perhaps they did care, Jack thought to himself, but maybe they have more important things to do at the moment, like overseeing major disasters and small miracles.

What if they were just lazy? Jack chuckled despite himself, the landlord of the universe was putting off fixing the broken screen door so she could watch the Sunday game of Good vs. Evil on ESPN 3. Maybe the landlord fixed it at some point, but now the temporary patch had begun to unravel, this … Duct Tape of the Gods.

He bit into the sandwich and began to chew as an afterthought. He never took his eyes off the open cabinet. He reasoned that the void must go somewhere or stop sometime. An idea to test this theory began to formulate in his dazed mind.

Jack dropped the sandwich back onto the plate and went outside to the tool shed. It had rained steadily all morning and all afternoon, and the back yard was a spongy mess of puddles and mud from all the contractor equipment that had been brought in over the last two weeks. All manner of tire tracks and footprints crossed paths in the yard, and once Jack slipped into a deep rut. His boots and clean pants were now caked in thick mud. He forged his way to the tool shed, but halted when he realized the door to the shed was half closed. It was never locked, true, but as far as he knew the electrical contractors never went into the shed, and there was no wind to blow it open.

The rain came down harder and Jack cursed to himself as he slid inside the small shed. He felt his way among the dusty and dry tools in the near dark, too impatient to pull the chain for the light bulb. The ping of rain as it hit the tin roof resounded in his ears, and he could hear his blood whoosh in his veins. A cold sweat began to break out across his brow. His hands smeared over what could have been old spilled oil from a can, the gushy feeling sent shivers up his spine. He found a rag and wiped off his hands. Someone had been in here recently; all of Jack's tools seemed out of place. After a few, uneasy moments, Jack found the spool of nylon rope he used to tie down his kayak. He fled the shed, and the smell of fresh air and rain flushed way the nausea he felt.

After he made his way back through the muck of his backyard, Jack paused at the back door. His boots and lower pant legs were caked in thick mud. He took his boots off and left them outside on the porch, conscious of the hell that Derrick would give him if he walked in the house with those things on. The drying mud on the floor would have to be cleaned up before Derrick got home, but not before Jack had time to test his little theory.

Jack picked up the digital camcorder from his den. He tied off one end of the nylon to the camcorder, the other he tied off to a tarnished brass fixture on the other side of the kitchen wall. A good sixty feet loop of nylon rope spooled at his socked feet, and he was confident it would be long enough. A quick check to make sure the digital camcorder was recording, and after he steadied his nerves, Jack flung the camcorder towards the open cabinet door.

Jack's aim proved true, and the strange void sucked the camcorder in without a sound. The sharp wiz of the nylon cord at his feet sent an alarm through him, but the speed at which the cord was used up was just too fast. The final loop snagged around his calf and threw him to the ground. He slid on the muddy linoleum towards the void at horrific speed. The only thing Jack thought was that he would be pulled into that terrible abyss before he had time to scream. He knew his entire body could not possibly fit into that small opening, but only a few feet from the lip of the cabinet opening, the cord caught. Jack screamed as the loop of cord around his calf squeezed like a vice. He threw his head back and saw the plaster near the fixture had started to crack. Jack threw his arms around some exposed plumbing from the old refrigerator moments before the fixture came loose and the nylon began to smoke around his jeans. The fixture missed Jack's head only by a few scant inches, but snagged on his jeans. It tore free a moment later, but the force jerked Jack upward toward the opening in one last desperate lunge.

Jack scrambled on his back away from the void as soon as his leg was free, and muttered half barks and whimpers along the way. When the back of his head made contact with the cracked drywall he gave a startled shout, but then curled up against the wall and sobbed. He tried his hardest to give a half choked scream, but could not find the breath to do so. He remained there for several minutes, and after a while the sobs became more quiet. Jack picked himself up and a large glob of mixed drool and snot fell from his face and splattered on the grimy floor.

As he approached the cabinet he became flushed with rage, and picked up the hammer near the fine china with the half eaten sandwich. His arm pulled back, ready to smash the flimsy wood to pieces, but the small, almost now nonexistent rational part of his half eaten mind asked his what he was going to do when the hole was uncovered. He stopped mid swing and cursed under his breath. With a grudge, Jack snatched up the original tarnished copper nails that he had pulled out of the door, slammed the cabinet shut, and placed the first nail into position.

Out of Sight, Out of Mind.

Jack pulled back the hammer, ready to put an end to this horrifying ordeal. He braced himself and swung.

“What are you doing?", called out an reproving voice from the entrance from the foyer.

Jack lost control of the hammer and the head went through the center of the cabinet door. His fumbling hand lost grip of the hammer and it fell onto the china plate, smashing it in two.

“Jackiiieee! …", Derrick exclaimed with a nasal wail, “That collector's china was from my auntie!"

Jack turned with trepidation to his boyfriend, his face filled with apology. Derrick shot an stern eye to Jack and placed the a sack of dry groceries on the kitchen island, mindful of the dried mud and pieces of drywall that littered the linoleum floor.

“And what in the God's are you doing in this squalor? I though you told me you were going to clean up your mess, not make more of it …".

“I … I … ," Jackie stammered, his mind attempted to come up with an excuse, any excuse, that would stop the almost certain rain of tears. Sure enough, Jackie watched in dismay as Derricks eyes began to mist over.

“Why do you always break your promises to me?", accused Derrick, “Don't you know how much I want this house to be our perfect home …?" Derrick sulked away, his face in his hands, up to the master bedroom.

Jackie gave one last look at the chaos of the kitchen, and as a trained response, followed Derrick upstairs to console him. He forgot about the unsealed cabinet entirely.

* * * * *

Jack slid into the master bedroom with a towel around his waist. His black hair was still wet, but he made sure not to track in any water on the expensive cloud colored carpet. Derrick laid in bed, and wore the sleek black silk bathrobe his mother bought him for Christmas last year. His thin frame conformed to the material as though they were designed by the same person. Derrick had his reading glasses on, and was absorbed in one of those trashy romance novels his mother taught him to read on. Jack collapsed onto his side of the bed, emotionally exhausted from the day's events. Jack closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of soft Egyptian cotton underneath him. There was a rustle on the other side of the bed, and then there was the sound of a paperback laid down on Derrick's night stand.

Jack half expected the click of the night stand lamp, but flinched when he felt a pair of slim and yielding arms encircle him. Jack resisted the inward urge to cringe, but found his body lacked the energy to move away. The gentle arms seemed to hold his limp body like a vice, and Jack began to mentally relax as he felt the pleasant sensation of a warm body next to his. Derrick nestled his face in the crook of Jack's neck, and Jack found himself on the cusp of sleep.

The moment was lost as Derrick placed a smooth hand on the other side of Jack's head and caressed his stubble covered check. The hand slid down over Jack's sensitive Adam's apple, across his broad and naked chest. Jacks eye's shot open, unable to sort out how his body felt about these mixed sensations. Mixed feelings were all that Jack now felt about Derrick, his boyfriend of three years. Derrick remained Jack of Lucile Ball, except without the humor.

Jack tried to remember how he had even gone out with someone so different than himself. Jack was an outdoor writer by profession, and with his free time traveled to national parks around the country for rough hiking and strenuous kayaking. Derrick on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the so called finer things of life. He often enjoyed a glass of red chardonnay while he appraised an original impressionist from the Van Gogh school. Derrick found the outdoors repugnant, as it tended to make his fair skin rough and dry. One thing they found common ground on was food, and Jack's improvisation, when styled with Derrick's culinary skill, meshed well together to create original dishes that involved a delicious melody of tastes and textures.

They sampled some of Boston's finer establishments, and Jack even managed to sneak a Coney dog from one of the street side vendors of [Ocean Front Ave] into the hands of his date when Derrick didn't pay close attention. At first the class and culture of Derrick's world enamored and enthralled Jack, but after two years cracks began to appear in Derricks high brow facade. Each new painting or wine looked or tasted like the one before it, and the way that Derrick insisted that each was priceless according to their style or vintage wore thin on Jacks nerves. Jack began to catch inconstancies in Derricks appraisals, and that's when Jack suspected that Derrick had not obtained his much lauded Bachelor's in Art.

Derrick only real occupation was budding entrepreneur, his only devotion to career was whatever get rich quick scheme he constantly formulated. Jack tried not to notice that Derrick's abrupt suggestion to move into rural Massachusetts coincided with the delivery of IRS letters addressed to Derrick at Jack's old apartment. Derrick even convinced Jack to buy the house under Derrick's name, as a sign of unconditional devotion.

He now regretted this, as the gingerbread house that would bring them together like some fairy tale now only brought a sour taste to his mouth whenever he thought about it. Jack often wondered why he did all these things for a man he found more and more undesirable as time wore on. He suspected the reason, but didn't want to admit to himself or his ever shrinking circle of friends. It was hard for him wake up each morning, as the first thing that greeted him in the bathroom was the unsympathetic mirror. Jack realized that even in his late thirties, his outdoor activities earned him a body most men in their prime would kill for, however each new facial crease, each follicle that fell to the floor, only seemed to hasten the pace each morning at which his dark green eyes seemed to lose their vibrant luster.

And now as Derrick's delicate hands roamed over Jack's firm stomach and caressed farther and farther down, the arduous events of today sent the emotional roller coaster of the past three years careening off the tracks and his world smashed to pieces on the unyielding ground of reality. Derrick's hand slid underneath the bath towel, and Jack's eyes widened. While his gaze never left the ceiling, Jack felt Derrick's lips against his own, the soft contact and growing warmth of the body next to Jack seemed somehow distant. Derrick's lips began to move with more instance, and his tongue parted Jacks unresponsive lips. Somewhere far away, Jack sensed a familiar stranger had violated him, and rolled away. With glazed eyes that never moved in their sockets, Jack's gaze fell upon the far empty wall, were it remained unflinching. After a minute, Derrick rolled back and pulled the chain on the lamp; the bedroom now bathed in utter darkness. There was an uncomfortable silence …

* * * * *

The next morning Jack called his realtor and best friend, Maurice, to ask about the previous owners.

“Heyo Jack-o!" Maurice cried out, more than thrilled to hear from him. “How's the old ball and chain?"

There was a brief silence.

“Don't tell me you two are fighting again …"

“No no … its nothing like that," backpedaled Jack-o, and tried to thing of a way to derail the current topic to a more immediate concern. “Its about the house …"

“You've always been a horrible lair," she retorted, “I hate to repeat it, but this is one instance where you could learn something from your lesser half.

After a long pause, she drew in a long breath.

“Look, I'm sorry I said that … that was really mean of me, I just want my best bud to be happy."

“I know …", said Jack-o as he tried his best to choke back tears.

“You know if you need to, you could always crash with me for a while, the foldout misses you."

“The last time I spent the night you force fed me white Russians and tried to take advantage of me", snorted Jack with a genuine laugh, and wiped his eyes.

“Oh you liked it," she ribbed back in a cooing and tender voice. This time they both laughed, and Jack found the escape moment he craved.

“No but seriously," Jack said, “I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me about the house in case the carpentry contractor has any questions."

“Shoot."

“Well first off who where the previous owners?"

“Hold on, let me pull out the paperwork."

Jack waited patiently for a few moments and listened to the receiver as it was put down. The distant metallic sound of a opening file cabinet soon followed. Jack passed the time looking outside the living room window. The rain continued from yesterday, but with more vengeance. A curtain of water fell just outside the window, which gave the world a surreal underwater look. Down past the gravel driveway by his mailbox, a man in a long yellow coat nailed a laminated picture of a cat on a utility pole. The only words Jack could make out where : Missing - Reward. He wondered what type of man would brave the monsoon to put up pictures of his missing cat. Over the phone there was rustle as Maurice picked up the receiver on her desk..

“According to the file, it used to belong to a Mr. and Mrs. Redman. It looks like they lived there together … something like forty odd years."

“Is there a way you could possibly get a hold of them for me?"

“I guess I can, but will have to wait a while, I'm showing off a house in a few minutes, and it doesn't look like they left a forwarding address, but it was a real sweet thing that they did."

“What's that?"

“They left all proceeds from the sale to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and let me tell you even after the steal that I found for you, it was still a considerable sum."

There was a pause, and Jacks heart sank.

“Is everything ok with the house?"

Jack tried to suppress a grim laugh.

“Its nothing really, I just found a hole in the wall," Jack said deadpan.

“That's awful, I'm sure that the agency can reimburse you for the damage or fix the problem."

“Its not a problem actually," Jack responded, “And on second thought, I'd rather not bother this fine old couple about something so trivial. I was just more or less curious about the people who kept this house in such fine condition for me."

That explanation seemed to put Maurice at ease, or at least keep her questions at bay.

“Well if your sure, I'd love to go that extra mile for my favorite client."

Jack hung his head. She really laid it on thick sometimes.

“Speaking of clients … don't you have another one to tend to?"

“Shi … “, cursed Maurice as the sound of a sudden scramble for keys and folders crossed the phone lines, “You, me, lunch Wednesday." She hung up before Jack could respond. He looked at the receiver in his hand and shook his head. He set it down in its cradle just as the sudden sound of the doorbell made him jump. Jack didn't know who it could be, the contractor, a pleasant old man in his fifties, wouldn't be over for another two hours.

Jack skittered to the front door, unsure of who it could be. He opened it and his heart stopped.

A God had come to fix his problem. All of his problems.

After a blink or two, Jack realized that the young man in his late twenties who stood awkwardly before him was probably not a God, but should have been. He wore tight and worn blue jeans with several rips and tears in them. The dirty black tee shirt that barely contained his burly upper body was caked with sawdust. A carpenters tool belt drooped at his waist, filled with measuring tapes, hammers, and levels of all shapes and sizes. Strips of duct tape held his tattered steel toed boots together. His hands were large and rough, dotted with calluses, and dirty blond hair topped off a chiseled and tanned face. The only thing that broke the ethereal quality of this man was his piercing amber eyes that seemed to lock Jacks attention. Jack was incapable of looking away, and he stood there for several moments enthralled before he realized that the guy was talking to him.

“ … early, I hope that's ok …"

“I'm sorry?" Jack blinked, and realized his mouth was partly open. He was grateful that he hadn't drooled on himself in front of a complete stranger.

The man seemed unsure of what to say, and even appeared bashful.

“My truck broke down today, and I hitchhiked here, so I'm sorry that I'm early."

Jack stumbled over his words, as if they were hard to say.

“No … um …your fine … err …I mean its good, that your early … I mean its ok."

“Is everything ok, Mr. Hurley?"

“Yes, everything is perfect." There was a pause. Jack found himself staring again. “Its just that I was expecting Mr. Phlisner."

“Oh yeah, he forgot to call and tell you he got pulled to another project way out of town. I'm his assistant, Joseph." He stuck out his hand in invitation. Jack leapt at the chance, and felt sparks run through his hand as their skin made exquisite full on contact. As his heart thundered, Jack felt a unfamiliar stirring deep inside him.

“I'll be laying you today" Joseph said with an earnest smile.

“What?" stammered Jack, taken back by those words.

“I said I'll be laying down some wood for you today", repeated Joseph cautiously, “Are you sure your feeling ok Mr. Hurley? You look a little flushed." With much conscious effort Jack pulled his hand back.

“Please, call me Jack," he replied, and another shy smile from Joseph almost melted Jack on the spot. “And I was just having problems with my plumbing," Jack smirked, just now conscious of how inadvertent and corny this conversation had become, “But I think its much better now." He had no doubt if Maurice had here she would have already doubled over with laughter at all the unintentional innuendos that had slipped into Jacks mind.

Jack felt a pleasant haze, and underneath that, a sensation of unrestrained lust. He was acutely aware of how much he wanted to pull Joseph to the soft carpet of the foyer room inside the open doorway and press his aching body against Joseph's own. Jack could not remember when he felt this way before, a passion edged with anger. A part of him could not pin down where the anger had come from, but the other part didn't care. He was lost in a vortex of feelings and thoughts, and once again realized they had been standing at the foyer door without speaking for almost a half a minute.

“May I come in?" Joseph inquired, uncertainty spread across that gorgeous face, and his body language had changed from nervous to almost uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the next. Jack's anger began to focus on himself as he realized he was making his guest, his friend, his savior, unnerved with his constant gawking.

“Where are my manners?" offered Jack, “Please, come in." He resolved to reign in his libido as best he could before he really made an ass of himself. He tried to slow the thundering in his chest, to little effect. After Joseph came him, Jack closed the door and followed him down foyer hallway into the kitchen. Jack found it difficult to keep his eyes off his guest's tight jeans as the tight muscles underneath rippled and swelled with each of Joseph's strides.

“Nice house you have, Mr. Hurl … err Jack."

“Oh .. yeah."

“Own it long? It looks in great shape."

“Not really … month … I think"

Before Jack noticed, he stood slack at the entrance to the kitchen and watched Joseph begin his measurements from what it seemed like a great distance. The gleam of Jack's intent gaze pursued Joseph's form like a predator, and Jack gave noncommittal answers to his questions.

“Holy molly," Joseph mumbled, now bent over the kitchen sink with a flashlight, “I see now what you mean by your issue with the plumbing."

Jack found it more and more difficult not stare, and tired to fend off the urge to run over, bend Joseph over the sink , and take him here and right now. This temptation grew and grew, until Jack found himself begin to move toward the hunched over body

“Yeah," muttered Jack under his breath as he moved closer and flexed his hands. He was halfway there now. Jack hoped Joseph wouldn't be too shocked if he forced Joseph to turn around and ground their lips against each other. No Joseph wouldn't mind at all, this is what Joseph wanted too.

“You know this wreck in the corner here is going to have to come out," Joseph claimed, “and I cant figure out why I cant the kitchen wall through the hole in the cabinet door …"

Jack froze, his hands still reached for Joseph's broad shoulders.

Cabinet … hole …

Jack tried to scream at Joseph to stop, but it was too late. Joseph had already opened the cabinet and stuck his flashlight inside, his hand tight against the handle. He lurched forward as his arm was drawn into the tiny enclosure. He hit the top of the cabinet with his neck, the bottom his pelvis. A gut retching screech followed the nauseating sound of flesh separating from bone as Joseph was latterly bent in half. Joseph's legs and feet, now behind his ears, kicked wildly. His upturned chin caught on the doorway, and the scream choked off abruptly as the force ripped his head from his neck in a thick spray of blood. The body slipped into oblivion, but the cloud of blood hovered for a split second before it too, condensed and disappeared as well.

Jack was silent for a moment, and then began to shriek at the top of his lungs. He took a breath of air after a few seconds, and then continued to scream in different octaves as his voice broke. He stood there unable to move, and filled the house with the sound of madness for quite some time …

* * * * *

Jack realized he was wet. He lowered his drenched head and looked at his clothes. They clung to him like lead weights. He looked up to the sky and closed his eyes and mouth as think drops of freezing rain fell hard and stung his face. For the first time he shivered, and held his numb hands close to his soaked chest. His backyard was now awash of small lakes and rivers that churned brown and thick. He stood by the shed out back, and without thinking, moved inside out of the rain. The echo of the rain outside deafened him, and he stood there in the dark and shivered. He held himself for several minutes, and then groped in the dark for the chain to the light bulb. Jack pulled the chain and watched as his warm breath floated before him in the frigid air.

The entire interior was a mess; tools were knocked off their peg hooks and cans of new paint had fell on their sides. The oil that Jack assumed had been spilled now lay curiously dry and flaked at the edges of a pool on the workbench. The color was all wrong as well, instead of black, the oil had turned a dark crimson. He took a shaky fingernail and picked off a fleck of the stuff. He rubbed the substance between his fingers and decided that it wasn't oil after all, but couldn't place the texture. Jack reached for a dirty work towel that was caked with the dried crimson to dry himself with.

A cats head rolled out; empty sockets sat where its eyes had been.

The rest of the mutilated body rolled off the table and hit the cement floor with a sickening thud. Jack backed up into the wall of the shed, gagged once, then fell to his knees and vomited on the floor. As soon as his legs were able to support him, he fled the shed. He crossed the backyard as fast as he could, and didn't care about how muddy he became. He stripped to his boxers at the back door as a matter of ingrained instinct.

Jack entered the kitchen and grabbed a blanket out of the linen closet in the foyer hallway. After he warmed himself a bit, he approached the open cabinet. The emptiness still lay within, impassive and silent. Jack examined the edge of the door. Even though he watched Joseph's neck explode in a spray of blood, there was no trace of it on the lip of the cabinet door. It was though the carpenter had completely disappeared. Jack closed the door. Joseph's sudden disappearance would not go unnoticed, and Jack became edgy. He ran upstairs, changed clothes, and began to pack his suitcase. The authorities would begin to ask too many questions, and the Jack thing wanted was to spend his few last miserable years behind bars for the kidnapping and disappearance of a contractor.

Jack paused at the door as he was about to flee. What about Derrick?

The house was in Derricks name, so Jack felt that was a nice consolation prize. Jack's savings accounts and major investments were separate from Derrick's, and they never decided to get married under the new Massachusetts laws, so there wouldn't be any legal ties to deal with. Jack could simply disappear like the contractor. Jack began to feel a little guilty if he left Derrick in the dark, so he felt obligated to at least leave him a note. Noncommittal and free of implication of course.

Jack threw his suitcase on the bed and picked up the fancy pen from Derrick's nightstand. He opened the nightstand drawer and grabbed the expensive letterhead Derrick always kept in case he had to write down his latest investment strategy. Jack sat on the bed, and put the pen to the paper. He stopped when he realized this piece had something already written on it. After a few moments, Jack's hand began to tremble, then his face became flushed with rage.

It was a Dear John Letter.

In the note Derrick rationalized his affair with a unnamed younger man, and that Jack's insensitivity to his life partner's needs had left Derrick little options but to kick Jack out of the house. The house Derrick now owned.

Jack's hand clutched so hard it almost crumbled the paper. He had never felt so much rage before. How dare that ingrate kick him out of his own house, and sleep around with another man. Jack knew who it was too, one of Derrick's little art groupies, one who had just registered for selective service. No one did this to Jack Hurly and lived.

Jack changed his opinion of life in prison. If he was going to serve a life term, he would rather serve it with the solace that he made that little pick pay. He pictured Derrick's blood all over the new furniture, and his dismembered head brow beating Jack for the mess. Jack cackled with glee. He giggled for several minutes until lack of air forced him to stop. As he regained his breath, the long forgotten part of Jack's coherent mind began to pick over how the prosecution would lay out their case against him. That's when he realized that the piece of paper he was holding gave him the perfect alibi.

Joseph had mention that he had hitchhiked to the house, so no one was able to determine when he arrived here. There was no evidence foul play had been committed in the kitchen, so perhaps he had simply left. Derrick admitted in the Dear John letter that he had been seeing a younger man behind Jack's back, and that Derrick was going to leave him. All that remained was for Derrick to vanish without a trace, and Jack could tell the authorities that Derrick and the young carpenter had eloped together and disappeared. Maurice would find a loophole to make sure the house and property fell back into his ownership once the real title holder failed to pay taxes on the land.

Jack paced around the bedroom, and tried to figure a out way to lure Derrick near the vortex without arousing his suspicion. He thought of excuses for Derrick to help with the woodwork, notes with promises of hidden presents, but everything he thought of seemed so unlike himself. Jack wondered if it would be just easier to take the gag inducing, eye sore of a hand crafted paperweight Derrick had made him for his last birthday and smash it over the back of his skull. At least then he could haul the body over the inter-dimensional garbage disposal and take out the trash once and for all.

“Honey …," called out a distant voice from the stairs below, “I'mm Hoommee …"

Jack cringed at the clichéd proclamation. Now more than ever he wanted to take this house and drop it on little Mr. Home wrecker. He walked downstairs to his den and picked up the chimerical paperweight, then snuck through the hallway to the kitchen. Jack grinned when he saw that Derrick's back was turned away from him, taking something out of a grocery bag. Derrick often bought more organic spices and seasonings than they both knew what do to with, which was funny in a way, when Jack considered the fact that they had no refrigerator to store perishable milk or eggs. Derrick's single track mind was just one less thing Jack would have to worry about. His grin turned into a snarl as he crept up behind Derrick, ready to bash his lover's brains all over the nice waxed floor.

Derrick turned around with a can of chicken broth in his hands and a warm smile. Jack froze in his tracks and gave a toothy grin.

“Jackie!" cried Derrick with animated enthusiasm. “You've got to see what I've picked up for supper tonight …" His smile faded slightly when he spied the paperweight now behind Jack's back. “Is that your birthday present I made for you?" Jack laughed nervously.

“Um yeah … I was in the middle of proofing an article when I realized I haven't thanked you for all the hard work and artistic talent you put into this thoughtful present." Jack tried to fight down the bile he felt rise up from his stomach. He couldn't believe he had just played into the over inflated ego of the man who was using him. Derrick face lit up at the compliments.

“Well thank you Jackie …" He moved up and pecked Jack on the lips. Jack was stunned, but then closed his eyes and went with the moment. The feel of warm lips against his own made Jack feel almost whole again. The emotion turned bitter as Jack understood that last week these lips kissed another man. Jack fueled this resentment into the kiss, and pressed harder into Derrick, who was forced back onto the kitchen island countertop.

“Hmmmhhh" murmured Derrick, who now began to open his mouth in a more passionate kiss. Jack responded in turn, his intent to murder his lover only seemed to fuel the strange passion that now filled him. He found it intoxicating and erotic in an almost criminal way. After a minute, they broke the kiss and stared into each other's eyes for the first time in weeks.

“Be careful there, Tiger," Derrick winked, “or we'll have to skip dinner altogether." A quizzical look passed over Derrick's face. “Hey speaking of being alone, were is that carpenter that was supposed to come over?"

“Oh I'm sure he disappeared someplace," Jack said nonchalantly.

Derrick laughed and slipped out of Jacks arms. When he began to put the cans away in the cabinets, Jack saw his chance, and put down the paperweight. He decided to kill Derrick in a more innocuous way, to thank him for that last passionate kiss, and picked up a can of cream of mushroom soup.

“Sugar dumpling?" Jack called out, and Derrick turned around with a smile, eager to please his reinvigorated mate. “Will you put this smaller can in that cabinet over the sink?" He tossed the can and Derrick caught it gingerly.

“That one?" asked Derrick, who strutted over to the sink. “You know I've never noticed this one before." He peered inside the tiny hole left by the hammer. Unsatisfied he opened the cabinet wide open and took a closer look. “What the …" he began.

Jack, like Hensel in the fairy tale, took the opportunity to dash in and shove the wicked witch into the gaping maw of the gingerbread house.