DISCLAIMER: Scary. Sex. Violence. Foul language. Adults only.

WARNING: The beliefs, comments, and ‘writings’ of six of the fictional characters presented in this story are protected under copyright guidelines. However, they do not represent the personal beliefs of the author of THE RETREAT (you know, me). Several of the characters introduced in Part 5 hold values which are contrary to the US Constitution and the basic roots of American ideals. My purpose in included these characters is to explore the terror of intellectual evil. It is not meant in anyway to advance narrow views of humanity and freedom. If reading about ignorant and biased minds bothers you then please read something else.

FEEDBACK: Is most welcome. p.phair@comcast.net or you can visit my web site at http://www.phair1.com

## THE RETREAT

By

Phair

Part 8

“Four wasted days! Four days of essays on the nuances of brushing our teeth and folding our napkins without so much as one worthwhile critical assessment,” Eliyahu fumed as he paced around the living room, his red wine sloshing out of the glass with each unmeasured step.

“Don’t forget locking us in! Can’t even get out for a breath of fresh air,” Guiseppe griped clutching his Bloody Mary, “or a little hunting.”

“You hunt? I thought you were a peace loving member of the global community of beings. Or some new aged crap like that?” Driscoll slammed down another Manhattan.

Ashton let out a snort of laughter, “Good one, McGee! Tell us Guiseppe, will you go hunting the little forest creatures with a pillow case so you don’t intimidate them and ruin their self esteem?”

The other writers, restless with the haltingly slow pace of the last few days, were quick to jump in on the teasing. Guiseppe took a long swill of his drink before losing control. His empty glass became airborne and shattered the closest window. Gales of laughter erupted from the writers.

“You pretentious fuckers! If I want to try something new then I will. A man is never too old to learn.”

“You’re a man?” Eliyahu choked on his wine.

“Shut the fuck up, you jack ass. You know I’m a man but if you want me to prove it to you…,”

“The androgynous movement is losing another card carrying member. Please somebody pinch me and tell me it’s only a nightmare,” Ashton fanned himself for effect.

“Well I, for one, would be happy to pinch you, son, but this ain’t no nightmare,” Redman grinned and licked his lips at the thought of Ashton’s firm butt. “Seems our fairy friend has finally found his balls.”

Total chaos ensued as Guisseppe went for Redman’s throat. Driscoll and Puanani tried to get between the pair while Ashton hooted encouragement for the brawl.

“That’s right, let’s all devolve at once,” Eliyahu shook his head but did nothing to intervene.

Taylor, who had been tending bar, managed to interrupted the argument by ringing an old hand held school bell. Madame warned her that she would need to keep control of the room with the obnoxious clanging. All eyes turned to Taylor. She tried to suppress an inner tremble at their angry glares.

“Madame said, no shouting or fist fights,” Taylor couldn’t believe she had to tell authors something so basic about acceptable behavior.

Bailey entered the room and took in the scene. If she was surprised, she hid it well. She gave a quick wink to Taylor.

“Madame sent me to tell you, she doesn’t feel well. You have drained her ‘muse’ with your ‘pedestrian’ writing skills,” Bailey stumbled over the odd words she had been instructed to repeat. “She says, you should do some soul searching this afternoon and night. Tomorrow she expects better work or withdrawals from the program.”

“You can tell that bitch to go fuck herself!” Guiseppe screamed like a madman.

“No, I can’t tell her that,” Bailey smirked at the irate man. “You’ll need to deliver the message yourself.”

“You think this is funny, girlie? You think wasting our valuable time is clever of that fat sow? Do you?” Guiseppe focused his anger and frustration on Bailey.

“No,” Bailey’s face remained the picture of innocence but her voice carried her contempt, “no, I don’t think it’s funny at all. I think you’re all pretty pathetic.”

Guiseppe barreled toward Bailey. Everyone in the room knew he intended to strike her but none of the writers moved to stop the assault. Taylor reacted instantly. She vaulted over the bar to land between Guiseppe and Bailey.

“You’ll do,” Guiseppe snarled as smashed Taylor in the eye with his balled fist knocking the young woman to the floor. “What’s happening to me? My God, what have I done?” He stared at his hand in awe.

“Son of a…,” Bailey tackled Guiseppe and the two tumbled over Taylor in a graceless heap.

“ENOUGH!” Madame appeared in the doorway to end the pandemonium with one word. “You should be ashamed of yourselves! Taylor! Bailey! Get out of my sight. I’ll deal with the two of you later. Guiseppe, my poor baby, are you hurt? Let me help you.”

“Him hurt?” Taylor sat up clutching her eye. “He smacked me in the face!”

“Come on, Taylor, don’t try to argue. Let’s just get going,” Bailey hung her head as she helped Taylor to her feet and back to the kitchen.

“Sweet, sad, Guiseppe, come to Mama,” Madame spread her arms wide and, much to the group’s horror, Guiseppe buried his face between her ample breasts. “I think, I know the exact thing that will make you feel wonderful again.”

“And I think, I’m gonna vomit,” Puanani took a long drag of tequila straight from the bottle.

Madame eased Guiseppe back so he was standing on his own. She pulled a pen from her dress pocket and pressed it firmly into his hand.

“Go to the table and write something special for your Mama, yes?” She patted his tears dry with her stubby fingers.

Guiseppe nodded but was speechless. He made his way to the table by the broken window cradling the pen in his hand.

“This is far too insane for me. I’m going to pack and go. Call me a cab or get your driver to take me to the nearest city but I’m leaving,” Puanani stood to make her dramatic exit.

“Really?” Madame raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I wouldn’t think anything was ‘too insane’ for you, Wanda.”

The room went deathly still. Only the scribbling of pen on paper could be heard. Puanani slowly turned around to face Madame DuPrey. She let out a low snarl before she spoke.

“My name is Puanani Wanaka Moananani Berolu. It means flower stem beautiful sea green gem. My grandfather named me in honor of the earth and sea. I don’t know why you would call me…,” Puanani was interrupted by Madame DuPrey’s cackle.

“Oh dear, don’t try to fool me. I’ve been around for a very long time and there isn’t a block I haven’t stood on,” Madame bared her teeth. “You are out of your league, Wanda Beryl. Your grandfather didn’t name you. A social worker named you. You were raised in an orphanage until you were fourteen. That’s when you killed your roommate because, and I quote, ‘everybody liked her better.’ The court found you criminally not responsible because of a serious but untreated mental illness. Tssk, tssk, so sad. You stayed in the state hospital for ten years. Somehow, you reinvented yourself as Puanani, the poet. You certainly impressed your doctors who declared you fit to be unleashed on the world. Perhaps, the doctors are right. Perhaps, Puanani isn’t crazy but the question remains, what about Wanda? Is Wanda still sick in the head?”

“Must you be so cruel,” Driscoll turned away from the scene with tears in her eyes.

“I don’t need your pity,” Puanani spat at Driscoll. “And so what, I did time in the nut house? Big deal. Consider it research for a brilliant writing career.”

“Yes but would your gentle, poetry reading fans consider the murder research as well?”

“Juvenile records are sealed!”

“Obviously, not as sealed as you’d like, Wanda,” Ashton laughed so hard his sides hurt.

“For goodness sake, he’s right, for a change,” Madame stated with a smug air. “Now, Wanda, don’t make me get ugly with you. Sit down next to Guiseppe and write something or I’ll be forced to write a press release.” Madame turned her full attention to the rest of the group, “I came down because I made a mistake. One of the essays handed in was quite good. In fact, I want to read it to you. It shows promise. It’s the beginning I’ve been searching so futilely for. The title is, After His Redemption…,”

“Oh, no,” all the color drained from Redman’s cheeks.

“…, SCREAMING. I am madness incarnate, driven by desire, a craving, no, lust, yes, lust for firm flesh; narrow, puckering holes which beg for seminal release to feed their inherent emptiness…,”

“Oh God,” Redman was weeping. “I thought I dreamed that. Didn’t think I really wrote it down. Oh God!”

A chuckle broke in from the far side of the room injected joy between the sobs, “It seems our big, tough man’s man is, honestly, a man’s man. Who’d a thought it?”

“Shut up, Shukman,” Redman coughed on his tears.

“Boys behave. I’ll have no fighting. At least, I’ll have no more fighting today,” Madame fluffed her hair back from her face with a flourish.

“How ‘bout good, old fashion blood letting?” Ashton pointed to the table were Guiseppe and Puanani were working.

Guiseppe had sliced his hand open on a shard of glass from the smashed window. He dipped the pen Madame gave him in the blood to scrawl several words on the paper before him. And then he would re-dip. Puanani had stopped writing and just stared with morbid fascination at the man sitting next to her.

“Dearest, tell Mama what you have written so far,” Madame requested patiently. She was in no way alarmed by the grisly display.

“I wrote, I’m writing, it may not be very good,” Guiseppe appeared exhausted.

“Go on, for me,” she encouraged.

“Okay,” he cleared his throat. “The battle rages. I hear the fighting on all sides. There will be no escape. No retreat from the high ground. Even if there were a break in their defenses, I would not, no, could not run from my duty. I will fight to the last bullet, to the last drop of blood, to the last sweet breath in my collapsing lungs.”

“He’s the pacifist?” Driscoll whispered to Ashton.

“Don’t forget, androgynous too. Seems Guiseppe secretly lusts after a good fight like Redman looking for a tight ass,” Ashton mumbled back.

“Is your bottom on Red’s list?” Driscoll hushed in Ashton’s ear.

“Thought you didn’t associate with ‘baser’ elements of society,” Ashton let his hand rest on the middle of her back.

“When I finish with you, you won’t be baser anymore,” she gave a grin that sent a shiver down Ashton’s back but he was unable to reply when Madame shouted.

“Igor, please help Guiseppe to his room, the Macomber Room, so he can rest. Oh, and do something about his hand. Redman, you can take yourself back to the Whitman Room. I think you’ve done quite enough today. The rest of you, I don’t care where you go. But, I’d better have descent essays by tomorrow morning or else,” Madame’s warning was met by silence.

* * *

“Ouch,” Taylor flinched back, away from the cold. “You do realize you’re hurting me, right?”

“Then hold it yourself,” Bailey dropped the ice pack in Taylor’s lap and walked over to the sink. “I’ve got dishes to do.”

“You’re mad? What are you mad about? I’m the one that got hit,” Taylor couldn’t believe Bailey had the gall to be angry.

“You weren’t suppose to get hit. You were suppose to stay out of the way. Don’t you ever think before you act?” Bailey spun around to wave a soapy finger at Taylor.

“I did think. I thought about you. Thought about taking care of you,” Taylor quietly defended herself.

Bailey glared. She put her hands on her hips as she stalked toward Taylor.

“You think because I slept with you that we got somethin’ goin’ on? What? You think you love me or somethin’ like in the movies? Well, let me bust your little bubbles right now. I don’t love you. We just fucked, that’s all. You don’t need to try and protect me because I don’t need you and you can’t even protect yourself. So, stop with the hero bitch routine, already.”

Taylor could feel tears stinging her eyes but she didn’t want to let them fall. She didn’t want to seem so fragile in front of Bailey. She didn’t want to cry just because Bailey didn’t love her. She didn’t want to cry just because she loved Bailey. She didn’t want to cry but she did.

“Oh for cripes sake!” Bailey tossed her hands in the air and went back to the sink.

Taylor wiped her tears away quickly. She want to apologize but she really wasn’t sure what she did wrong. Before she could start to speak, Igor came into the kitchen. Bailey anxious turned to face Taylor.

“For you,” his voice rattled deep in his chest as he handed Taylor a brown, paper sack.

Taylor opened the bag and saw green, “Shit!”

“Bitch,” Bailey whispered.

“Why?” Taylor looked to Igor but he shrugged and left without answering. “Bailey, what’s going on? Why am I holding a bag of money?”

“Well, you’re not suppose to be,” Bailey leaned against the sink with a deep sigh. “I was suppose to take the hit for a grand. Until you came running to my rescue. You got walloped and so, I guess, you got my money.”

“Bailey, what the Hell is going on?” Taylor’s hurt quickly faded as her anger reared up.

“Madame told me to egg on either Puanani or Guiseppe. She said if they flipped out then she’d give me a grand not to report it to my parole officer.” Bailey rubbed her eyes trying think of the best way to explain the situation, “You said, the whole retreat is a scam, right? I’m only tryin’ to get in on a piece of the action.”

“You’re letting her buy you,” Taylor sneered.

Bailey watched as Taylor fingered the brown bag, “You’re right. I would’ve let her buy me but I’m not the one holding the money now, am I?”

“No, you’re not the one with the money. You’re also not the one with the black eye,” Taylor stood and stuffed the bag inside her shirt before heading downstairs to her room.

TBC

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