4These are foothills. They're somewhere between the summits of surrounding mountains and the lowest of elevations.
This is a black-and-white world. And it's nighttime. It's not a bad place to settle down and go to sleep...even if there's a killer out there killing people like you. Sadly, though, it might cause the killer's dagger to hurt one that much more. Either way, to all who live here, the "black-and-white" part is just life. In the words of comedy legend Woody Allen, "it's like anything else."
Over and around these foothills, cattle herds are often on the move. If not that, they stay huddled near a spring or a stock tank for most of the night.
Centuries ago, throughout these foothills, the Navajo and the Ute would fight battles with one another. Nowadays, this is one of the most tranquil areas of the country...for the most part.
Tonight, across the range, a few rangers ride. As one might expect, they're all armed...with vests, as well as firearms.
This is a small house. A few amenities are near it. Its exterior is of clay, and many of its doorways and windows are Catholic-arched. There's also a short bell tower...which, structurally, is comparable to a second chimney.
In one room, a white noise machine runs. It serves to generate white noise, throughout the night, whenever the central air cannot. This cottage has a fireplace, too... Alas, unlike the central air, the grate cannot run all night without a fire guard. And naturally, the Mayor's protectors often have better things to do than play fire guard for a fire in a building where there's no shortage of central HVAC.
In another room, a radio is on, and at low volume. It, too, generates white noise...for the most part. It also broadcasts news stories.
The stories, though limitedly heard in these dimming circumstances, don't vary much. Of late, three murders have happened in the city. Two of the victims were female; one was gay male. All three of them were very influential. The cops have had a hard time picking up on the killer's trail; hence, he's officially been branded a serial killer...if he's even male. He could be a lesbian...but that's a shot in the dark.
The city's anti-grafters, as the muffled stories also elaborate on, have lately been concerned with the latest Mayor's administration. She does very little, if anything, to prevent graft from happening within the ranks of both her inner circle and her inner circle members' inner circles. The Mayor comments little, if any, about the possibility of graft occurring within her inner circles' ranks. She shouldn't be too worried, though...considering that the anti-grafters are more likely to get bad press than anyone under her command...not that some of the anti-grafters aren't.
Across a queen-size bed, in the same room as the white noise machine, a woman sleeps. She might not look it, but this woman is a city's mayor. Her name is Julianne Spurlock. She was born and raised in the very city which she rules.
Her bare legs, she often bows. She seldom ever sleeps as well in her place back in the city. One can't even tell if she's worried about the serial killer picking up her trail...if she's even actually a target.
Throughout the cottage's halls, it's an art gallery...of sorts. This'd include framed political comics. This cottage's attendants have been meaning to take them down and store them; Ms. Spurlock is a politician, after all.
There are also paintings. Most of them are of baby animals. It's not what one would think, though; they're either dead or dying...and have relevant marks on their bodies to over-suggest it. Many of them lie in the shade of some trees and/or windbreaks. Others lie on the sides of state highways. Others lie in alleys between barns...or simply within pens. A painting of a newborn thunderbird, hatching from a colorful egg, there also is; she's soaked in amniotic fluid...and her eyes are rather cute.
The vulture culture in this house, too, is a bit overwhelming for some...including, potentially, a politician trying to dodge assassination. Thankfully, though, there are only a few actual vultures within this vulture culture; one is a California condor from San Diego, and the other is an Andean condor...from Maipú, a suburb of Santiago, a city in Chile. Another is a king vulture from Pará state, one of the Brazilian States; they're the ones that're mostly white, and with very colorful heads. Aside from the stuffed vultures, there are also pelts, curio cabinets, glass jars, pseudo-wildflowers, pseudo-mushrooms, pseudo-moss, sections of dead trees, (roadkill) skulls, and roadkill taxidermy.
Yes, the interior decor seems out-of-context. It most likely serves to remind those who come here what they'd risk if they set too many feet outside of their protection. The city can always get a new mayor...but in nine times out of ten, the mayor has a family who'd surely miss her if a serial killer killed her...or simply if she just got assassinated Kennedy-style.
This is an alpine spring. It feeds a pool. It keeps an entire region hydrated...and, to an extent, groomed. In the winter, it's been known to freeze...or to produce ice floes, in the very least.
Throughout the night, small groups of cattle and/or calves come to the waters' edge to get a drink. They often do so at their own risk. There often isn't just a serial killer out here, after all, who'd dare attack them at the waters' edge.
Not far from here, surrounded by undergrowth, a tent has been pitched. Its exterior is juniper wood camo-patterned; hence, there's a chance the patrolling rangers don't know it's here.
Inside, a scheming male sleeps...or, tries to, anyhow. He knows about the Mayor's womanhunter. He wishes he knew what to do about it. That, though, is part of the reason he's here. He hopes that, by putting himself in the killer's place, he could, perhaps, either corner the killer or encourage the manhunt to do that themselves. It's a gamble... And yet, for some reason, Werner would rather be doing this than...sleeping near a central air duct and losing himself in the white noise it'd generate every time it got too cold.
Lately, a war has been ravaging within himself... He's not sure which part of himself to root for...or if any warring faction of himself is even there to root for. He's not even sure if playing referee is wise...so to speak. Wars, after all, don't have referees other than the common sense of the leadership of both sides. And often, for Werner, it takes more than common sense to solve anything. For him, this is serious news; common sense has always been one of his strengths.
Outside, a mounted ranger passes. As this happens, Werner doesn't dare move... He fits the profile of the killer, after all. Werner would hate to think that this ranger doesn't have coworkers who would, too... But then, his coworkers surely wear uniforms and badges, such as himself. In that way, Werner can't compare.
Outside, the ranger pauses and looks around. No less than three times, he looks right past the tent that's pitched nearby.
Still, Werner doesn't move. This is getting hairy. Werner is already too hairy, for someone of his age and gender...
At last, the ranger sneezes, and rides off. Werner doesn't dare move again for at least five minutes afterwards.
He's gotten restless. He might know of a remedy... Then again, it's just as likely to make things worse...
The fly, he opens. In all directions, he looks; he wears NV goggles. Once he feels secure within reason, he abandons the tent. Lightly armed with concealed karambit blades, he takes a little trip uphill...where the woods meet the uplands.
Up here, waterfalls flow. They'd set the soul at ease...if they weren't so loud. Elsewhere in these mountains, a lot of snow melts. Either that, or a rainstorm has just happened. Either way, it surely keeps these falls falling...and not to mention the pools beneath them full.
Bundled in a cloak, Werner makes his way through the wood and among the rocks, among all of the pine trees and low-growing juniper shrubs.
Within tree holes and beneath rocks, chipmunks slumber. Werner wouldn't rather be roommates with them. He might soon be in worse luck than he'd rather be.
Surrounded by low-growing juniper shrubs, a pack of coatis slumbers. They've surely exhausted themselves chasing tarantulas and trapdoor spiders. They'll be right back at it, though, come dawn; they've got to be.
As Werner walks, various moths scatter from the undergrowth, clearing a path for him. He's almost glad they're not Buffalo Bill's moths, from the Hannibal Lecter stories... At times, Werner enjoys believing that in another reality, Dr. Lecter could've been his mentor... Too bad men like Lecter would surely rather eat their protegees than pass the torch on to them.
Concealed in undergrowth, some of the local crickets still sing...late though it is. They long for females to mate with. Good thing, then, that some of them don't become serial killers... For some reason, it seems like they'd make great serial killers...if they were capable of killing anything other than a rival male.
Against the sides of tree trunks, harvestfellow spiders stand. For some reason, they wouldn't prefer the local barns tonight. That almost makes sense; it's kind of cold tonight, after all.
Up ahead, there's a cave. Large rocks and a few drop-offs surround it. The landing before its opening is depressed.
This cave was once the lair of a serial killer. Hence, the rangers have already searched it. And naturally, if the killer was there, the Mayor wouldn't still be staying in that cottage. It's just as well; the serial killer who once lived here is now little more than a memory...and hardly one from within the past half-century.
The serial killer's alias, as the press called it, was Minoha; the word is Ukrainian for "the lamprey." His real name was later revealed to be Maxim Kovalenko. Many, he killed. Much time, the law took to manhunt and corner him. They managed to keep him in captivity for three months. At about that time, he was privateered to do a job for the law...which he died doing. He was cremated; despite this, there's a headstone in some cemetery overlooking the Snake River in Idaho that honors his memory.
Within the keystone of the cave entrance, a symbol has been carved. It's of a hammer and sickle. In life, the Minoha saw himself as a patriotic peasant. Hence, needless to say, a lot of the people who he killed were the wives and/or children of either civil servants, virtual nobility, virtual bourgeois, or any or all of the above. He committed many of his murders with a scythe.
Werner arrives. He looks around. He'd expect a garrison of manhunters to be stationed here... This does seem like a place, after all, where the Mayor's womanhunter would lay low... Either that, or her womanhunter might, in fact, be smart enough to realize that whenever a manhunt begins, the first thing the manhunters do is turn their quarry's home into a watchtower. And that way, if the quarry is stupid enough to go home so soon after he's branded a fugitive, the manhunt ends right there. Alas, this only happens if the quarry is that stupid. Most of them aren't...and hence, know very well not to try to go home while the law manhunts them. Werner has just as much of a way of knowing how smart the womanhunter is as the law does...which is none. This, though, he does know: the law has already searched this cave at least three times, and hence, the killer would have to have a death wish to hide here.
Off in the woods, some cattle bellow. Werner freezes, and listens. For a moment, he expects to be ambushed by rangers... Alas, nothing else happens. One of the calves must've had a nightmare, or something...
Soon, Werner enters the cave. For this, he sheds the goggles. He's soon lit a lantern. Armed with it, he does some spelunking.
On some of the cave walls, cave paintings remain. Some are Ute. Some are Navajo. Some, in fact, were painted by the late serial killer. It's so nice to think he had a soul, murderous and lamb-molesting though he was in life. (And from what Werner's heard, that's putting it way too politely.)
For someone who never made the news, this cave's infamous host's fossils certainly had an impressive cat collection. Among the fossils in this cave, there are traces of a sabre-toothed Thylacosmilus...and also those of an Ictitherium aardwolf...and also those of a Barbourofelis false sabre-toothed cat...and also those of an Amphimachairodus cat-like machairodont... These were just fossils, though; Siegfried's and Roy's Schwarzes were both bigger than his.
Downstairs, there are dungeons. In them, there are organs...or rather, they're synthesizers. The Minoha had a lot of good vision...despite being a crook. Many, even, remember him as being over-illusioned; an irrealist, even, perhaps...
As Werner makes his entry, he passes a series of metal spires on either side of the cave path. Some are palladium-forged. Some are osmium-forged. Some are nickel-forged. Some are aluminum-forged. Either way, they exist to dampen the synthesizer music, so that no one outside can hear it. This makes sense; serial killers, after all, do a lot to assure that their existence never becomes common knowledge...or knowledge, period...
In these cave chambers, the architecture is brutalist. Parts of it are Gothic; Victorian Gothic, in fact. Unclear, as to how the old serial killer was capable of getting all of this work done... He could've perfected it...if only he'd stop killing.
At one of the synthesizers, Werner stands. First, he plays a few keys, just to make sure the instrument is in-tune. Miraculously, it is. The rangers must've tuned these things, when they came to search the place earlier... Then again, these synthesizers are probably simply better at staying in-tune than Bach's favorite organs surely once were...
The keys, Werner now plays. He loses himself, as he does this. As he does, he mimics patriotic/marching music, nation non-specific, demographic non-specific. He's not sure why; he's pretty sure that these synthesizers' old player would've abhorred such music...if it sang praises to a fatherland with a strong central government.
From a column, a painting hangs. It's of Vladimir Lenin. The way the painting is both painted and positioned, it almost seems as if Lord Lenin smiles down upon Werner, as he plays the music. This is a bit uncalled-for; Werner is no Ulyanovsk Russian.
Outside the cave, not a synthesizer note escapes the opening. Every now and then, screech owls and/or nightjars land before the cave mouth and forage, as if they didn't know where this was.
Uphill, a ranger rides past. He barely acknowledges the cave opening. It's just as well; again, the cops have already combed every square inch of the caves' interior. They're also pretty sure that their quarry wouldn't be stupid enough to hide in one of the first places they'd look for him. Either way, it seems a bit irresponsible that the rangers haven't turned these caves into a garrison by now.
Inside, Werner continues to play. A marching army may never hear his music. No flag, either, might ever be raised while it's being performed...if it's ever performed again. Either way, this is a piece of Werner's soul. And the bugs will always hear it, even if people don't.
By and by, Werner detects the presence of something mystical. Hence, he slows his playing, cracks his right eye, and peeks behind him...
It's an ottoman. Its top isn't bare, though. Atop it, a small bottle of wine sits. A huge paper tag hangs from its neck.
Werner takes a break from his music to have a drink. A wine glass sits right next to the bottle. A corkscrew, there is, too.
Into the glass, Werner serves himself. He takes the glass in both hands and looks around. In moments like these, he's never gladder that his original host is dead...or otherwise with loftier accommodations...whether they be legal or offshore.
One sip at a time, he drinks. It's some of the best half-burgundy, half-deep purple wine around...wherever that might be, and whether the distiller had to combat a temperance movement...or worse, a prohibiting state...just to make and sell this stuff...assuming it isn't stolen. Either way, Werner's pretty sure that this isn't one of Napoleon's old vices.
Nearby, a cot has been pitched. Its fabric is burgundy. Werner suddenly becomes aware of how exhausted he is... Hence, he finishes his wine, yawns, and makes his way to the cot. As he does, his raiment spontaneously unravels and is left in piles of yarn on the floor.
Steadily, he lies across the cot. Soon, he's on his side. Soon, he sleeps. He's lost his regard for most affairs...if not all affairs. But then, the wine did him a favor; her certainly wasn't sleeping in that tent in the woods...
He'll be living in a bigger world when he wakes. His mission, too, will be altered...