One cannot help but feel a peaceful calm by listening to lake water as it gently rides up the sand of its shore. The aerobatics of overhead birds and their melodious song spotted the continuous motion subtly. Soon, accented beats follow with the soft background chatter of distant ducks or the splashing of a far-off fish as the last of the chirping crickets come to rest. A passerby comes to appreciate this myriad of sounds gathered throughout Indiana Lake at this time of dawn: a virtual symphony.
Rising, disguised as thickening fog, a blanket of white covers the surface, punctuated by the day breaking sunlight that reflects off the water. It becomes that familiar mirage of a hot steaming bath, creating a sense of the eerie, the unnatural – no, simply the unexpected. So thick does the vapor rest that it would not permit the waters to mirror the great star as it cleared distant Old Hickory.
This marvelous sight stood ignored by the shaggy brown canine as it padded its way along the shore, playfully hopping along the water’s edge. To even the casual observer, it clearly had something on its mind that directed its course. It wondered only a few times to chase a collection of geese into the water or ducks into the air. In the immediate distance, and across the lake itself, a din began to crescendo, giving birth to activity as automobiles, buses, bikes moved along their charted paths, coming into and going out of sight. With each passing moment, the activity increased, even if only slightly, broadcasting the motions people made to face the opening day. Clockwork.
The dog trotted up an embankment, passing through a hole in the chain link fence entering a camp trailer park. It appeared to move effortlessly, darting over, around, under, through obstacles almost subconsciously with that look only a dog can hold. It indicates that the animal doesn’t really notice where exactly it’s going just that it’s going. Nevertheless, all dogs have purpose and ultimate goals in mind. It darted under a porch and around an overturned tricycle and then across a driveway to hop up a particular set of stairs. It sat patiently, just inside the open door.
It shook and began to scratch behind its ear. About that time the sound of coughing became evident. William Matthew McClane straightened his arm that had covered his eyes from the morning light. He lied nude on his back, a cigarette hanging loosely from the side of his mouth. He exhaled a blast of smoke, almost dropping the filtered stick of tobacco onto the sheets.
He did not want to get-up.
The dog let out a small but not insignificant whine, as if urging Matt to do what they both knew would prove necessary. Finally, he sat-up and ran fingers through his thick head of semi-curly hair, scooting to the foot of his bed.
He rubbed the black stubble coating his face, a distinct contrast to the blond mop that hung just below his shoulders. He coughed again then gathered a wad of saliva to blast it out the open window above his bed. He inhaled from the cigarette a final time and tossed it after the spittle.
“Damn,” he muttered, looking at the dog. “I’m a beautiful sight aren’t I?”
The dog watched as Matt planted his feet upon the tile, pausing a moment to acknowledge the cool air now assaulting his naked person. He turned, reached toward a card table against the wall. He almost fell forward. He grabbed a chunk from the remains of last night’s roast beef and lobbed it at the dog, who took hold of the chunk eagerly.
Matt went to the refrigerator, not yet having opened his eyes fully and removed a Flager. He proceeded on across the trailer’s kitchen, hunted for an opener, popped the top letting it bounce indiscriminately on the floor. He became momentarily confused; he really needed a trash can.
He stepped-up to the toilet and took a huge, albeit slow, swallow – some of it running down his neck. He continued to stare at the ceiling as urine splashed … waiting …
Finally, he belched – that deep resonating kind of belch that seems to rise up from the Underworld, bringing with it every unholy inhabitant from one’s intestines. It felt good.
He shook his head violently and stepped backward out of the bathroom, he glanced over to the dog still sitting patiently. “School really sucks, mutt.” His voice resonated with more force, clearer. Then, as if snapping himself alert, he snatched a towel off a kitchen chair, shaking it with his free hand as he walked into the morning light.
He could not stop himself from chuckling quietly as he observed the old hammock swaying ever so slightly with two covered intertwined bodies sleeping lazily upon it.
Matt gulped down a second large swallow, kicking the hammock’s dip. “Up, dickhead!” Not even a stir.
He wrapped the towel about his waste, placed his thumb over the bottle’s opening and shook it violently until a shower of barley suds erupted.
“hey .. Hey.. HEY!!” A boy shouted angrily while a girl let out a scream.
Matt laughed, shaking his head as he let the growing foam run out onto the ground. “Rise and shine.”
“w-What?” Mark Daniel McClane muttered as his girlfriend began a frantic struggle, she pulled herself from Mark’s grasp and leapt from the hammock. “Shit,” she hissed, violently thrashing her hair with her fingers. “My parents are going KILL me, and ground me from YOU.”
“Again,” Matt added.
“Come back to bed baby,” Mark pleaded. He rolled over to reach for her. The hammock swung, and he promptly fell flat on the grass below. “GODSDAMMIT!”
Matt gulped down the last of the Flager, tossed the bottle onto a rubbish heap as he headed for their mother’s trailer.
“Actually,” the girl added as she struggled to put on her sandals, hopping on one foot. “They will kill YOU.”
“AGAIN!” Matt shouted as he opened the front door. She took-off down the street in a sprint, as Mark slowly raised his head. “Gods school sucks.”
The blasting hot water proved exactly what Matt needed as it stimulated each and every nerve ending. School, he thought, nothing more to say really. Three months ago seemed like only yesterday. He pushed open those great double doors and ran out like a screaming banshee amongst a stampede of screaming banshees. Today, he returned an upperclassman. Big deal. He returned as Secretariat of the Organization – the “O” as it was more widely called. Okay, that was a big deal, something he had wished upon himself for quite some time. His appetite grew during his freshman year when he first experienced it up close. It recruits during one’s seventh grade year; your responsibilities grow with each graduation. It reaches everywhere; it provides everything.
The Organization spawned curiously, an interesting if not utterly fascinating phenomenon. Its beginning took place well over a century ago, during severe economic times. Four juniors from Hawkins started with a simple task: help a fellow student, a friend of theirs, save the family farm north of the town. They worked with local business owners, parishes, town council members; they organized blood drives, yard sales, labor pools (hence the all-too-original name). Soon they began bartering with neighboring schools, towns. They even contacted and formulated a partnership with the Political Director of the local Federation of Interstate Truckers. Over the next few months, during even that most difficult time, they raised money. Lots of money.
The local chronicle captured the bank’s surrender of the title; the headlines briefly dominated the State newspapers. In the background of the most circulated photograph, off to the side, smiling amongst themselves, stand those four juniors. That picture hangs in the School library to this day.
Yet, once one gives birth to a living creature, you cannot simply lock it away. It existed, it breathed, it functioned. it provided … it continued. Its operations defined themselves loosely, allowing varying degrees of flexibility within its own self realized mission. Everyone recruited benefited – either financially or materially. It demanded only time and effort. Ultimate authority rested with the Organization’s High Chancellor (though that term lost favor after the Germania War), referred to now simply as Tai Pan. This Chinese word Big Shot took hold last century when H.K. General Stores opened its first satellite in Hendersonville. Dairy Farm owned and operated the H.K.’s, which itself was a subsidiary of the massive trading conglomerate out of Hong Kong: Straun and Company. Its head? Tai Pan. The High Chancellor at the time liked the sound. The O’s lifestyle, however, consumed; it did not relent. Whoever assumed roles in its upper echelons required total devotion; the fundraising tool had quite simply become the machine – and that machine wanted Matt McClane … well, at least, the incoming Tai Pan did.
Matt shut off the water and hung his head upside down. He scratched it violently with both hands, stepped out and wiped the mirror clear of its condensation. I hate shaving, he thought. At least the thin mustache he coaxed all summer looked good. He shook the can vigorously and sprayed the foam into his palm.
“School,” he sighed again as the faucet started to fill the sink.
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