THE DISCOVERY OF THE REAL BLAIR WITCH

In 1999, the horror film "The Blair Witch Project" was introduced to theatre audiences. A year later, "Book Of Shadows: Blair Witch 2" was viewed by devoted fans. Both of these endeavors, although entertaining were not based in fact.
I recently was in the Deep South and encounted the scariest and most evil of creatures. Crawl back into hiding, Big Foot. Waddle into the deep water, Lock Ness Monster. In my upcoming story, I will share with the reader my terrifying face-to-face meeting with the hideous and vile "REAL BLAIR WITCH". Slithering from the bar-room gutters of Milwaukee, the disgusting and horrifying monster of folk tales emerged from the dank and putrid swamps of Louisiana and was discovered in a sleepy, little town 46 miles to the north of New Orleans. Be prepared to tremble with fear, gasp in disgust, and believe that such abominations exist.

"SO CLOSE" A SHORT STORY

"SO CLOSE"

I stood outside the church with my mother, stepfather, and tiny son. We were visiting Illinois to attend the high school graduation of my younger brother. I knew my dad would be there and after years of estrangement didn't have any idea how I would react.

I turned and spied him coming in my direction. My heart was pounding within my chest. For a split second he glanced at me, then immediately redirected his gaze elsewhere.

"There's your grandpa." I choked on the words I was whispering to my two-year-old son. The child in my arms showed no interest in what I was saying to him. My father walked past us, feigning oblivion to his first-born grandson and only daughter.

My mother started to go after her ex-husband. She was infuriated. He had slighted Steven and me. I stopped her immediately in her tracks. "Don't Momma. If he doesn't want to have anything to do with us, you can't make him." She began to argue, but by the look on my face dropped the matter.

We went inside the church and to our designated places. In an effort to distract myself from the pain I was experiencing, I looked over the program. People were noisily filing in. Above their footsteps and whispers, I thought I heard a familiar voice hiss in aggravation. I glanced up to see my father and his mother settling into the pew in front of where I sat. He, obviously, was perturbed with the seating arrangement. I thought the lump in my throat would cut off all breath.

It was a catholic school and so, before the actual commencement started, the priest officiating asked all in attendance to kneel and pray.

I made the sign of the cross and called on God to help me. I begged the Heavens to please let my daddy realize how much I was hurting. I pleaded with the Almighty to let me be forgiven.

My father sat back down, but I remained on my knees. He was inches away from me. I could smell the Old Spice. It was a scent I knew so well since childhood. I inhaled deeply and for a second, memories flooded my mind. Years fades away to times when we were happy. I was his little girl again and we were truly happy. How I adored him. And how he adored his "pretty eyes".

I caught my grandmother trying to sneak a peek at the baby and me. My dad abruptly pulled her close, gave her a scathing look, and angrily cursed under his breath. Immediately, she transfixed her gaze forward. I guess, like her son, she too was lost to me.

The organ played softly and words were spoken from the altar's pulpit. But, I was unable to listen to anything above the white-hot din pulsating within my skull.

He was so near. He was so close. I reached out and lightly touched his coat.

"Turn around Daddy. Please turn around," I whispered. He stiffened. "Please, Daddy turn around and look at me," I begged. I felt him become all the more rigid. Over and over, I beseeched him to acknowledge me, but it fell on deaf ears.

My sobs were uncontrollable. With each passing moment, they grew louder and regressed to childlike affectation. I was hysterical, at this point, and pleaded with my father to look my way, to see me. I cried and repeatedly asked him to forgive me, to love me again. I frantically clutched at his coat. He continued to remain steadfastly cold and totally unresponsive.

My mother attempted to comfort me, but I could not be solaced. Others tried to quiet me, but I would not listen. I may never have another chance to make contact and I had to do whatever I possibly could to try and reach him. He just had to care for me again.

The incoherent blubbering of my anguish and despair disrupted the graduation exercises. I felt myself being led from the church. Once outside, the bright rays of the sun stung my red and swollen eyes. The darkness of my heart was mocked by the beautiful glow of the cloudless morning.

I was despondent. I was alone. The void consuming every fiber of my being was palpable. I knew nothing would ever fill this emptiness.

He never turned around. He never looked my way or heard my heartache. He never forgave me. He was gone, never to return.

Many years later, I happened to see my daddy walking down the street. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. Then, just as quickly, he crossed to the other side of the block, turned, and hurried away. I'd like to think he remembered something and had to retrace his steps. But, in the three decades that have passed, since that chance occasion, I know he's long since forgotten this little girl and there is no going back. And yet, I will forever cherish when we were so close.

Miracle of miracles, my beloved father and I were finally reunited after a thirty-three year separation. I only had his company for a couple years before he passed away in July of 2001, but in that brief, wondrous time we were as we once had been doting father and devoted daughter and the closeness we shared was not even severed in his earthly departure. His spirit envelopes me in a paternal embrace, he hears my most minute whisper and every so often he tugs at my heart and never lets me forget I am forgiven and eternally remain his treasured little "pretty eyes".

"REETNINGS" A SHORT STORY IN CELEBRATION OF MOTHER'S DAY

"REETNINGS"

Does the name Rita McKinnon Olson ring a bell? I didn't think so. She never made the papers, received a "significant award", or accomplished anything of what most would consider important. She wasn't rich; she wasn't famous. She never enjoyed a moment in the limelight. Why on earth would the name mean anything to you? It certainly didn't ring a chord with me. Individuals like Rita just live out their lives to the best of their ability, never seeking, let alone expecting, recognition from others.

A native of Boston, Massachusetts, Rita lost her father George when she was young to the hands of a murderer. Although, given good reason to be bitter and resentful by this event, she remained an open, optimistic, and outgoing youngster.

Her mother Mary Edna nurtured and raised an exceptional child. Despite hardships that befell her in childhood, she was able to overcome all of these tragedies with an undefeatable resilient spirit.

She excelled in school, was high school valedictorian, and entered college at the age of sixteen. Her ambition was to become a writer and she pursued and mastered studies to this end in university. But, abruptly and to the amazement of all who knew her, before her education was finished and a career in journalism could be realized, she married Al Olson, a man she had met in her mid teens.

Their first baby died, along with her creative dreams and hopes for a degree. But, the marriage survived and finally, after five childless years, a son was born to the couple. In the years that followed, Rita and Al became the parents of eight additional children.

The promise of a better life and opportunity for each child and the guarantee of the best of educational advantages caused the family to move from the East coast across the country to California. In California anyone, for a nominal fee, could be taught and attain knowledge at excellent colleges and jobs were plentiful.

Rita was a wonderful mother, caring, doting, and always available with unconditional love for each of her children. She, obviously, was born for this maternal role.

As the children grew being an ever present Mom was less called for. Rita volunteered her time teaching catechism, visited and fed the ill in her parish, and, to her delight, was afforded the opportunity to head a small writing workshop in her community.

This classy lady gave her all to every endeavor she embraced in her life. She was a loyal and faithful wife for over forty years of marriage, watched her children mature and go out into the world-a doctor, a lawyer, a principal, a pilot to name a few. Each and every one successful in the fields they pursued. She welcomed a new generation of grandchildren and bestowed on them freely the true essence of herself-love.

Despite a long and hard fight, Rita lost her battle with breast cancer in the summer of 1984. She was sixty-three. Rita was buried in a quiet ceremony, mourned by those whose lives she touched with her warmth and generosity. She never made the papers, received a "significant award", or accomplished anything of what most would consider important. But, Rita McKinnon Olson changed my life in a most unexpected way and blessed me with the cherished gift of my life partner, her daughter Mary.

Did you ever hear of Gloria Subat Owen Leahy Koons? I'd bet you haven't. She too didn't achieve notoriety or fame. Although, she could be flashy and gregarious, the life of a party, she could also lapse into morbidity and depression, secluding herself from the world. Either way, it was of no consequence to others, or was it?

Born in New Orleans, Louisiana, Gloria was the last child born to Delta Fucich and Andrew Subat. She had two sisters and three brothers. The beautiful little girl was pampered and protected by her parents and older siblings. She did exceedingly well in school and extra curricular activities.

Her education was cut short before attending college, when she met and married Kenneth Owen, a prominent contractor. To the couple a son was born. But, the marriage floundered from the very start due to drinking and infidelities on the part of her husband. The young bride and mother took her small son, left the union, and got a divorce.

Always sheltered throughout her life, she was ill equipped to make it on her own, let alone raise a child. She and Kenneth rekindled their relationship and remarried. But, his destructive behavior hadn't changed and in fact grew far worse. His alcoholism was undeniable and soon into the second marriage he was accused of raping a young woman. Gloria immediately separated from him and soon after her divorce was finalized, Kenneth died of an alcohol related illness.

Gloria enjoyed the single life, while relatives cared for her young child. Then, when she was around thirty, she met the handsome and suave Captain Jeremiah Joseph Leahy III. They fell head over heels in love, married, and soon welcomed a daughter into the world. A son followed two years later.

Gloria and the children wanted for nothing materially and she enjoyed once again living the upper middle class lifestyle she knew so well growing up. But, to maintain this level of comfort and wealth, Jerry was forced to ship out a great deal of the time.

To the outside world the big house on Memphis Street and the well-respected family within personified the American Dream. But looks can be deceiving as we all know.

When the Captain was called away to different ports, Gloria too traveled. But the trips she made were psychotic journeys from reality. Tragically, the younger children were forced to join her on these excursions, as the older boy was, for the most part, away at school.

Manically driven, she would take the youngsters to this bar and that bar, on business she said. From this man to that man, all uncles she claimed. She knew no bounds when it came to having fun and little did she care what affect it had on the girl and boy in tow. Whether she did more than flirt and tease the male acquaintances she made in the lounges she frequented will never really be known, but what is fact is that on more than one occasion a drunk rebuffed suitor of the evening found his satisfaction on the top of a terrified little girl, her daughter.

The house stank, the rooms were filthy and cluttered with trash, the kids were dirty, hungry, and scared. In a darkened bedroom, Gloria either sobbed uncontrollably or lay with a vacant stare for hours to days. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. She did not hear the whimpers and pleas. The sick and frightened children weren't noticed. Again and again she was off and again her children were made to accompany her.

Her marriage dissolved, all possessions were lost. Her addictive and self-destructive behavior plagued each child in one way or another. Gloria fumbled through her remaining days with questionable sanity. Why would she continue to put herself into position after position of detriment and heartache?

In the fall of 1999, Gloria died. She never was famous or gained notoriety. Those aims were abandoned a long time before. Of her three children, only her youngest son attended his mother's service. Some matters just can't be rectified, some transgressions never repaired. I know. I cry and think of my mother often.

I clicked on the computer, entered the recovery chat-room, and typed in a couple words. Thus began my relationship with Mary. From the moment we connected, we talked incessantly online and then, by phone. And despite each of us being from the opposite coast, there was little distance between our views and feelings on most every subject. It was love at first type.

Acquainting ourselves with one another, our backgrounds were discussed and, of course, our families were mentioned. Mary began to tell me about her mother. But to my amazement, she really didn't need to because somehow I felt Rita's presence and seemed to know what her daughter was going to tell me before she did. I had the strong sense that Rita had guided me to her child and was pleased I was now in her life and she in mine.

I didn't want to appear completely crazy to my new friend. I was reluctant to say anything. When I finally did venture to tell Mary about what was occurring in relation to her mother's spirit and me, she didn't seem at all surprised.

"Sounds like a Reetning to me," she said. "What's that?" I inquired. "Since my mother's death she visits some of us from time to time. It's usually to teach a lesson or to give support." "Far fucking out," was all I could say.

Sadly, regrettable circumstances soon manifested without warning. Mary and I became estranged and lost touch with one another. The confusion and longing we felt was palpable. It served no purpose to express our feelings out-loud because the relationship seemed hopeless and lost to us both. Yet, throughout this painful separation, one thing remained valid. Our love was steadfast and true and Rita was in the wings watching and waiting patiently for our reunion to take place.

As fate and her mother would have it, Mary and I remarkably beat the odds and finally in the autumn of 1999 we started a life together in New York City. On one of our first outings as a couple, we went to St. Ignatius' for a chamber music performance. Mary joked, "My mother would be so proud. Here we are on our first real date and we are in a catholic church."

While waiting for the ensemble to begin we glanced at the program. "Oh my God," Mary exclaimed, "Reception to follow in McKinnon Hall. That's my mom's maiden name." We casually dismissed the coincidence without further comment as we heard those on stage readying their instruments.

"It's going to be a lovely concert, Rita," we then overheard the woman in the pew in front of us whisper. "I'm sure it will be, Rita," her companion replied. Mary and I gave each other a startled side glance. "I wonder what mom wants to tell us, she's working overtime tonight," Mary quietly said and then, the music began. Of course, we talked at length about all that happened that night and what it might mean afterwards, but when nothing was revealed it was forgotten.

Busily we readied ourselves for the trip to North Carolina to meet Mary's second grandbaby. It was Thanksgiving Day. Despite a conscientious effort on my part to shake the feelings, I felt an overwhelming need to contact my mother. "She probably won't even know who I am. She's so out of it from what I hear," I told Mary. Gloria's life, for many years now, only existed within the confines of her small bleak bedroom and the even darker imprisoning cell of her severe mental illnesses. The power of agoraphobia, depression, and psychosis had enveloped her and from its tight grasp she would never be free.

She hadn't recognized me when I visited her last and deteriorating body and mind was too unsettling for me to witness again. She was a shell of the woman I once knew and I even questioned if her soul still existed or had long ago departed. I had stayed away since and made no other contact with her. It was useless. But I could not get her off of my mind that day and with Mary's urging, I finally agreed to phone her.

On the third ring an unfamiliar woman's voice answered. "Hi. I'm trying to reach Gloria. This is her daughter Cherie." "Hello there. How are you? Your mother and I were just talking about you not a minute ago," this stranger said. She then went on to tell me that they were laughing over some of my antics when I was younger. "Your mother can tell a story better than anyone I know; she's hysterical." "My mother," I questioned incredulously, "My mother is able to speak coherently? Do you mean to tell me that she is well enough to talk?" "Absolutely," the woman responded, "She does have her weak moments, but otherwise is still a fiesty old Southern belle." I was dumbfounded to say the least. "Please let me speak to her".

My mind rushed back in time. Decades upon decades fell away upon hearing my mother's strong hello. She sounded vibrant. She sounded alive. She sounded sane and in touch with reality. I sat down and listened hungrily to all she was saying. She missed me. She wished she could see me. And she was so very happy I was with Mary. "Wait. How do you know about Mary," I asked in disbelief. "Of course I know Mary. What do you mean? She is wonderful and I'm so glad you and she are together. I'd really love to have some pictures of you two though". I couldn't believe what I was hearing on the other end of the line.

She began to sob uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry for all I did to you, Cherie. Everything is true. Don't ever doubt what you remember. I did all of those terrible things to you. I let all of those horrible things happen. It's all true. Believe it!" She was imploring me, "Can you ever forgive me? Please, I beg you to forgive me for all I have done. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she repeated over and over. "Momma, it's ok. It's ok. I promise." "But do you forgive me? Can you forgive me? Will you forgive me?" "Yes, Momma. Yes, I forgive you." "I love you with all of my heart, Cherie. You're my little girl and I'm so proud of you and what you have accomplished in your life and all you have overcome. I love you and cherish you more than you'll ever know. I love you. Always remember, I love you." I sensed she was getting tired and so, reluctantly brought our conversation to a close. "Hey, Momma tell me something. Who is that woman that answered the phone?" "Oh that's my angel, Cherie." "You mean your nurse. Don't you?" "No, no," she protested, "She is my angel!" "Well, ok then, let me talk to your angel, Momma. I love you."

The woman took the receiver back from my mother and said hello. "I can't believe the change in my mom. It's miraculous," I began, "Thank you so much for all you have done for her." "It's been my honor and priviledge to spend time with her. I'm the one who is thankful," she corrected. "Well, I am grateful nevertheless. She says you are her angel and I believe now that you are. By the way, what's your name?" "It's Rita. My name is Rita". I hung up the phone and went to Mary and held her tight.

"Your mother is with mine. It's unbelievable but fantastically true. She loves me and I love her and not only that, I forgive her. I really and truly think I do." For the first time in all of my life I felt what I imagined peace and serenity must feel like. I closed my eyes and whispered "thanks" to Rita.

Two days later as we drove in the North Carolina darkness a shooting star streaked across the sky. I shuddered as I felt something pass quickly through my entire being. In Texas my mother closed her eyes and drew her last breath.

In my absence, my mother's nurse was at the burial services to lend steadfast support to my disabled son. She never left his side. But, when we later looked through pictures of the ceremony, there was only a light shining next to him. No one was there. And even more astounding, when the family contacted the Home Health Care agency to pay for Rita's private nursing services, we were informed that no such person existed.

One day a few weeks following my mother's passing, I found myself brokenhearted and crying. Mary attempted to comfort me, but I could not be solaced. Finally, I blubbered in a childlike voice, "I don't want my momma to go to Hell for all the bad things she did to me. I'm so afraid she is going to burn in Hell. I don't want that. I don't want her to suffer." "Cherie," Mary soothed, "Do you think for a moment my mother would come to take her there? She's safe with her in Heaven. She's alright and at peace, Cherie because of your forgiveness and love."

At that instant, there was a "Reetning". Two spirits were affirming my dear Mary's reassuring words. I then knew beyond a shadow of doubt I had received the cherished gift of forgiveness and the peace and serenity it afforded. And I have Rita McKinnon Olson to thank. A woman who never made the paper, received a "significant award", or accomplished anything of what most would consider important. A woman I never met, but who along with my mother is with me now and forever more. And whose love and wisdom I pray I will always embrace and heed.

THIS STORY IS DEDICATED FIRST AND FOREMOST TO THE OLSON, HANSEN, LEAHY, AND SMITH FAMILIES. IT IS ALSO MY GIFT TO MARLENE LORRAINE WHO AS A SMALL TODDLER LOST HER MOTHER EDITH AGNES LORRAINE AND OFRA WRIGHT WHO AS A CHILD TEN YEARS OF AGE LOST HER MOTHER BELLA GOTMAN. FURTHERMORE, I WISH TO GIVE THIS PIECE OF MYSELF TO SANDRA BLAIR, MY DEAR FRIEND AND SOULMATE, WHO HAS SUFFERED THE MOST HORRIFIC OF TRAGEDIES THAT COULD BEFALL A MOTHER, WHEN A YEAR AGO ON MAY 6TH FELT FROM HER MATERNAL EMBRACE HER ONLY SON GABE WAS TAKEN IN AN INSTANT. I HONOR EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU THIS MOTHER'S DAY 2009.

STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED

HEY GENTILES READ ON

THE EXPLANATION OF THE CHASSSIDIC CHASUNAH FOR SHTIK HOLLZ SHLEMIEL. MEANING YOU DUMMY!






First, a shidduch or matchmaking occurred when Ofra realized her entire life was consumed by Facebook.

There were no families to meet, but her Motek Cherie a.k.a. Shiksa Bitch the Steel Matzoh has the privilege of announcing the occasion with a virtual vort or reception. The contract called a tenaim has been signed under duress, including water boarding.

Because Ofra the Kallah is so addicted to FB the Chatan, the tradition of not seeing each other for a week is impossible due to puter withdrawals. Thus, no Kabbalat Panin, Folks.

There is a Ashkenazi tradition that both mothers stand together and break a plate. The Shiksa Bitch will rip up a paper plate instead.

To speed things up and because Ofi likes to snack, there will be no Aliyah on Shabbat and no no no fasting.

Next is the bodeken, the veiling of the Kallah (bride) by the Chatan (groom). In this case, Ofra will be veiled in a warm towel heated in a Kosher microwave and draped lovingly on her painful neck.

The ceremony lasts 20-30 minutes, but Ofra’s will be 2-3 minutes tops including the kiddushin and nisuin.

Over a glass of Manischewitz or other cheap wine, Ofra will circle her Dell and type a blessing to her monitor and then her modem.

FB will then place an application of a huge, gigantic, burn your eyes out gaudy, diamond ring on the screen and the text beneath will say “Be sanctified (mekudeshet) to me with this picture of a ring according to the law of Bill Gates and Hewlett-Packard.

After the kiddushin is complete the ketuvah is read aloud. This is boring and will be skipped.

The nisuin then proceeds. The bride and groom stand beneath the chuppah, today it’s an umbrella, and recite the sheva brachos (7 blessings) in the presence of a minyam (if a prayer quorum can’t be found, neighbors, people off the street, or if desperate anyone’s dog or cat will suffice).

Then the wine is swigged down unless someone in the building swiped it.

The groom, with his right foot, smashes a glass. This will be symbolized by the piece of crap computer crashing to represent the destruction of technology.

The couple retire briefly to a completely private room, the cheder yichud (in other words the bathroom).

Then, a festive meal of pasta followed by a repetition of the sheva brakos. Of course, this will be omitted so the party can begin. Exuberant music from a bad ass boombox will blast and dancing will start.

Please note, you won’t hear “Here Comes The Bride” at this ceremony since Wagner the composer was a low-life Anti-Semite. What a Jerk!

So, throw buckets of Jordan Almonds at Ofi and FB and scream with joy “Mazaltov Mazaltov” NOT “Malatov” as in Cocktail or everyone will run for their lives thinking there is a bomb.


THE END
Oye Gevald

COME ONE COME ALL TO A WEDDING

VER VOLT DOS GEGLAIBT?
ES TUT MIR A GROISSEH HANOEH!

TO INVITE
ALL
OF

ABRAHAM’S KIDS, SHEKETZ, SHKOTZIN
&
THE INTERNET COMMUNITY

TO THE
ERUSIM and NISUIN
OF

KALLAH MISS OFRA TRIGERMAN WRIGHT
AND
CHATAN MISTER FACEBOOK

VEN AND VU ?
*THIS WILL BE A CASUAL , NO FRILLS AFFAIR SINCE KALLAH OFI IS A BROKE, ORPHAN, IMMIGRANT. IN LIEU OF GIFTS PUT LOTS OF GELD* IN HER PUSHKEH PLEASE !

RSVP

OFI and FACEBOOK SOON TO WED!!!

FORMAL ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE UPCOMING NUPTUALS OF MISS OFRA TRIGERMAN WRIGHT TO MISTER FACEBOOK FORTHCOMING.

WHAT A DEAL!!!

My dear friend Carole Murray is celebrating 29 years in the metaphysical field by offering an absolutely fantastic deal on her readings. From Monday, April 13th - Sunday, April 19th Carole is offering a 29 minute phone reading session for only $29.00. There is a limit of 2 per person. So, treat yourself, your friends and loved ones. As soon as you place your order with Paypal, Carole will contact you and schedule the time of your appointment. Be amazed by this truly gifted woman.
To learn more about Carole and her gift visit her site- ServingSpirits.com Look under the Reading Section Anniversary Special. Thanks so much.

"THE MONOGRAM" A SHORT STORY

"THE MONOGRAM"

The skinny, long haired, hippie chick leaned against the wall beneath the flashing lights of the ShoBar. She could not have been older than sixteen or seventeen. Bourbon Street was exceptionally crowded that night, but she felt totally alone. Her friends were late and if she hadn't been so desperate for their company and the promise of getting high, she'd have tried to slip in and catch her favorite dancer's show.

Drunks staggered past her making rude comments as they went. A couple young guys even stopped, walked over to where she was, and offered to buy her a drink for a threesome. She rebuffed their crude proposition. After cursing her, they too stumbled off.

Just when she decided she had waited long enough, a mountain of a man approached her. He gave her the once over, walked by, only to return a moment later. His voice was deep and haunting when he, initially, spoke. Her hackles went up. She had the feeling, that it wouldn't be advisable to blow this guy off with a flip comment. His looming presence over her attested to that. She was cordial, but showed no real interest in what he was saying, until he offered to take her into the strip joint.

He guided her to a table on the front row. The owner, emcee, and many of the patrons seemed to know this man. And before drinks could be ordered, a bottle of champagne was sent over to them. "It's on the house," the waitress said. Needless to say, the girl was impressed and wondered who her companion might be. But, his identity was really of no importance to her. What mattered more was the free flowing liquor and the show was about to start.

Rita came out on stage and began her act. The girl never tired of watching the tall blond slowly undressing before her. She was mesmerized by her every move. She felt herself getting sexually excited. She loved this entertainer, she loved this woman.

The man across from her appeared enthralled by what he was seeing too. He stared at the performance intensely.

The girl's attention was reluctantly diverted from the stage. She could not believe her eyes. The man had unzipped his fly, pulled out his penis, and was stroking it. As Rita's gyrations intensified, so did his hand slide up and down his hardened shaft.

His face flushed, beads of sweat appeared on his brow, he moaned softly, and ejaculated upon the floor. Rita scooped up her costume and accouterments and disappeared behind the curtain.

"You stay here. I'll be right back," he commanded after righting his pants and composing himself. She sipped her drink and watched as he walked toward the restrooms and pay phone.

Upon exiting the men's room, he seemed upset. Or was it angry? He stopped and made a call. He slammed down the receiver, returned to where they were sitting and told her sternly, "Hurry up. We're leaving."

Once outside they walked to the corner. "Wait," he said. She thought he might have forgotten something in their quick departure from the bar.

Sirens were blaring in the distance, but were getting closer and louder by the second. The street was lit up with blinding flashing lights as police cruisers filled the block. More than a dozen officers stormed into the lounge the girl and the giant beside her had just left.

"What do you think is going on?" the girl questioned in alarm. "Shut up," he hissed. His concentration was fixated on what was transpiring and she knew not to utter another word.

Within minutes paddy wagons screeched to a halt in front of the establishment. Soon customers, dancers, staff, and the owner were led to the waiting vehicles in handcuffs. In all of the confusion, the girl failed to catch a glimpse of Rita.

She hoped that the woman, she cared so deeply for, had escaped what was obviously a raid. She hoped she was safe somewhere and not going to jail with the others. But, most of all, she wished she could have protected her in some way.

The crowd that had gathered dispersed and went about their business of getting loaded. The police were gone and the ShoBar's entrance was locked and chained. Strangely, the man at her side now appeared quite satisfied and smug. "Disgusting degenerates," she heard him snarl.

He turned back to the girl and smiled, "Come on, Baby. I really feel like having a good time. I've got some great shit back at my hotel. I'll bet you'd like to get stoned." Something didn't seem right, but the girl didn't feel free to turn down his offer.

They walked down Bourbon Street toward the place he was staying. She noticed more than a few street people showed an instant recognition of the man at her side. But, just as quickly they turned away never making eye contact. Again, she tried to dismiss the occurrence, just like she had at the bar. She was going to smoke some dope, maybe down a pill or two. Whoever this guy was, as long as he came through with what he promised, she dismissed her uneasiness.

He ushered her into the room. From the flask he produced, two drinks were poured. She looked about. Strangely, there was nothing to suggest he had ever been in this room, let alone was a guest staying there. No suitcase, no clothes hanging, no toiletries in the bathroom. For the first time since they met, when his presence made her uneasy and uncomfortable, she let herself think past instant gratification with booze and drugs. Something was wrong, terribly wrong and she knew she had to leave.

Naked on the bed, she lay beneath him. She had been too afraid to refuse his advances. He violently plunged into her over and over. Just went she thought she would die under his weight, he withdrew and holding his swollen penis, ejaculated upon her belly.

Too frightened to move an inch, she wondered what he had in store for her next. Slowly, he dipped his index finger into the sticky puddle of cum, and drew what appeared to be letters on the bare part of her stomach.

He wrote two initials with flair and flourish. He leaned back and seemed very pleased with himself. Then, he looked down on his prey and said in disgust, "Don't you ever forget who you have been with tonight, bitch. Now, get the fuck out of here. You make me sick."

The girl frantically got dressed and hurried to leave. As she turned the knob on the door and began to exit, he came up behind her and held it shut. "Don't you ever mention tonight to anyone. You understand?" he warned. She nodded. He glared at her. "You understand?" he said again more menacingly. "Yes, yes. I promise," she swore. With that, he roughly pushed her out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

She stood outside the hotel shaking uncontrollably. She knew she had to get away from there, but was immobilized with terror. Finally, she calmed herself down enough to venture towards Bourbon Street, where she hoped she could get lost in the anonymity of the crowds.

People she knew ignored her. Friends were aloof or downright hostile. She didn't know what she had done to cause them to act this way. She was called a "snitch", a "rat", a "fucking sell-out" when anyone would speak to her at all.

She sat by the fountain in Jackson Square. A couple hippies approached her. "We just want to know why you did it? Why did you turn on us? We thought we were family." "What do you mean?" she asked, "What did I do?" "You were with him. We saw you. You were with that prick and then, the Square was raided and a lot of people were busted. You turned on us. You betrayed us," they sneered. She tried to grasp what they were saying, the accusations they were making. It made no sense. "Who was I with? What prick? Please tell me," she begged. "Yeah. OK. Play dumb. But, you know you were with that mother fucker. You know you were with that son of a bitching creep."

She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach, the stomach he had painted his initials on in sperm.

No wonder he was recognized at the ShoBar. He had the place raided enough. No wonder people on the street knew who he was. He probably sent many of them to jail. Yes, it was in fact who her friends said it was who took her into the club, plied her with drinks, offered her drugs, and raped and defiled her. It was this same man, who gathered peace-loving individuals, who hurt no one, as they sat innocently in a park and saw fit to condemn them to jail on fabricated charges.

And although, decades have passed and the white slime is long washed away from that young girl's belly, today the woman remains indelibly marked by what happened that night at the hands of the sick, the evil, the chief prosecutor of New Orleans-J.G.

It has taken me over 40+ years to have the courage to tell this story and only because the perpetrator is dead. Monsters like him live on in the nightmares of his victims.