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Flagrant Violation

Posted on January 30, 2007
Filed Under The Stories |

It was in Thurman’s nature to be very, very bad, after all, he was a descendant of very bad stock.

Grandpa Thaddeus had taken it upon himself to malevolently impregnate every young woman in Field County, in the summer of ’52. He meant to put his blunt instrument to use in the way that blunt instruments were meant to be used and he pursued his purpose with a single-minded determination that might have served the leader of some nation or a sportsman very, very well. Young, old, beautiful, ugly, he made no exceptions. He certainly didn’t care whether the woman in question was single or married, separated or divorced. He was simply intent on spreading his seed and he made damn sure he got the job done. An alarmingly large number of women had abortions in neighbouring Throw county that fall and the doctors and nurses were all atwitter with gossip and debate about the men of Field County and their sudden virility. If any of them had ever got the inkling that a single man was responsible for all their business that season, they might have attempted to have him captured and studied scientifically.

Millicent Burroughs was one of the women who chose not to have Thaddeus’s seed destroyed in her womb. She was a small-eyed, curly-haired woman of advancing years who had been surprised and suspicious when the wiry farmhand had made the moves on her. Mostly because Thaddeus Vile came from handsome stock, a fact that made his quest for County-wide impregnation all that much easier. Millicent on the other hand was not pretty by any stretch of even her own mother’s imagination. Her mouth set in a thin, mean line deep inside a doughy face, varicose veins mapping uncharted territory up her overweight legs and a sour disposition certain to turn milk and bring tears to a newborn’s eyes, Millicent should have been a pushover for Thaddeus’s charms. Mean Millie lived up to her nickname though and gave the handsome farmhand a hard time. He had planned on getting through the uglies first so that he could reward himself with the pretties afterwards and possibly also leave a little something inside them that he might have caught from the uglies. Millicent’s distrust and suspicion nearly caused him to fail his quest but she eventually came around in good enough time for him to move on to the pretties. He had to work hard and sometimes accommodate up to three ladies in a single day but when the leaves began changing colour towards the end of Summer ‘52, Thaddeus Vile could tick every single sexually capable woman from Field County off his list.

All through her pregnancy Millicent indulged in several acts of petty theft, stealing everything from safety pins to milk and cookies; her favourite things to steal howver, were diapers. She refused to tell whose child she was carrying, insinuating in the process that she may have had more than one lover. When Cornelia Burroughs was born one bitterly cold January night, no one knew about it. Several months later when Millie began pushing her daughter’s pram around town, people were constantly surprised by how beautiful her daughter was.

Twenty-five years later, Cornelia was married for the second time to Abraham Mulcahey and while Abe, who ran a garage on Main Street in their little town of Bent, Kansas was proud of his beautiful wife and the life he was certain he could provide for them, Cornelia was already getting cabin fever. When over two years of Abraham’s inadequate ministrations hadn’t caused Cornelia to fall pregnant, he began to drink and she began to seek satisfaction in the arms of other men. There had been rumours that Cornelia had once gotten pregnant as a sixteen-year-old in high school but that was never proven and most of the men in Bent were simply content to dismiss any such frivolous talk as jealousy on the parts of their wives. The truth was that Cornelia had first fallen pregnant at the tender age of thirteen and then again at the ages of seventeen, nineteen and twenty-two.

Before long, Cornelia had walked out of Abraham’s house to shack up with twice-charged but never convicted bank robber, Jack Howitzer. When he was fourteen years old Jack was brought up on charges of having raped a nineteen year old girl named Claire. When the two were brought before a judge, the man in charge took one look at the five-feet-eight-inch Claire and the four-feet-ten-inch Jack and dismissed the case. What never came out was that Jack had held a ten-inch knife to Claire’s throat; or that he had raped her in the anus. When she was committed to a mental asylum two year later because her parents could no longer cope with her outbursts, Jack had already branched off into petty theft. By the time Cornelia fell in with the recently thirty-year-old Jack he was six feet tall, with thickly packed muscles and a thirst for female flesh that he had every intention of quenching, every opportunity he got. Within weeks she was pregnant, within months he was on the road and by the time Thurman was born, he was four states away, finding satisfaction in the ass of a woman named Inga who claimed to be Swedish but turned out to be a man. When Jack managed to become sober enough to understand what he had been up to, he shot and killed Inga. Eleven weeks after Thurman’s fourth birthday, his father was executed, days shy of his own thirty-fifth birthday.

Merely weeks after his seventeenth birthday, Thurman stumbled home from a fight in the schoolyard to find his mother face down in her own vomit and very, very dead. She had started drinking when her looks began to wear off. It occurred to him as he looked at her lying in her casket, that he had never seen his mother look more at peace.

In the years that followed, leading all the way up to his twenty-first birthday, Thurman was the baddest kid on the block. He fucked anything that moved, sometimes being so drunk as to not care whether it was a girl or a guy that was on their knees before him. Blessed with two generations of good looks and bad blood, his bisexuality and his penchant for violence knew no bounds. He lived his life like a violent video game where old ladies, young whores, drunks, the homeless and sometimes even children became fist-stoppers. He had broken all the fingers in both of his hands atleast once by his nineteenth birthday and had lost count of the number of girls who had approached him in the street with a mumbled confession about being pregnant. If he was feeling kind, he simply walked away. On the more common occasions when he was in a bad mood, he punched them in the face.

Not comfortable with having been a hell-raiser in his little town, Thurman hitched a ride to New York City where he quickly became another rat in that city’s swollen underbelly. Whereas earlier he had been content to use just his fists and his penis to wreak havoc, with the passage of time, Thurman had become adept at inflicting damage with pipes, two-by-fours, the occasional knife and on only one occasion, a gun. He was gaining recognition and several scouts from rival mobs were keeping an eye on the boy. On the morning he was scheduled to finally meet with a possible employer who would ensure his rise from mere street hoodlum to a thug with respect, the Twin Towers came down.

As he looked around at the easy marks running past him, all covered in dust, Thurman saw a sign. He turned around and ducked into the first fire station he passed. By nightfall he had handed out more bottles of water, hugged more strangers and wrapped more blankets around scared people than anyone else in the station. In a flagrant violation of his nature, those were the first sixteen hours, in as long as he could remember that he hadn’t thrown a punch.

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