At over 4,000 words, Chapter 101 is the most epic chapter in JUNIPER FALLS, alternating between two major storylines as they come to a head. Due to its sheer length, this chapter is split into two parts.
Charles “Cookie” Castella is pacing in the basement of The Kitchen.
Back and forth past his mixing tubs, steel sorting tables, and metal shelves stacked with cleaning supplies and other ingredients.
These accusations are really eating him up.
He hasn’t spoken with Steve Baxter, or Jezebel, since they told him to tone things down. He’s just been fuming about those cocksuckers telling him what to do.
After all, Cookie is the expert.
You don’t walk into the kitchen of a gourmet restaurant and say, “Hey, Chef, your Bordelaise sauce is for shit. Ease up on the butter.”
And that’s exactly what his dickwad boss and that two-bit skank did.
Problem is, they expect him to comply so the ball’s in Cookie’s court.
He can either do what those nutsacks are telling him and change his recipe.
Or.
Ignore those assclowns altogether, and keep on making his meth-o-licious magic.
Or.
Tell them that he changed the recipe, without changing jack.
That’ll at least get those shitsticks off his ass, and get him back into production.
Problem is, if they discover he was lying, they’ll be back on his dick in no time. Bitchin’ about this, that, and everything else under the sun.
Hell, they might even shut Cookie down next time.
For good.
Cookie stops pacing.
He catches his reflection in a steel drum resting on the supply shelf.
“The problem with being a genius,” he says to the distorted image staring back at him. “Is living among idiots.”1
He looks over the supplies on the shelves.
Checks labels. Lifts bottles. Shakes ‘em.
He’ll need some more ingredients.
Cookie pulls a notepad and pencil from the chest pocket of his lab coat and begins writing a shopping list.
Big Dave is lifting weights in his room upstairs.
Currently powering through his fourth set of inclined chest flys.
Working a sweat. Pumping it up.
Feeling the burn. Deep in the zone.
“Hey Lunkhead,” Cookie shouts from the doorway, nearly giving the poor guy a heart attack. “I need you to go shopping.”
Jesus, thinks Big Dave. This fucking guy.
Pull that shit at a gym you’ll get your skull bashed in with a 50 lb. dumbbell.
Big Dave finishes his set and puts the weights down.
“But it’s late,” he says, wiping his face with a towel. “Everything in Dogwood Valley is already closed.”
“So go to Juniper Falls, smartass.”
“Can’t you send Rusty? I’ve still got to work on my triceps.”
“Rusty couldn’t find his ass with both hands! And Baxter’s not paying you to primp and preen like some muscle-bound beauty queen. He’s paying you to get shit done.”
Cookie walks further into the room.
“And right now I need you to go get me some supplies.”
He slaps the shopping list on Big Dave’s shirtless chest.
It sticks to his glistening pecs.
“Hurry up. I’d like to get some work done tonight.”
Cookie storms out of the room.
“Do you even lift, bro?” Big Dave shouts down the hall.
From the bushes on a hill behind the house, Scrap sees the back door open.
The big guy comes out.
He gets into a beat-up red pickup truck parked in the driveway.
Backs into the street, and drives away.
And then there were two.
Scrap remembers these guys from his recent visit.
The musclehead was Big Dave, Rusty was the nutcase with the automatic cannon, and Cookie was the guy who disrespected Jez.
Bad move, pal.
Under the cover of darkness, Scrap moves like a shadow.
Quickly, but carefully.
He’s carrying a fragile and dangerous payload in a backpack strapped tightly against his shoulders.
Down the hill and over the fence.
Through the backyard to the house.
He moves along the perimeter peeking in windows.
Seeking out targets. Getting the lay of the land.
Through the living room window, he spots Rusty sitting on the couch.
Dude doesn’t look so good.
His face is festering with open sores.
Lips look like they’re rotting off.
Thin patches of stringy hair sprout from his scabbed head.
He’s got less hair than Scrap remembers.
Damn, thinks Scrap. What possesses people to do this shit to themselves?
Scrap moves to a window well at the base of the house.
Crouches and peeks into a small window.
Looks like the basement.
Spots an awesome man cave.
Like the room every teenager wishes they had.
The kind Scrap never had.
He moves to the next well but the window’s dark.
Can’t see shit, so he makes his way to the other side of the house.
Bingo.
Metal shelves are stacked with cans, jugs, bottles and boxes.
Looks like cleaning supplies.
Further inside the room, Scrap sees tables, tubs, sinks, and stills.
Like an industrial kitchen mixed with a backwoods moonshine factory.
Still, no Cookie.
Scrap hears a twig snap behind him.
“Find what you’re looking for?” says a shaky voice mottled with phlegm.
Scrap turns to see Rusty aiming a gun at him.
***
Steve Baxter’s belly is beyond full.
Dirty dishes and several empty bottles of cabernet litter the table before him.
He’s feeling woozy and amorous.
He stares at his date across the table with a lascivious gleam in his eye. She’s a smokin’ hot betty with wavy platinum hair, big blue eyes, and plumped up lips.
Shit, what was her name again?
Sally? Shelly? Sarah?
Fuck it.
“Baby” always works in a pinch.
She smiles at him, her mouth stained purple from the vino.
He’s got big plans for that plump purple mouth later on. Baxter’s eyes drift from her face to her chest.
Hot damn!
Her pneumatic knockers are the stuff of legend.
Tan, perfectly round orbs practically bursting out of her skin-tight, sparkly-white dress.
“What’s got a hundred teeth and holds back a monster?” asks Baxter.
Sally/Shelly/Sarah puts her finger to her chin and tilts her eyes upward.
“Hmmm,” she says with dramatic flair.
Baxter can practically hear the squeak of the hamster wheel turning in her empty skull.
“I give up,” she says.
“My zipper,” he says flashing a big, grape-stained grin.
She laughs with a giggle-giggle-snort combo that some people find adorable but Baxter finds irritating.
“You ready for some dessert?” he says.
“Ugh, I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that, sweetheart.” He waves at the waiter. “Check, please.”
Baxter texts his driver, Julius.
Be out front in 5.
Two blocks away, Julius fires up the black Escalade and goes to collect his boss in front of the restaurant.
***
“What were you doing in our yard?” Cookie asks Scrap in the basement.
After discovering Scrap snooping in the yard, Rusty herded him into the house and down to the basement. Presented Scrap to his boss like a proud cat dropping a dead mouse at his master’s feet.
Getting caught wasn’t part of Scrap’s plan, but it did allow him to get a better look at the inside of the house. And when you’re trying to bring an opponent to his knees, it’s helpful to know where his weakest points are.
Besides, when a drug-fueled nutcase is packing an automatic weapon, you do whatever the fuck he says.
Scrap takes in his surroundings.
Sees vats, tubs, bottles and jugs.
Chemicals. Liquids. Toxins.
All in one room.
A dangerous place to work.
Sure wouldn’t want any open flames in here.
Scrap thinks about the contents of his backpack and swallows hard.
Hopefully, I’ll get out of this alive, he thinks to himself.
“Yeah,” says Rusty. “Why were you peeking in our windows?”
“Well, if you must know, I’m a bit of a voyeur,” says Scrap.
“A what?” says Rusty.
“It’s a peeping Tom,” says Cookie. “But I think you’re full of shit. I think you came here to rip me off.”
“Yeah, we think you came here to rip us off,” says Rusty.
He starts coughing with a wet throat and Scrap glances over his shoulder.
Rusty spits blood onto the concrete floor then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You should check on that cough there, buddy,” says Scrap. “Doesn’t sound too good.”
“Shut up,” says Rusty. “I’m fine.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” says Cookie. “You’re in cahoots with Baxter and Jezebel. They both tell me that my product is tainted. That 7-UP is killing people. Trying to get me to revamp my recipe. Trying to soil my reputation. Then they send you to steal the merchandise so you can try to take the credit for my masterpiece!”
Scrap is a bit confused at Cookie’s twisted logic.
But that’s what you get when dealing with a paranoid, delusional egomaniac.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” says Scrap. “I told you I was peeking in the window hoping to catch a little skin. Maybe get a good eyeful of Rusty in the bubble bath.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Rusty cracks Scrap in the back of the head with the butt of the gun.
Blinding white stars explode behind his eyes.
Scrap falls to his knees, as his vision goes wonky.
Two Cookies wobble before him.
The entire room looks like a distorted reflection in a funhouse mirror.
Rusty pokes the cold steel muzzle against Scrap’s neck and says, “I’ve never taken a bubble bath in my life.”
“Give me your backpack,” says Cookie.
Oh shit, thinks Scrap.
That definitely wasn’t part of the plan.
***
Sally/Shelly/Sarah’s head is bobbing up and down in Steve Baxter’s lap in the back of the Escalade.
A partition is up between Julius and the illicit action in the back seat.
Still, Julius can hear the occasional moans, squeaks, and squeals that indicate Baxter and his lady friend aren’t exactly enjoying intelligent discourse back there.
Julius clicks on the stereo and smooth jazz fills the interior.
Steve Baxter spreads his arms across the back of the seats.
Picking up on the tune, he pumps his hips in time to the music forcing Sally/Shelly/Sarah to readjust her rhythm.
Cool night air floats in through the open moon roof as white noise from I-5 churns in the background.
Baxter stares up at the stars twinkling in the night sky.
“This is the fucking life!” he shouts to the heavens.
His cell phone vibrates in the interior pocket of his suit jacket.
He plucks it out.
“Hello,” he says over the sublime dulcimer solo of Benny “Bones” Hodgekiss on the stereo.
“Baxter, we’ve got a problem at the Riverside Warehouse,” says Manny Romero, the employee who discovered Pale Man in the stairwell.
“Again? You didn’t find another stiff, did you?”
“No, but I think you need to come by and take a look.”
“Are you kidding me? Listen, Manny, this is not a good time. Besides, that’s what I pay you for.”
“Seriously, Mr. Baxter. I think it’s best you come by.”
The line goes dead.
“Son of a bitch,” says Baxter. “Why do I hire such incompetent assholes?”
Sally/Shelly/Sarah comes up for air. “Is everything okay, Stevie?”
“Everything’s fine, honey. Now, get back down there and finish the job.”
He grabs a handful of platinum hair and guides her head back down to his lap.
“Julius,” Baxter shouts over the music. “Take me to the warehouse on Riverside.”
“Roger that, boss.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
AI image by Ideogram / Prompt & Design > N. Allen.