So it’s snowing. I’m sitting at my desk staring at my computer and listening to silence. Fresh falling snow acts like some type of acoustic muffler; no birds are chirping, no humming sounds from nearby I-84, no kids screaming while they enjoy a snow-day. Nothing, just me and my thoughts. Shit, now I’m about to become retrospective.  I click on to i-Tunes and choose a station from classic rock radio: Big Blue Radio by Audio Candy. Meg Baird’s “Sweet William and Fair Ellen” is playing.

I listen and remember.

Now Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire is playing. My mind is accessing memories, ignoring humor, politics, and the snow.

I don’t know why I’m thinking of him – the monster of West Peabody – but I am. This monster haunted a suburban neighborhood in the 60’s. All the kids living on streets named after trees: sycamore circle, azalea lane, mulberry drive, butternut lane, feared this monster. I see their faces. Mike Prisco. Paul Benard. Gary Garafano. Tommy Graziani. Susan and Sharon Jackson. Mindy Bean. Me.

Now Steppenwolf’s “The Pusher” is playing. I crank the speakers connected to my MacBook.

Suppertime, that’s when the monster appeared, He dined on fear and brutality. His dessert was sadistic pleasure. No one could stop him. His invincibility reigned supreme. Fat-fingered hands emerging from a veil of grey smoke, grabbing, slapping, and clutching at you. His fork stabs you in the hand. A mother screams. A baby boy cries. An 8-yr. old chubby kid winces in pain; his two older sisters begin to clear the table. 

Ron Wood’s “Flying” is now playing. Funny, because that’s what that 8-yr. old kid always wanted: he wanted to fly away.

Now a phantom odor of bleach hits me. I wait. Soon visions of brown porcelain tiles, a toilet with a brown shag seat cover, and a window giving the crows, sparrows, and blue jays perched in the weeping willows and oak trees, a view to coming horror appear.

Now Loreenna McKennitt’s “Marrakesh Night Market” is playing. I detect a haunting drone within the beat.

The brown belt, its top covered in alligator hide, its buckle a shiny yellowish color reflecting the setting sun and fluorescent lighting reintroduces itself. “Remember me?” it mocks.

Now Aerosmith's "Eat the Rich" is playing. I don't care for this song. 

The young boy knows what to do. He strips and voluntarily positions himself in the corner by the bathroom window. He prays to his God. He thinks of Chuck Connors as the Rifleman, coming to his rescue.

The crows hush the sparrows and blue jays.

The mother bangs on the locked bathroom door, swearing she’ll call the police.

The monster laughs.

The brown alligator belt whips through the air.

Jeff Beck’s “Sling Shot” is now playing. The guitar track is frenetic, attacking… Is this a joke?

Bare skin. Shoulders. Back. Buttocks. Back of the legs. The brown alligator belt is doing the monster’s bidding, ripping into the young boys flesh. He knows not to scream, not to cry. That feeds the monster’s fury.

The monster grunts. He calls the young boy yellow. He calls him a fat slob, a pig, a pervert, a fucking disgrace.

Chuck Connors doesn’t appear.

The monster lets the brown alligator belt take a rest. He grabs the young boy and bends him over the toilet. Blood. Semen. The monster is satiated, but not finished. He lifts the toilet’s lid and promises he’ll flush the young boy’s baby brother straight to hell. He laughs and kicks the young boy in the stomach.

The mother retreats to her bedroom.

The older sisters want to offer comfort, but retreat to their bedroom in fear.

That night while the young boy’s brother sleeps, he overcomes his fear of the monster and goes out to the garage. He finds the hatchet in an old chest-of drawer, buried beneath a large soldering iron, miscellaneous nuts and bolts and screwdrivers. He unsheathes it. He runs the cold blade across his forearm, drawing blood. He sneaks back to his bedroom. Down the hall, he hears the monster snoring.

His baby brother whimpers and dreams beneath a blue blanket.

“Don’t worry,” the young boy whispers. “He’s never coming in here. I promise.”

The young boy hides the hatchet beneath his pillow.

Creedance’s “Bad Moon Rising” is now playing.

It’s still snowing.