Enoch On The Run

For hate of flowers

Enoch On The Run

To be dungeon-ed within the confines of ones own soul, remain fixed there, held stationary for hours on end, day after day, confined within the limitations of who or what you are, to dwell in a dark place in your heart, a black hole, a smelly room in a damp basement, precious little air to breath, was the Un-fortuitous misshaped fate, life, in many ways of our hero, Enoch. The authorities have been looking for him, hunting him down for months.... something to do with missing tools from a hardware store in town....a break in after hours if I am not mistaken.

What are the chances? What were their mothers thinking? To allow their sons, Otis and Otto, friends of Enoch, (a well established, convicted criminal in the community) to be affiliated with such a low life was a disgrace bordering on scandal.

The two misguided boys, if you could call them that, certainly were not related to Enoch by blood. Nor were they related to each other for that matter. They found themselves bound together like gravity drawn together in nasty crime.

Given such odd names at birth was surely coincidental. Again, what were the mother's thinking? What a sin. Maybe one day their boys would or could grow up to be president...of a cheese factory or sundry outlet perhaps. Who knows?

Everyone including friends and associates called Enoch by his other name, “Stone.” It simply rolled off the tongue quicker, easier for them. The three young men; Otis, Otto and Stone where finely attuned to crooked ways and rotten to the core with bad intent.

They viewed themselves as business associates , partners in crime with a call to duty to do wrong.

Otto and Otis were fat, very fat, came from the underbelly of society, below the realm of cultured civilization and related relative civility. They festered in a womb of another world few people understood, could fathom or cared to know...grew with sinister intelligence, bordering on diabolic... wound like tight clocks, like sinister snakes through narrow streets at night... remained hidden in dark cavities, crevasses, just south of urban decay by day.... much closer to the local cemetery than you might expect. They preyed on the weak and elderly to get by. For them it was a righteous line of work and profitable at the same time.

The unfolding truth oozed up over time through the cracks in pavements of town. These fellows were destined for fame, legends in their own minds and just as depraved. An untold evolution of truth poured over them like primordial goo as they moved forward into the future.

Something so illusive formed, became unmasked before creation, shaped right there in the moment, became solid in Enoch's mind as he would define right from wrong, discarding the first thought as garbage. He held on to the second truth. Crime charmed him. He held it like a lover in his arms and marched right into tomorrow enamored.

Otto and Otis came to their friends rusted metal door on the new day dawning having nothing better to do. Vacant thoughts abounding in their thick-ish skulls and a loud banging to rouse Stone up. Speaking in full sentences was a challenge. They simply grunted, “Open swine!”

Stone or Enoch if you prefer and his minions went on their merry way, on parade, on to mischief.

Some background on Enouch before we proceed: a simple man who came from the shallower origins of poverty. He knew it and it knew him well. He was as small as a person could be and still exist. He hated flowers with a passion.

There was a reason for his being alarmed by even ordinary activities such as breathing, grooming and combing his hair, (what little remained on that bulbous misshaped head.) He had some impure thoughts worth exploring but we must move on. Not all basement dwellers turn out sour to live in the shadows.

He never spoke a word not worth speaking, in his closed world, narrow view, populated by minor characters, with clouded minds too, a world not recognizable from out side of what was purported as “normal.” Clearly he was the leader of the gang, a born commander of duplicitous conniving sorts of fellows. Stone always hung around with the nefarious types, who collectively swam in constant darkness, blind to reality as you might expect, oppressed, held under such dubious circumstances for decades, of self imposed limitations, that defined them for what they are. They basked daily in the unlit world of ignorance. They made a living at it.

A man can not rise with the dawn without music in his heart. Stone has no sense of such beauty, being tone deaf, pretty much stone cold dead to harmonic sounds in that regard. Additionally, who could respect a person who was offended by butterflies and color rich flowers swaying innocently on the richly decorated meadow minding their own business?

Deplorables surrounded him at every turn, not in any positive or sound sense. They actually fed his already clandestine destined criminal mind and with all due respect to their sort, after all, these are associates who were born dirty from birth, to be surreptitiously inclined to begin with.

Otis was on a mission to make a mark for himself. Being short, inbred, not exactly a fully functional human being, were obvious shortcomings in his case. They created more obstacles than that which you could call reasonable in his case. His obvious weight issues also did not exactly propel him speedily through the upper echelons of social trust to the levels of the elite, the upper crust of society. In other words he was not exactly one of the '”beautiful people” so to speak. The alchemy of life precluded achievements where not exactly in the stars for his type.

Secrets sooner or later are revealed, no matter how disgusting they may be. Here are the facts as they are laid out on the cemetery dirt.

There is a cemetery just outside town called Mushroom Knoll. No one is permitted there after dark. That did not stop Stone and his cronies from plotting and executing their morbid plans with calculated depravity and callas actions. The master plan was to steal all the spigots, faucets and hoses on the grave yard grounds in order to deprive the caretakers and visitors from watering flowers. They hated flowers as much as they hated themselves and that was considerable.

Something was not right with them. Everything was wrong. Motivation was not an applicable trait in these individuals. Laziness was, however, they possessed the necessary motor skills to be accomplished criminals, namely, an evil heart. It simply took the will to do bad things and they had that in abundance.

When the three idiots arrived at the designated location, it was already well after night fall, calm and quiet on the cold evening drudgery. The home for the dead turns out that way.

A distant moon moved in a sluggish manner, in and out through gray clouds thick and soupy to the touch. One dim bulb-ed light stationed at the entrance flickered, afforded little comfort or much aid to their nefarious activity.

They saw a dark hooded shadow figure moving around about the center grounds. One of the boys thought it was a vampire. As they crept closer they viewed a long black robe come into focus on the thinly veiled fog. The figure knelt down gently in slow motion in front of a tomb stone.. Otis ran swiftly towards the stranger in a panic, pushing the unknown entity with some force. They heard a female high pitched voice scream out as her head hit the hard concrete face. Fresh blood could be seen streaming down the stone. It was a nun. The bums had attacked a nun.

She pulled herself together and staggered to her feet and began to yell at them as if they were students in her class. “What are you hellish morons up to?” “What is this all about?” “You know it is against the law to be out here after dark.” Enoch snapped back, “We were going to ask you the same question sister.” The nun said, “I'm Sister Mary Joseph from the lower parish.” I'm paying my last respects for one of our senior sisters who is recently deceased.” “What are you hoodlums doing out at this late hour?” One of the younger boys said, “We are redecorating the cemetery with our special touch.” Stone told his crew to take her cloths and see if she has any money and send her on her way.

Sister Mary had no fear, none whatsoever. She told them that she always carries Jesus with her in her pocket purse. One of the boys laughed, “So what's up nun?” “Did you steal the baby Jesus from the church nativity?” She smiled and told the boys to go on home or else. They started after her to see if she had cash. The sister pulled out her pocket Jesus, a pearl handled silver gun from inside her sacred holy robe. She shot Stone dead center in his left foot. She kept Jesus ready and loaded for just such occasions. She asked the others if they wanted to taste hot Jesus lead.

They ran at top speed off and away from the Mushroom knoll from the crazy lady, leaving Enoch behind. He could no longer run. He held his leg, hobbled over the dusty walk in fear, crying like the limping baby that he was. They could hear sister Mary screaming, “Say hello to my little Jesus you black heart-ed thieves and creeps!” “The police will be by to see you soon!” “See you in church on Sunday you little bums!”

Enouch screamed, “They will never take me alive!” as he limped sissified into the dark to hide.

*The moral: Divine intervention saves the day. More importantly, it saved the flowers thanks to pocket Jesus. Let us pray.

Author's Note

This is a pistol of a story.