Kane ?
- Thread starter D-Menace
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Kane will be signing copies of his fiction book by WWE on Friday from 3-5 p.m. in Laurelwood, near Memphis. The Memphis Commercial Appeal joked about the biography of a fake person, as it is not a Glen Jacobs biography, but a fictional Kane bio, called "The Unauthorized History of Kane," noting if WWE is putting the book out, and he is signing copies, how can it be unauthorized?
Source: Meltzer
Source: Meltzer
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Glen Callaway was unconscious for six weeks.
The EMTs had gotten him from Marfa to Big Bend Regional Hospital in Alpine in fifteen minutes, sirens wailing the whole way down 90, but it took the ER doc there even less time than that to realize he was overmatched, that this kid needed specialized treatment. Before dawn, Glen was in San Antonio, choppered in to the burn center at Fort Sam Houston, where doctors performed the first of what would eventually be a half dozen skin grafts, harvesting flesh from the back of his legs, his buttocks, even the bottoms of his feet to replace what the fire had burned away. Glen knew nothing of his travels, the operations, his surroundings, or the attention he drew nationwide for his miraculous recovery. He was drugged the whole time, while his body healed. Drugged, unconscious.
Dreaming.
He opened his eyes to the sight of his dad, leaning over him, brushing the hair back from his eyes.
"Hey, buddy. How you doing?"
Glen shrugged. "Okay, I guess."
He was four years old again, lying in bed, in Big Bend Regional, where he'd just spent the night after having a day full of tests, of doctors drawing blood and poking him with needles and shaking their heads. At least it was over now.
Not that his parents looked any less worried. Especially his mom, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, clasping her hands together, rocking slowly back and forth. She looked real upset. Glen had told her that no matter what the doctors said he felt fine, but that hadn't seemed to calm her any.
"You understand what the doctors were telling you?" his dad asked. "What they were talking about?"
Glen nodded. "Yes, sir. I do understand."
"They call it HSAN. That stands for Hereditary Sensory and Autonomic Neuropathy. It means you can't feel any pain."
"I know, Dad."
"Which means you have to be very, very careful about what you do. Pain is -- "
"I remember," he interrupted. "Pain is the body's warning mechanism. I have to watch what I'm doing all the time, I have to be careful not to get into fights or play sports or do any of those kinds of things because since I can't feel pain I'll never notice things like cuts or bruises or broken bones."
His dad managed a smile. "That's right, son. That's right exactly."
Glen nodded, wondering how he'd known all that. All those big words. He was only four years old.
It was almost as if he'd had this conversation before.
"You can bet I'll be careful, sir. I surely will."
"This is all my fault," his mom said.
"Now don't start in with your crazy talk, Susanna."
"It's not crazy," she said. "Not crazy at all. My father. His father before him. My cousins. My aunt, my uncle, all the way back to -- "
"Susanna Kane," his dad said sharply. "How many times have I asked you not to talk like that in front of the boys? Those ideas -- "
"They got a right to know," his mom said firmly.
"Susanna Kane -- "
"She's right, Dad."
Glen looked up and saw his brother, Mark, standing at the door.
"We got a right to know, me and Glen. We got the blood in us too, after all. Maybe we got the curse too. Just like all the people in here."
Mark held up a book before him then, a big brown scrapbook that Glen recognized instantly. The Kane family scrapbook. Kane was his mom's maiden name (that was even what everyone still called her most of the time, not just Susanna, but Susanna Kane), and the book traced her family's history all the way back to Pilgrim times. She'd been putting it together over the last few years, it had become -- what was that word Dad had used? -- an obsession of hers ever since...
Ever since he was born, Glen realized.
Now how did he know that?
"There's no such thing as a curse," his dad said. "And now I don't want to hear any more about it."
"But, Glen," his mom began. "What about this with Glen?"
"What about it?" his dad asked. "It's genetics, that's all."
"Kane family genetics," Mark said. Dad glared at him. Lately, Mark seemed just about as interested in the Kane family as his mom. He spent a lot of time looking at the scrapbook, at all the pictures and the papers Mom kept with it. He spent more time with that book than his schoolwork, in fact, that's what Dad was always saying. Too much time. Wasn't even getting outside enough to play. He was getting pale. In fact...
Glen looked up at his parents and his brother then, suddenly noticing how pale they all looked, how white their skin was, almost waxy-looking, like they weren't real, like --
A terrible feeling ran through him then, and he shivered.
"Please," Glen said in a small voice. "Let's not talk about the curse."
"That's right. That's my boy." His dad put a hand on Glen's shoulder. "There ain't nothin' magical about this condition you have, this HSAN. Long as you're careful, you'll be fine."
Glen nodded.
"No fightin'," his dad said.
"I got that."
"No sports."
"Yes, sir."
"And stay out of the sun. You don't want to burn. That could be dangerous. Very, very dangerous. Burning. You hear me?"
"Yes, Dad," Glen said. "I hear you."
"Because you could crisp right up, and never know it. Never feel a thing."
Randall raised his hand then, and took a drag off his cigarette.
All at once -- like magic, Glen thought -- a nurse appeared behind him.
"Sir, there's no smoking in here."
"No smoking?" His dad frowned. "Oh. Right. Sorry."
Chapter One
Glen Callaway was unconscious for six weeks.
The EMTs had gotten him from Marfa to Big Bend Regional Hospital in Alpine in fifteen minutes, sirens wailing the whole way down 90, but it took the ER doc there even less time than that to realize he was overmatched, that this kid needed specialized treatment. Before dawn, Glen was in San Antonio, choppered in to the burn center at Fort Sam Houston, where doctors performed the first of what would eventually be a half dozen skin grafts, harvesting flesh from the back of his legs, his buttocks, even the bottoms of his feet to replace what the fire had burned away. Glen knew nothing of his travels, the operations, his surroundings, or the attention he drew nationwide for his miraculous recovery. He was drugged the whole time, while his body healed. Drugged, unconscious.
Dreaming.
He opened his eyes to the sight of his dad, leaning over him, brushing the hair back from his eyes.
"Hey, buddy. How you doing?"
Glen shrugged. "Okay, I guess."
He was four years old again, lying in bed, in Big Bend Regional, where he'd just spent the night after having a day full of tests, of doctors drawing blood and poking him with needles and shaking their heads. At least it was over now.
Not that his parents looked any less worried. Especially his mom, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, clasping her hands together, rocking slowly back and forth. She looked real upset. Glen had told her that no matter what the doctors said he felt fine, but that hadn't seemed to calm her any.
"You understand what the doctors were telling you?" his dad asked. "What they were talking about?"
Glen nodded. "Yes, sir. I do understand."
"They call it HSAN. That stands for Hereditary Sensory and Autonomic Neuropathy. It means you can't feel any pain."
"I know, Dad."
"Which means you have to be very, very careful about what you do. Pain is -- "
"I remember," he interrupted. "Pain is the body's warning mechanism. I have to watch what I'm doing all the time, I have to be careful not to get into fights or play sports or do any of those kinds of things because since I can't feel pain I'll never notice things like cuts or bruises or broken bones."
His dad managed a smile. "That's right, son. That's right exactly."
Glen nodded, wondering how he'd known all that. All those big words. He was only four years old.
It was almost as if he'd had this conversation before.
"You can bet I'll be careful, sir. I surely will."
"This is all my fault," his mom said.
"Now don't start in with your crazy talk, Susanna."
"It's not crazy," she said. "Not crazy at all. My father. His father before him. My cousins. My aunt, my uncle, all the way back to -- "
"Susanna Kane," his dad said sharply. "How many times have I asked you not to talk like that in front of the boys? Those ideas -- "
"They got a right to know," his mom said firmly.
"Susanna Kane -- "
"She's right, Dad."
Glen looked up and saw his brother, Mark, standing at the door.
"We got a right to know, me and Glen. We got the blood in us too, after all. Maybe we got the curse too. Just like all the people in here."
Mark held up a book before him then, a big brown scrapbook that Glen recognized instantly. The Kane family scrapbook. Kane was his mom's maiden name (that was even what everyone still called her most of the time, not just Susanna, but Susanna Kane), and the book traced her family's history all the way back to Pilgrim times. She'd been putting it together over the last few years, it had become -- what was that word Dad had used? -- an obsession of hers ever since...
Ever since he was born, Glen realized.
Now how did he know that?
"There's no such thing as a curse," his dad said. "And now I don't want to hear any more about it."
"But, Glen," his mom began. "What about this with Glen?"
"What about it?" his dad asked. "It's genetics, that's all."
"Kane family genetics," Mark said. Dad glared at him. Lately, Mark seemed just about as interested in the Kane family as his mom. He spent a lot of time looking at the scrapbook, at all the pictures and the papers Mom kept with it. He spent more time with that book than his schoolwork, in fact, that's what Dad was always saying. Too much time. Wasn't even getting outside enough to play. He was getting pale. In fact...
Glen looked up at his parents and his brother then, suddenly noticing how pale they all looked, how white their skin was, almost waxy-looking, like they weren't real, like --
A terrible feeling ran through him then, and he shivered.
"Please," Glen said in a small voice. "Let's not talk about the curse."
"That's right. That's my boy." His dad put a hand on Glen's shoulder. "There ain't nothin' magical about this condition you have, this HSAN. Long as you're careful, you'll be fine."
Glen nodded.
"No fightin'," his dad said.
"I got that."
"No sports."
"Yes, sir."
"And stay out of the sun. You don't want to burn. That could be dangerous. Very, very dangerous. Burning. You hear me?"
"Yes, Dad," Glen said. "I hear you."
"Because you could crisp right up, and never know it. Never feel a thing."
Randall raised his hand then, and took a drag off his cigarette.
All at once -- like magic, Glen thought -- a nurse appeared behind him.
"Sir, there's no smoking in here."
"No smoking?" His dad frowned. "Oh. Right. Sorry."
He dropped the cigarette on the floor. Glen watched it land, and then, as if in slow motion, bounce once, and then again before finally coming to rest next to the trailing edge of his blanket.
The edge of the cloth glowed red and began to smoke.
"Oh, no," Glen whispered. He looked up at his mom and dad. "The bed -- "
"Oh, my. Look at that." The nurse put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your bed's on fire, I'm afraid."
His mom's eyes widened. "I knew it. You see, Randall? You see what I mean? Come on." She stood and grabbed hold of Glen's hand. "We'd better get going."
"Well, shoot." His dad put his hands on his hips and frowned. "I guess you're right, Susanna Kane. We better get going. We better run, in fact."
Glen started to get out of bed. The nurse pushed him back down.
"No, you don't. We got some more tests to do."
"Please let me go," Glen said. "Please."
The nurse shook her head. "I'm sorry, son."
"Glen, come on!" Mark stood at the door to the hall, holding it open. As Glen watched, his dad walked through that door and disappeared.
"Dad!"
"Come on, Glen," Mark yelled. "I can't hold this door open forever!"
Glen tried again to get up. The nurse, again, pushed him back down.
His hand slipped free from his mom's.
"Oh, Glen." His mom was crying. "I wish you would come with us."
Glen started crying too.
"I'm coming, Mom! Don't leave without me."
But she was going. She was gone, out the door after his dad. With a last look back at Glen, Mark followed.
"Wait!"
Glen climbed out of bed.
The nurse stood in front of him, blocking his way.
He made a fist at her. She shook her head.
"You heard your dad, Glen. No fighting."
"But -- "
"No fighting."
He shoved past her. Except now the room was so filled with smoke, he couldn't see the door. He couldn't even see past his own hand now. He stumbled, first in one direction, then the other, and then all of a sudden...
He looked up, and saw he was standing at the foot of a stairway -- the stairway at his house, back in Marfa. It wasn't the hospital room on fire, he realized then. It was his house.
And with that, he remembered it all, and began to scream.
At the nurse's station, in the burn unit at Fort Sam Houston, a machine started beeping. A nurse set down her Vogue magazine, and frowned. The boy in room 41 was moving again.
She hurried down the long hall into his room. Quickly, she adjusted the sedative drip so the boy would remain unconscious -- so that his body could concentrate on healing. The doctors had scheduled him for another skin graft tomorrow as well -- he'd need all his strength for that.
She moved closer to the bed, and saw the boy's hair had fallen into his eyes. She brushed it back. Thank God for small favors -- at least the burns on his face were relatively minor. With any luck, they'd fade after time. He'd be able to live a relatively normal life -- assuming he survived the next few weeks here. Assuming anyone could live a relatively normal life after their whole family had been killed.
"Poor kid," she whispered.
Glen rolled over in his sleep, and reached out toward the sound of her voice.
His mom was talking.
Glen could hear her speak, hear her voice coming through the door to the funeral parlor office, which he was standing right in front of. The question was, though, was she with a client? Because if she was with a client, he wasn't supposed to interrupt her. Talking with clients was serious business. Funerals (and dead people, for that matter) were very serious business indeed. But Glen wanted to tell her what had happened today at school, his first day of second grade; he had made a friend, a boy named Brian Erben, who lived just five minutes down the road and had already invited him over to play with his racing set. If his mom wasn't with a client, she could call Brian's folks and set it up, right now. This afternoon.
Glen took a step closer to the door and pressed his ear up against it.
His mom was laughing. His mom did not laugh when she was with clients. It sounded more like she was talking to a friend. Maybe Mrs. Keith, or Mrs. Larrabee, or...
No. It was a man, Glen heard his voice now. Dad. It had to be Dad. Glen smiled. Dad would be glad to hear about Brian too. Dad was always worried about Glen being able to make friends because he couldn't do sports or run around outside. And here it was, first day of school, and he'd made a friend already. Dad would probably drive him right over.
His mom laughed again. More of a giggle than a laugh.
Boy. Everyone was in a good mood. This was going to be great.
Glen turned the knob and pushed the door open without knocking.
The laughter stopped.
His mom was sitting on the couch opposite the desk. There was a man sitting next to her. The man had a hand on her knee.
The man was not his dad.
The man was Paul Grimm.
Grimm was a stocky little man with black hair and a mustache who worked in the funeral parlor with Glen's parents. He was the embalmer. Played around with all the dead bodies, all the chemicals in the basement. He was always trying to be nice to Glen, for some reason, Glen had no idea why. He babysat for Glen once in a while, even, when his parents had to go out. Glen always went to sleep early rather than spend time with the man.
His mom stood up quickly. Her face was a little red.
"Glen Jacob Callaway. When a door is closed, what do we do?"
"Sorry."
"What do we do?"
"Knock."
"That's right, we knock." His mom ran her hands over the front of her dress, smoothing it out. "What if I was in here with a client, Glen? What if -- "
"I said I was sorry."
"That's all right. No harm done." Grimm stood up himself. "How are you, Glen? Good to see you again. You remember me, right? Paul Grimm."
"Yeah," Glen said. "I remember you."
Grimm smiled. "Good. I'm glad. So how was your school today? Big day, right? Your first day of, uh, what? First grade?"
"Second."
"Second. My, my. My, my, my. You are growing up fast. Getting to be a big kid."
Glen rolled his eyes; he hated when grown-ups talked to him like that.
His mom saw. She came around the coffee table in front of the couch, shaking her head.
"Now, Glen. You be nice to Mr. Grimm, please."
"Paul. I want the boy to call me Paul, Susanna," Grimm said, all at once sounding very serious. "You remember -- like we talked about?"
"That's right. I'm sorry. Call him Paul," his mom said, putting her hands on Glen's shoulders. "You think you can do that, Glen?"
"Yes, ma'am." He looked at Grimm again. "Paul."
"That's right. That's good." Grimm looked happy now. "You and me ought to be on a first-name basis, Glen. Me working here and all. We're kind of like family, don't you think?"
His mom's hands tightened on Glen's shoulders for a second.
Glen was about to ask her to ease up when his eyes fell on the coffee table in front of the couch. There were papers spread out all over it -- old-looking papers. Underneath those papers, the edge of a book peeked out. A big, brown, oversize book.
The Kane family scrapbook.
Grimm's eyes followed his. The man bent down and grabbed up a handful of those papers.
"And speaking of family -- "
He straightened the papers into a stack, held the stack out to Glen.
"You might be interested in these, son."
"Oh, yes, Glen," his mom said. "I think you'd be very interested in them. They're very interesting. Look them over. That's what Paul and I were doing when you came in, honey. Looking over those papers."
Grimm smiled again. "Yes, sir. That's what we were doing, all right."
"What are they?" Glen asked.
"Copies of some things I found the other day -- while I was up at Sul Ross. The university. Some information about your family, Glen. The Kanes."
"My name is Callaway," Glen said.
"Yes. It is, isn't it?" Grimm smiled. "But the name doesn't really matter, does it, Glen? Blood is what's important. Believe me, I ought to know. Considering my line of work."
"Oh, yes," his mom said from behind him. "Blood is what matters."
"The blood running through your veins, Glen," Grimm said. "Your family's blood. That's what these papers are all about, Glen. Family."
The man thrust the sheaf of papers into Glen's face.
"Go on. Take a look."
Glen couldn't help it. He glanced at the top sheet of paper. There were just two words on it.
You're Dreaming
A chill ran down his spine.
"Oh, no," he said.
Grimm nodded. "Oh, yes."
Glen spun around quickly.
His mom was gone.
Glen turned around again.
The writing on the paper had changed.
She's Dead
Grimm laughed. Glen stumbled backward, felt the office door behind him. It was hot to the touch. He smelled smoke.
He remembered everything.
"Mom," he croaked. "Dad. Mark."
Grimm was smiling, holding the paper up in one hand and pointing to it with the other.
Dead Dead Dead All Dead
Grimm's gaze bore into his. The man's eyes glittered.
"Didn't I tell you, Glen? Didn't I tell you the papers were all about your family? Now you know everything you need to, isn't that right? About your family?"
"No," Glen said.
"Yes." Grimm smiled again. "They're dead, Glen. Dead and gone. It's just you and me now, son. I'm the closest thing to family you got left."
The man grabbed his arm.
Glen struggled as hard as he could, trying to break free.
He thrashed about so violently during what was supposed to be the fifth and final operation that he ripped away half the evening's work, ripped off a sheet of skin the size of a shirt pocket from his right arm, and made a sixth operation necessary. The nurses were given a new sedative and new instructions: make certain the boy doesn't get anywhere close to consciousness.
The edge of the cloth glowed red and began to smoke.
"Oh, no," Glen whispered. He looked up at his mom and dad. "The bed -- "
"Oh, my. Look at that." The nurse put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your bed's on fire, I'm afraid."
His mom's eyes widened. "I knew it. You see, Randall? You see what I mean? Come on." She stood and grabbed hold of Glen's hand. "We'd better get going."
"Well, shoot." His dad put his hands on his hips and frowned. "I guess you're right, Susanna Kane. We better get going. We better run, in fact."
Glen started to get out of bed. The nurse pushed him back down.
"No, you don't. We got some more tests to do."
"Please let me go," Glen said. "Please."
The nurse shook her head. "I'm sorry, son."
"Glen, come on!" Mark stood at the door to the hall, holding it open. As Glen watched, his dad walked through that door and disappeared.
"Dad!"
"Come on, Glen," Mark yelled. "I can't hold this door open forever!"
Glen tried again to get up. The nurse, again, pushed him back down.
His hand slipped free from his mom's.
"Oh, Glen." His mom was crying. "I wish you would come with us."
Glen started crying too.
"I'm coming, Mom! Don't leave without me."
But she was going. She was gone, out the door after his dad. With a last look back at Glen, Mark followed.
"Wait!"
Glen climbed out of bed.
The nurse stood in front of him, blocking his way.
He made a fist at her. She shook her head.
"You heard your dad, Glen. No fighting."
"But -- "
"No fighting."
He shoved past her. Except now the room was so filled with smoke, he couldn't see the door. He couldn't even see past his own hand now. He stumbled, first in one direction, then the other, and then all of a sudden...
He looked up, and saw he was standing at the foot of a stairway -- the stairway at his house, back in Marfa. It wasn't the hospital room on fire, he realized then. It was his house.
And with that, he remembered it all, and began to scream.
At the nurse's station, in the burn unit at Fort Sam Houston, a machine started beeping. A nurse set down her Vogue magazine, and frowned. The boy in room 41 was moving again.
She hurried down the long hall into his room. Quickly, she adjusted the sedative drip so the boy would remain unconscious -- so that his body could concentrate on healing. The doctors had scheduled him for another skin graft tomorrow as well -- he'd need all his strength for that.
She moved closer to the bed, and saw the boy's hair had fallen into his eyes. She brushed it back. Thank God for small favors -- at least the burns on his face were relatively minor. With any luck, they'd fade after time. He'd be able to live a relatively normal life -- assuming he survived the next few weeks here. Assuming anyone could live a relatively normal life after their whole family had been killed.
"Poor kid," she whispered.
Glen rolled over in his sleep, and reached out toward the sound of her voice.
His mom was talking.
Glen could hear her speak, hear her voice coming through the door to the funeral parlor office, which he was standing right in front of. The question was, though, was she with a client? Because if she was with a client, he wasn't supposed to interrupt her. Talking with clients was serious business. Funerals (and dead people, for that matter) were very serious business indeed. But Glen wanted to tell her what had happened today at school, his first day of second grade; he had made a friend, a boy named Brian Erben, who lived just five minutes down the road and had already invited him over to play with his racing set. If his mom wasn't with a client, she could call Brian's folks and set it up, right now. This afternoon.
Glen took a step closer to the door and pressed his ear up against it.
His mom was laughing. His mom did not laugh when she was with clients. It sounded more like she was talking to a friend. Maybe Mrs. Keith, or Mrs. Larrabee, or...
No. It was a man, Glen heard his voice now. Dad. It had to be Dad. Glen smiled. Dad would be glad to hear about Brian too. Dad was always worried about Glen being able to make friends because he couldn't do sports or run around outside. And here it was, first day of school, and he'd made a friend already. Dad would probably drive him right over.
His mom laughed again. More of a giggle than a laugh.
Boy. Everyone was in a good mood. This was going to be great.
Glen turned the knob and pushed the door open without knocking.
The laughter stopped.
His mom was sitting on the couch opposite the desk. There was a man sitting next to her. The man had a hand on her knee.
The man was not his dad.
The man was Paul Grimm.
Grimm was a stocky little man with black hair and a mustache who worked in the funeral parlor with Glen's parents. He was the embalmer. Played around with all the dead bodies, all the chemicals in the basement. He was always trying to be nice to Glen, for some reason, Glen had no idea why. He babysat for Glen once in a while, even, when his parents had to go out. Glen always went to sleep early rather than spend time with the man.
His mom stood up quickly. Her face was a little red.
"Glen Jacob Callaway. When a door is closed, what do we do?"
"Sorry."
"What do we do?"
"Knock."
"That's right, we knock." His mom ran her hands over the front of her dress, smoothing it out. "What if I was in here with a client, Glen? What if -- "
"I said I was sorry."
"That's all right. No harm done." Grimm stood up himself. "How are you, Glen? Good to see you again. You remember me, right? Paul Grimm."
"Yeah," Glen said. "I remember you."
Grimm smiled. "Good. I'm glad. So how was your school today? Big day, right? Your first day of, uh, what? First grade?"
"Second."
"Second. My, my. My, my, my. You are growing up fast. Getting to be a big kid."
Glen rolled his eyes; he hated when grown-ups talked to him like that.
His mom saw. She came around the coffee table in front of the couch, shaking her head.
"Now, Glen. You be nice to Mr. Grimm, please."
"Paul. I want the boy to call me Paul, Susanna," Grimm said, all at once sounding very serious. "You remember -- like we talked about?"
"That's right. I'm sorry. Call him Paul," his mom said, putting her hands on Glen's shoulders. "You think you can do that, Glen?"
"Yes, ma'am." He looked at Grimm again. "Paul."
"That's right. That's good." Grimm looked happy now. "You and me ought to be on a first-name basis, Glen. Me working here and all. We're kind of like family, don't you think?"
His mom's hands tightened on Glen's shoulders for a second.
Glen was about to ask her to ease up when his eyes fell on the coffee table in front of the couch. There were papers spread out all over it -- old-looking papers. Underneath those papers, the edge of a book peeked out. A big, brown, oversize book.
The Kane family scrapbook.
Grimm's eyes followed his. The man bent down and grabbed up a handful of those papers.
"And speaking of family -- "
He straightened the papers into a stack, held the stack out to Glen.
"You might be interested in these, son."
"Oh, yes, Glen," his mom said. "I think you'd be very interested in them. They're very interesting. Look them over. That's what Paul and I were doing when you came in, honey. Looking over those papers."
Grimm smiled again. "Yes, sir. That's what we were doing, all right."
"What are they?" Glen asked.
"Copies of some things I found the other day -- while I was up at Sul Ross. The university. Some information about your family, Glen. The Kanes."
"My name is Callaway," Glen said.
"Yes. It is, isn't it?" Grimm smiled. "But the name doesn't really matter, does it, Glen? Blood is what's important. Believe me, I ought to know. Considering my line of work."
"Oh, yes," his mom said from behind him. "Blood is what matters."
"The blood running through your veins, Glen," Grimm said. "Your family's blood. That's what these papers are all about, Glen. Family."
The man thrust the sheaf of papers into Glen's face.
"Go on. Take a look."
Glen couldn't help it. He glanced at the top sheet of paper. There were just two words on it.
You're Dreaming
A chill ran down his spine.
"Oh, no," he said.
Grimm nodded. "Oh, yes."
Glen spun around quickly.
His mom was gone.
Glen turned around again.
The writing on the paper had changed.
She's Dead
Grimm laughed. Glen stumbled backward, felt the office door behind him. It was hot to the touch. He smelled smoke.
He remembered everything.
"Mom," he croaked. "Dad. Mark."
Grimm was smiling, holding the paper up in one hand and pointing to it with the other.
Dead Dead Dead All Dead
Grimm's gaze bore into his. The man's eyes glittered.
"Didn't I tell you, Glen? Didn't I tell you the papers were all about your family? Now you know everything you need to, isn't that right? About your family?"
"No," Glen said.
"Yes." Grimm smiled again. "They're dead, Glen. Dead and gone. It's just you and me now, son. I'm the closest thing to family you got left."
The man grabbed his arm.
Glen struggled as hard as he could, trying to break free.
He thrashed about so violently during what was supposed to be the fifth and final operation that he ripped away half the evening's work, ripped off a sheet of skin the size of a shirt pocket from his right arm, and made a sixth operation necessary. The nurses were given a new sedative and new instructions: make certain the boy doesn't get anywhere close to consciousness.
He didn't.
Glen had a good long sleep.
When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor of his house, next to the stairs. The fire was out.
The front door was still open.
He heard voices outside -- strangers. A lot of strangers. He glimpsed firefighters through the open door. Footsteps sounded on the second floor above him, came running down the stairs. Mark.
His brother ran right past him, and out through the front door.
"Mark!" Glen called. "Mark, wait for me!"
Glen got to his feet and ran after him.
Just outside the door, a young man in an EMT uniform grabbed his arm. "Hey, buddy. Where you think you're going?"
"My brother."
"No, no. Come on over here and lie down on this gurney. You're dead."
"I'm not." Glen pulled away from the man and took off again.
Ahead of him, Mark was running too. And he was faster. Mark was always faster. Bigger, stronger. Better. Mark was getting away from him. Leaving him behind.
No, Glen thought. He's all that I have left.
"Mark!"
Tumbleweeds blew across the road, blew in front of Glen's face, obscured his vision. He shoved them out of the way with his arms, choking on the dust again, the dust and the smoke.
"Mark!" Glen yelled. "Mark! Come back!"
Paul Grimm stepped out into the road, in front of him.
"Hey, Glen. Long time no see."
"Get out of my way," Glen said.
"Now hold on a minute, son." Grimm shook his head and turned, raised a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the dust. "Where you going?"
"My brother," Glen said, pointing down the road. "Mark. He went that way."
Grimm shook his head. "Don't think that's possible, Glen. Don't you remember?"
The man held up a piece of paper then.
Dead Dead Dead All Dead
"It is possible. It is!" Glen said, trying to shove past him. Grimm grabbed on to his arm, and held tight.
"All right, all right, simmer down. I got my car over there -- we'll go look for him. Me and you. How's that sound?"
Glen looked up at Grimm. The man was smiling.
"Doesn't sound good," Glen said, and pushed Grimm away. The man's laughter followed him as he ran, heading down 17 again, running right down the middle of the road, right along the yellow line, scanning the horizon for any sign of his brother. But all he saw was scrub, the occasional mesquite tree, a row of purple mountains far, far in the distance. Where had Mark gone? He couldn't have just disappeared.
Glen's eyes fell on a signpost at the edge of the road, a few hundred yards ahead of him. He walked up to it, and around it, read the words in big black letters on the front.
Welcome to Marfa, Texas
And in smaller letters underneath:
Home of the World-Famous Marfa Lights
Giant filmed here, 1951-1952
Giant. That was part of the Kane family curse too. Part of the scrapbook. There was an article in it about the making of the movie, an article about his grandpa, Robert Kane, who Glen had never met, how he'd had been hired on by the company that made the film as their local guide to Marfa. How Robert Kane got to be friends with the stars of that movie, one star in particular, who there was another article about, a star who died young, died in a terrible car accident right after he made the film...
Glen remembered the first time he'd seen those articles now, that day when he'd found his mom and Paul Grimm in the office. Paul Grimm had found those articles for his mom up at Sul Ross, he'd been researching the curse for her, but none of that was important right now, what was important was finding his brother.
He cupped his hands together and yelled.
"Mark! Mark, where are you?"
There was no reply.
He turned and yelled again and again, but there was nothing, and just as he was about to give up, he heard a noise behind him and turned, and zooming up the road next to him was a sports car, and in it was a young man whose face looked awfully familiar and the man smiled and gave Glen a big thumbs-up and yelled...
"What curse?"
And just as he did, the car flipped over and exploded into flames.
Glen tried to avoid the flames, but they started chasing him, chasing him back down the road toward Paul Grimm, who was waiting for him with open arms and smiling, and so Glen turned and let the fire catch him.
He didn't feel a thing, of course.
He just watched the fire as it consumed every inch of his body. It was everywhere he looked, on his arms, his legs, climbing up his stomach, burning him, burning his clothes, orange and red fire, yellow and gold fire, fire so bright its image was seared into his brain.
The image stayed with him a long time, till darkness took its place and swallowed him whole.
The sixth operation was a success, but it was two more weeks before the grafts were healed enough to move Glen. No rush this time, so they sent him in an ambulance back to Big Bend in Alpine. A slow-moving ambulance -- the driver had instructions to keep it down to fifty-five on the highway.
"So you don't tear the skin and we have to operate all over again," one of the doctors said. The driver nodded dutifully, but of course, once out on the highway, pushed it up to seventy without a thought until he hit the outskirts of town and came across the sign that reminded him that Giant had been filmed in Marfa, which reminded him of James Dean, who had died shortly after making the movie in a car crash, so he eased off on the gas a little.
Made him think of something else too, something a friend of his, a nurse down in Marfa, had told him about Dean's death. That it was because the actor had been friends with one of the locals, some family whose name escaped him at the moment, a family his friend had heard was cursed or something. Some sort of nonsense like that.
Copyright © 2005 by World Wrestling Entertainment, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
thanks to VDark @ btr
Glen had a good long sleep.
When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor of his house, next to the stairs. The fire was out.
The front door was still open.
He heard voices outside -- strangers. A lot of strangers. He glimpsed firefighters through the open door. Footsteps sounded on the second floor above him, came running down the stairs. Mark.
His brother ran right past him, and out through the front door.
"Mark!" Glen called. "Mark, wait for me!"
Glen got to his feet and ran after him.
Just outside the door, a young man in an EMT uniform grabbed his arm. "Hey, buddy. Where you think you're going?"
"My brother."
"No, no. Come on over here and lie down on this gurney. You're dead."
"I'm not." Glen pulled away from the man and took off again.
Ahead of him, Mark was running too. And he was faster. Mark was always faster. Bigger, stronger. Better. Mark was getting away from him. Leaving him behind.
No, Glen thought. He's all that I have left.
"Mark!"
Tumbleweeds blew across the road, blew in front of Glen's face, obscured his vision. He shoved them out of the way with his arms, choking on the dust again, the dust and the smoke.
"Mark!" Glen yelled. "Mark! Come back!"
Paul Grimm stepped out into the road, in front of him.
"Hey, Glen. Long time no see."
"Get out of my way," Glen said.
"Now hold on a minute, son." Grimm shook his head and turned, raised a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the dust. "Where you going?"
"My brother," Glen said, pointing down the road. "Mark. He went that way."
Grimm shook his head. "Don't think that's possible, Glen. Don't you remember?"
The man held up a piece of paper then.
Dead Dead Dead All Dead
"It is possible. It is!" Glen said, trying to shove past him. Grimm grabbed on to his arm, and held tight.
"All right, all right, simmer down. I got my car over there -- we'll go look for him. Me and you. How's that sound?"
Glen looked up at Grimm. The man was smiling.
"Doesn't sound good," Glen said, and pushed Grimm away. The man's laughter followed him as he ran, heading down 17 again, running right down the middle of the road, right along the yellow line, scanning the horizon for any sign of his brother. But all he saw was scrub, the occasional mesquite tree, a row of purple mountains far, far in the distance. Where had Mark gone? He couldn't have just disappeared.
Glen's eyes fell on a signpost at the edge of the road, a few hundred yards ahead of him. He walked up to it, and around it, read the words in big black letters on the front.
Welcome to Marfa, Texas
And in smaller letters underneath:
Home of the World-Famous Marfa Lights
Giant filmed here, 1951-1952
Giant. That was part of the Kane family curse too. Part of the scrapbook. There was an article in it about the making of the movie, an article about his grandpa, Robert Kane, who Glen had never met, how he'd had been hired on by the company that made the film as their local guide to Marfa. How Robert Kane got to be friends with the stars of that movie, one star in particular, who there was another article about, a star who died young, died in a terrible car accident right after he made the film...
Glen remembered the first time he'd seen those articles now, that day when he'd found his mom and Paul Grimm in the office. Paul Grimm had found those articles for his mom up at Sul Ross, he'd been researching the curse for her, but none of that was important right now, what was important was finding his brother.
He cupped his hands together and yelled.
"Mark! Mark, where are you?"
There was no reply.
He turned and yelled again and again, but there was nothing, and just as he was about to give up, he heard a noise behind him and turned, and zooming up the road next to him was a sports car, and in it was a young man whose face looked awfully familiar and the man smiled and gave Glen a big thumbs-up and yelled...
"What curse?"
And just as he did, the car flipped over and exploded into flames.
Glen tried to avoid the flames, but they started chasing him, chasing him back down the road toward Paul Grimm, who was waiting for him with open arms and smiling, and so Glen turned and let the fire catch him.
He didn't feel a thing, of course.
He just watched the fire as it consumed every inch of his body. It was everywhere he looked, on his arms, his legs, climbing up his stomach, burning him, burning his clothes, orange and red fire, yellow and gold fire, fire so bright its image was seared into his brain.
The image stayed with him a long time, till darkness took its place and swallowed him whole.
The sixth operation was a success, but it was two more weeks before the grafts were healed enough to move Glen. No rush this time, so they sent him in an ambulance back to Big Bend in Alpine. A slow-moving ambulance -- the driver had instructions to keep it down to fifty-five on the highway.
"So you don't tear the skin and we have to operate all over again," one of the doctors said. The driver nodded dutifully, but of course, once out on the highway, pushed it up to seventy without a thought until he hit the outskirts of town and came across the sign that reminded him that Giant had been filmed in Marfa, which reminded him of James Dean, who had died shortly after making the movie in a car crash, so he eased off on the gas a little.
Made him think of something else too, something a friend of his, a nurse down in Marfa, had told him about Dean's death. That it was because the actor had been friends with one of the locals, some family whose name escaped him at the moment, a family his friend had heard was cursed or something. Some sort of nonsense like that.
Copyright © 2005 by World Wrestling Entertainment, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
thanks to VDark @ btr