The Angle of Attack: Chapter 27 & Epilogue

Chapter 27*

Note to readers: Below is an excerpt of the last chapter of this book plus the Epilogue. To obtain a copy of the complete chapter please request one by completing the Contact Andrew Bowers form.

I turned from the computer and regarded the mounting gloom out the window. How different in temperament to the day prior, those unimpeachable bright skies and crisp air that had come out for Lena’s wake replaced by a solid gray dome of low cloud bruising darker as, at some unidentifiable point behind it, the sun was already giving up on this, the shortest day of the year. Ever the sunny Texas girl who still viewed snow as an abnormal substance not to be trusted, Ally had always made a big hoo-ha of the winter solstice, “Just one more sleep!” she’d hollered at Melanie when she was about five, “And finally, finally, finally, the days will start getting longer. Then hey presto! It’ll be summertime again! Hooray!” Frowning at Melanie’s vacant expression I had to explain the one and only thing Melanie gave a shit about on this day was the four sleeps remaining until she could plunder the ridiculous amount of loot accumulating in ribboned drifts around the Christmas tree all of which, except for me and Ally’s presents to each other (both of which Ally had bought, me severely allergic to shopping and clueless to the tides of Ally’s material desires which that year manifested in a glassy black rectangle that turned out to be the very first iPhone, a “computer in your pocket” she’d cooed while me and Melanie stared at each other and shrugged), was hers.

“And fog to boot,” I muttered, watching it billow in over the still water of the lake as if heralding the appearance of a ghost ship or Merlin’s sword rising from the surface. The sight filled me with the same tingling sense of foreboding I’d gotten on those odd layovers in Istanbul waking at dawn to the creeping, mournful wail of mosques rousing the darkened city to prayer, me to the open bottle on the nightstand. If Melanie were here, as I was fantasizing she was now, she’d dismiss the spooky atmosphere with a click of the tongue and set to bemoaning such unseasonably warm weather. “I bet there was skating on this lake 10 years ago” she’d shrill before the diatribe against the sinister world-destroying cabal of old rich white males (she’d view Hal Topper as a typical specimen) who valued nothing incapable of being publicly traded, not to mention those complicit airline pilots, like you Daddy, who ferry these corrupt geezers from one priority lounge to the next in flying SUVs. I wondered if college might smooth the edges of her ‘climate change warrior’, ‘grrrl power’ militancy or radicalize her yet further as Ally, briefly a bra burner herself in college (until she took a life-altering business course, ditched the literary criticism, and founded a successful Manhattan bar instead), morbidly feared. “What if she becomes one of these fucking eco-terrorists, Paul?! Who gets her pussy pierced and sleeps with other girls even though she’s about as much of a lesbian as I am? What if she ends up in jail?” No, I had assured her, “Melanie is also about as much of a terrorist as you are,” ever grateful that Melanie had dodged two genetic bullets at conception: Dorothy’s Huntington’s and the dark pathogens I was convinced (thank you, Aunt Carrie) lurked in my nucleotides. Then I wondered if I should I add a reassuring PS to the email I had just finished writing to Ally. Something like And remember, don’t worry about Mel, she’s going to do great in life, just like her mom… Turning away from the fog and back to the computer, I reread the letter:

Subject: My Final Message (I promise, please read)

Dear Ally,

You probably didn’t see it, but my plane was in the news today, all repaired and ready to fly again. They had this crazy before and after footage, the before one showing the plane all smoking with its guts ripped out, streaming water, fuel, Gary’s piss, who knows what, and the after one this sleek, gleaming beauty that could’ve been fresh off the assembly line! You would never believe it was the same plane rolling along the tarmac there in front of the cameras like a superstar. When it comes to resiliency contests – stand aside livers and cockroaches – planes are it! Honestly, I almost put my hand through my TV screen trying to give it a high-five. But weirdly, narcissistically you might say, I think I got so worked up watching it because that plane kind of embodies how I’m feeling right now – similarly reconstituted, like my insides have been taken out and put back, but in the right place this time. There seems to be a heart beating in my chest, one which I’m actually learning how to use.

I would like to say I wish you could see me now, new man and all that, but I don’t want you to interpret this message as a final ploy for you to forgive me, take me back, or any of that old blah blah (btw- I have a girlfriend now, well sort of anyway). I just want you to know I’m doing a lot better, been doing some digging (literally in some cases) and learned an awful lot about myself recently, and I’m treating people better, so please DON’T WORRY about me and Mel reconnecting.

In any case Ally, this is the end. You won’t be hearing from me again, but I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed everything works out for you too in the end. My sort of girlfriend told me not so long ago “I just want you to be happy” and that’s what I want for you. Happiness. You are a GREAT person, and you deserve it.

With all my (new and improved) heart,


“That is some grade-A bullshit right there,” I said through a long sigh, digging a gnawing hair from the back of my scalp and studying the ivory bulb squashed under my fingernail from which it quivered. I could picture Ally skimming the message in two seconds, miming puking before deleting it, then taking care to permanently delete it from her trash folder like a cancer that might spread back to her inbox and sicken the healthy messages she wanted to keep. What was I hoping to accomplish with this treacly spew anyway? Ally had been ghosting me for months now and man, who knew that sustained silence is the greatest, most visceral fuck you ever invented? Nothing, not artillery fire, screams louder I don’t care about you any more than that cold silence, all the more devastating once it becomes clear it is not only resistant to, but even hardened by, all efforts to break it. I don’t care if you’re doing good or doing bad. I don’t care who you’re fucking or who you’re not fucking. In fact, I don’t care if you’re dead or alive. That’s right, if I got word you were dead, I’d shrug and go back to filing my nails. So what makes you think I’d care about your stupid plane, your alleged rehabilitation, or your irrelevant evaluation of my personhood? Maybe that fog outside is seeping into your brain. Maybe– 

“Okay. Alright. I got it!” I cried, deleting the message on her behalf, trashing the trash on her behalf and, with disaster averted, a pleasing relief shiver shot through me. And how blessedly liberating it was to know, with absolute certainty in my (new and improved) heart, I would never endeavor to contact Ally again. My reciprocal silence would be received as welcome evidence I too had finally “moved on”, especially if Melanie supported it by, for example, showing Ally Dani’s album cover photo I had texted her that morning with the caption “Not exactly an album cover, but these are my loopy friends,” to which Melanie had emojied a heart-eyed smiley face. Was that precisely what I was hoping for? For Melanie to go running straight to Ally with it so Ally could see Phoebe draped over me, maybe even feel a pang of jealousy over Phoebe’s superior, unpregnant prettiness? And was that what had compelled me to sit down and write to Ally in the first place? To clarify, not once but twice, that Phoebe was only a “sort of” girlfriend? Just in case she still harbored any residual feelings for me now that I knew, with an undeniable sense of satisfaction that welled maliciously from my former self, things with Jeff Rosenberg were “not all rosy” just as she was about to pop with his baby? I was jolted by another relief shiver in the knowledge I had also averted cheapening Phoebe so, dear Phoebe who’d stowed away her menstrual pads under the bathroom sink that very morning and whispered hotly in my ear “Tonight’s the night, so help me God!” before stepping out into the misty cold, a Santa’s hat clamped over her wet hair, smoke streaming from a freshly lit cigarette clamped between her wet lips, all caffeinated and set to soldier off to tend to her dead. The dead whose numbers inexplicably swelled over the Christmas holidays Phoebe had informed me, tweaking my nipple when I ventured that for some death might present a more restful way of spending them, what with the extended family coming over who can barely mask their disdain for you and bleat on about their superior parenting skills while their lawless kids tear paths of destruction through your house like miniature tornadoes and try to blind the dog, the one member of the household who still shows you some genuine affection, with their grubby little fingers.

“You are dangerous,” I said, addressing my laptop, its cursor blinking coyly, an open invitation to more folly. About to slam down the lid with both hands, the boo-be-doo, boo-be-dee of an incoming call gave me pause long enough to see it was Shannon trying to get through yet again. Guided by a rogue impulse to get it over with, which somehow overpowered my desire to duck her once more, I clicked the video button and her sharp raven’s face bloomed into focus.

“Paul! There you are, finally!” she said, clapping her hands together and holding them to her chest, the fierce determination in her eyes making me close my own and silently curse my computer’s dangerousness once more. “What are you doing?”

Unplugging my palms from my eye sockets, I sighed, “You want to buy a used laptop?”



…red curtains, woosh, and there they all are, gawking at me, what am I now, a fucking zoo animal, animals got it better than this, zookeeper walks in, gives you a quick jab while he pats your fuzzy head and lights out, no spectators, didn’t even know it was coming, got spectators outside, fry Carrick fry! fry Carrick fry! wish this wasthe chair and they’d throw the switch right now, fuckers, torturing me, torture, I asked for it, they delivered, fuckers, you can look at me like that, sure, hold up that picture, that’s right, yeah I know what I did to your darling daughter, look what you’re doing to me, I just had my last meal, your hear that, my last meal, ever, God, she didn’t know it was her last meal, no I came out of the blue, took her quick, took her merciful-like, smells like fucking ammonia in here, is that me, you take a good long look gawkers, you ain’t never going to forget about me, whole country’s never going to forget about me, I made sure of that, I’m famous baby, look at you, I can’t die like this, what? no, you gawkers get to get in your cars, go home, eat a steak, watch TV, watch the sunset, I don’t get to see the sun again, why does the sun get to stay, rising and setting, rising and setting, tomorrow too and the day after and the day after, after I’m fucking gone, what? gone, no, I got what a couple minutes, less, good night forever, end of everything, forever, no, I want to stay, I don’t want to go, there’s that Phoebe Glazer, angriest of the bunch looks like, yeah you look into my eyes, that’s right, feel me where it hurts the most, that’s what I’m here for, nope, you’re giving me the finger, sure, that’s okay I forgive you, I forgive all you gawkers, warden, you may proceed with the execution, is that so, is the poison getting in me now zookeeper, what? no, so sleepy, sleepy, what? is it happening now, Paul, where are you, you were supposed to be here with me, tell them all I ever wanted was to go home, warm fire, warm food, warm laughter, warm blankets, warm arms around me, here to stay, I was always locked out, out in the cold, alone, cold and alone, I was fucking scared man, I just wanted in, I just wanted someone to let me in, God, I’m so tired I want to go home, I just want to go home, Paul tell them I just want to– 


*Previous chapters of The Angle of Attack are available at

© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (The Angle of Attack: Chapter 27 & Epilogue), 2021. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2021 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Angle of Attack: Chapter 26

Chapter 26*

Note to readers: The remaining chapters of this book will only be posted in excerpt form. To obtain a copy of the complete chapter, please request one by completing the Contact Andrew Bowers form.

“The… ere,” said Dylan, a final vvvvvvt from his drill securing in place another brass plaque on the slat directly below Mildred Stanfield’s:

Also in loving memory of


whose ashes were here scattered

by her son Paul Manson

23 December 2019

“Oh, ho! That looks splendid!” said Dr. Constantinescu in that deep steroidal voice that could summon harpies from mountain tops. While his bloodless skin glared as white as a piano key against the long black overcoat draped around him, old Nosferatu there seemed otherwise unaffected by the brilliant midafternoon sun catching in the plaque and the sheen from the fresh coat of paint we’d concealed the cunt graffiti with. Stooping over for a better look, his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, hoovering up the enamel fumes radiating from the bench and said through the long exhale, “Splendid indeed,” as though they were exerting an agreeable influence on his nervous system that further elevated his appraisal of Dylan’s handiwork. “Let’s get that champers open, shall we,” he said over his shoulder to a glowering Deidre who’d anticipated the instruction and was already strangling the neck of a magnum of Dom Perignon as if it belonged to her insufferable grandfather.

“To Lena,” he said solemnly once we were all equipped with a glass. It seemed only fitting for him to lead the toast since he was the only one present who had any memory of Lena, never mind a loving one. For the same reason, and what with Lucy openly speculating on how much of the tube I would end up ingesting if the task were left to me, I’d offered to let him scatter the ashes as well. But he eyed the tube warily, like he risked infection by mortality should he come into contact with them, “No, no, no, my dear boy, she was your mother,” and stood well clear when I shook them into the wind (yes, in the right direction this time, thank you Lucy!)

“To Lena,” we all repeated in the deferential grumble wakes demanded, the weeping willow stripped of its leaves like a showering firework clattering in the breeze. With none of us having any anecdotes to share the only other sound, besides the ambient noise of jet engines drifting over from the airport, was the clinking of glasses. But I was happy Lena had finally come to rest on the wastes with Harold, its soil so peaty and contaminated it was unlikely to ever arouse the interest of developers. And a hundred years from now, machines in charge humanity irrelevant, the lonesome old tree would still be standing guard over the memorial bench, worst case another libelous vulgarity sprayed over it that time and the weather could work on disproving. It lifted my heart to think so anyway.

“C’mon, let’s take a picture!” came Dani’s exuberant young voice, bursting the silence and our thought bubbles with it. Digging in her backpack, she produced a portable tripod and extended the aluminum sections of its telescoping legs. “A group picture!” she clarified somewhat needlessly, her phone now clenched in the tripod’s rubber jaws. “Everyone behind the bench. That’s right. You in the middle, Paul. With Phoebe. Dr C. you… I know, I know you don’t like that but… okay, what is it again? Constantinople? Concrescu? See, no, my brain can’t deal with it. Sorry. Deidre, you next to your father. Is that better? No, really Deidre, you have to be in the picture. Lena taught you how to walk, isn’t that right? Right. So you have to be in it. You too Lucy. There you go. Good Dylan, you’re there with Phoebe too. Don’t give me that look Dylan. I’m going to come get in there beside you. Okay, cigarettes down, glasses up for Lena. Ready? For the next 10 seconds we’re all happy people. Got that? Happy fucking people. There,” she said, giving the phone a christening tap and flapping over to nestle in beside Dylan, the camera’s flash blinking off the seconds until the flurry of warning flashes – bellies in now humans, you’re about to be captured! And capture us it did until Dani, deaf to the chorus of groans when she said “just one more” yet again, was satisfied, Lucy and Deidre bonding in mutual admiration of their respective bitching skills. “There!” she cried finally, prying free the phone and holding it aloft, “Could be an album cover!”

“Give me a break,” said Dylan, spitting through his teeth as he always did for emphasis, then a sheepish “Sorry” when Phoebe chided him for spitting right where “Paul’s mom” had just been scattered. Paul’s mom… I was still only able to think of “my mom” as simply Lena, a character who’d lived a short, brutal life gazing from a faded old photograph; it never occurred to me to take umbrage at Dylan’s irreverence, even if Phoebe’s was as much caused by envisioning Dylan’s potential conduct at her own wake.

“See for yourself,” said Dani tersely, our phones binging as she texted out the picture. It was hardly an album cover not least because, even including Dani and Dylan, the average age of our party was about 157. But there was something strangely compelling about it, what with Dr. Constantinescu’s hulking frame hoisting the bottle, cigarette dangling from the corner of his ancient mouth in defiance of Dani’s choreography, Phoebe’s hair dancing vertically in an artful interpretation of the wind, her head tilted against my shoulder, me at odds with gravity to produce one of my torqued reverse smiles, Dylan wearing a badass don’t fuck with me face he probably rehearsed for hours in front of a mirror to perfect, oblivious to Dani’s two fingers poking up behind his head in a V sign, her beaming with impish delight, Deidre and Lucy with arms interlocked scowling like plotting crones. That was us alright, the unlikeliest band of misfits with me front and center.

And what would have become of me had I missed my train from New York, which I very nearly did thanks to the outrageous lineup at the Grand Central liquor store, and not encountered Phoebe in the bar car? Or bumped into Lucy who I’d essentially forgotten about? I sure wouldn’t be standing here today saving this picture to my phone, this first inhabitant of my Photos app, pondering even whether to post it (hey look, Paul does have a life, and check out that hottie beside him!) Lost and rudderless, what beach would I have washed up on other than the one Melanie had presumed: the All Alone one? In a cabin in front of a cold fireplace, relying on Jack for warmth and company, only rarely venturing up to Milkwood’s and, since her grouchy old man was my landlord, keeping the talk small and clean with that chirpy “barely legal” barmaid named Dani whenever she freshened my drink.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” bubbled Dani over my shoulder, studying her picture afresh as if additional aesthetic qualities had accrued from its journey through the internet from her phone to mine. “That’s the kind of picture people smoke weed and look at.”

“Do you have any, my flower?” gonged Dr. Constantinescu as expectantly as a dog waiting for its ball to be thrown, to the surprise of no one at this point even if, much to my amusement, Phoebe stiffened and made a face.

“Guess you’re not the only flower in the bouquet,” I whispered in her ear while Dani made smithereens of the doctor’s hopes by explaining not only did she not have any, she’s never tried it and never would, shit rots your brain, and not buying a single dime bag of his finger-wagging rebuttal about the medicinal properties of THC.

“Shut up, Paul.”

“Lucy’s probably one too. Venus flytrap I’d wager.”

“Hmmm?” said Lucy, whose hearing had so overcompensated for her terrible eyesight she could probably hear the bench’s coat of paint drying.

“I was just telling Phoebe how blossoming you are today.”

“I already told him to shut up,” sighed Phoebe and, frowning at the magnum lying on its side in the grass where Dr. Constantinescu had tossed it for being so uselessly empty, initiated the process of leaving by telling an abnormally compliant Dylan to help her pack up. Reaching the edge of the wastes where the vegetation began growing in more earthly deformations, I didn’t turn around for one last look this time. No, I knew what was behind me now and, with Dani’s stoner picture to remind me, I also knew I was never coming back.


To be continued…

*Previous chapters of The Angle of Attack are available at

© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (The Angle of Attack: Chapter 26), 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2020 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Angle of Attack: Chapter 25

Chapter 25*

Note to readers: The remaining chapters of this book will only be posted in excerpt form. To obtain a copy of the complete chapter, please request one by completing the Contact Andrew Bowers form.

“Ready?” said Phoebe with an anxious glance at the wall clock – almost 3 am – tick-tocking a touch louder than necessary it seemed, slightly more grating than regular time, like a persistent reminder to the dead stowed in their lockers, you’re being left behind. Despite the ungodly hour she fretted Slater and/or Sampson might drop by the funeral home at any moment, perhaps to ensure their charges weren’t getting any funny ideas from the clock, and catch us red-handed, nothing to see here boss.

“It looks like a pizza box,” I said, running my finger along one of the corrugations in the rigid cardboard crate whose name ‘cremation container’, as surmised from the big block letters emblazoned in blaring red down the side, hinted at a dearth of imagination in the mortuary business. Set out on a roller top trolley parked in front of a black mouthed furnace, tuck-in lid hanging open over the edge, it was one of the standard issue no money, no funeral ‘coffins’ that lay stacked in a corner, also like pizza boxes. Picturing Carrick Mayweather lying in one, head stitched closed after they’d scooped out his brain, I ventured, “Can’t we just leave her in the hockey bag? I’m kind of used to it.”

“No. It has to be a fully combustible container.”

“Fully combustible? I thought you said this thing cranks up to 1,700 degrees. What doesn’t get totally incinerated in that kind of heat, except for maybe Lucy’s meatloaf?”

“You’d be surprised,” she said in the dry tone of an emergency room doctor at a cocktail party answering the question “how does somebody get that stuck inside them?” Lifting a silencing finger in anticipation of my next question she said, “And no, we can’t just put her in with no container at all.”

“Why not?”

“The container keeps the body from moving around.”

“From moving around?! What, because it’s getting too hot in there?”

“It’s against the regulations, okay?” she said tersely. This was some classic Phoebe in play. No matter that we’d broken into her place of employment to dispose of a murder victim’s body in violation of who knows how many state and federal laws, by standing firm on such a banal rule, because from her perspective there was no good reason to break it, her moral rectitude remained uncorrupted. Delusion akin to the prism through which she viewed Dylan (and me)? Or something more inspired, visionary even, in her unhesitating ability to break with convention when necessity demanded while otherwise toeing the line and keeping an eye on the big picture? I suspected if the five of us, me, Phoebe, Dylan, Dani, and Lucy were on that life raft in the middle of the Pacific, smacking our lips at the sight of a steaming Hal Topper Porterhouse where a companion’s head should be, it would be Phoebe who’d take charge, keep us from each other’s throats until calmly informing the time had come to draw lots to decide who would be killed so the rest could eat, who’d cut the lots herself and, because it would be unthinkable for anyone but her to draw the short one, would ensure that she drew it and would stoically slit her own throat to spare us the anguish of having to do it.

“Okay,” I grumbled. Leadership was what it was, I guess. The day before, we had driven into the city to go to the VA medical center and ask after Raymond Richards, how to find him. And even though we were there for Phoebe’s peace of mind (ostensibly Dylan’s too but since that wood chopping frenzy out back which had produced an Everest of kindling fit for a pyromaniac he was more calm and Zen than I’d ever seen him), shewas the one who took my hand when we passed through the burnt and broken bodies wing under the brooding stares of men being helped into prosthetics, the sounds of shouts and wheelchairs skidding around instead of squeaking sneakers coming from a basketball game in the gym, knowing this was the last place my adoptive parents had been before Carrick Mayweather blew them up at The Tightrope. And after we’d come away emptyhanded, the best they could do with Raymond Richards classified as itinerant in their records was post Phoebe’s appeal for contact to an online message board and hope he would see it, she was still more focused on my equilibrium than her own. Especially when I stopped in front of the doors to the burnt and broken minds wing, their crash bars unbudging without an access card, and pressed my face to a narrow rectangular window searching for my father through the frosted whorls.

“Let’s get her out,” she said, unzipping the hockey bag in one long tug which, with a layer of soil from her grave carpeting the bottom, released the earthy odor and attendant memories of 116 Primrose Way. After being stuffed in there by Raymond Richards and all the subsequent buffeting around the skeleton had arranged itself into a fetal position, doubly unnerving with that thumb jammed between two rows of bared teeth.

Fault lines breaking out over Phoebe’s brow, I muttered, “Like she’s sleeping and dreaming something nice.”

“Mm,” grunted Phoebe, not hearing. Then shaking off her own thoughts on the matter, seismic activity in her brow subsiding, she grabbed the ankles with fresh resolve and straightened out the legs. “What’s that you said?”

“Like the job’s been done for you.”

“Come on, let’s lift her up,” she said with a shrug, no time now for deciphering Paul’s gibberish, and pointing with her chin.

Crouching over, her arm bones looked as spindly and delicate as a spider’s legs, so I gripped the natural handlebars of the collar bones instead. “Ready.”

“Lift,” said Phoebe, and as I straightened up the skull lolled back at a hideous angle on vertebrae hyperextended like accordion bellows. Freeing a hand to cradle it, there was a sharp bubble wrap pop and it came clean off. Slipping through my fumbling fingers, the skull rolled unevenly across the granite floor and came to rest facedown with a soft crunch at the foot of the pile of pizza boxes.

“This just has to be a lot more against the regulations,” I said, Phoebe still holding onto the ankles of the headless skeleton. What was it Bob Calloway had ranted on about when the authorities finally released to him the flake of concrete Sarah was smeared on? Something about abuse of a corpse (“it’s a fucking crime, I looked it up”), so unhinged at the time there was no convincing him that equating a blood droplet with a corpse made apples and oranges look like identical twins. This scene here, on the other hand, was maybe a shade closer to the mark.

“Try not to think about it,” said Phoebe quietly as we stood at the side of the trolley, Lena’s two pieces now more respectfully arranged on her cardboard bed, me fixating on the scored cervical disc where the head had come away, where Carrick Mayweather had given up on his decapitation efforts. Why was that? Overcome by a wave of mouth-dabbing ennui with all the violence? Homicidal inspiration interrupted by another Porlock figure? Stalled by an exotic sense of guilt over it being his own mother (our mother) this time around? Chances are, none of the above.

“Maybe it’s for the best he didn’t finish the job,” I said, recalling what he had done to the severed heads of his other victims, the two holes in the skull now taking on a dark functionality. Now there is abuse of a corpse, Bob. Of course, Lucy would scoff at the whole notion and chide, “She’s dead, Paul. D-E-A-D. The dead don’t care what happen to them.” I couldn’t help it. Looking into those bottomless eye sockets, two black wells of aggrievement, cremating her bones seemed almost like an act of euthanasia.

And what was I to feel when Phoebe gently closed the lid of the pizza box, tucked in its flaps nice and snug, gently rolled it into the furnace, pushed a fat green button on the wall that sent gas flames spurting from two long rows of sooty nozzles, the steel door slowly lowering until only a line of flickering orange at the bottom where it rasped closed hinted at the inferno within? I hadn’t known her or loved her in life. It was Nicole Manson who’d come to me in the night when I had a bad dream or storm light was casting goblin shadows on the walls, get into my bed and sing me back to sleep in that soothing lullaby voice that melted fear. So afterwards, when Phoebe set a clunky contraption with an air of agricultural menace to angrily grinding up Lena’s left-over bone fragments and teeth like an espresso machine fed metal beans, just what was I supposed to feel?


To be continued…

*Previous chapters of The Angle of Attack are available at

© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (The Angle of Attack: Chapter 25), 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2020 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Angle of Attack: Chapter 24

Chapter 24*

Note to readers: The remaining chapters of this book will only be posted in excerpt form. To obtain a copy of the complete chapter, please request one by completing the Contact Andrew Bowers form.

“Sure about this?” said Phoebe, poised with hair clippers over my head, the hum of its blades increasing in my ears like the sight of their undomesticated target made them hungry. Why wouldn’t I be sure? Sitting in front of the bathroom mirror, a plastic table cover clothes-pegged around my neck serving as a barber’s cape, they had already sawed through my beard, its remains now strewn in defeated heaps of steel wool on the floor. And I had been unshrinking when Phoebe lathered up my face with an anachronistic shaving brush and scraped away the leftover scruff with the same straight razor she used to spruce up the corpses at the funeral home, even when the blade glided with practiced ease over the speedbump of my Adam’s Apple and I was keenly aware of being only one mistimed cymbal crash away from joining them.

“Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“You look like a baby who can’t figure out who that other baby is living in the mirror.” It’s true I was eyeing myself with some misgiving, stroking the spongy skin of my cheeks without the slightest rasp, a cleaner shave impossible under the current laws of physics. But I recognized exactly who that was living in the mirror; the real me, so much younger looking, cockier, unmasked with the beard gone. Once my head was shaved, I would be fully reverted in appearance to my former self and that was clashing with the transformation I sensed I was undergoing. Fully? Opening my mouth to stay Phoebe’s hand, it struck me Dylan had been right; I wasn’t the same without that gold crown prefacing whatever I was about to say with a warning glint, proceed with this guy at your peril.Now I looked more like some hapless dope who’d hit on the wrong man’s wife, and the length of my hair wasn’t about to change that. And besides, the prospect of getting under the shower, hot water beating down on my scalp, stubble flecked soap foam swirling down the drain, exfoliated skin tingling under the coarse fabric of the towel, that glorious feeling of being impeccably groomed when slipping into fresh clean clothes, once my captain’s uniform, the very same pleasure centers in the brain that respond to cocaine activated by satisfaction in life, tipped the balance.

“Go for it,” I was about to say but Phoebe had tracked the seesawing uncertainty in my shifting features, the thump down of resolve to proceed, and made a lawnmower’s path straight down the middle of my scalp, two thick curtains of hair dangling from either side.

“Ta-da!” she sang, pausing to appraise her handiwork, “A perfect reverse mohawk. Funky. Maybe we should leave it like that.”

Subduing a powerful sexual urge to slap her hard across the ass where her trademark denim skirt was at its tightest, finally put to the test my first instincts about her sitting there at the end of the bar on that infernal train from New York, I instead coughed up this uninspired comeback: “Maybe we should retake Hairdressing 101.”

“This is fun. Maybe we should carve a dirty word in the side of your head here.”

“Sure,” I said, sitting on the hand the resurfacing urge had put into motion, “Maybe ‘Fuck you’ could serve as a permanent response to our brilliant ideas.”

“Ain’t being reborn a bitch?” she said with a wink, setting to my head once, bunches of hair calving off under the drag of the clippers and slipping to the floor.

Emerging from the shower, even more invigorating than anticipated, I stood in front of the mirror, its fog burning away under the cold air rushing through the window I’d opened as far as the rusted crank would allow. “God, that knocked at least 20 years off you,” Phoebe had whined with the last swipe of the clippers, the unfairness of being so easily disencumbered from the plight of middle age as exasperating to her as it had been to Ally. Pointing out my eyebrows still contained some telltale gray came off as a taunt and she threatened to shave them off too. Wait a minute, Ally? It’s the first time I’d had an Ally pang for what, at least a couple days now. And why hadn’t I been instantly plunged into melancholy over the memory of Melanie gleefully shaving my head, Ally eating her knuckle as she watched? Ally. Strange too that the sight of my penis, that useless bit of pachyderm skin dangling from the end the bane of my childhood, wasn’t inciting the usual raging monologue directed at Jeff Rosenberg and all his kind for fucking her with his upgraded alternative. Were these the early symptoms of letting go, this ‘conscious disengagement phase’ Shannon was always harping on about? I pictured the end of a rope snapping away over a cliff edge and a different flavor of melancholy, sour and bilious, momentarily rose in my throat before I spat it down the sink and set to brushing my teeth (which had shifted with age into a more uneven configuration I made a mental note to tell Phoebe when the clippers weren’t around) with industrial strength toothpaste designed to kill a man’s breath along with his blackest thoughts. I felt good. Alive. And I wanted it to stay that way.

“Something’s changed,” I said, emerging from the bathroom into the firelight where Phoebe stood at the window, a loon out there with a broken mind wailing in the darkness.

“No shit,” she said absently over her shoulder where a bra strap, taut under the weight it carried, was exposed. “I barely recognize you.”

“I feel like I’m living in the present.”

“What’s that?” she said, stiffening with attentiveness.

“I feel like I haven’t really been here. You know, here. With you and the others. Just mooning around in the past wishing I could get in that tin can,” I said, throwing an invisible dart at Bob Calloway’s simulator even though Phoebe still had her back to me, “And fly back in time to not make those wrong turns. You know? Point the needle straight. So everything now would be just, not perfect, but just– “

“Just as it was,” she whispered.

“Yes,” I said, and I wished she’d turn around now. “But that’s what’s changed. I think I’m starting to move in the right direction now. Eyes forward.”

“Like the future matters?”

“Maybe more that there is one. It doesn’t help that jail is only postponed, not cancelled, but at least I’m in this moment. Here and now. Finally,” I said, willing her to turn around, “With you.” Hunching up, she hugged herself but still didn’t turn, a wet sniffle escaping as I moved up behind her.

“I just want you to be happy,” she murmured, my fingers bumping over the bra strap as they glided along her shoulder blade, insides boiling with desire, absolutely no need for the 25 mg dose that normally got me to the gates.

“I also never told you what a knockout you are,” I said straight up, and the deep kissing and fumbling with buttons began. My belt buckle jangling as she jerked it free of the strap, she paused and said, “It’s been awhile for me.”

“I doubt any longer than it’s been for me,” I said, recalling with a shudder that the last time for me had been with Julianne Moore.

“So be gentle,” she said, with a tremulous laugh as though she too could see the morning after carnage in Julianne Moore’s bedroom that I was shooing from my mind. Proceeding to unzip my fly she glanced up and, her flush mottled white as she blanched, began making odd clucking sounds she seemed to think were words.

“Okay, maybe it has been longer for you than for me,” I said, to which her response was a sustained round-eyed scream of terror.


“There in the window!!!”

“What?! Where?!”

“In the fucking window! There was a face! A terrible… a horrible face!”


To be continued…

*Previous chapters of The Angle of Attack are available at

© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (The Angle of Attack: Chapter 24), 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2020 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Angle of Attack: Chapter 23

Chapter 23*

Note to readers: The remaining chapters of this book will only be posted in excerpt form. To obtain a copy of the complete chapter, please request one by completing the Contact Andrew Bowers form.

The water is so frigid it’s crushing, the bubbles pushed through my nose scurrying away to the cold white sun splatted on the surface above. Brilliant shafts of broken light stab down through the gloom, just beyond the reach of my outstretched arms. Is this the kind of light flatlining people edge towards before being resuscitated on the operating table? If I move into it, will I die? No matter, I’m at peace now. All my accumulated torments, the pain the guilt, falling away like iron filings from a neutralized magnet, they fall with the crucifix I yank from my neck, they fall with the wedding band I twist from my finger, disappearing down into the freezing murk between my slowly egg-beating feet. Tilting my head back up to the light, closer and dazzling now, I’m ready. But there is the end of the dock swimming into view, waving arms and muffled shouts, familiar faces deformed by ripples. Blood thudding in my scalp, I cleave the water until I break through the surface, gasping and spluttering, the crisp December air raking my starved lungs.

“Paul!” cries Phoebe, dropping to her knees and reaching for me, “Help me get him out!” she barks at Dylan who’s standing there shivering in nothing but briefs, presumably Phoebe’s prior instruction to him being, “Get in there and get him out!” Dani is gawking, shotgun dangling at her side, behind her Lucy doubled over, impossible to ascertain whether the sound coming out of her is witch laughter or terror squeaking. “Now Dylan! He’s going under again!”

It’s true, I realize. I am going under again and, picturing my lifeless body settling into the black weeds and slime at the bottom of the lake where my ring and necklace lie, the panic swells. “I didn’t mean it, I’m not ready!” I gargle through a mouthful of fish water and, with a final adrenaline burn, kick with all my might and lunge for the dock. I miss and fall forward heavily, thrashing at the relentless water I’m starting to breathe, when Dylan’s hand appears from nowhere, bracelets flashing, and seizes my wrist in a grip so tight, so unbreakable, my arm would come out before the lake took me back. The last thing I remember through the other hands coming down out of the sky and hauling me up is thinking, are those little butterflies on Dylan’s briefs?


To be continued…

*Previous chapters of The Angle of Attack are available at

© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (The Angle of Attack: Chapter 23), 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2020 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Angle of Attack: Chapter 22

Chapter 22*

Note to readers: The remaining chapters of this book will only be posted in excerpt form. To obtain a copy of the complete chapter, please request one by completing the Contact Andrew Bowers form.

The cockpit vibrations intensified, my organs jiggling inside their membranes, the top half of New York City’s flickering skyline obscured by heavy cloud sinking down in an evening sky. “We got a storm off Rockaway just now,” announced JFK tower in the same folksy voice I used to calm passengers whose mounting anxiety over being crammed into a flying metal tube with strangers was, so to speak, well-grounded. “Runway 31L cleared to land. Previous arrival reported a pretty smooth ride all the way down final.”

“Right,” I said, eying the lightning flaring over the black swathe of ocean to the south of the airport like a naval battle had just gotten underway there. What was it Gary had said at this point? Something lyrical about the “edge of the rain” moving in over Jamaica Bay.

“AA 759, wind now 120 at 23.”

“I got this,” I said, just as the windshield was thumped by a wall of water, the giant invisible hand of an Old Testament god pressing down on the nose of the plane. “Okay, here come the wipers. 15 knots right there. Plus 25 now.”

“Wind shear alert, northeast boundary winds 195 at 15.”

“Fuck,” I said, bursting through the belly of cloud, Runway 31L right there rushing up. Too fast. Headfirst… the cold hard vestibule floor, Melanie falling… tangled up in her own little feet… falling… ‘Da-da… da-da… da-da…’ Ally lunging…

“Terrain,” remarked the GPWS twice in quick succession and then, abandoning English, commenced its hysterical whooping, the red emergency light strobing around the cockpit. Impossible to land at this angle.

“Taking it around! On the go to the left. Max power! Max!”

“AA 759, understand you’re on the go, fly runway heading. Climb and maintain 3,000.”

“Flaps to 15. Down, get down, goddamn it!”

“AA 759, understand you’re turning left?”

Cluster of houses listing heavily over the wing tip, their windows glowing bedtime story yellow through the night and the rain.

Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!

“Power! Power!” I shouted, wrestling with the wind over the control column. It was futile and, no avoiding the houses now, let it go.

“Simulation complete. Descent time: 17 minutes and 52 seconds,” said the less chirpy, slightly more judgmental digital voice of the new simulator as I slumped back and marveled at how realistic the devastation outside the smashed windshield was. The blackened personal effects and children’s toys interspersed in the burning debris a nice touch to capture the magnitude of the calamity. “Landing unsuccessful,” it added dully.

“Gee, I hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m surprised you don’t pipe in the smell of roasting flesh just to dispel any lingering doubts about the outcome here.”

The old simulator would just keep repeating “I’m not sure I understand” when I talked to it like this but this one was keen to move me along, “Shall I relaunch AA 759?”

“You could sour the dreams of an entire generation of aspiring young pilots, if you had half a mind for it. Which I guess you don’t.”

“I can modify the severity of the microburst to improve your chances of a successful landing,” it said, and I smiled at the note of sarcasm I could hear creeping in, a subtle feminine brand couched in the language of assistance but still somehow allusive to erectile dysfunction. It was only a matter of time before I irritated a computer Ally would be quick to point out, and then I would have said, “I didn’t even call it a cocksucker,” which in turn would have spurred me to test the simulator’s resilience to abuse in both its male and female iterations.

But Ally wasn’t here and I was a changed man (at least I think I was) and instead said, “No thank you, my flower,” cheerily plagiarizing Dr. Constantinescu’s ludicrous term of endearment, even pronouncing it “flowa” in that pseudo British accent of his, so persuasive had his personality been in the end, his quirks invited emulation. “That would be cheating. And besides, I’m very satisfied with the result.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said the simulator, simply giving up on me now and reverting to the software’s old protocol for responding to the confounding vagaries of human behavior (“your behavior”, Ally would interject here).

“Back to the drawing board for the AI dweebs,” I said.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Relaunch AA 759,” I said, gripping the control column with all the philosophical determination of a rodeo cowboy taking the reins of a bronco seething in its pen. “No modifications. Let’s see if I can put this thing down anywhere near the runway this time.”

“Launching AA 759. You have yourself a real nice landing now,” said the simulator and, as the grim faces of Midtown Manhattan’s towers popped up to the right, buried alive in that insidious cloud, a deep well of darkness directly ahead, I figured the AI dweebs maybe didn’t have so much work cut out for them after all.

To be continued…

*Previous chapters of The Angle of Attack are available at

© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (The Angle of Attack: Chapter 22), 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2020 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Angle of Attack: Chapter 21

Chapter 21*

Note to readers: The remaining chapters of this book will only be posted in excerpt form. To obtain a copy of the complete chapter, please request one by completing the Contact Andrew Bowers form.

“Lena was actually my housekeeper before she became my patient,” said the doctor, pausing to take a long pull on his cigar which required enough cross-eyed concentration and cheek-hollowing sucking power to make you question whether a cigar is ever just a cigar. Directing a geyser of smoke towards the ceiling, he continued, “Showed up on the doorstep out of the blue offering her services. Said her husband was doing time – stealing a piano or some damn fool thing – and needed the extra cash. And was she a lovely girl. I mean stunning. I can still see her standing there in the sun in this lemon-yellow dress, a desperate Pacific smile that could break a man,” he said, framing the view with his hands like a movie director. “Raw unadorned beauty.”

Phoebe and I exchanged a look which he caught and waved off. “No, no, no! It wasn’t ever like that. Even if dear Claudia over there would beg to differ,” he said, nodding at a painting of a plump red-cheeked woman with tight spools of gray hair hanging on the wall among the old maps and looking sour about her position among them. As if her portraitist had been as inaccurate in capturing her lines as the early cartographers taking educated guesses at the contours of the New World, the island of Newfoundland a stick of melting butter above her head.

“Your wife?” said Phoebe, some brilliant powers of deduction right there.

“God love her, even a good one when she put her mind to it. May she rest in peace.”

Claudia seemed to scowl back at him in response to his raised glass and I asked, “Did Lena happen to be in the room dusting under the furniture when this was being painted?”

“Paul,” snapped Phoebe, kicking at my foot dangling from my crossed leg. But the doctor let out a throaty Santa laugh, his belly and breasts jiggling along with each Ho-Ho-Ho.

“My dear boy, you’ve brightened my day.” Watching him dab spittle from his lips with a handkerchief, it occurred to me he had the same kind of grimacing grin I did. A “reverse smile” Ally had called it, unnatural g-forces pulling the corners of the mouth downward against the grain of the normal upward orientation. Ally said I would have the most joyous smile in the world if only I could stand on my head, which I couldn’t. Now I could sort of see what she meant even though the doctor’s teeth were as uneven as tombstones in an old churchyard.

“I’m glad. I don’t get that often.”

“You certainly do not,” said Phoebe.

“It’s a nice theory anyway. Except that Lena was long gone by the time Claudia decided to memorialize herself in oil. A more likely explanation for that peeved look would be her growing alarm over my continuing failure to die. ‘Until death does he part’ was her interpretation of our marriage vows and the prospect of predeceasing an old reprobate like me was as fanciful to her as flying pigs. But sure enough. Been almost 20 years now, hasn’t it dear?” he said, toasting the portrait once more with a wink that begged retaliation from the spirit world. When I told him as much, Phoebe’s silence this time amounting to concurrence, he leaned over with a grunt and, tapping a log of ash from the end of his cigar into the dusty mouth of the ashtray, said, “The very fact she hasn’t yet paid me a visit in the small hours is proof that no such world exists.”

“Or just that there’s no portal.”

“She would find a way. Build one herself if she had to. Which means it’s a scientific certainty this world we live in is it. One reason I haven’t been in such a hurry to leave it.”

“Maybe she hasn’t finished building it yet.”

“Aren’t you the devil’s advocate. If, arguendo, we are indeed going to postulate– ”

“Gentlemen,” interrupted Phoebe in a stiff voice, “As fascinating as all this is, really, could we maybe get back to Lena?”

“Of course, my flower. Of course. Where was I?”

“We didn’t get much further than how beautiful she was. Which we already had a pretty good idea of,” said Phoebe, reaching over and handing him the old polaroid from the house, “From this.”

“Well, well,” he said, holding the photo aloft in both hands and examining it like it was an x-ray of a shattered bone. “Mmmm-hmmm,” he rumbled when he turned it around and read the inscription on the back.

“Does that mean anything to you?” asked Phoebe. “Lena’s Song?”

“It may,” he sighed and, pointing to the piano player with a gnarled Count Dracula fingernail, said, “You wouldn’t know it since you can’t see his face, but that’s the late great Zach Jones.”

He stared at us wide-eyed, expectantly, until Phoebe finally said, “Sorry, who?” when it became apparent he was prepared to wait indefinitely for our powers of recall to engage.

“Youngsters,” he muttered to a more worldly ceiling, causing a chirp of pleasure to escape Phoebe, already a flower in the doctor’s eyes. I couldn’t tell if Phoebe’s susceptibility to his cheesy flattery lowered my estimation of her a notch or if it was more an unwelcome pang of jealousy (Could I ever make her chirp like that?) that further lowered my estimation of myself.

“My daughter would probably have a brain aneurysm if she could hear that.”

“Dear boy– ”

“Or that.”

“So, who was Zach Jones then?” said Phoebe, sitting up straight to redirect the doctor’s attention upon her flowery self.

“A great musician back in the day. Could’ve been one of the greatest if it weren’t for the booze. Doesn’t matter. What does matter for you,” he said, pointing his cigar at me before drawing hard on it once more, mouth opening wide like a yawn was coming, a great mass of smoke slowly drifting out under its own forces of dispersion.

“Yes?” I said impatiently. What was he waiting for with that bombed out mouth gaping? With that abandoned pile of kindling passing for an eyebrow raised as if I already knew the answer. “He’s not…”

“Of course, my dear boy. He’s your father.”

To be continued…

*Previous chapters of The Angle of Attack are available at

© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (The Angle of Attack: Chapter 21), 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2020 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Angle of Attack: Chapter 20

Chapter 20*

Note to readers: The remaining chapters of this book will only be posted in excerpt form. To obtain a copy of the complete chapter, please request one by completing the Contact Andrew Bowers form.

“Déjà vu alright,” muttered Dylan, kicking his spade into standing position and putting his gloves on. The soil was crumbly, softened by a downpour that had left the cold air wet with the mulchy smell of disintegrating leaves, the daggers of the thorn tree dripping. Now in the dead of night the sky was clearing, and the moon peered down but, with a slice of its anemic face lopped off since last time, the yard’s wilderness seemed less alive in its own light and my phone burned more brilliantly in the deeper gloom.

“A bit wetter and darker this time,” I said, refraining from pointing out to him this was hardly déjà vu since we had been standing right here at this exact spot, spades in hand, just a few days ago. The only other difference was that instead of searching the house, Phoebe and Dani were now keeping watch at the top of the yard, the bobbing red glow of Phoebe’s cigarette as they paced back and forth the only indication of their presence. I had to shake away the picture of a night sniper taking aim at it from a rooftop perch on the sleeping mill. Then it struck me it was precisely these distinctions from our first escapade, including the way Dylan had said, “Déjà vu alright,” that funny little ripple down his jaw, which had me in the grips of real déjà vu. So intense was the sensation this was all a repeat, I felt almost reincarnated. Sent back to do what we were about to do, only properly this time? I went colder than I already was.

“You sure you’re up for this, Paul?” asked Dylan with a steadying hand on my shoulder, the zigzag stitching in the glove I’d never seen before pulsing with uncanny familiarity.

“I’m having serious déjà vu about déjà vu,” I said, a hollowness in my voice as the words echoed through the continuum.

“I didn’t really mean déjà vu, you know. We were just here a few days ago is all.”

“That’s exactly what I was going to tell you when it started! Fucked if it’s not still happening. I swear I’ve had this conversation about not having a conversation with you before.

Dylan turned away and stared intently at something big and mesmerizing, like giants striding across the horizon, only he could see. I could tell if the task at hand wasn’t so personal to me, he would be poking at my agitation with a sharp stick. Finally licking the obnoxious half-smile from his lips, he turned back and said in overbaked seriousness, “Okay, so then tell me what I’m going to say next.” I glared at him, probably with the same kind of resentfulness Melanie reserved for me when I paved over her anxieties with inadvertent glibness (“Your freckles are a sign of uniqueness, the sassy dot on an exclamation mark, like Mom’s and just look who she pulled, huh? Huh?!”)

“You just said it, smart guy. Besides, déjà vu isn’t the same thing as clairvoyance.” Dylan opened his mouth but simultaneous bings from our phones closed it again.

Phoebe: Are you two going to get Lena or just stand there chit-chatting all night???

Me: For the record Dylan, I knew Phoebe was about to text us.

Dylan: Give me a break.

Me: Not the exact words, but the gist.

Dylan: Didn’t you just say déjà vu isn’t clairvoyance?

Phoebe: I can’t believe this. Standing right next to each other.

Dani: WTF!!!

“We’re on it, woman,” said Dylan with authority, closing his phone and grabbing his spade by the neck.

“You know you just said that and didn’t text it, right?” I said, tapping out the message for him, replacing “woman” with “ladies” in a rare spasm of chivalry which, coming from me, would only be interpreted as sarcasm anyway.

About to hit send, Dylan hissed, “Get a light over here, Paul, there’s something strange.”

I tilted my phone to where he was leaning over, his nose pinched as though the strangeness of what he was looking at was emitting an odor. Now I could see it. The ground appeared much more broken up, almost tilled, than how we had left it. “What the?”

“Looks like– ”

“Right. Like someone else has been here,” I said, and the bitter expression Dylan wore needed no translation: I wasn’t the only one The Thing had sent directions to before his execution. So much for I can’t start a whole new note now because these cocksuckers only gave me one sheet of paper. Was this how he’d amused himself on his last day on earth? Dispatching different people off on the same morbid treasure hunt as payment for some contrived favor? Perhaps hoping, if the stars aligned just so, they’d converge on the spot at the same time and there’d be a good old Mexican standoff ending, as one always should, in bloody massacre. What fun! The jackal. Then again, he’d also sent me his ashes. I–

“Still got déjà vu?”

“No, I’m fully cured. Thank you.”

“Let’s get her up and get out of here,” said Dylan, unwrapping the body bag Phoebe had swiped from the funeral home, his head swiveling side-to-side like a cyborg’s, “Before anyone else shows up.”

The digging was easy, and the hole deepened quickly. Deeper and deeper until, when we were up to our armpits in hole, Dylan finally broke off and exhaled vapor into a sky with no answers. “What’s the problem?” I said. He turned away and preoccupied himself with his giants once more. I knew damn well what the problem was. “Well?” I demanded anyway.

He clapped another steadying hand on my shoulder and said in a voice marbled with pity, “She’s not here, man.”

“How can she not BE here?” I snapped. “It’s not like she stepped out to get some milk!” But the answer was obvious. Whoever had been here before was after the same thing we were and had beaten us to it: Lena’s bones.

To be continued…

*Previous chapters of The Angle of Attack are available at

© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (The Angle of Attack: Chapter 20), 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2020 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Angle of Attack: THIRD INTERMISSION – Lena’s Song


Note to readers: The remaining chapters of this book will only be posted in excerpt form. To obtain a copy of the complete chapter, please request one by completing the Contact Andrew Bowers form.

“No peeking,” he whispered in her ear, folding his calloused hands over her eyes and guiding her from the front door into the living room where he gently pushed her down on an unfamiliar piece of furniture, a small bench her searching fingers told her, tight buttons stitched into shallow depressions in the upholstery, like a…

“What is it? What is it?!” she cried, heart thumping against her ribs like a dog’s heavy tail.

“As promised,” he said, his hands falling away.

The black lacquer finish had been polished to a mirror shine and her dumbstruck face shimmied in its light, a shelf of gleaming white and black keys beckoning below that impossible arrangement of elegant letters:


“Oh my god, Tym,” she gasped, joy irrigating her eyes and overflowing down her cheeks. She looked over it him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, a self-satisfied smirk hacked from the tough tissue of his jaw, and shrieked, “A Steinway! For me?!”

“Sure as hell ain’t for me.” Launching herself across the room, she tackled him through the door, legs wrapped around his waist, and unleashed a barrage of sloppy kisses that left his face and neck slick with spit and lipstick. “Brand new!” he crowed, holding her effortlessly in his powerful arms.

She put a finger to his lips to shush him, quite certain a closer inspection would reveal the telltale signs of prior ownership. What did she care? She’d been letting Tymothy’s “brand new” thing slide for so long (except that time he brought home matching satin bathrobes monogramed with other people’s initials) she was hardly going to call him out on it now. Not when for the first time since she was a girl, since before the fire, she at long last had her own piano. No more housecleaning over at Father Waylon’s rectory in exchange for private play time on his baby grand, no more sneaking a few notes off Penelope Galloway’s old jalopy of a piano, it’s discolored keys sticky from the pawing of her three monstrous little boys.

And, however unfulfilled most of Tymothy’s other promises remained, he had made good on this one. The most important one. And what if this was just the beginning? That next he might announce they were moving to the city? Finally leaving this miserable little house in the shadow of the steel mill, so forsaken it was outcast from the other three miserable little houses on the street and none had been built beyond it. The way he was looking at her now, that bright eyed way he’d once always looked at her, the world so big and boundless, she considered fellating him right then and there, on her knees with him holding her head in a basketball grip setting the rhythm just the way he liked.

But Tymothy had always been several steps ahead of where he actually was. From an early age he rejected the presumption that, just like his father and grandfather before him, he would go straight from high school (graduation optional) to work in the mill, “good honest money for good honest work” the family mantra went.

“So what are you going to do instead, big shot?” said his mother frostily who, having never received the ‘Don’t Favor One Child over the Other’ memo, was balancing his older brother Hank on her knee and stroking his chest with her fingertips like he was a human harp.

“Yeah, what?” chimed in Hank who full on embraced his destiny and had recently taken to marching around the house in his little hardhat emblazoned with ‘Jerusalem Steel’ dispensing instructions and advice to imaginary coworkers after his father had brought him (and definitely not “that little peckerhead” Tymothy) to the mill on a 1940s version of Take Your Child to Work Day.

It was a good question and, sitting on the hard linoleum in the middle of the kitchen floor, Tymothy buried a finger knuckle-deep up his nose to consider the problem. The answer came a couple days later when a radio program came on about Chuck Yeager breaking the sound barrier. Tymothy and Hank didn’t really follow, but what Tymothy gleaned from their father’s gruff explanation was 1. Danger: Yeager was a daredevil (a test pilot), 2. Mystery: working in secret (for the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA), forerunner of NASA), 3. Thrills: who had flown a rocket ship (a rocket engine-powered aircraft) faster than voices (the speed of sound: 343 meters per second = 767 mph = Mach 1) almost as high as the moon (45,000 feet). Their father, a GI in the war who’d fought and fornicated his way up the Italian peninsula from Salerno to Anzio while the “pretty flyboys” loafed around in their bomber jackets smoking pipes, frowned at Tymothy’s delighted clapping and smiled when Hank, noticing, served up a tonsils-exposing yawn. He had only grudgingly tolerated the broadcast in the first place because Yaeger was a fellow West Virginian without a college education.

Didn’t matter. After a fitful night’s sleep dreaming of rockets and the moon, Tymothy awoke bursting at the seams with the right stuff and announced, “I’m going to be a daredevil,” at breakfast.

“Sure,” said his mother, pinching his ear and giving his head a shake, “you and half the other boys in America this morning. Test pilots have nerves of steel, Tym.”

“Yeah, chicken,” snickered Hank, distilling what was being implied here, their mother’s preferred tactic of indirect insult by comparison one she would liberally deploy over the coming years.

  • Jeremy Deacon is so nice and polite (you’re not)
  • Bennet gave everyone an A (except you)
  • Football players need to be mentally tough (unlike you)
  • What a beautiful Christmas present Hank (yours not so much)
  • That Gideon Pippin will be a real heartbreaker one day (you won’t)

As undeterred and resolute as he was setting out, “I’m not half the other boys in America”, this persistent needling ever corroborated by his brother’s bluster and his father’s roaring silence, whittled down the blade of his ambition until, by the time he approached the end of high school where he’d performed lamentably both in the classroom (not for lack of brains but an overabundance of impatience) and on the football field (not for lack of a big strapping body, well suited to work in the mill his mother liked to remind him, but an underabundance of athletic ability), what had once been a mighty sword was now more of a pocketknife. But still a knife since there was still no fucking way he was going to work in that fucking mill. He may not be going to NASA or the Air Force or anywhere else terribly interesting for that matter but, barring a meteor strike, he was at least going to get the fuck out of Hillsborough and live in the city as God was his witness.

Or, as Lena was his witness, as it turned out.


To be continued…

*Previous chapters of The Angle of Attack are available at

© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (The Angle of Attack: THIRD INTERMISSION – Lena’s Song), 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2020 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Angle of Attack: Chapter 19

Chapter 19*

Note to readers: The remaining chapters of this book will only be posted in excerpt form. To obtain a copy of the complete chapter, please request one by completing the Contact Andrew Bowers form.

“…five… six… and seven,” I said, coming to a halt and closing the compass app on my phone. Mayweather had been right about one thing: the crouching thorn tree directly ahead did look devil sent, its gnarled branches stacked with angry spikes searching and possessed of intent to injure. The dusting of hoarfrost gleaming dully under a cold moon only lent it and the rest of the wildly overgrown yard an additional layer of sinister ancientness. Dylan flicked his cigarette at it, its spinning orange ember vanishing in the tangles as though swallowed. Gripping his spade behind his neck like a combat weapon, he cleared his throat and announced, “I’m discombobulated.”

“As your mom would say: again, in English.”

“I’m not happy.”

“Why? Because the exact spot isn’t marked with an X?” Wearing a hangdog look, he turned away and blinked at the idle refinery, once a blazing mini city at night, now a dark outline against the sky save one dim sentinel light pulsing wearily atop its tallest smokestack. What was his problem now?

“What I said about you back at Milkwood’s was,” he paused to stamp on his spade until it was blade deep in the hard ground and standing independently, “not so nice.”

As closing time approached, he had leapt to his feet with a yelp and cried, “NO MOTHERFUCKING WAY!” loud enough to invoke Hal Topper’s instant presence at his side.

“Son,” he said through gritted teeth, one hand clapped firmly on Dylan’s shoulder, the other gesturing at the now mostly empty tables as if they were crammed with shocked patrons, “this is a family establishment. That kind of cussing is just the excuse I’m looking for – not that I need one – to eighty-six you from here for good.” Crimson faced, Dylan folded his lips into his mouth in an effort to dam up whatever choice words were amassing behind his teeth, sat back down, and simulated smashing his head against the table. “Why don’t you do it for real, son?” growled Hal Topper, “and save me the trouble.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” said Dani firmly, shooing away her grumbling father like he was a pesky stray too miserable and long in the tooth to kick, her intervention uncharacteristically delayed perhaps being of the mind Dylan’s hostile outburst had warranted some measure of punishment. After all, it was her and Phoebe who’d come up with the plan after driving over to 116 Primrose Way earlier in the day and discovering it was the last of only four houses on the street, set apart from the others, and conveniently abandoned. For some time too judging by the photograph they had taken showing the lower floor boarded up, the windows of the upper floor mostly smashed, their peeling shutters sagging on loose hinges. “What’s your problem, Dylan?” demanded Dani, ever more assertive and comfortable in her own skin with him, less the besotted admirer and more the Bonnie to his Clyde.

“I already got dragged off on one fool’s errand chasing around after The Thing,” he whined, fixating on the twisting black smoke of a guttering candle rather than make eye contact. “And now, even after The Thing is finally dead and buried– ”

“Buried? Paul’s got his ashes in his backpack,” interrupted Phoebe with an unmistakable twinkle of malice in her eye.

Dylan swung around to face me as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Paul! Please tell these obsessive females you’re not down with this cockamamie scheme!” I squirmed under the competition between the help-me-out-here-man pleading in his eyes and the increasingly familiar you-are-on-MY-side resoluteness in Phoebe’s. When fragments of a conversation I had had long ago with Max Fischer in a Zurich bar on the pros and cons of Swiss neutrality began tumbling from my mouth, they both looked away in disgust. I fled for the sanctuary of the restrooms two flights of stairs below, closer to the center of the earth whose gravitational pull had suddenly become irresistible. “Fucking Judas!” hollered Dylan after me as Phoebe and Dani piled on for the “obsessive female” gibe; then the more indistinct sound of Hal Topper’s ire reigniting in the kitchens.

“Listen,” I said, casting a glance over my shoulder, flashlight beams sweeping through the blackness of an upstairs room Dani and Phoebe had made their way to, icily fearless it seemed to me even if Dani’s shotgun was leading the way, “The list of names I’ve been called over the years, especially this last one, is long, vicious, and creative. Just the other day Lucy called me a syphilitic butt weevil. So, calling me Judas is almost a compliment okay? Don’t worry about it.”

“It was after that,” he said, grabbing the spade and working it furiously, clods of dirt and stone thudding down in the darkness behind him. “When you went downstairs. I said things have all gone to shit since you showed up. That I wished we’d never met you. I said you’re a loser and a lush who crashes planes, got what was coming to you when you lost everything. I…” He stopped digging and, leaning back on his hands, breathed fog into the clear star-chipped sky.

“I get the picture,” I said, wondering if he was going to choke on the Adam’s apple, normally a prominent ineptly shaved shark fin, that had disappeared in his throat. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t,” he snapped. “I said I hope they throw away the key when you go up to the joint. That’s beyond the pale. Mom actually slapped me across the face. She never did that before. Then she stormed out in tears and Dani had to remind me how happy you make her. Don’t shake your head like that. It’s true. She also pointed out if it weren’t for you, me and her would’ve never hooked up. Not to mention hitting the jackpot in Lexington. You’re a good guy, Paul, and I owe you an apology. I’m sorry, man. Forgive me.”

He looked at me expectantly, the Rolex on his wrist no sanitation manager could hope to afford catching in the moonlight, the grip of a 9mm sticking awkwardly out the front of his pants like he had deliberately angled it so at least his bits wouldn’t get blown off were it to discharge of its own accord. Even he was instilled with the same principled earnestness I had observed in Melanie and her friends, and which Dani also had in spades; a more advanced moral circuitry seemingly unique to these Gen Z-ers, the genetic heedlessness of preceding generations somehow having skipped theirs. It was almost infuriating to see moisture in his eyes over not inaccurate slights I hadn’t even heard to get ruffled over.

When I told him so, he pointed a finger in the air and said, “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, it does make a sound.” I stared at him and he spat through his teeth at the shallow crater he had dug, one that would become his grave if he kept that shit up. When I told him so, he leaned on his spade and examined his nails so much as to say, ‘I’m on strike until you accept my apology.’

Patting his shoulder, I grunted “We’re good,” and, abandoning my original plan of supervising Dylan’s efforts, started digging in the hopes of sweating out the chill I felt percolating through my bone marrow. What was it Holden had beseeched me to do during the trial? “For God’s sake, Paul, at least act remorseful.” The thorn tree rustled even though there was no breeze and it dawned on me, cold little feet skittering up my spine: I couldn’t recall a time – from the morning after our wedding when she awoke alone only to find me snoring in Dorothy’s flowerbed cradling an oversized garden gnome, to the night her tears shimmered under the glare of Julianne Robbins grimacing face frozen on the TV, to this very moment right now – I had ever uttered the words “I am sorry” to Ally. I had just taken it for granted she would forever put up with my crap. How is that possible, especially when she had always been so quick to apologize to me, repentant even on those rare occasions she was ambushed by modest flatulence despite my shameless volleys being capable of setting off the car alarms outside and sending Melanie fleeing for her room? With the palette of my feelings ordinarily confined to the primary colors of happy, sad, angry, the addition of the blended hue of remorse somehow intensified the shading of the world, put its shapes into starker perspective. I stopped digging while Dylan carried on softly whistling away, his world a brighter more orderly place for having cleared his conscience. I felt fit to drink his blood, my knuckles whitening as I strangled the shaft of my spade.

“Woah!” came a stifled cry from Dylan, his blade shearing through something more brittle than roots.


“Quit pointing that thing at me and shine it down here.” I hovered my phone over the pit and almost stumbled in when its radiation illuminated a broken tusk of bone spearing out of the black soil.

“You don’t suppose it’s his old pooch, do you?” I said weakly, a tinny smell of corruption pushing me back from the edge.

“Son… of… a… bitch!” groaned Dylan, articulating each word with intensifying fury. As I watched him rub his temples with the heels of his hands, it vaguely occurred to me Mayweather may have led me here so I might have the honor of beefing out his Wikipedia page. Best not share that with Dylan since he was now making like a javelin thrower with his spade and I doubted he would suffer much of his prior remorse if I presented as an even easier target than I already was. “I don’t suppose its treasure either,” he boiled over, harpooning the pile of dirt he had created instead.

To be continued…

*Previous chapters of The Angle of Attack are available at

© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (The Angle of Attack: Chapter 19), 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2020 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Posted in Angle of Attack | Leave a comment