EVISCERATION: A Michael Hutchinson Novel First Look at Chapter One

Copywright 2010 JJMC

I just knew it was going to be a bad day. Not because the phone woke me up at 5:47am. Not because the calendar read Friday the 13th. Not because I was making my way to view a dead body. But because the day was beautiful, and as I stepped out of the apartment and into the sun-lit and cloudless sky, I realized that it was only going to go downhill as the hours went on.

When I arrived on the scene, the boys in blue had already blocked off the perimeter. Badges covered the pavement shaking their heads and talking in whispers. I lit a red, took a drag, and observed the scene before me, taking in the power players on sight, and getting a feeler for what, and whom, I would be dealing with.

Sergeant Henry Fields was definitely the ring leader of the orchestrated chaos around him. A hulk of a man in his late forties, Fields served in the Marines until his early thirties, and never really left the life behind him. Although having a family and a little girl, Law and Order were the epicenter of Fields’ life. And when he wasn’t working a case, he was at the gym pumping iron. I sometimes think that his life may actually be more lonely than mine.

Detective Rod Jackson was dealing with a group of reporters at the other edge of the scene. Barely thirty, Jackson had a Harvard Degree in History that he gave up to join the force after tragedy took away his mother. He was a walking encyclopedia, and perfect orator. His handsome boy-next-door looks and friendly smile didn’t hurt his popularity either. From the looks of things, the reporters were eating out of his hands.

I took another drag off the cigarette as a large Styrofoam cup was practically thrusted into my hands.

“I picked you up some tea.”

I glanced towards the speaker, Jim Wilcox, who suddenly stood next to me with an air of anticipation and excitement. Jim’s worst fault is that he is a definite morning person, way too chipper for his own good. Sauntering up behind his was Andrea Styler, pulling her long, scarlet hair back into a ponytail. She didn’t look happy as she took a sip of her coffee.

“Thanks,” I said, gripping the cup. “So, what’s the drill here?”

“They found a body. A good one, too.” Yup, he was way too chippy.

I turned to Andrea. “Am I the only one to find his enthusiasm disturbing?” She let out a laugh.

“Michael, it has been pretty dry the past several weeks. Especially in our department. The good times had to come at an end sooner or later.”

‘Our Department’ was known to the badges and the rest of the city as the ‘S Squad.’ What they didn’t know, and what we didn’t tell them that the S meant Supernatural. Not only were the three of us equipped and experienced in the spooky, but we were all, in our own ways, intimately involved in that faction of society that normal people would rather chalk up to myth and tall tales. Jim was a shifter of the serpent variety, and when he wasn’t on a case, or slithering through Central park, he also was a singer in a downtown indy rock band. Andrea was a professor at Columbia, as well as a Siren. Myself? Well, I had the painful honor of being half angelic, and although the city is my home, I travel all over the world as a Special Investigator. Of course, none of the badges knew any of that, with the exception of Fields, who formed our squad almost seven years ago. All that the rest of the badges, and the world knows, is that we get the job done. And that’s all they really need to know.

“Something’s not right here,” I said, lighting up a second red.

“What do you mean?” Jim said. “It looks like a normal homicide scene.”

“That’s just it. When have we ever been brought to just a normal homicide scene?”

“I don’t smell any blood.” Andrea added.

“Neither do I. Maybe it isn’t human.”

I glared at Jim with alarm. “Do you really think Fields would allow the scene to be this open if it was a supe?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Before we could continue, Fields spotted us from the crowd of badges and marched towards us, the officers making a path for him like he was Moses.

“Wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you Hutchinson,” his deep voice spoke as he took a stand still in front of us, nodding his heads towards the others. “Wilcox. Styler”

“Morning Searge!” Jim smiled.

Fields ignored him, and focused his attention on me. “Hutchinson, we have a major situation here.”

“What’s the need to know?”

“Why don’t the three of you come follow me? Georgie’s been looking at the body, but hasn’t touched anything yet.”

The three of us exchanged eyes as we followed the Hulk through the crowd.

The body was that of a 27 year old Caucasian male. He was positioned in a seated position on a bench overlooking the river on the edge of Christopher Street Pier. His skin was translucent, and to top it off, there were a series of dual puncture wounds on the neck, above the left nipple, and also on his inner right thigh. Someone had drained him of his blood. And I knew the body. Definitely not good.

Georgia Furguson was on her knees, looking at the body from beneath the bench boards.

She didn’t bother to greet us as she took a picture of his underside, the flash breaking out from the top of the bench. “There’s another set of puncture wounds directly below the anal cavity, and it looks like he had anal intercourse a few hours ago.” Flash. “Although, the puncture wounds don’t show any sign of struggle, I think they weren’t made post mortem.” She backed out from beneath the bench and stood, managing a smile, which disappeared as she looked in my direction. “What’s the matter, Michael?”

Suddenly all eyes were on me. “I knew him.” Fields stiffened.

“Knew him how?”

“He worked at Midian.”

“The Leather bar?” Jim was entranced. The rest of us ignored him.

“The state of the anus wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. From what I know of him, he was definitely a player.”

“Did the vic have a name?” That was Fields, always business.

“Tommy. Tommy Kerestes.”

Fields wrote the name down on a pad. Andrea placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Michael.”

“No, no, that’s not why I’m concerned. I still don’t understand why we are here. From me it looks like a sick fuck got off on making a ken doll. The blood draining, the posing-it’s pretty out there. Even so, I think this is more for the behavioral team than us.”

Fields cleared his throat. “May I have a word with them for a minute, Ms. Furguson?” For some reason he only called her Ms. Furguson to her face.

“Sure”, she replied. “I’ll go check up on Rod and the media hounds.” She removed her gloves and walked away, leaving the four of us alone.

“So what gives Field?”

He eyed us thoroughly. “What gives is that this is actually the third body we’ve found in the last 10 days. We’ve kept the first two a secret, but the media got here before we could contain the situation.” This was getting better every second.

“Did you say ‘three’ bodies? Just like this?” If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn Jim’s jeans were tenting.

“Yes. Three bodies. All of them drained. All posed, although in different positions. All men. All found between here and 28th Street.”

Andrea finally spoke. “What about the number of puncture wounds?”

“Multiples on each body. And we don’t believe them to be puncture wounds. We believe them to be bite marks.”

So that is why we were called in, and why they tried to hide the bodies from the media. I sensed immediately an uneasy glance between Jim and Andrea. I would have to ask them about it later. For the moment, someone had to cut the silence. “With all due respect, I have seen a lot in my life, Sergeant. Are you sure that they are bites?”

“Yes. They are bites, though according to Georgie, they aren’t human.”

“There’s something that you’re not telling us, isn’t there?”

“Georgie has her reports ready at the lab. Go. Take a look at them, and also check the other bodies. If you knew this one, Hutchinson, then you may be connected to the others as well.”

“With all due respect, Fields, just because I knew the vic doesn’t mean I’m connected to them. Or this.” I did not like where this conversation was going.

Fields tensed. I had two options. Given the situation, I chose the easier one.

“And what is Jackson telling the media?”

“The usual: overdose. You three are on the case, starting now. And I want this solved before we find another body. I don’t care how you do it. But do it, and do it fast.” He didn’t wait for a response, but turned and marched away, yelling to his troops “Help Geogie move the body when she’s finished. And clear these people out of here!”

I looked towards Jim, who was speechless, for once, and then towards Andrea, who looked just as unsettled.

“Do either of you have a notion of what could have done this?”

It was Andrea who replied. “I don’t know. But it’s definitely not good.”

I turned to Jim. “Still excited?”

He grinned. “You have no idea!”

We decided to walk up to the lab in midtown. After all, it was a beautiful day, and as it was, we would still get there before Georgie finished with the body to her liking and brought it back.

As we walked I thought about the scene we left, and about Tommy Kerestes. Although I had only met his a few times, when I had been dating the then bartender, and now manager of Midian, from what I remembered Tommy was definitely a pistol. He was vibrant, and carefree. Perhaps maybe a little carefree for his own good? To see his body posed like that, out in the open-something had to know what was going on.

Jim was busy flirting with Andrea a few paces behind, and I took the opportunity to begin my own investigation. Placing a hand held mobile device (I hate them, by the way) into my ear, I closed my eyes and lowered my shields, opening myself up to the phantoms around me.

I had always been able to see and communicate with the phantoms, and the mobile device was a way for me to speak with them in public, without people getting the notion that I may be a schizo. You see, three days following death, the phantom part of the body emerges, continuing ‘life’ on another plane of existence. Being half angelic, I can see them. Sometimes they are useful, but most often they just want to gossip, complain, and prove that life after death is just as mundane as breathing.

With the metaphysical shields lowered, the world looked the same. Only much more crowded. Oh, and phantoms? Forget the nice suits and dresses look. They were always naked, their phantoms taking the form of their bodies at the time of death. Believe me, not always pretty.

Immediately at my side was Martha Hemmingford, phantom, and stalker, I mean admirer. Before she died Martha was a debutante on the Upper East Side. Plump and pompous, she prided herself on her gossip, and her several marriages to unattainable men. You see, poor Martha had the Liza with a Z syndrome in the turn of the century, finding husbands who would rather share a quickie with the bellboy than a bed with a vagina.

“It took you long enough, Mikey!” I hate that she called me that. “And those cigarettes are going to kill you one day.”

I let out a chuckle. “I seriously doubt that, but thanks, Martha.”

She cut right to the chase. “So, you want to know about the murders?”

“Any information you can share will be greatly appreciated.”

“Well I don’t know anything much about them, sweetie. No one’s talking. I mean, if I knew something I would definitely tell you, but I just don’t. No one’s whispering even a word about it. It’s as if the bodies just appeared. I know, spooky, right?”

This was getting me nowhere. “I’m sorry, Martha, but I don’t really have time for idle chat at the moment.” I went to remove the mobile device when she stopped me.

“Wait. Wait. I do have something for you.”

We were at the corner of 10th and 32nd. “What is it?” Suddenly, Andrea and Jim became interested.

Martha continued. “There’s a presence. The past week or so. Very dense. Phantoms are freaked. And we don’t really have anything to worry about. I mean, we’re dead after all. But still, I’ve never felt anything like this. And I’ve been dead for over one hundred years.”

“So, this presence- where is it?”

“It’s over the entire island.”

“And what do you think it may be?”

“That’s the chilling thing, Mikey. I haven’t the foggiest idea. But whatever it is, it’s not a good thing.”

“Thanks Martha. We’ll speak soon.” I closed the shields and pocketed the wireless mobile device.

“What about a presence?” Jim didn’t even give me breathing room.

“She said there was a presence over the city. Definitely bad, but she didn’t know what it was.” I lit a fresh red. “Have you guys felt anything?”

“No,” Andrea replied. “though I am not sure we would. The Phantoms are on a separate level than us though. So we may not be able to detect something like that.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Nothing of substance.” That was Martha.

“So we still have nothing to go on?”

“Nope.”

Jim put an arm around Andrea, pulling her close. “Don’t you just love our job?” She pushed him away, her eyes glowing red. Jim just laughed.

We killed some more time by grabbing more caffeine before hitting the lab. When we got there Georgie was busy with the body. She greeted us in her scrubs, and an unfriendly smile.

“What is it?”

“It’s just what I thought it was, Michael. You see this?” She pointed to the body of Tommy Kerestes. “The body’s hollow. Here, take a look at this.” She handed me a set of X-ray scans of the body.

The scans showed a the skin and bone, and nothing else on the interior.

“What happened to the organs?”
“He’s been eviscerated.” She answered. “My guess is that whoever did this to him found a way to liquefy the organs and suck them out via the bite wounds.”

Jim grabbed the scan from my hand. “He turned them into human mannequins?”

“That’s a good guess, Jim. Each of the body was posed, naked. The first body was found positioned at a bus stop on 24th and 8th. The second was found standing outside the meth clinic on 16th. They do resemble mannequins.”

“Do you have ids on the other vics?”

“Sure. The first one found was Bradford Montgomery. The second was Paul Giffin. And Michael-“

“Yes?”

“All three of them were gay.”

I immediately lowered my shields. The bodies were not yet consecrated with burial, and that meant that their phantoms would be bound to the immediate vicinity of the bodies. I scanned the area of the morgue, hoping to see them standing by. All I saw was empty space. Whatever had killed them had also taken their souls.

Revisiting Jacob. I really don't know why you trust me

Re-visiting Jacob: A Retrospective on the eve of entering a new pre-production phase.

This week I received a green light to mount a one-night event performance of ‘Jacob’, the first theatrical piece I had ever written. Granted the production will most definitely face its obstacles, (we’ll get to that later), but it’s interesting to be revisiting this theatrical work, some fourteen years later than its inception.

I thought it might be interesting and slightly amusing to do a retrospective on the life and history of the play and its incarnations throughout the years (having directed 2 of the 9 total productions of the piece, and returning to do a third this year in, of all places, the area in which the play had its first incarnation, as a short story, back in 1997.

The story was written for an entry into a national short story competition, which was fueled by local competitions. The story was composed as a response to a startling real-life event, the double suicide of two young boys at my then high school. These two boys (they were Freshmen) met in the shallow woods in the area, and sat Indian-style about 10 feet apart, with clock watches on their thighs. On the ground near them was a desecrated statue of the virgin Mary (the entire valley of my upbringing to this day very uber religious). Needless to say, the two boys shot each other, or themselves. The suicides caused quite a stir in the area, and at the school. I remember sitting in an auditorium filled with other teen-agers, as the adults blamed music, and wearing black, and devil worship. As I sat there I realized that they were just as confused as the rest of us, and, as adults do, were scrambling for excuses and an ultimate explanation.

The incident was something I wanted to explore and so I wrote it down, in my own way of working through things. My initial notion centered not on the double suicide, but on the notion of religion, signified by the inclusion of the desecrated stature of the actual events. The story was simply titled ‘Jacob’, and borrowed, I admit it, from the famous Amityville Horror notion of “The Devil Made Me Do It.” I decided to create a story where the action centered on a very real demon persuading a young man to kill himself. It was a dialogue of intelligence, religion, and Dostoeyovsky. It brought up issues such as body image, teen angst, media pressure, etc. and yes, it ended badly. The big twist, I thought, was that the demon was actually a representation of Jacob’s version of his ideal. It was a very deep and serious story, so I was not surprised when the contest judge pulled me aside and told me “This is extremely well written. Thought-provoking, frightening, and way too adult in nature. I just simply can’t include it in the contest”. I was expecting that, lol, and wasn’t upset, because he then informed me that another story I had submitted received first place. And yet another one, had placed 4th. I was a busy writer even then.

That autumn, in my first year at Fordham University, I heard of a One-Act play contest, and wanted desperately to enter. The 4 winning entries would be directed and produced on stage. When thinking of what to write (I had never tried to write in the one-act medium previously), for some reason I thought of ‘Jacob.’ I quickly wrote the play in a new medium, adding a new character dubbed “mother”, and also adding sexuality into the mix, which was only slightly hinted at in the initial story. To my shock and surprise, the script made it into the festival, along with three other extremely talented writers entries. A director was picked, and the show went into casting. Along, with my first foray into theatrical collaboration, with less than desirable results. The director chosen was a competent one, whose only problem was that he insisted on adding a chorus to the mix, and direct the play in some bizarre nazi-age fashion. I was aghast, but obliged (I was a Freshman and new to this, so what could I really do?) The one thing that the director did do correctly was the casting of Jacob and the Demon. The two men who took up these roles were very close friends, and literally made the characters more than I had ever hoped. To this day, they were the perfect cast for the piece. Daring, and uninhibited to the extreme.

Halfway through the rushed rehearsal process, I reached a breaking point. Seeing the play go in a direction I knew in my gut it shouldn’t, seeing physically the actors frustrations, and hearing their complaints, I stepped in, fired the director, and took the reigns myself, trying to salvage what had become at the time, my unholy child. The resulting performance, although complete with a strange chorus (at the time), was one that I was happy with, especially when I heard the audience reactions.

Joan MacIntosh, esteemed actress and director for the New York Stage, gave me possibly the best review ever: “The play shocked, frightened, saddened, and moved me. It really made me think.” With every positive there were also negatives, although another positive response was that both my mother and sister walked out of the 40 minute play, unable to sit through it. My father, bless his heart, held on. (side note: My mother would walk out of another production of mine that was produced the following year: The New York City premiere of Clive Barker’s History of the Devil.)

To this day, I can not thank that cast and crew enough, and would work with them again in a heartbeat. (The demon still lives in Brooklyn, while Jacob is out in San Francisco.)

Four years later, in September 2001 I directed another, toned down version of the play, at the Variety Café Theatre on Rockefeller Square. This production, very much a transitional theatre production, had just three characters. I realized that I couldn’t reproduce the same effect of the original cast, and so I went in the opposite direction with the characters of Jacob and the Demon, now re-named Daemon.

In the Fordham production, both Jacob and the demon were played by very masculine, weight-lifting hunks of men. In the Variety production, they were lanky, lean, compact, and, as a result, less affecting, in my opinion. The fact that the production came on the eve of the attacks on the Twin Towers, well, kind of put a dent in it moving forward with its run. We all thought it best to close the show early.

In the years since, I had taken a pen back to the script, fleshing it out more, and yes, to my admission, adding a chorus, representing Trust, Admiration, Obsession and Despair, and being visible representations of the words, and the turmoil of Jacob himself. Out of everything I have since written and directed, Jacob is, on the whole, the most abstract and conceptualized piece, and I look forward to bringing it back to New York City later this year, probably in the fall, after, of course, this one night charity engagement here in DaValley.

Going into the production, first and foremost, several creative challenges await. (Of Course they do!). The first challenge is the space itself. It is being mounted in the dance floor section of a small gay bar. The stage is very very small, and not the typical stage fashion. How to rectify this? When it is for charity, and once the actors are in there, will be limited audience space? The performance is going to be videotaped live, and shown on the television screens next door in the bar area. So even if they can’t see the action up close and personal, the attendees will still get to experience it through a visual medium.
Of course, setting this up is going to be interesting lol. But first, I have to find a cast. Find the actors and actresses needed to bring this to life, in an area where most of theatre is on the community level, specializing in performances of old-time musicals and comedies. Jacob is neither of these things.

It is a bold, envelope pushing show, and requires a total of 7 uninhibited cast members. (after all, besides the amount of skin shown on stage from Daemon and Jacob, the chorus is mostly costumed in latex body paint, and the ‘mother’ make-up is truly horrifying. Casting is going to be, in a word, a bitch.

A huge factor is the subject matter itself. It’s a very very dark piece. It knows no bounds in its exploration of sex, religion, and depravity. It’s a hard journey for an actor to take, and in an area where there isn’t a backstage casting directory, I have no idea where to begin.

But, alas, its an opportunity to be creative and to do something for charity, so I’m not going to pass it up, and will post all my progress on it here. So stay tuned.

Another Story- A Musical Libretto Blast from the Past Part Two

Another Story tells the tale of a Modern-Day Genocide happening in The good Old USA. It takes place in a fictitious every town, and its cast of characters, on the outset, are the everyday folk we cross paths with everyday. The libretto follows through the first act, the separate stories of those in the town, as they prepare for the arrival of the Soldiers Towards a Righteous Country, a militant operation that has managed to take hold of the government and has been grown and expanding, cleansing the country of 'unwanted'. The token stories of the first act include the boy who loves the girl, who's in love with one of the soldiers who joined the group in the hopes of saving his love; the middle-aged couple who have nothing to lose, who live for their young son, esp. since the wife is dying of cancer. The wise woman who lives in the shanty house at the towns edge... And the story of the inner workings of the Soldiers Towards a Righteous Country, who actually believe that they are doing what is best for the country.

These separate stories collide at the end of the First Act, when the Soldiers Towards a Righteous Country take control of the town.

The second Act opens with "the Cleansing", when we see who is set to live and who is set to die. It is also at this moment when the family is torn apart, and the young boy, refusing to let his family go without him, is shot military style by the Soldiers for a Righteous County.

The story only goes downhill from there, with the final scene set in the makeshift 'Cleansing Units', and its not pretty stuff.

Part The Lottery, part holocaust metaphor, Another Story was something that was interesting, to say the least. Looking back on it, I find that what I was trying to get at was something about unwarranted fear and discrimination of the 'other' within todays post-modern society.

In a way, through our everyday actions, we judge and discriminate at the snicker of a joke, or an awkward glance.

These emotions are very human, and its a touchy subject.

As the main title song lyrics state...

Just another face
In another Crowd
With another Past
And Another Story.

Another Story- A Musical Libretto Blast from the Past Part One

I realize that this is the first in a long time for a post on this blog, but today I feel it's fitting. I realize too, that no one reads this blog, so it's an appropriate space for me to put down my thoughts about things, esp. concerning artist endeavors and dreams.

The past few days have been trying emotionally, to say the least. The Beast February has taken its toll, and flooded my mind with memories past. As Adam Duritz wrote "the Price of a Memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings.".

As I write this about a month from now will be the first ever Rawhide-NYC leather contest, which I am producing. It is also the anniversary of my partner Tim's death, due to a mixture of AIDS complications and Pancreatic Cancer, back on March 13th 2005. (Funny, but 13 has always been a lucky number for me.) Anyway, the month leading up to his passing was hellish. Hospital visits, watching the man I had given my life to slip away, etc...it is something you never really get over. You just learn how to deal. Some say that the reason Im still single is that I haven't let go of him. lol I just think I'm picky. lol

Anyway, the contest will take place at the bar that we went to. In a way, I am doing what i am to carry on his legacy. In fact, today, i sent Email invitations out to his close friends (whom i run into from time to time). I am not sure if any of them will come, but there's always the possibility.

Onto other things, just last week someone asked me to send them a copy of Jacob, which I can't seem to stop twitching. lol. I sent it, knowing the effect that that one act play has on its readers and audiences. Surprisingly, the individual really took to the script, and it spoke to him. There may be life in the babe afterall. And with ANTGPSFL on the back burner, this may be the perfect thing to mount in June for Suicide Awareness, especially in the NYC area. (Im pondering that)

It's interesting (and im finally getting to the point and title of this post lol.) When it comes to my Art, outside of those who have seen it, or experienced it, I should say, people don't really see me as Artistic. They don't get it. I remember back in the Playwriting Class at Fordham I wrote a short play (Forget actually what it was called) centering around infidelity and homicide. (there was a fall down stairs that, when directed by, god i wish i remembered, was done so stylistically it was beautiful). When I wrote the antagonist of the piece, my professor told me that his main attribute was that he had a 'huge cock'. It was interesting, and a little frustrating at the time, but I think that's what a lot of folk see when they look at what I write. They see the facade of things. Amongst The Living was a perfect example of that. The networks saw a gay leather man protagonist. Uh oh. Of course, they disguised their opinions under the quote "too dark and sophisticated."
When I had the reading in NYC in November (a complete failure, i admit), one of the problems was the fact that Michael Hutchinson was cast with an actor who refused to look past the gay leatherman facade of the character. It lost its heart. And that, to any piece of Art, is deadly...but, ATL will live on. I am not through with it, by a long shot.

When i was clearing out just Email today I came upon one of my very very early attempts at Script writing, a libretto titled Another Story. Yes, a libretto. Looking at it immediately took me back to when, if you can imagine, i was even more innocent than i am now. lol. The Emails were between myself and a composer, during my freshman year at College, over ten years ago. I had saved them and forgot about them. Then today, they appeared. Looking back at the pieces in the email I realize that I was pretty ambitious with my Art then, as I am now. I also realize the there was no way anyone would want to see Another Story lol. But, for shits and giggles, let's revisit it. In the next post lol