Spider Lake Blues webisode 1

Cold; fucking cold! Y'know, it's bad enough that I got kidnapped, my head was used as a speed bag, several of my ribs are broken, I'm nailed to a wooden platform by my hands and feet, and have been sunk to the bottom of a great big fucking lake. Does it have to be the middle of fucking frigid November?!? Seriously; I would like to know, 'cause it's cold as Hell down here.

No, wait. Scratch that. I always pictured hell as a bright and cheery place featuring sadistically chipper demons, dressed in cheerleader uniforms, and brandishing olde fashioned cats-of-nine with the sharp little bits of metal tied into the leather.

This, on the other hand is me staked to a huge chunk of wood, subjected to nothing but freezing silence. I think this has my old idea of Hell beat by ten books; no reneges, and you're probably wondering how I got here, aren't you? Are you wondering how I wound up at the bottom of a freezing cold lake in the middle of Wisconsin's north woods, in the middle of fucking November?

Ok, I guess we should rewind some. I suppose it started back when I was eighteen and I opted not to take my dear mother's advice about becoming a proffessional photographer.

I remember one day, we were standing in the kitchen. Mom was frying bacon for blts, while I was washing dishes and snagging the occasional piece of hot, fresh, pan fried pork. My grandfather was sitting in his laz-e-boy recliner, reading the paper and smoking his wide bowl cherry wood pipe, pretending not to listen to the one sided conversation going on in our neck of the timbers.

I remember my mother saying, "You know, Jacky, you really do have a very good eye. I really like most of the pictures you take." I knew that she was reffering to my nature shots and candid portraits. She had stumbled across my less dignified work once, and given me a deep and wide ass reaming over it. She went on saying, "You should send some of them in to someone. You could work for a newspaper, or some big magazine like Time Life. You're that good, Jacky. Hell, you could even work for one of thos disgusting porno companies that you, and your grandfather seem to like so much." On that last bit, I heard grandpa choke on his black Cavendish. Then she said, "I swear, it's like I have two eighteen-year-olds in the house."

Of course, it probably goes back a little further than that.

One day, when I was fifteen, my older brother, Tony and I were walking home from school. We didn't know it, but the bank across the street from the school was being robbed. Apparently, one of the gunmen had nervous hands. One second I was happily tailing behind my big brother, and the next I was sitting on the sidewalk cradling Tony's head in my lap; tears dripping into his face while his brains dribbled ount onto my pants. I still see the look in his eyes sometimes. I see that fading light in my dreams.

For weeks, the police searched for the cock-suckers who killed Tony. They never found them. Those trogs probably made it to Jamaica after a week. For months, Mom and I shared Tony's bed, crying ourselves to sleep. Neither one of us ever really got over it.

Summer of the following year, I hitched out to New Mexico, looking for my spiritual path, and a reason for why Tony had to die. On the way from Glenwood Illinois to a small reservation in New Mexico, I got beat up four times, robbed once, and almost raped in a public toilet. While in New Mexico, I met the wisest man that I'll ever know, and the first girl that I ever fell in love with. I did not however, find any reason for why my brother had to die.

The year after that, my best friend Gina, got raped. The police told us in not quite so many words, that their hands were tied. I found the guy who did it, and I beat him to a bloody pulp. This chain of events probably had alot to do with me not taking dear old ma's advice. Instead of becoming a proffessional photographer for any newspaper, magazine, or porno company, I got a job as a mall security guard so that I could get my perc card. Then, I took all the necessary classes to become fish bait. I mean a private investigator.

Of course, none of that explains what I'm doing stapled to a piece of wood at the bottom of Spider lake, breathing through an air hose. I started eating mosquitoes yesterday; the stray ones that smell my breath and fly down the hose. I'm not starving or anything. My captors have seen to that. Their daily visits to my bouy give me all the nutrition I need. No, I just eat the squitoes to keep from chewing off my tongue out of boredome.

I'm getting off track again aren't I? I apologize. I have a habit of ranting.

Ok. So, anyway, back in February, my partner and I picked up a case of sibling rivalry. Apparently, dad was leaving a very large inheritance and Chad didn't want to share with Buffy. Well actually, their names were Robert and Victoria Malloy. Vic to friends and clients. Get the picture? You will.

Bobby (he likes it when people call him that) had paid me to follow Victoria for a weeek and video tape everything. He paid me damn well too. Mostly it was just shopping trips to places like Gurnee Mills or the Magnificent Mile.

Anyway, it turns out that Ms. Malloy owns a strip club up by the Wisconsin border. Percy, with a little bit of digging, found out that on that particular Friday, Victoria would be holding an invitation only fetish party in the warehouse adjacent to the club. Pull a few strings, bribe the right people, and bam; I'm in through the front door.

Of course, that was if I could find the fucking place.