The White Knight's Art Show

  An ice cream truck drove up a winding gravel driveway after a day spent out on the town. There were two unusual things about this particular ice cream truck. First of all, instead of the usual cheery white color overlaid with kid-friendly cartoony designs, this ice cream truck was painted solid black. Second of all, instead of the usual happy sounding songs, this ice cream truck would chime out somber, eerie sounding music that made chills run down the spine of any who heard it. The goal of the driver seemed almost to be to purposely repel rather than attract potential customers. A number of urban legends had grown up around this odd black ice cream truck. Neighborhood kids who wanted to frighten younger siblings told stories that the truck was driven by the ghost of a dead pedophile who did some kind of favor for the devil, and in return was allowed to collect as many souls of children as he could to take with him to Hell. Any child stupid enough to try to stop the truck to buy ice cream would be grabbed, pulled inside and driven away too fast for their parents to do anything about it, and their soul would be sucked out and stored in the freezer in the back. Not surprisingly, this truck rarely if ever got any business. It's ominous reputation preceeded it, and children would scramble to get indoors as fast as possible when they heard it's mournful tune approaching. Meanwhile stories that the Black Ice Cream Truck was part of a secret government program circulated among conspiracy theorists on the internet. It was said to be either an experiment to use sound to give mental suggestions to the populace as a form of mass mind control, or one of many such trucks equipped with surveillance equipment to spy on the citizens. This latter idea was actually the closest to the truth of all the tall tales, although the identity of the driver was different, and the surveillance had nothing to do with the government.

Robert Diocletian Johnson stopped the truck at the end of his driveway. His residence was a picturesque two story log cabin style house that stood in the woods about a half mile back from the road. The driveway was known to drivers who frequented the road as the one with the mailbox shaped like a giant banana sticking out of the ground. It was a miniature local landmark. It was assumed that a quirky eccentric lived in the house, and it was usually left well alone. Due to the house being in a sparsely populated rural area, Robert often drove far afield in his ice cream truck, frequently visting the nearest big city forty miles away, and all of the towns in between. Today he had gone to the city, and although, as usual, he didn't sell a single ice cream bar, it was a fantastically fruitful day on the job.

"Well, here we are, gentlemen. I told you there was no need to stop to use the restroom. We were five minutes from the house." he told his passengers, bound and gagged in the back of the truck, in an upbeat tone of voice. They tried to articulate words that were probably curses but the gags made it come out as an incoherent mumble. Robert turned around and smiled at them. He grinned, licked his lips and rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation of what was about to happen. He was a black man with coal colored ebony skin, a thin moustache and a handsome, chiselled face. He was dressed in typical ice cream man attire, a white uniform with a white circular hat on his head. He pressed the button to open the garage door, but when it opened, it revealed a ramp that sloped downward to a place beneath the level of the house. He drove down the five hundred of feet of the ramp, and when he reached a level surface again, he was in a large stone chamber. Tunnels branched off from the main chamber in all directions. It was the central hub of a huge, labyrinthine dungeonlike complex.

"Welcome, honored guests, to the Temple of Love!" he announced grandly to the ten incapacited prisoners stuffed like sardines in the back of his truck. He grabbed a briefcase that was sitting on the passenger seat and got out of the car. In a flash of a moment he was dressed up in his true uniform: A golden domino mask with pointed winglike edges that covered his eyes and nose, a white wide brimmed hat with a single black feather that stuck out of the brim, a white anklelength cowl that covered his body, black boots, white gloves and a white cape that shimmered unnaturally as if with the holy light of an angel.He hauled each prisoner out of the truck and dumped them roughly on the floor. He lifted one of them up, set him on his feet and untied him Predicatbly the man tried to punch his captor in the face as soon as his arm was free, but he was still blindfolded, and Robert dodged it nimbly. Robert grabbed his arm, putting one hand on his wrist and one on his upper arm, and twisted it so hard that the bone was broke. The prisoner screamed out in muffled agony and dropped to the floor. Robert grabbed him by the neck and threw him against the wall. He hit it and crumpled to the floor. Robert lifted him up once more and and cuffed each of his hands and ankles to and cuffs that were attached to chains on the wall. The prisoner whimpered in pain. Robert chuckled. He put his mouth up to the man's ear and whispered.

"Not as easy as it usually is, huh, caveman? You're not so tough when it's not women you're punching. It's about time you discover that the world doesn't always bend the way you want it too. You wanted to live by the law of the jungle, well, now you've met the big black panther that prowls in the dark. Oh boy, am I gonna have fun with you my friend. I need you to help me out out with my ...artwork. But first we need an audience." He walked back to the other prisoners and,one by one, chained them to the wall in a like fashion. They were spaced apart at intervals of about seven feet. After the first man had gotten his his arm broken, there was no more resistance.They had taken the snapping sound of his breaking bone to heart. When everyone was securely fastened, Robert removed their blindfolds. They all gasped in fear and disbelief, for here standing before them was the fabled White Knight, aka the Ice Cream Man, a mythical vigilante, who had apparently walked out of misty legends to terrorize them here in the flesh. It was a feeling like discovering that not only is Big Foot real, but he also wants to kill you. It was a story that had sprung up among less than reputable tabloids and conspiracy theorists as an explanation for a sudden rash of unsolved disappearances of gang members and people convicted or suspected of comitting violent crimes. Some said that he was a guardian angel sent down from heaven to punish the wicked, some that he was a man who dressed up in a costume and took the law into his own hands in order to act like a real life superhero, and some said that he was an actual superhero with actual powers. Robert considered these urban legends a wonderful measure of success, especially the more outlandish ones, for he was a man who enjoyed fucking with people.

"Hello everyone, and welcome to my little art show. I apologize for the poor accomodations, but this is an essential part of the program. It's one of those shows where audience participation is crucial. Now, may I direct your attention to our first exhibition. I present Luis Gonzalez, age thirty four, hispanic male. Mr. Gonzales here has a bit of a drinking problem. And when he drinks he gets easily agitated. And when he gets easily agitated he hurts people. And not people who can fight back. His children. His wife. People who love him, who look up to him for support and guidance. If everyone doesn't bow down to him in his little world, if one twig is out of place in his domain, he blows up in rage. Instead of being loved, he wanted to be feared. Instead of wanting a partner he wanted a slave. Well not surprisingly, Mrs. Gonzales found it hard to love such a man after years of being beaten and insulted on a daily basis. She wanted her dignity back. So she took the children as left. She made the best decision for herself and her children. She moved in with a man she was having an affair with, a nice man who treated her right.Well that didn't sit well with Mr. Gonzales. After months of threats and harassment, on the night of August twenty fourth Mr. Gonzales broke into their new house, carrying a pistol, kerosine and a lighter. He shot his exwife's lover dead in his bed. His wife was beaten, raped, and pistol whipped into unconsciousness. He set her body on the bed, poured kerosine all over it, and lit it on fire. He then made his getaway and was miles away before police and firefighter arrived on the scene. His two children, Sarah, age 9, and Fernando, age 7, had locked themselves in their room when they heard the gunshot. They were burnt alive with the house. Mr. Gonzalez has been on the run for three weeks now, and, unfortunately for him, the police were unable to get to him before me. I picked the moron up at a bar, bragging about it. The sheer arrogance of this man makes me feel like vomiting out my organs through my mouth. i say man, but you're not a man. You're not a human. You're less than an animal. At least animals don't know any better when they kill other animals. Your crime was done with the most vicious, capricious malice. You thought you'd play God. Well look at you now! When you play God, you run the risk of running into a....” He paused, putting his finger to his lips to think. “SuperGod, I guess. Anyway, can you give me one good reason why you shouldn't be put down like a rabid dog? I'm gonna give you one chance to convince me." Robert reached around his head and untied the gag. Gonzales was distraught and sobbing.

"Please man, I know I don't deserve to live. You have no idea what it's like to live with what I've done. I'm lower than fucking dirt man."

"It didn't seem to be troubling so much when you were bragging about it to your friend at the bar last night."

"I was drunk man. I was just really drunk. I was out of my mind. Please don't kill me. Please! Take me to the cops. Let me go to trial. I deserve to rot and think about it for the rest of my life." Gonzales stammered hysterically.

"You'd probably get the death penalty anyway in this state. And I doubt you'd think about it too much. You'd think about yourself a lot, certainly, and how miserable you are, and how life has dealt you a bad deal, but you wouldn't think about them. Not really. Besides, even if the State does kill you twenty years from now, they won't do it poetically. Lethal injection. Ha! How boring! How prosaic!"

"You're crazy man! You're insane! Who the fuck are you?! You're not the law! You're just a crazy person! You can't do this! They'll catch you! You'll spend the rest of your life in jail. You'll be the one to rot!"

"Oh I beg to differ. The police aren't going to find me out anytime soon. I cover my tracks well, unlike your dumbfuck ass. I'm just a simple artist who uses his art to help make the world a better place. I'm just trying to be a good citizen. Even if you get put put on death row, you'll spend years in prison, and as far as I'm concerned, you have no right to eat food that could be eaten by someone else, or drink water that could be drunk by someone else. Every breath you take is an offense to humanity."

"Please! I'm begging you! In the name of Jesus! Have mercy!"

"I'm an atheist. The Jesus card doesn't work on me, bucko. Sorry. If you had Zeus, I might've spared you. How do you kill a man who calls out for mercy in the name of Zeus? Now that would've been interesting. But no. You're not interesting. You're a boring unremarkable man who suffers from a form of solipsism. You think that you're the only person on Earth that matters and that other people are only worthy if they happen to please you. You thought you had the right to kill your wife and that no one could stop you. Well now you know better. Now you know that no matter how crazy you are, there's always someone crazier than you. At least try to be glad that your death will be a thing of beauty. I think you just might be my best work yet. I should thank you."

"Okay, I give up." Gonzales said in resignation, realizing his fate was inevitable.

"Shoot me then. Just shoot me you crazy motherfucker. If I'm so bad and you're so fucking good just shoot me now! I'm ready for it."

"Shoot you? How pedestrian. Criminals like you really have no imagination. It's too quick, too simple, too ugly for my tastes."

"What are you gonna do then?! What are you going to do?!" Gonzales shrieked.

"Let me show you! It's great!" Robert said giddily. He giggled, he sounded as excited as a little girl who'd just been given a pony for Christmas. He skipped over to a cabinet that was set against the wall a dozen feet from where Gonzales was chained, and pulled out a bottle of kerosene. He held it up for Gonzales to see and grinned. As he darted back to the prisoner, Gonzales started screaming at the top of his lungs.

"NO, ANYTHING BUT THAT! PLEASE! YOU CAN'T DO THAT! I SWEAR I'M SORRY I SWEAR IT! PLEASE, DEAR GOD NO!"

Robert opened the bottle up, held it over his head, and dumped all of it's contents onto his head and all over his clothes. He took his lighter out of his pocket and lit it. Gonzales howled with the primal terror of a beast that had been pinned by a predator when he saw the little flame that meant certain, agonizing death.

"Oh Lord, be with me! Don't let me feel it. PLEASE, PLEASE Lord Jesus don't let me feel it. Oh Lord forgive me. Jesus help me!"

"Oh wait! I'm being stupid. I forgot the music!" Robert cried. He put out the lighter and dashed into a closet. He came out with an old fashioned recored player in one hand and a small table in the other. He set up the table a safe distance from Gonzales, plugged it into the wall and turned it on. There was already a record in it. The first few fast, ominous piano notes of Shubert's Der Erlkonig started playing. Robert walked over to Gonzalez.

"This song is based on a German poem by Goethe about a father riding home through the woods on horseback carrying his sickly son with him. The son, near death, fearfully tells his father that they are being pursued by a malevolent fairy known as the Erlking. The Erlking tries to convince the boy in a soothing, seductive voice to come to him but the boy refuses. The Father cannot see the supernatural being his son sees and tries to reassure him that it's only in his head. By the end of the poem the Erking touches the boy and they boy dies." A man with a deep baritone voice began singing in German.

"The music really does sound like a horse galloping, doesn't it?" Robert mused. "It lends it a sense of urgency."

"Ok but what's this shit got to do with anything?" Gonzales asked. He was utterly terrified, and his would-be executioner's bizarre behavior made it much worse.

"The Erlking has already come for the son, and the daughter, and the wife. Now it's time for the father. He's coming for you, Luis. Can you see him?" Robert lit the lighter and held it up to Gonzales' clothes. He tried desperately to squirm away but his clothes still caught fire. It quickly spread over the whole front part of his shirt. He screamed in agony as the flames seared him.

"Can you see the Erlking? Is he standing next me? Is he reaching for you?"

The flames engulfed Gonzales' entire body like a human torch. Robert started giggling at his screams.

"JESUS! JESUS...PLEEEEEASE!" He squirmed around and tried to rub his body against the wall in a feeble attempt to do something analogous to stop-drop-roll. Robert's giggles turned to cackles and he fell to the floor, laughing hysterically. He stayed down for a minute then regained his composure. He suddenly shot up off the ground onto his feet.

"I know what would make it perfect!" he yelled. He ran up a flight of stairs and was gone for a minute, leaving the rest of the prisoners to stare in horror at their burning comrade writhing in agony. They realized that their captor was capable of anything. The distinctive sweet, acrid smell of burning human flesh filled their nostrils and nauseated them. A few started balling and sobbing. They looked at each other and communicated through their eyes the message we're fucked. Robert returned with a bag of marshmallows and a coathanger. He tore the bag open, got three out, jammed them onto the wire, and held it over the flames to cook them. He took a big whiff of the smell of roasting fat and smiled, closing his eyes and sighing in a satisfied way that almost sounded orgasmic. The burning man gave one last spasmodic squirm, and then moved no more as he gave up the ghost. After the marshmallows were good and black he stepped back and started to eat them. After he was done he looked at the other prisoners. He pointed at the flaming body that was now a corpse.

"Is it not wonderful? Is it not beautiful?" he cried. He walked over to the wall, grabbed a fire extinguisher, and sprayed it on the corpse, putting out the fire that still clung to it's fleshy fuel.

“I call it Flaming Justice. Yeah, I know, it's a lame title. I'm not so good at that part. The work itself is marvelous, though. That's all that matters. Thank you, thank you. The awe you're feeling but are unable to express means a lot to me.” he bowed low. The prisoners looked at each other, all of them thinking the somewhat redundant thought that no one had clapped.

“Unfortunately I saved the best for first. I wanted the most witnesses for that spectacular display. But don't worry, I'll try to make my next demonstration as entertaining for everybody as I possibly can! You three!” he pointed towards the three chained captives at the edge of the line. This next one is for you. I need six very specific, special audience members to help me out with this next piece. I went through great trouble to get these bad boys, but I always get my man. I had to leave the corpse of a scumbag in my wake,which always gives me great satisfaction. Had to shoot the passenger of a car that was about to commit a drive-by shooting. This neanderthal here was the driver.” he pointed at a huge muscular black man. “What was his name? Larry, I believe? Were you and him close? I'm so sorry. It's an occupational hazard when you're part of a terrorist group, I mean gang.” A look of rage flashed across the man's face. Suddenly he erupted into motion and struggled with all his might to break free, groaning with a titanic effort, but the chains held. He slumped back in defeat.

“Are you finished?” Robert asked. Anyway, this man, Marcus Smith, age 24, Jerome Banks, 25, Tyrese Withers, 22, Donald Sutherland, 23, Jacob Pence, age 19 and Mike Walter, age 30 are all part of a little community organizing group called the Southside Blood Lickaz. They're an organization dedicated to truth, justice and the American way. Oops, I mean violence, theft, extortion and drug dealing. Don't they sound like just outstanding citizens? You might as well call them Assholes, Inc. A week ago these six fine gentlemen were involved in an armed robbery that had terrible consequences. Smith, Banks, Withers, Sutherland and Pence burst into a convenience store run by a man named Ahmad Youseff. Walter drove the getaway car. Mr. Youseff gave them all the money in the register but it wasn't enough. Mr. Smith for some reason wasn't satisfied, and felt the need to execute Mr. Youseff with two shots to the chest and three shots to the head. To punish him for his lack of business that day, or perhaps just for kicks? I don't know, and don't really give a shit. The bottom line is Mr. Youseff is dead, and he leaves behind a grieving widow and six children, all under the age of 18, who've just been robbed of a father. I bet they're really impressed by your worthless little gang now, huh? You're some bad motherfuckers. So how do you measure grief? How can we put that in a form that's tangible? I have an idea.” He pulled out a long hunting knife from a sheath attacked to a belt around his waist. Marcus Smith's eyes widened. He tried to scream but his cry was muffled. Robert zipped up to him so fast his movement looked like a blur.

“Let's see, he had six kids and a wife.....let's double that.” He plunged the knife in Smith's torso. The huge man howled in pain. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Robert withdrew it and plunged the knife ten more times into his chest, and five times into his stomach. The blood squirted from the wounds and stained Robert's white cowl.

“And here's one for good measure.” Robert sliced his throat. He stared ahead blankly for a moment, his eyes rolling back in his head and his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Then his head bowed abruptly and he was still.

“Step one is complete. The beast is dead. Now, for step two.” He smiled and paced back and forth in front of the rest of the five prisoners, stroking the knife. He lunged at one, coming right up to him and putting the knife right in front of his eye, so that the tip was a hair's width away from touching the eyeball.

“Boo” he said. The man drew his face back desperately against the wall and shut his eyes tightly.

“The Blood Lickers, or Lickaz, if you want to use their retarded pronunciation, need to be delivered a message. They are not above the law, they are not as tough as they think they are, they are human, they are vulnerable, and they are a cancer on society. And if they don't disband within a week, I'm going to kill them all. Every single goddamn one of them that has that tattoo.” He pointed to a tattoo on Marcus Smith's corpse that showed a cartoon tongue with drops of blood dripping from the end.

“When you have an infestation of vermin, you call exterminator. It's that simple. But I'm going to give them a chance to escape. If the gang officially disbands and the various members have no contact with each other ever again, I will spare their pathetic cockroach lives. If you think I'm lying, trust me, I have eyes and ears everywhere. I'll know. And now we get to the fun part.” He grinned and resumed his pacing. He spoke in a loud, clear voice.

“Let me tell you about a man who's artistic achievements I admire. I always try to give due credit to my inspirations. Anyway, his name was Basil Bulgaroctonus, or Basil the Bulgar slayer. He was an emperor of the Byzantine Empire during the Middle Ages. For years the Empire had been at war with the Bulgars, a barbarian people who had entered their frontiers, conquered an area, settled, and from time to time raided, plundered and wrought havoc. The Empire's armies suffered many humiliating defeats at their hands. Well, Basil was no pussy. He knew what it takes to protect civilization. So he went on a campaign to conquer Bulgaria once and for all. After a battle where he inflicted a crushing defeat on the Bulgars, he took 15,000 prisoners and cut out the eyes of ninety-nine out of every 100 men, leaving one man with one eye with each group to lead the others home. When the army arrived back in Bulgaria, the Bulgar king was so horrified at the sight of this blinded army that he suffered a stroke and died two days later. The moral of the story: Some people you just don't fuck with. So I think you can guess what I'm going to do now.” The prisoners drew back against the wall and whimpered in fear.

“Don't worry, I'm NOT going to cut all of your eyes out.” They all breathed a sigh of relief.

“Just kidding. Haha! I really am going to cut all of your eyes out. I know, I know. I'm a no-good copycat. But hey, imitation is the highest form of flattery,eh?” He went up to the nearest prisoner and plunged the knife into his eye. The man made the loudest sound that was possible with the gag in his mouth. Robert twisted the knife around, dug out the eyeball and flung the gelatinous, bloody mass to the floor. He quickly did the same to the other eye. He repeated this agonizing process with the next four prisoners of this group, until he came to the last one, Mike Walter, whom he left with one eye. He grabbed one of the dislodged eyeball's remains for the ground. He stood directly in front of Mike Walter. Walter stared at him, pure terror in his one eye, unimaginable pain in his other. R obert smiled, then tossed the eyeball into his mouth and started chewing. Walter fainted and slumped down so that his weight was being held up by his arms.

“He looks Christlike. Gangsta Cyclops Jesus and the Blind Apostles. That's what I'll call it! Perfect.” He looked at the other prisoners and spat out the eyeball on the ground.

“Tada!” he said, and once again bowed low.

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