his fantasies Daddy Love enjoyed imagining what law enforcement officers would say, if ever they discovered the Wooden Maiden;if ever they discovered Daddy Love, and drew from him his life-story.
Daddy Love knew: his life-story was worth millions of dollars. If sold to the highest bidder. A made-for-TV special on one of the fancier cable channels—HBO, Showtime. A best seller simply and tastefully titled
Daddy Love: My Story.
Law enforcement officers would marvel—
Never saw anything like this! This man is an artist.
The Wooden Maiden, designed to contain a child less than twelve years old, was four feet, eight inches long, and twenty-eight inches wide. Daddy Love would not ever have chosen an
obese child,
certainly!
The two parts of the Wooden Maiden were relatively independent of each other: the upper, or mask; the lower, which was most of the Wooden Maiden.
The mask opened and shut on hinges. It was not unlike the design of a casket and inside, as in a casket, Daddy Love had affixed a cushion-like padding. For a child designed as Daddy Love’s son must be treated with care, kindness, love.
The mask would be kept open, so long as the child was good.
The remainder of the Wooden Maiden was more like a casket, with a top lid that opened, and locked, on hinges. The Wooden Maiden was so designed that the subject’s arms were pressed against his sides, and held firm. There was no accommodation for the subject to relieve himself—unfortunately. And so the subject, in time, learned to control his bladderand his bowel movements, until such time that Daddy Love released him from the Wooden Maiden for the purpose of using the toilet.
But Daddy Love was so perceptive in his design, he’d made the foot of the Wooden Maiden several inches higher than the rest, to accommodate the subject’s feet. No sprained, broken, crippled feet for a son of Daddy Love!
Son, you are safe now. Protected now.
We will be home soon. Your new—your destined—home.
You will begin the game of Forget.
You have already begun the game of Forget.
In Daddy Love’s rearview mirror he saw: rapidly advancing, red light flashing, siren full-blast, a police cruiser.
Ohio state troopers. The red light suddenly appearing out of nowhere, nighttime on I-80 east about ten miles from the Pennsylvania border.
He’d recently made a stop at an interstate filling station/restaurant. He’d filled up the Chrysler’s tank. He’d gone into the restaurant to get a cheeseburger, French fries and coleslaw and giant Diet Coke takeout and was still eating his supper, in the cardboard container in his lap, when the state trooper cruiser appeared. Chewing, Daddy Love yet prayed. He ate, and prayed. Scarcely aware of his silent prayer.
In the back of the van, the child in the Wooden Maiden was utterly still. No muffled weeping, no sounds of struggle. TheWooden Maiden was a tight embrace and the child would grow into it, in time.
Closer, ever closer the cruiser came—then, as Daddy Love had known it must, the cruiser passed him, at about eighty miles an hour.
Not a glance at
him
. The assholes were hot on the trail of—who?
Daddy Love was sweating, in his armpits and crotch. But Daddy Love had to laugh.
Always you feel a rush of dread, in such situations. Daddy Love had rarely succumbed to panic, but he’d frequently felt dread. But then the dread turned into excitement, as adrenaline rushed through his veins. Better (almost!) than sex.
And the excitement turned into laughter.
It was amusing, listening to the radio. Daddy Love kept the volume low so that the child a few feet behind him could not hear. The latest news: Ypsilanti-child-abduction still laughably touted as “breaking news.”
Daddy Love was curious—coolly curious—if the woman had survived? Or maybe died?
If she survived, she’d (maybe) had a look at him, through the windshield, and (maybe) could describe him. But maybe (he halfway hoped) she’d died, which would ratchet the
Daddy Love knew: his life-story was worth millions of dollars. If sold to the highest bidder. A made-for-TV special on one of the fancier cable channels—HBO, Showtime. A best seller simply and tastefully titled
Daddy Love: My Story.
Law enforcement officers would marvel—
Never saw anything like this! This man is an artist.
The Wooden Maiden, designed to contain a child less than twelve years old, was four feet, eight inches long, and twenty-eight inches wide. Daddy Love would not ever have chosen an
obese child,
certainly!
The two parts of the Wooden Maiden were relatively independent of each other: the upper, or mask; the lower, which was most of the Wooden Maiden.
The mask opened and shut on hinges. It was not unlike the design of a casket and inside, as in a casket, Daddy Love had affixed a cushion-like padding. For a child designed as Daddy Love’s son must be treated with care, kindness, love.
The mask would be kept open, so long as the child was good.
The remainder of the Wooden Maiden was more like a casket, with a top lid that opened, and locked, on hinges. The Wooden Maiden was so designed that the subject’s arms were pressed against his sides, and held firm. There was no accommodation for the subject to relieve himself—unfortunately. And so the subject, in time, learned to control his bladderand his bowel movements, until such time that Daddy Love released him from the Wooden Maiden for the purpose of using the toilet.
But Daddy Love was so perceptive in his design, he’d made the foot of the Wooden Maiden several inches higher than the rest, to accommodate the subject’s feet. No sprained, broken, crippled feet for a son of Daddy Love!
Son, you are safe now. Protected now.
We will be home soon. Your new—your destined—home.
You will begin the game of Forget.
You have already begun the game of Forget.
In Daddy Love’s rearview mirror he saw: rapidly advancing, red light flashing, siren full-blast, a police cruiser.
Ohio state troopers. The red light suddenly appearing out of nowhere, nighttime on I-80 east about ten miles from the Pennsylvania border.
He’d recently made a stop at an interstate filling station/restaurant. He’d filled up the Chrysler’s tank. He’d gone into the restaurant to get a cheeseburger, French fries and coleslaw and giant Diet Coke takeout and was still eating his supper, in the cardboard container in his lap, when the state trooper cruiser appeared. Chewing, Daddy Love yet prayed. He ate, and prayed. Scarcely aware of his silent prayer.
In the back of the van, the child in the Wooden Maiden was utterly still. No muffled weeping, no sounds of struggle. TheWooden Maiden was a tight embrace and the child would grow into it, in time.
Closer, ever closer the cruiser came—then, as Daddy Love had known it must, the cruiser passed him, at about eighty miles an hour.
Not a glance at
him
. The assholes were hot on the trail of—who?
Daddy Love was sweating, in his armpits and crotch. But Daddy Love had to laugh.
Always you feel a rush of dread, in such situations. Daddy Love had rarely succumbed to panic, but he’d frequently felt dread. But then the dread turned into excitement, as adrenaline rushed through his veins. Better (almost!) than sex.
And the excitement turned into laughter.
It was amusing, listening to the radio. Daddy Love kept the volume low so that the child a few feet behind him could not hear. The latest news: Ypsilanti-child-abduction still laughably touted as “breaking news.”
Daddy Love was curious—coolly curious—if the woman had survived? Or maybe died?
If she survived, she’d (maybe) had a look at him, through the windshield, and (maybe) could describe him. But maybe (he halfway hoped) she’d died, which would ratchet the
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