Vegan

  Vegan

  And the good shall inherit the world?

  ERIN LEE

  Copyright © 2018 Erin Lee

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Crazy Ink

  www.authorerinlee.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © ERIN LEE/Crazy Ink

  Cover design by Cover by Combs

  Vegan/ERIN LEE – 1st edition

  ISBN: 978-1976251757

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  DEDICATIONS

  Prologue

  Warning

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Let’s Connect:

  Erin Lee’s Released and Upcoming Titles

  WANT MORE FROM THIS AUTHOR?

  MOVING ON | Chapter One

  DEDICATIONS

  For my tribe.

  You know who you are.

  Thank you for honoring our kindness code.

  For its vegan leader and the gentlest person I’ve ever known.

  Gemma, your loyalty and integrity are unmatched.

  The world needs your kind of crazy.

  Last, and most important, for Farmer Charming, who taught me to love animals big and small and finally got his barn.

  Thank you. Max approves.

  VEGAN

  Prologue

  ALL TRIBES, NO MATTER how big or small, or from what land or time they hail, have laws. There are rules set up to keep things in order. Some are written down. Some are sealed in blood. Others are unspoken. But in every clan, there is a code of honor. And in every land, no matter how clear that code is or isn’t, it’s always broken. Again and again and again. It’s just human nature. Usually, it’s about survival. Sometimes, laws are broken simply out of greed. It makes no difference why, really.

  We’ve all heard the saying before: For a society or group to endure, it is only as strong as its weakest member. But we flawed human beings never go further than that—to describe what strength looks like. Or, a step more, to define weakness. We lack the courage to identify it through our own reflections or in the ones we love.

  Is strength in a big ego or the ability to manipulate people to do things? Or, is it in the guy taking orders, waiting for a more “important” member with a higher status to bark out a command? Is weakness in the leader who puts self before others? Or, is self-survival the same as putting the oxygen on first in a plane crash? What makes us weak? Who determines strength? How do we decide the strongest and weakest members of a tribe? And frankly, what gives us the right? Who is ultimately in charge?

  It’s one thing to make a proclamation. But, like with truth, the thing that usually matters most is not in the words of promise or expectation. What matters most is the action and the action’s intended or unintended consequence. That is, results mean more than statements or rules. The effect trumps the cause.

  For a population to truly be resilient, it must know its blind spots. What qualities does that weak link have and why? Where are the participant’s flaws? They must decide: How real is the danger in including him or her? And, once this is determined, a tribe must elect how to make this member stronger or decide to throw the weakling out altogether. Or, they can ignore the weak link until they can’t anymore.

  But be warned: When a tribe fails to protect everyone, it’s bound to fail. That’s what history tells us—the Bible too. And you know what they say about repeating history and expecting a different result...

  Insanity.

  It’s true.

  Although, has anyone ever been sane enough to ask what happens when a tribe is made only of weak members? We human beings probably should. That is us —own it or don’t. Like Adam and Eve, metaphorical or God’s word, we are an entire race of beings built on temptation and eternal flaw. That is who we are. We are mortal. We are weak. Some, more than others. And this will be fatal to all of us.

  In the end: The effect trumps the cause. And the effect is all I’m really shooting for now. The rest will be left to judgment of a savior who may or may not exist. For now, I’m making up my own rules and living the way only I know best.

  I am weakness.

  My strength is in my ability to own it.

  I am the leader of my own tribe and the keeper of my ultimate fate. And there is nothing I won’t do to protect the meek. In all of it, I believe it is the way it was meant to be. Survival is our destiny and absolutely everything is at stake...

  The Ten Golden Rules:

  They are simple.

  Do not mistake humble for weak, nor meek for frail.

  Don’t confuse empathy with stupidity, or honesty with foolhardiness.

  At no time underestimate the power of gratitude.

  Always be appreciative and sincere.

  Forever hold true the virtues of integrity and patience.

  Never assume.

  The Ten Rules of Karma:

  They are certain.

  Expectations based on pretenses often come with a price tag too high for even the loftiest of egos.

  Arrogance is certain to find its way back to powerlessness.

  Those who put themselves first always die unaided, afraid, and eventually overlooked.

  Honor comes not with manipulation or forced servitude.

  What you give is what you receive tenfold.

  Truth is in action and intention alone.

  The Word:

  The meek shall inherit the earth.

  Or so they said...

  Warning

  THIS BOOK IS DARK FICTION dealing with disturbing, undiagnosed psychological issues and twisted religious views. It dives into the mind of a perverted occult killer and includes violent, graphic material only suited for adults. It is not suitable for minor children.

  This novel is intended for entertainment purposes only, not for clinical research, case study, or diagnosis. Vegan was born, in part, as the result of multiple interviews with people convicted of murder in three states, combined with years of graduate level research on the pathologies that contribute to violent acts of murder and their architects. Research for this project also involved the study of South African tribes who partake in the use of human muti killings for the purpose of healing. They believe the effect trumps the cause.

  Interviews, correspondences, and all research—including clinical case reviews and professional journal articles—for this project was conducted in the author’s capacity as a novelist, for this fiction horror novel project and for her Diary of a Serial Killer series, not as a psychologist.

  Lastly, this book deals with themes of religion, God, spirituality, and atheism. Those who are easily offended by the questioning of such topics may not want to read this book.

  This author supports all religious beliefs and backgrounds including none at all and does not condone bigotry or re
ligious or other persecution of any belief system for any reason unless that system is harmful to people. Themes of religious beliefs here are addressed merely as part of a character’s identity and struggle to define her place in a higher power’s universe and as no statement on any religious institution or belief situation positive or negative. Her struggle with faith in a trying time was written simply to add to the story, her mental illness battles, and her motivations for acts committed within.

  Read at your own risk and, hopefully, with an open mind.

  .

  The Word says:

  Blessed be ye poor:

  For yours is the kingdom of God.

  Blessed are ye that hunger now:

  For ye shall be filled.

  Blessed are ye that weep now:

  For ye shall laugh.

  Blessed are ye, when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil, for the Son of man's sake.

  Woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort.

  Woe to you who are well fed now, for you will go hungry.

  Woe to you who laugh now, for you will mourn and weep.

  Woe to you when everyone speaks well of you, for that is how their ancestors treated the false prophets.

  King James Bible:

  “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.”

  VEGAN

  Chapter One

  Blessed be ye poor:

  For yours is the kingdom of God.

  An ordinary day at the sanctuary

  I’VE SINGLE-HANDEDLY killed off nine generations of legacy all because of a big-eyed chicken named Lucy with a broken leg. The dreams of my husband and his fathers before are so far off from how they were breed to be that I almost feel guilty. But here, in this sanctuary, as I peek out the dingy window above my kitchen sink, I can’t say I really regret a thing.

  Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. Stay busy. Don’t think about it. You can’t go back anyway. I squeeze rust from a steel wire pad I should have thrown away ten washings ago. I place it on the window sill, leaning to get a better look at Rancher. My husband, a hardened livestock farmer with the heart of a lamb, is busy watering the vegetable garden. I never wanted the prince charming. Fairy tales meant nothing to me from the time I walked in on my white collar father and his secretary. I always knew I wanted a “real” man—one who worked with his hands and didn’t have time for corporate games—and from the moment I laid eyes on him, I knew Rancher was the one God had created for me.

  He shouldn’t be out there so long. Ornery fool. That garden: It should be my job. I’m the one who insisted we plant it. If I had my druthers, I’d be out there now, helping him. But I need to fix this dinner. Not exactly something I can ask of him. Not now. As for the garden, I figured it would be a right good way to save money but also another food source—something to keep us out of trouble between protein bursts to help keep his strength up. He was resistant initially, asking me if “plants have feelings too.” “If plants have souls, do you think we could put them to work?” “And if we eat them, won’t they be hurt?” “Are animals killers too? They eat grass. I reckon the grass dies when they do. What about that?”

  Yes. He was being sarcastic and ridiculous. Still he raised good points. He has a way of making me think. It’s something I love about him now and always, but not something I appreciated much at that particular time. I was already listening to one too many “grass-eater” jokes from the neighbors who couldn’t understand that everything in our world had changed and that we’d never go back—no matter what. We couldn’t. We knew—all because of that silly hen. Animals do have souls.

  The only way to get through it, making him give up the livestock ranch and turn it into a sanctuary, was to fight it out. And that we did. Eventually, like my husband always does with me, Rancher gave in. And now, that vegetable garden is a lifeline for him—something that gives him purpose on his sickest days in his darkest moments. Many times, he even thanks me for twisting his arm. “You always know exactly what I need.” God made Eve for a reason.

  Our sons weren’t so easy to convince with the food. While they weren’t worried so much about how we paid the bills, for them, it was a matter of comfort. The boys, college students several states away on either end of the country, didn’t see the point in any of it. Jacob, the pragmatic one who eventually began to come around, even had the nerve to tell his father to do anything he had to in order to shut me down when I started with the “vegan shit.” “Jesus, Dad. Don’t let her shut down the farm. Have you lost it?” Initially, it was Jacob who suggested Rancher take me on a vacation and called it “empty nester’s syndrome.” “Mom’s just stressed,” he said. “She needs to get out of that house. It’s getting to her head. Too many soy nuts.” Abraham, ever the Momma’s boy, was a little more understanding but not by much. “How am I going to lift weights eating only grass?” he’d asked. “You can’t get gains with a diet like that.” He spent three weeks telling me almond milk was no substitute for whole milk with natural Vitamin D. Love keeps no record of wrongs. Love is patient.

  Neither of them seemed to get it—not about Lucy or Rancher being sick either. It didn’t matter if they had. Of all of us, I’ve always been the most stubborn. From the moment I brought that hen in the house, there was no going back. Rancher knew me well enough to know that. And, so, he was the first to give up the fight and at least try. Wisdom from age, I guess, or, maybe, the dementia from his illness, like Jacob said.

  I shake my head and grab a hemp dish rag from the stove, pulling a plate from Rancher’s long-ago deceased grandmother out of the plastic drying rack. I laugh to myself as my husband, outside the window, struggles to keep his britches up. He refuses to wear a belt since I took his leather ones away and informed him that animals die for such luxuries. He’s lost too much fucking weight. Don’t forget to tell the doctor. Why he can’t get a new one made of hemp or even rope is not lost on me. My husband is stubborn too. Some things just won’t ever change.

  After all these years together and a life he never would have planned himself, we’ve learned to accept one another’s quirks. It’s a silent code of honor we share: I’m the nature-loving hippie and he’s the hardened square. Yet, somehow, we balance each other out. I take my time of drying the plate, careful not to drop it. It’s not that I’d throw it away if it were to become chipped. I’m not one to waste. I’d find a way to patch it up and put it on display or something. It’s just so beautiful and the set is all he has left of his grandmother—the only woman besides me who ever truly loved and didn’t quit on him. For these reasons, I’m super careful.

  It’s in these mindless moments, the chores I do around the house while Rancher tends to the yard, that I know I’ve made the right decisions no matter how I’m judged. I know I’ve tried. Effort counts. Before this, something just felt off. Now, everything makes more sense—between reinventing the rules to helping my husband the only way I know how.

  Blueberry, our parakeet, flies over my head and perches high upon the dusty curtain rod. Maybe we should get him another dog. Dusting is a chore I always save for last and never seem to get to. I don’t see much point in doing something that’s only going to get messed up again. I’d rather put my time into making some sort of difference in the world. Lately, I’ve been failing. I’m too distracted with Rancher. I’m tired.

  “Good morning, love,” I say, as if expecting an answer. I pull out a box of grits and check the expiration on the back of the ratty box.

  Great.

  I throw the box out and move to the window, back to watching Rancher, who stumbles but manages to steady himself.

  Don’t think about it. Trust in the Lord. He won’t let you fall. He won’t let you starve, either. He’ll find a way to help you pay the bills.

  Determined not to skedaddle out to the garden and check on Rancher, I distract myself with a church hymn that used to make m
e feel a little safer in times of worry. I hum words I couldn’t forget if I tried—be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me. And I will give you rest—and wish I could truly believe again. In reality, I can’t.

  It’s the freaking bird; it always is the animals with me lately, who finally rescues me from my worries. He flies from the window sill, to my shoulder, chirping. Then, when I’m fully distracted, he returns to his place at the window as if wishing for his freedom. Or, maybe, simply interested in what Rancher’s up to like I.

  Blueberry is not one to chirp. Instead, he picks at his chest and stares—with me, not at—out the window. Many times, I’ve considered letting him fly free. But he’d never survive. The chicken hawks alone would make minced meat of him, never mind the turkey vultures, which fly high above our yard, always circling—as if they know. But they couldn’t, I tell myself. How? They’ve been circling for years—well before we made the change and were still slaughtering our herd for meat.

  Funny. It’s always the birds. Not just animals. Specifically the birds. It started with Lucy and nothing much has changed. For me, birds are guardian angels; reminders of humility and something bigger than us. They are hope too, that He, or maybe She, will forgive me for what I’m about to do—again. I shall not fear the dark of night or the arrow that flies by day.

  TO UNDERSTAND GOD, whomever that might be, I’ve heard, you have to have a certain degree of madness and a great comprehension of math. I think about it a lot. All the time actually. I have basically strayed from the flock, but I’m trying to find my way back somehow, even though I’ve never been any good with numbers. God is chaos times infinity, a man once said, adding that infinity is the highest of mathematical numbers. None of it means anything to me. In fact, I entirely disagree. For me, God is the simplest of things: Pure love. And it was in my die-hard belief in this that I began to question why he’d put creatures on this earth to be mutilated. For me, a bug is less complicated than a human being. Therefore, it’s closer to God. And we, the most complicated of breeds, are the furthest away—we are the demons. The animals are not. We humans are the evil ones.