Title: The Crimson Path
Fandom: Twin Peaks
Rating: PG-13, maybe R, more for what's implied than what's explicit
Length: ~1200 words
Content notes: Warning for violence, implied sexual assault and murder, reference to child molestation, racial epithet
Summary: 1949. Two anti-social drifters en route to becoming something else.



Bob dumped the girl’s purse on the table and pocketed a book of matches that lay among the useless junk. Mike picked up the wallet.

“Twelve bucks,” he said. “Man, we’ve got to get our hands on some real cash. Eskimo Dave was talking about a big score, we should get in on that.”

“Money,” Bob said, “It’s all you think about, buddy-boy.”

It was a disagreement that had started to surface between them, tight as they had been, partners in so many bloody parties. Bob was more interested in his own form of riotous fun, and something he called “the world underneath the world.” He had first become aware of it while screwing a whore in Tokyo, high on Dexedrine and lack of sleep.

“I looked down and I saw something,” he had told Mike. “Something I wasn’t expecting to see, you get me?”

“No,” Mike said. “What did you see?”

“I’ll tell you someday. Maybe. But I knew then that what we expect to see is bullshit, and what I was seeing was reality.”

Bob was crazy like that.

Bob and Mike had both been in the Pacific. Mike had been drafted; Bob, who was older, had been given a choice between enlisting and going to prison. Eskimo Dave was another one-percenter who had served in Mike’s unit. He didn’t ride with them much; their scene was too intense for him. But he was generally cool.

They found Dave at his favorite hangout, a cinderblock dump called Cocky’s. He was ready to talk. “I know a guy who’s loaded with dough,” he said, “Arnold Kalispell. And I’m betting on him being willing to share.”

“Lieutenant Kalispell?” Mike asked. “What have you got on him?”

“He liked the little Jap girls, man. And I mean little. Maybe a boy or two, who knows. I found out he lives up in Spokane now.”

“What are we waiting for?” Mike said. “Let’s go squeeze him.”

“Nah, man, have to wait a few weeks,” Dave replied. “He’s not there. He’s at his summer place.”

“What difference does it make where we stick it to him?” Bob asked.

“That summer house is out by Pearl Lakes. I ain’t going there, there’s Kigatilik in the woods around there.”

“What’s that?” Mike asked, “Snakes?”

“Bad things,” was all Dave said.

Bob and Mike exchanged a look of perfect understanding.

“Okay, Dave,” Mike said. “This is your caper. Let us know when you’re ready to ride.”

The next day he and Bob headed north on 101.


When they thought they were getting close, they stopped at a convenience store in a podunk little town and Mike went in to get directions to Pearl Lakes. Bob sat outside on his bike, staring up at the windows of the space above the store, where a “For Rent” sign was stuck next to a crack in the glass. Sometimes he thought he could see curtains behind the smeary windows. Then he would blink and the curtains would be gone.


They agreed to give Kalispell a week to get the money together. Mike composed the letter and posted it at the mailbox outside the store.

To celebrate, they decided to go across the border and find some amusement. They stopped at a place called Lucky’s, because it reminded them of Cocky’s, where Eskimo Dave had first set them upon their current crimson path. The place was packed, red lights picking out pale faces and wrapping the crowd in maroon shadows. The band was loud, and heavy on the bass, which assaulted them with electrifying violence. They drank and watched the girls dance, getting looser and looser until Mike, who sometimes felt poetical, strode onto the floor and began to declaim from pure inspiration, letting cool crazy words flow into the beats of the music.

A couple of the girls bopped in front of him, digging his routine, and he played to them, letting his energy flow around them like his words, which grew more and more crimson as he thought about taking the girls into the trees for a party with Bob. Then between their heads he noticed a man standing by the far wall, dressed in a dark suit and sticking out like a sore digit. The man was also watching him, and Mike was suddenly filled with fury. He shoved forward between the girls, ignoring their flailing and cursing, then shoved aside a big guy who tried shoving back. Mike turned on him, and the fathead, seeing his eyes, backed off. People made way for him after that, but he couldn’t find the guy in the suit. He circled around the room until he came upon Bob again, carrying a couple of beers, one of which he nudged into Mike’s hand.

“Later,” Bob said, and linked his arm through Mike’s to drink.

The next morning, Mike had a tattoo he didn’t remember getting. Bob, who clearly remembered everything, just laughed and wouldn’t tell him about it.


One night they camped in the woods. Mike started getting paranoid; the trees, like sinister, sentient things, began to crowd around their little clearing. Unseen wings whispered obscenely through the branches. Bob stared grinning into the fire, seemed to be willing it to do his bidding as it alternately drew in small and red-hot and then blazed upward, spitting sparks. Mike heard himself making strange little noises in his throat.

Then Bob gave him some mescaline he had scored at Lucky’s, and soon his apprehension turned to anticipation. His feeling that they were surrounded, watched, became thrilling, like they were the stars of a play. He looked at the ripples of heat above the fire, and they became a swaying curtain, one that would soon part to show them Bob’s hidden world. They danced around the campfire, hooting and bellowing, and then chanting, the same words, over and over again.


They went to hit Kalispell the day before he expected them. By now they were doing what felt right, rather than sticking to any plan. They watched the big white Victorian house until they saw Kalispell’s old lady leave, then stalked around to either side of the house, preparing to trap their prey between them. Mike easily jimmied open the front door, while Bob climbed up the porch and kicked in a second-floor rear window.

Stepping over the broken glass into a frilly bedroom, Bob could hear voices, one of them Mike’s. The door opened onto the second-floor landing. Kalispell was there, facing away from him, toward Mike who was coming up the stairs. Bob had barely taken in the situation when there was a loud bang and Mike staggered, a spot of red sprouting on his left shoulder. He reached for the banister and missed, falling ass-over-elbows down the stairs.

Bob felt no fear when Kalispell whirled and pointed the gun at him. He took a lunging step forward, making grabby motions with his hands. The gun went off in a little burst of shots, and he felt more than one bullet punch its way through his chest and gut.

Power was blazing inside him and he used a little of it to keep his sack of meat upright, so he could look the man in the eye and smile.

The lieutenant went very pale and the gun dropped from his hand.

“Anything…” He gasped. “anything you want…”

Bob’s smile grew wider.

“Just take it…”

So Bob did. He opened his mouth and ate the man’s flabby little soul in one bite.



Written for the "Transformation" challenge.