Dancing with the Devil

Chapter 1

Reckless Abandonment

I must try to make sense of this never-ending nightmare. Somewhere, at some time, my reality became shrouded in the darkness of irrational confusion. Only never to be answered questions flood my once analytical mind. I have even begun to doubt my own sanity. What was my sin that brought me to this godforsaken place?

For three months, I haven’t breathed fresh air. The stench in this hellhole is more than nauseating. It is so unbelievably foul it seems that the oxygen is smothered out of this stagnant air. The smells of urine and feces not only permeate the air I breathe, they penetrate my skin.

Before this ill-fated experience, I bathed myself in the finest colognes money could buy. Now, if I am lucky, I may get a cold shower once a week for just two short minutes. Being in this prison cell with ten, sometimes fifteen, other men is more than anyone should ever experience.

I have often seen things like this in movies, but I thought that was just Hollywood. In my wildest imagination, I would have never thought a place like this could exist. But now I am here, trying to survive. I am even sure that there are diseases here that no one ever heard about. Lice have become my constant companions.

I’ve lost all human dignity. My clothes have been reduced to threads, just barely clinging to my body. But I have endured. I have lived through the brutality of the guards and inmates. I have learned to fight for my territory, and now I am very seldom challenged. Occasionally when a new inmate is thrown into my cell, I must become aggressive to establish my authority.

On first arriving, I quickly learned the system here. It is survival of the fittest. Only the strong will survive. You can never let your guard down. You can never be at ease. The lack of restful sleep, I know, has contributed to my mental state. You must never show a sign of weakness. For if you do, in that moment you will become a prisoner to the prisoners! I have unintentionally acquired their characteristics. I’ve had to modify my behavior, and for the worst. It is amazing what a place like this will do to you.

Even though this concrete cell is overcrowded, I am still alone—, no friends, just all alone. No one to talk to, no one to listen; —only intimidating stares. Looks that result in unnerving fear.

My body has remained relatively strong in spite of the lack of food. They give us a piece of bread in the morning and some indistinguishable, watered-down soup during the day. Exercise has become my salvation. Push-ups and sit-ups have energized my malnourished muscles.

Now the battle is for my mind. My only hope is confrontation of all my fears. I must, and I will, recall and collect all the incomprehensible facts. I may not be able to answer my own philosophical questions, but I will get control over this mental chaos.

All the days have run together, no longer distinguishable. At night, all the demons are released. During my time in this hellhole, I’ve had no trial, no lawyers, no judges, and no justice.

I have fought many battles before. I have won most of them. This is a conflict I cannot afford to lose. I know I am literally fighting for my life. Now the conflict within is greater than any I have ever faced. I am determined to analyze the horrifying events that brought me to this ungodly place, in hope of regaining my very soul.

As a successful businessman, I have invaded the minds of my clients and illuminated the dark recesses of their psychic. Now I must dissect my own. Where do I begin? Usually I confront their greatest fear, but what is mine? Is this unknown fear making my recovery more difficult?

As a child of five years old, I remember my mother placing me on a train in Chicago. She took me to a seat and said, I will be right back. That was thirty years ago, and I am still waiting for her return. The headlines in the Indianapolis paper read, Reckless abandonment, a mother’s high treason. The trauma was so great I could not even remember my first name let alone my family name. It was as though I had just been born. My mind was in denial. I guess it was intentional amnesia, and it became permanent.

So I was listed as a John Doe, a name they give to people with no identity. That surely represented me: no past, no family, and all alone. Someone in Child Protective Services called me Johnny. For my last name she wrote Avalon. I guess it was because I was found at the Avalon Train Station.

Here I am, Johnny Avalon, abandoned again and still fighting for my identity. I guess that weakness became my strength. Many may know their names, but somewhere along the way, they lost their identity.

I was never adopted, only tossed around from foster family to foster family. I grew up fast. Struggle is no stranger to me. When I was a child, I was verbally and physically abused. But I survived! I was more familiar with the street life than family life.

Deep inside of me, I was determined to be the master of my own fate. For even at an early age, I was in control. Sure, the welfare system and so-called foster parents made decisions for me, but they could not determine my future. Johnny Avalon was in control. That was the promise I made to myself, and it became my practice. Now it will be my strength.

In my college days, being streetwise became a great advantage to me. Academics were never a challenge. Learning was always part of my nature, part of survival. I was eager to learn. I found out early in life that the more I knew, the more I could control others. I became obsessed with controlling others. Power over people seemed to be my revenge for every foster family that abused me.

Consequently, I often used people to get what I wanted. I discovered that many people are naive and gullible, and that is how I paid my way through college. It was so easy. Running scams became my game, and soon I had more money than I needed. In college I would buy friends and favors. Our college basketball team was having a great year and was a Cinderella team in the NCAA tournament. I knew people, and I knew we had a real chance in winning the national title. Early in the season, I made friends with the star basketball player. I did this with money, providing him with cars and girls. I owned him.

The bookies would always give a spread for every team. You could win thousands of dollars if you beat the odds. Since the star player owed me, it was time for payback. He did what I wanted him to do. He would have a bad game to keep the points close and beat the bookies’ spreads. That season, I made hundreds of thousands of dollars.

The next season, tragedy struck. The star player was in an auto accident and was paralyzed from the waist down. He never played again. I can’t explain this, but something changed in me. For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for someone else. I gave him all the money I made on him. I had already multiplied that several times anyway.

I always had people around me, but I was always alone. I loved to party. I loved to make money, but deep down, I was intrigued with helping the disadvantaged. Imagine, Johnny Avalon, the streetwise, self-made millionaire who exploited people, now wanting to help those who could not help themselves. Unbelievable!

I suppose it was a paradox. Everything I did to help someone was anonymous. You see, I had an image to keep. I was a shark in business. After all, it wasn’t personal, just business. I was also a piranha in personal relationships. I found myself traveling to remote areas, not just looking for adventure but searching for the abused and the abandoned.

That is why I began my journey in Romania. I saw a TV news report on The Shame of a Nation. It detailed the horrors of orphan children living in State institutions. Something inside me felt their hunger and pain. Perhaps it was because I could relate to their situation. This secret mission of mine introduced me to a culture of the Old World.

I thought I knew people, but I discovered a mentality there that I could not begin to comprehend. Nevertheless, my quest for adventure has led me to a society filled with intrigue. Here, in this prison, I must determine what is fantasy and what is factual. My journey back to reality will begin with guarded optimism.

Chapter 2

A Different Name,

but the Same Game

After arriving in Zurich, I waited impatiently for four hours to catch my next flight to Budapest. From there, I would travel by train for four more hours to the Romanian border. As usual, my plane was late in departing. Upon my belated arrival, I decided to spend the night at the Hyatt near the Danube River.

In Budapest, I found a city that was alive. The cobblestone streets in the walking district of the Danube were enchanting. I guess the street life was in my blood. The lights, the restaurants, and the people of the night created an atmosphere that gave me an adrenaline rush.

Back on the streets, I felt like an adolescent again. My eyes were intently looking for the things that an ordinary tourist would never notice. I saw the teenage Gypsy boys looking for a pocket to pick. There were moneychangers running their scams on unsuspecting tourists. They would show their money and count it right in front of the gullible tourist. Then, when they handed them the money, they made their switch.

The ladies of the night were out in full force trying to seduce lonely businessmen. They attempted to lure the men in with an innocent conversation, eventually arriving at the same questions, Are you alone? Do you want a date?

Budapest was a new name for me, but it was the same old game. The nightlife always brought out an element that was not visible in daylight. I began to analyze the character of these professional con artists. The games were in full play. I enjoyed being a spectator instead of a participant.

I learned from living on the streets that body language was easier to read than the evening headlines. Someone walking alone and visibly unsure of where he was going became an easy mark. Watching his eyes told you what he wanted. You looked where he looked, and you knew what he was thinking. However on the other hand, if someone walked decisively, they knew to leave you alone. They would be more trouble than what they were worth. I supposed that is why I was not approached by anyone. Even though I could not speak Hungarian, my message was received with clarity. Now I could quietly watch the fish in the proverbial barrel. It was an easy catch, even for the beginner.

The lights on the two illuminated bridges were so appealing that they radiated a false sense of safety. The tourist seemed so relaxed that it was tempting for me to run a scam. I was most entertained by watching the scantily dressed ladies entice the men that passed by. These consumption girls stood in front of restaurant bars and tantalized the businessmen with their charms, mesmerizing the future clients with their sensuality. Their game was to get the men to come inside for a drink. Then, after a few drinks, they would change the menu and charge outrageous prices. The prices were so exaggerated that a few drinks cost hundreds of dollars.

I knew this game well because I used to see these same types of girls outside of bars in Chicago. Today they do the same thing in show clubs all over the world. Here, in Budapest, they seemed to have perfected the play.

I found a cozy café where I could sit outside and drink an Irish coffee. It was like being at center court of a Bulls game. I could see all the players up close.

Out of the corner