Over the top of the album cover, above the cross, written in bold black calligraphy was the title: It's In The Book. Above that, in much smaller letters, was the band's name: Intemperance. Arrayed around the cross in overlapping fashion were multiple photographs and graphic representations of atrocities committed in the name of Christianity. There was a famous painting of the crusades in which Christian soldiers were slaughtering those who did not believe as they did. There was a picture of American Indians being marched off to a reservation under armed guard by American soldiers. There was a scene from the Holocaust of Jews being marched off towards the gas chambers of Auschwitz. There was a picture of Jimmy Swaggert crying as he confessed his sins to a nationwide audience. There was a picture of a water fountain in the White House that read "Whites Only". There were pictures of religious protestors outside of Intemperance concerts carrying their signs. There was a picture of protesters at the annual Gay Pride parade in Los Angeles holding a banner that read AIDS IS GOD'S PUNISHMENT FOR YOUR SINS!
There were also several pictures that were very personal to Jake. Just below the cross was a picture of a black bowling ball upon which someone had written in white paint: GET BACK TO BABYLON, SINNER! That particular bowling ball had been launched somehow through Jake's front window at 2:30 AM the second week he lived in his new house. The police had taken a report, dismissed the incident as mere vandalism, and no suspect had ever been caught or even questioned.
There was also a picture of five gallon sized containers of muratic acid lying overturned on a piece of stamped cement. This was perhaps the most personal of the pictures, and the most infuriating from Jake's point of view.
The incident that had led to this picture occurred a month after Jake had moved into his new house. At this point Jake had already been subjected to multiple visits by the LAPD as a result of calls placed by his neighbors. The patrol teams who showed up were usually accompanied by his good friend Lieutenant Baker, the watch commander who had shrugged off the cross-placing incident and suggested Jake should just do as suggested and repent. Three of these visits were for noise complaints about loud music — all of which had taken place in broad daylight when he'd had nothing but a radio playing at moderate volume while out in his back yard. Two had been because of reports that he was doing drugs (one had been because he'd smoked some pot out in his patio while cooking steaks and one of his neighbors had smelled it, the other had been completely unfounded — neither Jake nor Rachel had even been home at the time). The other visit had been just after nine o'clock one evening as he and Rachel had been swimming naked in the swimming pool. The complaint that time had been "indecent exposure", even though no one could have possibly seen anything that took place in his back yard unless they had climbed onto a ladder to peer over his privacy hedges.
In all of these cases no charges were filed — mostly because there were no grounds upon which to file any — but the cops had felt the need to give him stern lectures about watching his actions if he wanted to get along with his neighbors. They all suggested that maybe if he moved somewhere else — like Beverly Hills where such antics were commonplace — he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.
And then came the morning of March 31. Jake and Rachel had just spent the week in Maui and had arrived back home around 10:00 PM, both of them still feeling like they were on Hawaii Time instead of Pacific Time. As a result, they had still been awake at 12:30 AM and had decided that maybe a little soak in the hot tub and a few glasses of wine would be just the ticket to get them re-aligned for the coming workweek in which Jake would begin the rigorous recording schedule. As they'd descended the steps from the bedroom balcony to the patio Jake spotted a large silhouette standing next to his hot tub, dumping something from a container into the water.
"Hey!" he'd yelled. "What the fuck are you doing?"
The figure dropped the container and began to run toward the back gate that led out to the street. Jake, dressed in nothing but a robe, chased after him, mostly out of instinct. The figure moved fast but was forced to a stop when he reached the closed gate. Jake slammed into him at top speed, finding that whomever it was he was chasing was well over six feet tall and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. Amped up, he ignored the danger to himself and threw the figure down to the ground. The person began to kick and punch at him, landing a few shots on Jake's legs and side. Jake — who had always tried to walk away from battle when he could but who was nonetheless a veteran of many brawls (usually fomented by Matt) — threw three punches, each of them landing squarely on the intruder's face. He felt the crunch of a nose, the shattering of a tooth or two, and the thud of a cheekbone. The intruder, dazed, gave up the fight and Jake was able to drag him back to the patio and confine him to a chair until the LAPD — summoned by Rachel this time — arrived ten minutes later.
It turned out that the intruder was the sixteen-year-old son of his across-the-street neighbor — a kid who probably wouldn't be able to solve any physics equations but who played linebacker for the local Jesuit High School. What he had been pouring into the hot tub was five gallons of muratic acid, more than a thousand times the normal amount, an amount that had raised the Ph level of the water up to a skin-blistering reading of 4.1 when it was tested two hours later. A hazardous materials team from the LAFD had to respond in order to safely drain it and the tub was deemed a complete loss due to the acid damage.
"What would have happened," Jake asked one of the fire department's HAZMAT specialists as they did their work, "if we would have gotten into that hot tub with that much acid in there?"
"You would have gotten second degree chemical burns all over your bodies," the firefighter — an Intemperance fan as it turned out — replied matter-of-factly. "More than likely you would have been permanently disfigured everywhere the water would have touched and there's a good chance that you," he looked at Jake, "would have lost function of your... you know... your male parts."
"Jesus Christ," Jake said, shuddering at the thought.
"And that's not even the worst," the firefighter said, almost gleefully.
"What's the worst?" Jake asked him.
"You would've gotten really severe respiratory burns if you'd breathed any of those fumes in. The way the wind is blowing tonight, I'm thinking there's a good chance you wouldn't have smelled anything funny until it was too late. Once you got in the spa and got a good whiff of something this acidic you're talking chemical pneumonia at the very least, possibly even... you know... death from respiratory failure."
"This is attempted murder," Pauline told the detectives who responded to the scene. "Attempted mayhem at the very least. And I think we all know who is behind it."
Jake certainly had no doubt who was behind it. The father of the linebacker was Frank Overland, the owner of several car dealerships throughout Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley. Overland was the vice-president of the homeowner's association and one of the most vocal protestors regarding Jake's presence in the house. He was also a notorious bible-thumper. He had been accused several times of firing employees when he found out they were homosexuals or atheists. His car lots were always closed on Sundays — one of the biggest car-buying days of the week — and had large signs placed in front that read: CLOSED TODAY — SEE YOU IN CHURCH! Jake had no problem envisioning Overland instructing his teenage son in how to put the mark of God upon that heathen sinner with five gallons of muratic acid.