The King of Bourbon Street

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Brian was down on his luck.

Though dressed to his nines, his tie was undone, barely hanging around his neck, his jacket was open, his hair was disheveled and he walked with a stiff limp, like a man who had been beaten or a dog run too hard.

It was on that humid Saturday night that he plodded his way ungracefully down the sidewalks of Bourbon Street. He walked past young boys tap dancing for dollars, past girls showing skin for beads and past neon signs touting strong drinks, bottomless dancing and any other vice man could imagine.

He weaved his way through the crowd, avoiding the world around him. He apologized to every soul he touched and contorted himself in a million ways to create a path through the gathering masses. Block after block he carved a snake-like trail through filth and the humanity alike following a strange instinct telling him to press on and keep moving.

He eventually slinked his way into a forgotten bar, drawn in by the sounds of smooth jazz being played softly on the stage. He threw himself down onto a stool, unrolled his last five dollars, placed it onto the bar in front of him and ordered a double scotch from the bartender, who was almost too eager to serve.

The bar was empty and cold. A barfly in the corner tried to sweet talk her way into a tourist's hotel room while a young couple at a table up front listened intently to the band.

Brian took his drink, sipped it twice and spun around to watch the show, desperate to take his mind someplace else.

The horn player was a funny looking man, dressed in a tux with tails and donning a pair of sunglasses, he was lanky and long, like he'd been stretched too far. But he played the trumpet to perfection, hitting every note with ease and leading his small band through every song with the precision of a surgeon. His body seemed to sway with every beat, almost to the point of collapse when the intensity began to peak.

Brian took a cigarette from his pocket and placed it gently between his lips. Swiping a matchbook from the table in front of him, he lit it and began to puff away at it idly.

The show carried on, the piano player pounding the ivory keys with reckless abandon while the bass player strummed the strings as if caressing the woman he loved. Meanwhile, the trumpet player, still swooning with every note, seemed to be drunk on the music and losing himself in every beat. His passion grew with every bar and even the street seemed to grow quiet as his horn grew louder and louder. Soon he was drowning out not just his band but the world around him.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the other band members stopped playing and watched in awe as their leader ran away with the set. He was entranced, unable to stop, unable to slow down, unable even to control the notes he was playing. He was captivated by a magic that compelled him to play and held the world around him. No one could avert their eyes, raise their hand or blink their eyes. Even breathing seemed to stop as the music kept climbing to greater heights.

The ashes on Brian's cigarette grew long and began to drip into his lap. His eyes were hopelessly fixed on the miracle before him.

Louder and louder the crescendo grew. The notes came so fast that one seemed to blend into the next, all in perfect harmony, Heartbeats began to accelerate and minds began to drift. It seemed no one was there anymore, everyone listening was drifting off to some distant world and the horn was carrying them further and further, taking them places they never thought they could go.

The trumpet player began to blare as loud as he could, capping off his other worldly solo with a series of strong blasts that shook the crowd back to reality and brought Brian back to his mind. He flicked the ashes from his cigarette and tried in vain to wipe the look of awe from his face.

Slowly, the music began to die down, the piano began to play again and the sound of slinky jazz began to fill the room as the magic that had gripped the small crowd began to lift. A stunned applause was offered by those in attendance, applause the horn player greeted with a humble bow and a blown kiss. Though tired and winded, his face was dissected by a Cheshire grin and his eyes sparkled brightly in the stage lights that shown upon him.

“So what's your worry mac?” the bartender said finally waking Brian from his music-induced trance.

Brian spun around quickly, still shaking from the sudden interruption. He looked at the bartender, a round man with a toothy smile and a strange bow tie, and tried to compose himself to speak.

“Ah, no worry,” Brian said trying to avoid his troubles, “I'm just here for the music.”

The bartender placed his elbows onto the varnished wood and leaned forward, he let out a sigh and said, “Everyone who comes here's got problems. You don't walk down Bourbon Street and come into a place like this if you ain't got a few worries.” The bartender paused a moment and looked into Brian's unmoving face, “But I suppose it don't matter anyhow. You ain't going to find the answers here. Just more problems.”

“Maybe…” Brian said, “Maybe.”

The trumpet player was done with his rest and began playing again, joining his colleagues in making the smooth kind of jazz they hoped would draw in the tourists and big spenders. The kind they dreamed would fill this forgotten bar up with society's elite.

They never came.

Instead, the minutes ticked by, song sliding seamlessly into song and nothing changing. Hopelessness and despair began to fill the room again, both bouncing to the beat of the bassist's plucking and sliding to the pianist's melody. Only the trumpet seemed to keep them at bay, a remedy that began to fade as exhaustion crept in and the hour grew late.

Before long, the barfly was gone to enjoy her nightly romp and the young couple was out collecting beads and souvenirs. There was only Brian, sitting with his back to the bar, puffing on his third cigarette and enjoying the last few drops of his scotch.

As the band strummed its last notes, Brian hoisted himself off the stool and walked to the door. As he began to step into the street, he spun on his heels and called out to the bartender, “Hey, thanks for letting me choose my problems for a while.”

The bartender said nothing but idly waved goodbye to him and started work on polishing glasses. Brian turned around and disappeared into the street again.

Once again he weaved through the crowd, dodging humanity any way he could. Once again he was full of apologies and regret, trying to avoid what was around him.

But as he slid by three girls staggering from booze and exhaustion, leaning on one another for support, he felt a drop upon his shoulder. He looked up and felt another strike his cheek and another hit his arm. Soon the sky broke out into a misty rain.

He hunched his shoulders, covered his eyes and pressed onward. The misty rain blending in with the humidity to cling to his skin and make every movement, no matter how subtle, a struggle against nature.

But with every step he took, the mist grew harder and the drops more distinct. Soon, the sky seemed to be filled with water, matting his once-disheveled hair and soaking through his wrinkled shirt.

The humanity that filled the street vanished, taking cover under awnings and inside bars. Brian looked up, thanked the sky under his breath, and kept walking. He kept walking down the center of the street, throwing his coat over his shoulder and parading down it like a king. From countless overhangs and doorways, a thousand different eyes watched the rain-soaked man march triumphantly on his way.

For a moment there were no problems and there were no worries. Even as the rain chilled him to his core, he splashed in the puddles unapologetically and walked down the slick pavement effortlessly, his head held up high and a sly grin curling across his lips.

“Tomorrow,” he thought, “Tomorrow I'll start worrying.”

He paused a moment to look up into the sky, letting the rain drip into his eyes.

“Today,” he continued, "I am a king. A king without a penny to his name. A king roaming down the street of sin. But a king nonetheless.”

No one told him otherwise as he walked down the street, passing the same neon signs as before. Even as he disappeared around the final corner, no one dared challenge his authority.

For, until he left it, the street was his and his alone. He was the king of Bourbon Street and yet, for all we knew, just a humble man playing in the rain.

Shadowline: Introduction

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The knock on the door echoed in the silent living room. The Jameson's, Mr. and Mrs., both jumped from their seats as the sound came crashing through the tranquil house. Though they had been expecting company, it was almost twenty minutes late and they'd been waiting in dead silence for at least that long.

The knock came again, this time around rattling much less than before. Mr. Jameson glanced over at his wife, who nodded to him slowly, before folding up the newspaper he was reading and setting it down upon the coffee table. He got up from the couch, taking a moment to straighten his pants and shirt, and began walking over to the door.

He opened it quickly, the door already unlocked, and was greeted by a young woman, probably in her early twenties, standing on the other side with her hand poised to knock again.

"Is this 537 Oak street?" she asked softly but confidently, her voice, though firm, barely carrying over the wind.

"Yes, you must be…"

"Claire from the Berkeley College Society for Supernatural Exploration. Yes. We spoke on the phone."

Mr. Jameson nodded his head, "Yes, we did. Come on in," he said opening the door slowly.

As he turned around to show his guests inside, he nearly crashed into his wife who had silently taken up a position behind him while he was answering the door.

From there she watched as four bodies entered the room, seemingly filling it to the brim. First there was Claire, a young woman with wild hair and a medallion around her neck that she immediately identified as a pentacle.

Second was a young man wearing a button-down shirt and glasses. Though he bore no visible markings of any variety, he carried a large brown bag, much like a gym bag that seemed to be bursting at the seams.

Third was another button-downed man. However, around his neck was a crucifix that looked to be made from sterling silver and in his hands he carried a dog-eared King James version of the Holy Bible.

Finally, another girl stepped into the room, this one dressed head to toe in black with long, raven hair to frame her delicate white face. She wore no symbols on her clothing, but the room seemed to shake when she walked in and both Mr. and Mrs. Jameson worked hard to distance themselves from her.

When they were all inside, they lined up in front of the couch, standing in a row like soldiers from a ragtag army. After looking the line up and down, Mrs. Jameson went to speak but before the words could leave her mouth Claire jumped in.

"First off, let me introduce our group. We are, as I said, the Berkeley College Society for Supernatural Exploration. What we are is a multi-religious and multi-cultural society looking for hard answers about the supernatural. We saw your ad in the paper last week and thought your house might be an excellent study for us."

"I see…" Mrs. Jameson said before being rolled over again.

"First, you have me, I'm Claire. I'm a Wiccan but I'm also an expert on folklore and legend as well as an expert on psychology.

"Second," she said motioning to the man carrying the bag, "You have Alex. Alex is an atheist and is our all-around science guru. He also does all of our filming and photographing and writes up many of our reports."

Mr. Jameson, not wanting to be rude, extended his hand to Alex and met him in a firm handshake, "Pleased to meet you."

"Third," Claire continued pointing to the man with the crucifix, "You have Jonathan. Jonathan is a Christian, Catholic to be exact, he's actually a transfer from a Jesuit school and is a renowned expert on Christian ritual and faith.

"Finally, you have Kelly," she said pointing to the girl in all black, "Kelly doesn't claim a religion herself but is an expert on the occult and is a student of many different languages. She has the ability to interpret almost any symbol she sees."

Mr. Jameson shook the hands of the remaining members and invited them to sit. Almost immediately the available seating in the living room filled up as all four of the visitors squeezed onto the plush sofa while the Jameson's moved chairs around to face them.

The entire time they were shuffling around and settling in, Mrs. Jameson couldn't take her eyes off the eclectic group sitting in her living room. A moral Christian, she found letting occultists into her home disconcerting, but realized she had no choice. Besides, she reasoned with herself, it's possible to be a good person and not be Christian and they needed good people with expertise

"If you read our ad," Mr. Jameson started once everyone was settled in, "You know that we've been having some problems."

The entire couch seemed to rock with nods of approval. All four of them, as different as they were, sat locked, fixated on Mr. Jameson as he spoke, their eyes wide open and lips slightly agape.

"When we first moved into this house, it was a steal. I mean, look at it, it's a gorgeous old house in the middle of a new development. It was cheap, so cheap we could easily afford it, and, well, it was just perfect. But then, well, things started happening."

Almost at once everyone on the couch began to lean forward, save Alex who leaned back resting his arm on the back of the sofa and tilting his head to the side, "What sort of things?" he asked calmly.

Mr. Jameson stood up from his chair and began to pace the room, his hands shaking slightly, like a flame in a gentle breeze, "Well, it started out slow at first, we'd hear noises like someone was there or see things out of the corner of our eye. We just dismissed it but, well, things got worse."

"How so," asked Alex leaning forward to join the others.

"Well," Mr. Jameson continued with a heavy sigh, "Just the other week a book flew off the shelf at me. Not fell like it slid off the edge, hurled across the room, right at my head, almost ten feet away. But then, last week, it went way too far. As my wife was getting ready to take a bath, a fire started in the bathtub."

A stifled gasp came from the room as even Alex seemed blown away by the revelation. It seemed the only one unmoved by the story was Jonathan who simply rubbed his chin and idly scratched his neck before speaking, "Are you sure that you didn't do anything to accidentally start the fire? Perhaps leave something plugged in?"

"You don't understand," Mrs. Jameson said with a quivering voice, "the tub was filled with water. The fire started on top of the water."

Jonathan's jaw dropped and the gasps were no longer stifled. A look of fear mixed with excitement flashed across the group's faces and disbelief turned slowly into teeming energy of eager anticipation. Murmurs began to rise up among the group, seemingly to double check what they'd just heard but, before things could go too far, Claire spoke up again.

"You realize that, as skeptics and scientists, though we find your story interesting and certainly don't disbelieve you, we still need to find proof to back up these claims before we can do anything about them."

Mr. Jameson nodded his approval slowly but Mrs. Jameson was visibly upset by that announcement, her nails, which were already dug into the arms of her chair, sank deeper and she closed her eyes tight, shaking slightly as the news ran through her mind.

"What we want to do, is stay here for a while and document everything that goes on. Alex, as a man of science, is our hardest skeptic but he will do everything he can to document what has happened and what goes on here. From there, we can move forward and actually eliminate the entity."

"How long will that take?" Mrs. Jameson blurted out, her nails still sinking in deeper.

The members of the group huddled, whispering to one another in an indistinct murmur that was unintelligible even a few feet away.

"The information-gathering, documenting and reporting process will take about three weeks to a month. At that time, if sufficient evidence is found, we'll take action."

"Three weeks!" Mrs. Jameson said shooting up for her chair. "Three weeks! I can't even take a bath anymore without feeling… feeling… frightened. Terrified. I hear whispers in my own house. I see shadows moving all around me and now, now something is trying to kill me and all you can tell me is maybe in three weeks you'll help me, I need something now, anything."

As the last words passed through her lips she broke down completely. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she buried her face in her hands and began sobbing uncontrollably.

Mr. Jameson stood up, as calmly as he could, and embraced her tight, whispering soothing thoughts into her ear and rocking her gently. His hands, unsteady with fear, patted her head and stroked her hair lightly.

"Sir, if you want we can…" Jonathan said before being interrupted by Mr. Jameson who, without turning around, held up his hand to silence him. Jonathan apologized under his breath and sank deep into the sofa.

After a few moments of holding, Mrs. Jameson seemed to calm down and returned to her chair. Though her cheeks were still damp with tears, she leaned back in her chair and seemed to rest comfortably.

"Now tell me," Mr. Jameson started as he settled into his chair, "What can you do if you do find there to be something here?"

Kelly, eager to speak, jumped at the question before any of the other members could collect their thoughts, "As a student of the occult, I know of many rituals designed to drive out evil spirits or trap them. We've had some success in the past with a trapping ritual that actually confines the entity, or spirit, or whatever, to a box."

Kelly leaned forward and slapped Jonathan on the knee. Jonathan, in turn, looked to Alex who, without a word being said, began rummaging through his bag until he produced a small, five inch square box with intricate carvings on all sides.

Alex wasted no time handing it over to Jonathan who held it in his outstretched hands for the Jamesons to see. "I carved this box myself," he said, "It's made from heavy wood and is covered with a variety of symbols from Christian, Native American and even Pagan faiths. We've found it to be a very powerful tool in handling these types of situations."

Mrs. Jameson, much calmer after hearing the explanation, considered reaching out to hold the box but thought better of it. Instead, she admired it at a distance, noticing the intricate carvings etched into every surface of it and admiring the obvious craftsmanship it took to create.

"So you've encountered these types of things before?" she asked still entranced.

Claire scooted to the edge of the sofa and held her hands up as if to push someone away, "We have, but, nothing this strong. What you describe, frankly, is unlike anything we've ever dealt with before. But yes, we have treated other homes with great success."

"So you're not sure if you can handle this?" Mr. Jameson said, skepticism ringing in his voice.

"Sir," Claire said, trying to be soothing, "We will try everything we can to help you and your wife sleep through the night. All we want is the truth and to know that you two are safe and sound. We're in a position to help each other, that's how I see it."

Mr. Jameson nodded solemnly and stood up, pacing the living room slowly. His brain slipped into deep thought as his expression turned from that of an astute listener to a lost soul. His eyes were wide and his feet fell heavy on the floor.

The group, for their part, watched him silently, not wanting to interrupt whatever it was that was racing through his mind.

After a few tense moments, he let out a long sigh and spun on his heels as if to speak. But before the words could come out of his mouth, the door began to rattled with an echoing knock that startled the entire room, freezing everyone in place.

A few seconds passed, the knock came again.

Mr. Jameson, frantic, looked at the crowd before him, looking up and down for answers. However, he was met with only blank stares, shaking heads and shrugged shoulders as each indicated, in their own way, they had no clue what was going.

Clearly on edge, Mr. Jameson stormed over to the door and threw it open without so much as a thought to checking the peephole or asking who it was. He flung it open with such strength that he knocked himself back and needed a moment to orient himself.

After he did so, he found the most unusual man he'd seen on his doorstep. Older than those who'd come before, he was in his thirties, perhaps early forties. He wore all black, from his unshined boots to his button-down shirt, and had a full head of slicked-back blond hair. His face, though marked with lines, was strong and a fitting frame for his piercing light blue eyes.

Taking a moment to catch his breath, Mr. Jameson looked the stranger up and down at least twice. The man stood there, unflinching and unmoved by the events going on before him.

"Can I help you?" Mr. Jameson finally brought himself to ask.

"Are you Mr. Jameson?" the stranger asked in a strong, deep voice.

"Yes, I'm Mr. Jameson."

The stranger didn't waste a moment waiting for an invite. With a firm stride he walked into the house and began looking around the living room with a determined gaze, "My name is Peter Silverton from the Shadowline society, my superiors sent me here."

Mr. Jameson was practically frozen by the stranger's arrogance. He stammered and stuttered as he tried to find an appropriate response. His wife, however, was not so stifled and shot out of her seat, "You listen here!" she said venomously, "We have guests here now and you're going to have to come back another time. Who do you think you are barging in here…"

The stranger raised a hand and even though Mrs. Jameson tried to continue her sentence, a chill came over her and her train of thoughts faded into the distance.

"Send the kids home," the stranger said flatly, "It's not safe for them here."

"Excuse me," Mr. Jameson said, finally regaining his composure, "Who did you say you were again?"

"Peter Silverton of the Shadowline society," he said as he pulled a card from his breast pocket and handed it Mr. Jameson. "I was sent here to rectify your situation."

Upon hearing that, Kelly stood up and waved her finger in the stranger's face, "You listen here, this is our find. This is a great opportunity for our research and we can more than handle whatever is here. So, I don't know who you think you are, but you need to get the Hell out!'

The stranger said nothing. His face, hard as stone, didn't move at all in the face of Kelly's broadside. Only his eyes moved as they darted around the room, taking everything in.

Finally, after several tense moments, he walked to the front of the couch and plucked the box off of the coffee table where Jonathan had set it down.

"Were you going to try and use this to trap this entity?" he asked, no emotion, not even anger, showing in his voice.

"Maybe, what of it?" Kelly shot back.

Without warning, the stranger's whole body seemed to explode with anger, every muscle tensed up and he let out a sharp yell as he crushed the hollow box within his hand.

The room was silent after the outburst. Everyone in awe that this stranger, though not particularly well built, could so easily crush such a heavy wood piece caught everyone off guard.

"You fools, you don't even know what your up against or exactly how much danger you're in right this very moment," the stranger said once his body relaxed enough to speak, "I can't protect you from your own stupidity so you need to go… now!"

The growing tension in his voice was clear and everyone was scared, frozen in their seats, almost unable to breathe.

"Hey," Alex said, swallowing hard to work up his courage, "I… I… I… worked hard on that box. That took me almost three weeks to…"

"Then consider a career in woodworking, not ghost chasing Mr. Newsted," the stranger said letting the remnants of the box fall to the floor, "You're not ready for this."

"How did you…?" Alex began to ask, too scared to complete the question.

"I have strict orders," the stranger began again, "strict orders to eliminate the entity that has taken up residence here and that is the extent of them. I have no orders regarding any of your safety, and that goes for you two as well Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, if you value your lives, you'll leave me alone to do my work."

"I'm sorry, I'm not clear here, who ordered you to come here?" Mr. Jameson asked, trying desperately not to show his fear.

"My superiors at the Shadowline society."

"But who exactly is the Shadowline society?"

"I can't tell you that," the stranger said flatly. "All that you need to know is that I'm here to help you and that, when I'm done, you'll either have your home back or, well, I'll be dead. Those are the only two options."

"I… I see," Mr. Jameson said, backing off the stranger, eventually nestling back down into his chair.

"I'm giving everyone one last chance to leave. Anyone who doesn't leave now takes their lives in their own hands, I can not and will not be held responsible for anything that happens to you."

The room was completely still, no one made as much as a motion to the door, or anywhere else for that matter. His presence was just too great and, even if they believed their lives to be in serious danger, they couldn't flee, they were too entranced, or perhaps too scared.

"Suit yourselves," the stranger said flatly. He turned to Mrs. Jameson and, sensing her fear, said, "This entity, I don't sense it yet, where does it strike most often?"

"Here… actually," she stammered. "Either here or the back bedroom, it's down the…"

The stranger raised a hand and, though no chill came over her, Mrs. Jameson knew to fall silent, "He's here," the stranger said flatly, the tone of his voice causing the others in the room to shiver where they sat.

"My name is Peter Silverton," the stranger said, his voice now booming, "I know you can hear me and I know that you're in this room. I am a representative of the Shadowline society and I hearby order you to disband your presence and leave this place. You are a danger to these people and the physical universe."

The stranger stood in the center of the room, spinning on his heels, his eyes following an invisible force as it seemed to move in circles around him. His gaze was determined and fixed, like a bouncer squaring off for a fight, he showed no fear, only determination with every motion.

Mr. Jameson began to wonder if the ad had attracted a lunatic, that perhaps this character was an escaped mental patient or just a random lunatic. He too began to brace himself, the look on his face grew more angry and focused as seconds of silence ticked by following the stranger's proclamation. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair and he began to push himself up and forward.

"No…. like… Shadow…. line…."

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. It echoed around the small, full room and left the observers speechless, their jaws agape. Mr. Jameson slid back into his chair and everyone rested motionless, except for the stranger who was still moving in slow circles, trying to follow an invisible force that, now, no one had any doubt was there.

"If you do not disband immediately, I will be forced to destroy you. I am giving you one last chance to leave peacefully or perish," the stranger said, unshaken.

He continued moving in circles but stopped for a moment facing a large bookshelf in the corner of the room. He seemed to hold there for a moment, fixated by something. The others in the room watched him eagerly, too frozen to even glance at what he was staring at, they were frozen, like wallpaper, just part of the background in the room.

With a strong burst of air, a book flew off the shelf traveling directly for the stranger's face. Without flinching, he reached up and grabbed the book, stopping it cold in it's flight, before gently placing it down on the coffee table atop of the folded newspaper.

"Is that a no?" he asked calmly.

He took a step back and paced around silently for a moment, shaking his head in a combination of frustration and disbelief, "Fine, we'll do it the hard way," he said.

He planted his feet on the ground and rolled his head about his shoulders for a moment, popping his neck. He exhaled sharply, relaxed his shoulders and extended his arm halfway out in front of him. He opened his fist slowly and held his hand almost flat, with the palm facing up, leaving just a little curl to his fingers.

He then closed his eyes, almost peacefully, like he was drifting to sleep or relaxing deeply. The air in the room turned humid and sticky. The others found it hard to breathe and it seemed as if the entire room was more dense or somehow under pressure.

The stranger didn't look up, his lips curled into a smirk, "Yes, you like that don't you?" he said under his breath, "Come and get it. You know you want it, take it. Take me."

His words didn't hang long before a blast of cold air sent the humidity scurrying into the darkness. The stranger reacted immediately, extending his arm fully and then recoiling as if he'd caught something heavy and fast in it. He wrestled with it for a moment before lifting his arm slightly above his head and slamming it down onto the coffee table, which jumped and rattled at the sudden impact.

To the amazement of the others in the room, despite the obvious signs of impact, the stranger's hand never came within three inches of the table.

The look on his face changed drastically, once relaxed and easygoing, his eyes narrowed and a grimace of sheer determination came over him. He tightened his hand, as if to squeeze the life out of an invisible neck and held whatever it was he had trapped, real or imaginary, to the table.

He began to growl a low, dark growl, like an angry dog or a struggling weightlifter. The room responded, it began to rumble slightly, shake under the feet of the others in it. The ceiling fan above them began to sway noticeably and a coffee cup left on an end table began to shift around.

Everyone in the room sat there, wide-eyed in terror, too scared to watch, too scared to turn away. The Jameson's clutched the armrest of their respective chairs and the others dug their nails into whatever they could find, skirts, pants, even each other.

The stranger brought his other hand around and placed it below his other, laying it flat with the fingers fully extended. His growl became a low yell, louder but still controlled. The rumbling and shaking became more noticeable as the ceiling fan began to leave streaking shadows across the room with every sway and the windows began to rattle in their panes.

Suddenly, there was a violent jerk in the stranger's hands, as if something had pulled them to the side. With his hand fully extended to the side, he struggled to regain his balance. After his footing took, he looked up at his hand and with a sharp yell he forced it back down to the table, knocking the book off of the newspaper and the newspaper to the floor.

He wasted no time bringing his other hand around again. As soon as he braced himself, he began to yell again and the expression on his face turned from anger to pain. This scream was different from the previous ones, it was louder, uncontrolled and more violent in nature. He was screaming as if his life depended on it, with all abandon tossed aside and all sensibility forgotten.

The room responded in kind. The rumbling grew louder and, before long, it sounded as if a train was passing within feet of the home. The ceiling fan began to knock around so hard that the blades scraped the ceiling and all around books were sliding off their shelves and paintings were slipping off their nails and crashing onto the floor.

No one in the room was breathing. terror had gripped them so tightly that their chests wouldn't expand to breathe in. Not a soul blinked, their eyes forced open by fear and no one moved an inch, they just clinched tighter and silently prayed as the very building seemed ready to fly apart, shaking harder and harder.

A pointed shriek seemed to come from nowhere, echoing over the rumbling and piercing the ears of the few who could still listen. It grew louder and louder, like a chorus of screeching metal until it almost covered up the screaming, the rumbling and the crashing of falling objects.

Just when no one thought they could take anymore, the screeching pitched up, piercingly high. No one covered their ears, still frozen in their chairs, but their ears began to ring as the shriek reached and ear-popping pitch and seemed to howl with an unbearable pain.

Then it stopped.

As quickly as it started, it was over. The shrieking, the rumbling, the yelling. The room settled back down on its moorings and the stranger began to pant wildly.

After a couple seconds of stunned silence, he dropped to his knee, pressing the palm of his hand against the ground and dropping his head. His breathing was labored and his chest rose and fell with every heave. He seemed to be inches away from passing out but no one got up to help him. It was as if they were frozen in time.

After a few moments, Mrs. Jameson shook her head violently and raced up from her chair. She knelt down beside the stranger and placed her hand upon his back, "Are you ok?" she asked in a soft voice.

The stranger slowly picked himself off the floor and stood up. He straightened his shirt and tugged at his cuffs. He did his best to put on a tough face, but the look was very different, his eyes were unfocused and relaxed, his expression seemed weak and frail, "I'm fine," he said after a few moments, "Thank you for asking."

"Is it… you know… gone?" Mrs. Jameson asked, fear still ringing in her voice.

"It's dead."

"I, I didn't think things like that could die."

"Anything living can die," the stranger said, his voice becoming more sharp, "It's just that for some death is a much more significant event than it is for others."

"Well… thank you."

"You're welcome," he said softly, "Enjoy your home ma'am, you should find it much more inhabitable now."

The stranger turned on his heels and headed for the door, he got no more than two steps when Mr. Jameson shot up, like a cat, and said, "How will we reach you if we need you again?"

For his part, the stranger turned back around and, with a calm voice, said, "You won't need me, but if you do, the Shadowline society will find you. We did this time, we will again if needed."

"I see…" Mr. Jameson said, settling back into his chair as the shock and confusion overwhelmed him.

The stranger turned and left the home, leaving behind six agape mouths and a stunned silence that was left unbroken for what seemed like an eternity. Though he couldn't have been there for more than fifteen or twenty minutes, his impact lasted hours.

But soon, it was obvious the feeling in the house had changed. The room seemed larger, less crowded and even though tension hung in the air it was somehow more peaceful, almost calm.

"You know, I think he did," Mrs. Jameson finally said, "I don't know how I know, but it's gone. Do you feel it?" she said turning to her husband.

"Yes, I do dear, I do…"

Shadowline: Chapter One – Explaining the Universe

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The diner was filled to the brim with society's worst. Hookers and pimps talking noisily while waitresses race to serve their every demand bypassing the thieves and drunks hovering silently over steaming cups of coffee. It seemed anyone who was part of the human race's underbelly or downtrodden by it was here, wasting the hours away.

Outside the black late-night air was cool and still, traffic was nonexistent and nothing seemed to exist beyond the fogged up windows and streetlights just beyond. It was an entire world, a dark twisted universe, condensed into one mass of neon lights, stale coffee and cigarette smoke.

Yet, in the middle of it all, there I was. Taking up a booth with a view of the door, I sat pouring over my notes and collecting my thoughts. A freelance journalist for ten odd years, I was strangely used to these places and to the seedier side of man, it was calming, almost refreshing to be among those less fortunate than I.

However, nothing settled my nerves that night. I was tracking the biggest story of my career and I knew it. Because, if all went well, I was about to break open the secrets of the Shadowline society.

For years I had studied the paranormal including, ghosts, UFOs and everything in between. I'd met a lot of quacks and nut jobs of all varieties, but I'd also tapped into a large network of legitimate reporting. In that network, largely populated by mainstream journalists with a fascination for oddities, I kept hearing a name repeated over and over, “Shadowline”.

It became my obsession and, for nearly four years, it consumed all of my free time, even to the point of building a pseudo shrine in my office of photos and clippings pertaining to its strange tales. It seemed that, in nearly every corner of the globe and as far back as I could study, the society was there, battling invisible threats and waging a silent war.

Through the stories, I learned the name of a local Shadowline representative, Peter Silverton, and pulled every string I could to track him down, eventually nailing him through his cell phone company. I called him up and told him that I knew about the society. To my shock, he barely reacted at all, instead asking if I was a journalist and then scheduling an interview. He suggested the time, I suggested the place.

According to him, he was eager to reminisce some and was tired of holding onto his stories. Still, it seemed too easy. After all, how is a secret society to remain as such when it's members talk freely? It didn't add up.

But I didn't get much time to debate the question. Because, as soon as the thought entered my mind the bell above the door to the diner chimed and he walked in.

It was an eerie moment to say the least. Though people had come and gone the entire time I'd been there, for some reason, everyone dropped what they were doing to turn to the door. Even I, who had previously grown deaf to the chime of the bell, felt compelled to look up when I heard it ring this time. It was as if everyone in the restaurant was captivated by something they couldn't even feel, just some strange instinct that no one could explain.

He stepped into the door calmly, ignoring the dozens of eyes locked directly on him. His footsteps were firm as they echoed through the stilted silence that had fallen across the restaurant. He looked up for a second, glanced around the room and quickly fixed his gaze on me, staring me directly in the eye, without so much as changing his expression.

Quietly, he walked over to me and slowly conversation began to resume in the restaurant. He stopped a few feet in front of me and extended his hand, “Mr. Abbott, I assume,” he said, almost charmingly.

“Yes, but call me Nathanial,” I said meeting his hand for a stiff handshake.

“Then call me Peter,” he said softly.

He slid into the booth opposite of me and offered me a moment to get a good look at him. He was exactly as described in reports, in his late thirties, with slicked back blond hair, piercing blue eyes, dressed completely in black and with with a very calm demeanor about him. It was as if the news articles had come to life.

“Can I get you something to eat,” I offered, “Perhaps something to drink?”

Peter reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, “I'll take a cup of coffee, black, and a glass of ice water.”

I hurriedly flagged down a waitress and placed his order. “Thank you for coming to see me tonight, I appreciate it.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he said removing a cigarette from the pack, “It's not every day I get to talk about my past. We keep few friends in our profession, so we don't get to talk very much.”

I went to speak but the waitress returned with the drinks. I looked up at him as he was lighting his cigarette and somehow felt scared, as if I couldn't speak. I stammered on my words for a moment before working up the courage to ask, “So why did you agree to talk to me? I mean, you're a part of a pretty secret society aren't you?”

Peter took a long drag off the cigarette and tapped it on the edge of the ashtray, “We're no secret society,” he said, “There's plenty of evidence we exist, as I'm sure you know. However, no one believes in us. We're like the tooth fairy or Santa Claus, hidden in plain sight, but just a figment of our collective imagination.”

I shifted uneasy in my seat trying to absorb what he'd said, “But the tooth fairy and Santa Claus aren't real, yet, you are.”

“How are you sure they aren't real?” he said, holding his cigarette loosely in his fingers, “Besides, in my world, the line between real and imaginary is faded at best.”

“Let's move on,” I said trying to get off the subject.

“I agree,” he said setting his cigarette down and leaning forward in the booth, “Because I have a question for you.”

“Oh?”

“How long did it take you to track me down? I'm just curious.”

He was toying with me, I just knew it. His attitude, his demeanor, even the way he flicked his cigarette, I knew he was waiting to spring some kind of trap. It's always a bad sign when someone asks the journalist questions. It means the tables are turning and whatever control one has is slipping.

“It took me about four years,” I said trying to keep calm, “I'd been studying the paranormal for much longer, but only honed in on Shadowline recently.”

“I'm impressed,” he said smoothly, “Most would have taken much longer.”

I decided to reclaim the offensive. I didn't know if he had another question, a barrage of them or just the one, but I wasn't going to wait to find out. I thanked him politely and bolted in, “However, there's still much that I don't understand. I've got a lot of questions for you.”

He took a short puff of his cigarette, exhaled softly and set it back down, “That's why I'm here, so ask away,” he said with a soft hand motion.

Hurriedly I threw open my note book and turned it to a clean page. I plucked my pen from underneath the scattered pages on the table and held it firmly against the paper my hand, practically shaking under the pressure.

“Well, the first thing, I guess, is that I don't really understand what the Shadowline society is. I mean, I've read all kinds of stories about you guys but, honestly, I have no clue what it is that you do.”

Peter sat up in his chair, took a long drag of his cigarette before snuffing it out in the ashtray. He then turned to his coffee, taking a short sip of it as he hunched over the table. “I see,” he said softly, clearly searching for the right words.

I started to apologize for my ignorance, but before I could speak up, Peter shifted and said, “Well, in order to understand what the Shadowline Society does, you have to understand what the Shadowline is and that's a bit involved I'm afraid.”

I nestled back into my seat and tried to mask my disappointment. He didn't seem like someone to trouble himself with details, much less long explanations. It was a shock when he continued.

“It's difficult to explain because the three dimensional world you see is an illusion. The universe is, truthfully, much more complicated and is divided into two separate, but equally important halves. The first half is the physical world, it's the things we see, touch, feel taste. It's all of the stars and planets in the universe and every blade of grass on the ground.”

“It's the world we live in,” I chimed in, trying to be helpful.

He raised is hand to silence me and made a motion to indicate I was getting ahead of him, “The other world, is the world of energy. Even though it could include almost any kind of energy, for the purpose of this discussion, we'll just say it includes living energy, often called Chi. It's what separates the living from, well,” he tapped the table twice with his knuckle, “the inert.”

“I see,” I said trying to keep up, “and both realms occupy the same, what we would call three dimensional space.”

Peter nodded his head softly, “Simplistic, but very accurate. However, the picture we're concerned with, the bigger one, operates a lot like this glass,” he said pulling his water glass from the side and putting it in the center of the table.

I gave him a puzzled look and he threw back an annoyed expression. He dropped a finger into the ice water and flattened his other hand out, holding it just outside the glass, “This glass has two very different worlds, one of water and one of air. They are separated by a wall, the glass itself,” he said running his finger along the rim.

“The Shadowline works like the glass, separating the two worlds. However, for life to exist, there must be both energy and matter in the same place.”

I sat up and leaned in to the glass, excited by the dialog, “But if the two are kept separate by this Shadowline, how can they ever meet?”

Without saying a word he dragged a finger from his dry hand along the outside of the glass and held it up to show me that it was wet from condensation on the glass' exterior. “Much as with this glass, the two worlds have a minute amount of the other trapped in them. Inside this glass are tiny air bubbles left behind from when it was empty and the air has a certain amount of water inside it naturally. In both cases, these masses, for whatever reason, condense to the barrier around them, creating droplets, air bubbles and even life.”

I sank back into my seat and tried to take it all in. I was never much of one for philosophy or physics, I was just expecting to talk to a ghost chaser like myself, not get an explanation on the origins of life, “So we're just a cosmic accident?” I asked timidly.

“We don't get into religion,” he said firmly. “Whether this is part of a divine plan or just a coincidence, well, that's up to you. But it's important to note that, unlike this glass, the Shadowline is flexible. Anything you do on one side has ripples that effect the other. Perhaps a balloon would have been a better analogy. But I had to work with what I have on hand.”

“I understand,” I said exhaling sharply. I ran my fingers through my hair and quickly realized that I was out of my league. I tried to think of an intelligent question but kept firing blanks. “So life exists on both sides of the Shadowline.”

“Defintely,” he said without any hesitation, apparently excited that I was still interested, “Creatures live in both worlds, physical beings with only a minor amount of energy and energy creatures with only some physical properties. Both exist.”

“So, what does this have to do with you?” I asked, trying desperately to get the conversation back on track.

He leaned back in his seat and took another sip from his coffee. He toyed briefly with his cigarettes before deciding to wait and sliding them back into his pocket, “As a member of the Shadowline Society, my job is to protect the Shadowline.”

“From what?”

“Many creatures, including those on both sides of the line, want to break through to the other side. The logic is that, for example, if a human could tap into this entire universe of energy, he or she would have unlimited power. However, the logic is quite flawed because, if anyone succeed, it would tear the Shadowline, rendering it useless.”

“And what does that mean.”

He slid forward in his chair and leaned across the table, pressing his face as close to mine as he could do so comfortably, “It means that life as we know it would end. Either a new universe would be created or the one we have now would simply be destroyed. Either way, that is not a risk we can take. The death of every living creature in the universe is not an acceptable outcome, no matter what happens afterward.”

The gravity of it all finally hit me. I dropped my eyes to the table top and began dwelling on the situation at hand. I was either dealing with a lunatic or, perhaps, the most important person alive. I glanced down at my notes, looking at the various incidents I'd recorded with his name attached to them.

There was an eerie pattern to them. Everywhere he went, he walked into the worst hauntings imaginable and, in front of credible witnesses, consistently put an end to them. It was too much to ignore. But there he sat, three feet away from me, talking about the end of the world and how he and his group were the only things stopping it from happening. He seemed ripe for a padded room and a straitjacket, but he looked as calm and rational as anyone else.

My mind quickly began to gnaw on the problem. I couldn't tell who was sane anymore. Everything seemed crazy. I even began questioning myself and the urge to leave grew stronger and stronger with ever breath I took.

But when I looked up, Peter was leaning forward and looking directly at me. He met my eyes calmly and said, “You don't have to believe me, all you have to do is listen. The stories will speak for themselves.”

It was as if he'd read my mind. It was all I could do to mutter “Ok” before grabbing my pad again.

“So, where shall we start?” he asked leaning back into his seat, trying to get comfortable.

“At the beginning, definitely at the beginning,” I said back.

Introduction

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My name is Tony Altru. In college, my keen sense of observation and knack for all things magical earned me the prevalent nickname “The Warlock”, a moniker that I still carry proudly today.

Though my college years were kind to me and afforded me many chances to assert and hone my mental prowess, it did not help me discover my career path. Like many at that point, I spent my senior year struggling to determine what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Essay writing held promise, if not a lot of profit, and other fields such as computers and design seemed both interesting and plausible.

However, it was the campus police chief that wound up starting me on my eventual path. After I stumbled into a case involving a minor car break-in, he took an interest in me and encouraged me to become a detective, putting my talents to use for solving crime. He was even kind enough to pull strings and get me into to my state's police academy, where I went after graduation.

Unfortunately, the academy and I never got along. Actually, my superiors didn't appreciate my wit and, after two weeks and more than a few rounds with my instructor, I resigned thinking that would be the end of my career in law enforcement.

But then things took yet another bizarre twist. The commandant, whom I'd never met, caught wind of of who I was and what I could do and sought me out, despite my rather unpleasant departure. Though he couldn't place me on the force since I wasn't a graduate, he encouraged and eventually got many of the higher ups in the state to believe in me and one of them, a former cop turned career politician by the name of Mike Digowski, agreed that I was too important to let go and offered to keep me on a retainer.

The idea was simple. The state police commission would pay me a paltry sum in order to keep my number on speed dial for cases their “traditional” methodology couldn't solve, or more likely, cases they didn't care enough about to invest their own men in.

Reluctantly, very reluctantly, I accepted the offer. The retainer, when combined with my income as a freelance essayist and novelist, made for a humble, but manageable living. My partner in life, April, quickly became my partner in crime solving, joining me on many of the cases and bringing her own perspective to the rather unusual puzzles we found ourselves roaming into.

It quickly became apparent that the only thing that was certain with every case we entered into was that we were going to be earning our fee, the hard way.

The Dead Hypnotist: Part One

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“I wish you wouldn't drive so fast,” April said to me from the passenger seat of our small car. “You know I hate it when you get like this.”

She was right to worry. We blew by a “Speed Limit 55” sign at nearly eighty miles an hour and were tearing around the corners of the old country road like circuit drivers on the final lap.

“I'm sorry. We're just pressed for time. We need to move.”

“What's the rush anyway?” she asked.

“I got a call from Mike. He wants me to take a look at some suspicious accident on route 81. He says it's important.”

“An accident?”

“Yeah,” I said as the car jumped up suddenly leaving behind gray pothole-ridden pavement for smooth black asphalt, “Not his style, I know. But he's meeting us there. So, I don't know.”

“Mike?” she asked with a slight grimace, “When did he start caring about accidents?”

“About an hour ago apparently.”

April paused for a bit and propped her elbow against the window, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. I could tell she was trying to act calm in the face of my outrageous driving but she was clearly getting annoyed. However, my eyes remained firmly on the road and on my watch as I tried desperately to meet my deadline while the minutes kept ticking away.

“So anyway, what is the rush?” she asked.

“Well, I called the local police on the scene. They're cleaning up the accident now and plan to have everything gone by seven.”

“Seven? What time is it now?”

“About 6:20, give or take. Luckily we're almost there.”

“Where exactly is there?”

I paused a moment and looked around me. I saw nothing but trees and telephone poles blowing by me at an ever-increasing rate of speed. Though my foot was inching closer and closer to the floor, the miles only seemed to drag on longer and longer.

“The middle of nowhere apparently. The exact geometric center of nothingness,” I finally replied.

* * *

When we finally pulled up to the scene at a shade past 6:40, the wreck was very much intact and it was a sight to behold. The road, which had been relatively straight for the past mile or so suddenly veered almost ninety degrees to the right and a car had completely missed the turn, run over a reflective arrow and smashed headlong into a hard embankment.

The car looked like Hell. Since the embankment wasn't exactly flush with the road the right side had hit first and the car was sent spinning to the side where it's rear end struck a tree. The result was an accordion-like effect that took at least a foot off the length of the car and created an abstract lump of crumpled steel and glass out of what once was a perfectly sound machine.

The driver, obviously, hadn't fared much better. A few feet away from the car's final resting place an ambulance crew was putting the finishing touches on a body bag and loading it onto a waiting stretcher. For the sake of my stomach, I prayed that I wouldn't have to investigate that particular element.

No sooner had April and I been able to take in the full horror of the scene, when one of the local cops came running up to our window.

“Excuse me sir,” he said with a thick southern accent as he tugged as his belt, “There ain't nothin' you can do here. You best be on your way.”

I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my badge, “I'm special detective Altru, I was called here by Mike…”

“Tony!” Mike called out interrupting my sentence. He had finally spotted my car and was trotting over to greet me. Though Mike was a good-natured guy, as good-natured as any politician can get, he wasn't a small fellow, despite being on the short side, and with his Italian blood giving him such dark hair and smooth facial features, he looked ridiculous pretending to run over to me.

He stuck his hand inside my lowered window and shook my hand, “I'm glad you could make it Tony, we got a doozy on our hands here.”

I pushed open the door and got out. Though I heard April do the same, I didn't see her as Mike, being one of those huggy, personable guys, grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me up and down.

“Jesus,” he said, “Do you wear anything but black? Every time I see you you've got that damn suit on. You look like you're going to a damn funeral or something.”

“That's funny,” I said before he could continue, “Every time I see you it's because someone's dead. I thought I was dressing appropriately.”

“Heh,” he said looking around at the other officers on the scene.

“Besides,” I said tugging on the lapels of his gray jacket, “I think I'm doing better than this polyester monstrosity.”

Mike knew I was sensitive about my eccentricities and picks at them only to get under my skin. Of course, I know he's sensitive about his weight and his clothes but even more sensitive about being taken seriously by the officers he works over. That's why, when I heard the snickering around me, I knew I'd scored a good blow.

However, I also knew he'd forgive me, it wasn't like he had much choice.

“Well,” he said pushing my hand away and straightening his jacket, “What do you say I show you around.”

After introducing me to the other officers, he showed me around the scene of the accident. He showed me the marks in the grass where the car went off the road, the point of initial impact and showed me the car itself, which was surprisingly devoid of blood for such a major accident. However, all in all, I saw nothing interesting.

When he was done, I looked at him and said, “Ok Mike, I give up, why did you drag me out here?”

“What do you mean?”

“This is an accident. It's as plain as day. There's no evidence of foul play, there's not even another human being in sight outside of the local cops and the only thing remotely interesting is the lack of skid marks in the road.”

“Why does that interest you?” he asked.

“Well, there's two warning signs for the turn up the road, I'd like to think that the person at least tried to stop before running off the road, but apparently they didn't. Speaking of which, who is the victim?”

Mike pulled out his notepad and thumbed through the pages, “The license was for a Shela Albertson, 27, from Morton just down the road. However, the body was too mangled to confirm so we're going to have to get a final identification at the morgue. Maybe then we'll get some more background.”

“I see,” I said looking at him impatiently. I started giving him hand signals to continue but he simply shrugged his shoulders at me. Eventually, I relented, “So why I am I here?”

“Oh, you don't know?” he said with a puzzled look coming over his face.

“No, I don't know. You haven't told me,” I said, my frustration showing through.

“Oh, that's right,” he said reeling back a bit, “Well, you see, this is the thirteenth wreck and the tenth fatality at this turn in the last two years and for a highway this empty that's a pretty big deal.”

Honestly, that didn't shock me. It was a horrible turn and it was painfully obvious the only reason they cut it as sharp as they did was to avoid the rock structure that the car thrust itself into. It was a classic case of sloppy road craftsmanship and, as far as I was concerned, nothing more..

“So, then this turn needs a guardrail, not a detective. Bad planning doesn't equal homicide. You can't prosecute the road planner, as much as I'd like to.”

“You see, it goes a bit beyond that. The local residents are pretty spooked. They're saying that it's cursed land or something like that.”

I did a quick 360 on my heels and tried to see if I could feel anything special about the area. I don't believe in curses, not those types of curses anyway, but I figured if there was something there I might be able to pick it up. Unfortunately, the feeling of death was still heavy in the air and the panic of the scene pretty much drowned out anything else I might have been able to feel.

“So is this road built on an Indian burial ground or something?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “I mean, they have to have a reason for believing that. ”

“Nope, it's built on the land of a dead hypnotist.”

At that point, I nearly broke down and cried. After months without a case I get dragged nearly two hours into the wilderness for a spook story about a hypnotist. It was all I could do to avoid a random outburst of emotions and eek out, “Ok, what's the story,” in a semi-serious tone.

“Well, the legend is pretty well known out here. It's about a guy named Marxam the Great. He was one of those stage hypnotists like you invite to parties or see at comedy clubs. He was a big smash in the eighties, toured the country and everything. That is until he was exposed as a fraud. Apparently he paid his subjects to do as he commanded and, in one show, when one of them didn't like a 'suggestion' the guy dropped the charade and started fessing up to the audience about what was going on.”

“So much for going out on top,” I said still trying to keep a straight face.

“Anyway, his career was ruined. He couldn't get a job doing kid's parties, much less headline acts. But then, luck smiled on him and his father passed away leaving him all of this land.”

“How much land?”

“It goes for about a mile or so in that direction,” Mike said pointing down the road from the crash, “We're near the edge right now but he owns a lot of property on both sides of the road. Probably almost a thousand acres.”

“Pretty nice inheritance for a down-and-out showman. So where does this feared curse come in?” I asked, starting to get impatient.

“You're standing on it,” Mike said pointing to the asphalt beneath my feet, “You see, about four years ago the state wanted to build a highway between Morton and Jamesboro. Unfortunately, to do that, they had to cut his property almost in half.”

“I see, but by law he had to be compensated for use of his land. That's a Federal deal.”

“And he was,” Mike continued as he pulled out a little notebook and began to flip through it, “But not well enough, at least not according to Marxam, who's real name was, for the record, Jeffery Marx.”

“Like Karl Marx?”

“No relation, trust me. I checked. But anyway, he made a big stink about it, even went to town hall to file protests. Other landowners sold willingly, the money was good in their mind and they wanted the project done, but he held out until the state forced him to give up.”

“You can't fight city hall. I could have told him that,” I said.

“Yeah, but he never stopped trying. Even threatened the bulldozer drivers with a bow and arrow. Luckily, the bastard died before the highway was finished. Otherwise, he might have taken a few potshots at cars if you know what I mean.”

“Doubtful, but anyway, keep going,” I said motioning for him to wrap things up.

“Well, all he got done before he died was planting a forest to block the view of his house from the soon-to-be road and leveling another one to write letters to every senator he could. Still though, everyone around here seems to think he's placed some kind of curse on the road and, well, they have ten bodies to point to as evidence.”

I walked over to a rocky part of the embankment and found a stone to sit down on. To Mike, I must have looked like I was pondering the story he told deeply but, honestly, I was trying to figure out why such a respected law enforcement official was buying such malarkey. It made no sense.

“Tell me something,” I said as a realization flashed across my eyes, “You said that there have been thirteen crashes, but only ten fatalities, what do the survivors have to say about it?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you about that!” Mike said, his voice finally getting excited, “They all reported that they kind of slipped into a trance, almost the second they drove onto his property. Two don't even remember the crash.”

I could feel my smug expression slide into a deep gaze. Though I consider myself about as adept as anyone magically, I'm always open to the notion that there's something out there that I don't understand. Add to that volumes of knowledge that no one has stumbled across and suddenly this hypnotists curse becomes a lot more real.

“So, what do you want me to do?” I asked solemnly.

Mike threw his hands up and sat down beside me, “I don't know. My phones are ringing off the hook on this one. These guys are the conservative backbone of the state and they got me in office. Now they're scared to death by the ghost of some half-assed hypnotist and they want me to do something about it.”

“Basically, you want me to solve this and prove that there's no curse or ghost or anything like that, right?”

“Yeah, that'd be the best.”

“And saying that these are just isolated accidents isn't going to help. Right?”

“Not with these guys. City folk might buy it, but these guys are way too superstitious for that.”

I put my head in my hands and slowly started running my fingers through my hair, “Why do I feel like I should be riding around in a Technicolor van and hanging out with a talking great dame?”

“Listen,” Mike said with a sigh, “Are you going to help me or not?”

“I don't have a choice. You've got my paycheck. But I'm not going to approach this from the curse angle, not yet. I'm going to try to find a cause.”

“Well, good luck to you, any ideas where you're going to start?”

I stood up and shuffled my feet around in the dirt, “Well, when trying to piece together multiple deaths, you try to tie together the victims. I'll start there, see what they had in common. Maybe that'll turn up something. I'll need the full accident report on all thirteen crashes though. Can you get that to me?”

Mike stood up and pointed over at the two local cops still walking around the scene, “I can get them for you, but it'd be quicker to talk with them since their department wrote up all of them. I'd have to go through channels and that can take a while.”

“Alright, I'll see what I can do for you,” I said reaching out to shake his hand, “I'll call you when I find something, or nothing as the case will probably be.”

“Good luck,” he said clinching my hand tight. “Talk to you soon.”

Without missing a beat I turned around and walked over to the officers. I'd been introduced to them earlier as deputy Howard and deputy Kinard, but they seemed to simply prefer James and Jake so I decided to try the more friendly approach.

“James, I need your help with something. Mike wants me to…”

“That is deputy Howard to you sir,” he said with a heavy, almost offensive twang, “I am an officer of the law and I will be treated as such.”

“My apologies,” I said trying to bite my tongue, “I need the accident reports from this and the previous twelve crashes here. I was wondering if you could help…”

“Listen buddy,” deputy Kinard interjected, “We don't want your help and we sure as Hell ain't gonna give you none. You want anything from us, you're going to have to pry it from our cold, dead fingers son.”

I was done playing nice. My eyes narrowed and I began to focus a little harder on the world around me. I paused trying to plan my next move but I quickly realized that I'd have to use “channels” to get those reports. So, I decided to settle for the next best thing.

“It's a pretty nice set up you've got here, you must write a lot of speeding tickets.”

“How do you know that,” deputy Kinard said as he tried to light a cigarette pursed between his lips.

“Well, both of you are driving 2002 Camaro cruisers. Rural cops can't afford that kind of wheels unless they're raking in some serious fines.”

“Oooowe,” deputy Howard cried, “You must have studied hard in detective school. Oh wait, that's right, you dropped out because you couldn't cut it.”

I resisted launching a pressure point strike against him and instead just watched the two of them celebrate with a round of high fives and grunts.

“How does it feel to spend your entire life taking money from good people who were passing through your county instead of actually fighting crime?”

“Hey,” deputy Kinard jumped in, “It ain't my fault that they can't go the speed limit. It's forty five through this stretch and if they're over that, they're getting a ticket. It's that simple.”

“I see, you've got a point there. Well, I guess I'll be on my way. I have things to do. Have a good day gentlemen.”

For their part, the deputies were too stunned to respond. One of them, deputy Kinard I believe, waved at me meekly, but I was too busy turning the other cheek to notice. I just walked back to my car where April was already standing in wait.

“We done here?” she asked, impatient.

“Yeah, what's wrong?” I asked.

“Those two assholes,” she said motioning to the deputies. “They wouldn't leave me alone for a second.”

“I'm surprised you didn't kill one of them,” I responded dryly.

“I should have, but they aren't worth going to jail over.”

I chuckled a bit at myself, “I couldn't agree more. Let's get out of here so we can figure out what's going on. There's nothing more here, unless you like windbags.”

April nodded at me and we both climbed into the car and sped off, back the way we came.

However, about half a mile down the road, a glint of silver on the opposite side of the road just below the treeline caught my eye and I pulled over.

“What now?” April asked, her frustration obvious.

“Nothing, is that knife still in the glove box?”

“Yeah sure but…”

“Give it here.”

April opened the glove box and handed me my pocketknife, which, up to that point, served only to cut nylon rope that I used for ties. “What are you…?”

Before she could finish her sentence I was out the door and hopping across the empty highway. I climbed a small embankment, took my knife and started sawing away at a branch.

Though the branch was thick and the knife was small, it only took a few seconds before the sharp blade found it's way through the wood causing the branch to fall to the ground, revealing a “Speed Zone/Speed Limit 45” sign that was concealed beneath it.

I quickly dashed over to the car and hopped back in. No sooner had I turned the key than we were in drive and pulling back onto the highway.

“What was that all about?” April asked as I began to get back into the lane.

“Pruning,” I said trying to remain calm.

April shifted in her seat so she could see out of the rear view mirror. After a quick glance she looked over at me, smiled and said, “Uh-huh, pruning, got it.”

“Pruning. Just pruning. And you never saw me doing that. Ok?”

April let out a faint laugh, “Got it.”

The Dead Hypnotist: Part Two

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Three days passed and, finally, the files I requested arrived by carrier late in the evening. In a hurry, I ran into the dining room and threw the stack down on our large oak table and started spreading the files out.

My first order of business, as far as I was concerned, was putting them in order by date. Before I could even start looking for similarities, I needed to know who crashed on that curve and when.

Unfortunately, right as I was in the middle of shuffling and sorting, April walked into the room. “Sweetie, you know I love you and I don't mind your work but…”

“Yes,” I said sliding one of the files into its proper place.

“Well, I don't want to have to get a bigger table. We do have to eat at some point you know.”

I couldn't help myself but to laugh. That dining table hadn't been used for eating in so long that I had honestly forgotten it could be. Though April was a very good cook, we both seemed to favor a variety of take out to home cooked meals and take out usually wound up being eaten in the computer room or at a nearby park if it was a nice day outside.

“It'll only be a moment,” I said, “I'm just getting them in order so I can go through them.”

“Oh,” April said with interest in her voice, “Those are the files for those accidents. You want some help going through them.”

On the long car ride home from the accident, I had told her all about the supposed curse of Marxam the Great and previous twelve accidents. Though, like me, she hadn't spotted anything interesting at the wreck, she took some interest in the case and was eager to help.

“Here,” I said sliding her the second file on the stack, “You can take the second one and I'll take the first one. I'll read out the pertinent information on mine and let me know if you seem to have a possible match on your end, alright?”

April nodded her approval and we both cracked open our files. I took a moment to skim through the file, even glancing at a few of the horrific photographs inside it before finally settling in to read.

“Ok, this woman is named Claire Duveaux. She was seventy-six years old, Caucasian, she lived out in the country off of route 367, apparently in a ritzy house though because she was driving a large brand-new Cadillac, white, and was on her way to see her grandchildren in the upstate. She had no history of any serious physical condition, outside of minor arthritis, and, if this is her complete driving record, hadn't been in an accident in about twenty years or so.”

I looked up from my file and saw April still buried in hers. I tapped the table twice to get her attention and, when her eyes met mine I motioned for her to begin. However, that only caused her to shrug her shoulders at me.

“You didn't say anything. Something wrong?”

“No, nothing's wrong, there just weren't any similarities.”

“Huh?” I said confused, “Nothing at all?”

“Let's see,” she began, “My victim is a thirty-five year old black male, father of two, who was driving down the highway as a detour home from work, apparently there was some road construction at that time. He lived in an apartment complex outside of Jamesboro and the only thing he shares the first victim is no known history of medical problems. No Epilepsy or heart trouble or anything like that.”

I motioned for her to slide the file across the table, which she did. I picked it up and briefly leafed through it. Though the accident was almost identical in every way to the other file and the one we visited, at a glance, the victims couldn't have had less in common if they tried.

Immediately, a whole flood of theories and hopeful guesses washed away. I was hoping for an easy solution, something like medical problems or someone targeting a certain group of people. But as I continued to leaf through the files, the victim list only got more and more random.

By the time it was done, there were 12 victims. Nine were dead, three were alive. Among the dead, four were white, three were black, one was Hispanic and one was Asian. They came from all classes of society ranging from the wealthy Claire all the way down to a welfare dad with seven kids. They drove a variety of cars, from Sedans to pick up trucks and only one had a history of heart trouble, but his autopsy revealed no heart trauma.

When I finished with the last file, I tossed it down on the stack and buried my face in my arms. “Nothing,” I said, “They have nothing in common.”

“Except how they died,” April chimed in.

I sat back up slowly, my face must have still be streaked by frustration because April took pity on me and brought me a Coke from the refrigerator. “How they died or were injured,” I said, “Was in twelve separate, unrelated car accidents at the same bad turn. As far as I can tell, this is still a case of bad road design, not foul play.”

April set the coke down on the table in front of me and went back to get herself one, “So tell Mike that,” she said speaking over the refrigerator door.

I took a long sip of the Coke and leaned back in my chair, “I tried that, but the locals are spooked badly and Mike wants something more substantial.”

“Sometimes there isn't anything 'more substantial'. Accidents happen you know? That's life,” she said sitting down, opening up her can.

“I don't know, maybe.” I said cracking open the last file again, hoping to see something new.

April reached across the table and pushed down the top of the file to look into my eyes, “Something else is bothering you Tony, I can tell. What's going on?”

She was right, she could tell. Despite years of learning to hide my emotions I could never hide them from her. She could read my eyes as if I had what I was feeling printed on the back of them. The only consolation was that I could do the same to her, I guess this is what four years of living together does to you. Still though it's frustrating to be called on it.

“It's the survivors,” I said. “They all reported feeling like they were in some kind of hypnotic trance when they got onto the property. It's strange.”

April took a quick sip and said, “So do you think the curse has merit?”

“No,” I said shaking my head violently.

“But you're worried that it might.”

At that point, she had me, I leaned back in my chair and uttered “Yeah,” under my breath, “It's just that these accidents are very weird and, right now, I don't have another explanation so it's going to eat at me some.”

“Well,” she said scooping up all of the files on the table, putting them back in order, “Let's find another explanation. Any ideas where to start?”

I scratched the back of my neck and leaned forward in my chair, “The victims don't have anything in common, but the accidents seem to have plenty. Let's make a list of everything the accidents share and see what that offers us.”

April nodded her approval and we were off. This job took significantly longer as there was a lot more information to go through, or at least a lot more productive information. Files began to fly across the crowded workspace and April began using a dry erase board to keep track of our ever-growing list.

It was a messy ordeal, but within about thirty minutes we'd filled the board with all of the things we could find. April, picked it off of the table and began to read, “Ok, all of the accidents happened roughly the same time of day, between four and seven in the evening, on clear days. They were all traveling north on the road. All were going about fifty five miles an hour, give or take, and none of them, apparently, made an attempt to stop before hitting the embankment.”

“Furthermore,” I chimed in, “They were all driving alone and only one had a history of medical problems but, as we said earlier, that was found not to have played a role.”

“So,” April asked as she tapped her fingers on the table with anticipation, “What do you make of it?”

“Well, any of these things can be explained by coincidence. Most roads are busiest between four and seven, most people in the country do drive alone and with those deputies in the area I'd wager everyone does the speed limit religiously.”

“Still though,” she said smugly.

“Still, all of it together makes it seem like the exact same accident happened to thirteen completely unrelated people. I don't believe in the word random, but this is about as close to it as you can get.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“I have no idea,” I said shaking my head lightly, “It's getting harder and harder to write it off as a coincidence, but there's still no proof that anything is wrong.”

“So where does that leave us?”

I stood up from the table and started pacing our small dining area. April said frequently that this was my “Sherlock” mode and she knew to keep quiet when I was wearing down the carpet. “I still think that if we can tie the victims together, we can solve this easily.”

April tossed one of the files onto the table and picked up the dry erase board, “Good luck with that, you won't find a much more diverse group of people than this. From what I can tell, all they have in common is the same death certificate.”

I went back over to the table and started throwing open the files, looking at the types of things they all contained, “Since none of these cases were treated as homicides, there wasn't any real investigation into the deaths. No serious interviews of family members and so forth.”

April looked up from the dry erase board, “So what are you saying?”

“I'm saying tomorrow I'm going to talk to the victim's families. See if they can tie these thirteen together. They might be part of a club or something. Diverse people get together all the time for all kinds of causes, we just have to find the one they all shared.”

“So who are you going to start with?”

I rubbed my chin and went over the names in my head, “Claire seems as good as any. She was going to visit her grandchildren so it reasons she's close with her children, at least her son. Maybe he'll have some answers for me.”

“Hold up,” April interjected before I could continue, “Why not talk to some of the survivors? Wouldn't they know better than anyone what happened and what was going on?”

I leaned back in my chair and began tapping my fingers lightly on the table, “Two of the survivors don't even remember the crash and all three of them have had this spook story drilled into their heads. So much so that none of them faced as much as a fine from their insurance company. They've got too much at stake to abandon the 'curse' theory. I need people who were close to the victims but have no reason to hide the truth.”

“Ok, wait a minute,” April called out as she reached across the desk and began rummaging through some of the files, after searching for a few moments, she pulled out the one she wanted, “If that's the case, why not talk to Mr. Carney? His wife died in an accident six months ago. They were closer and his memory will be a little more fresh.”

“Ok, him first, Claire's son second and, well, someone else third. If I can't pin it down by the end of three interviews, there's probably nothing there, agreed?”

“Sounds good. When are you going to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

A quizzical look came over April's face, “But tomorrow's Saturday.”

“Exactly, they'll all be home, best time to do it.”

A smile came across April's face as the thought sank in. “Good idea. I'll be sure to pack you a lunch.”

* * *

The alarm clock started buzzing at 6:00 in the morning and somewhere between pressing the snooze button and arising to my feet I took a few moments to curse my job and it's unholy hours.

A night creature myself, getting up early on a Saturday morning was akin to sacrilege and, right then, I wasn't terribly fond of Mike, his half-baked case, or the job I was about to do. Not only are relative interviews one of the most depressing tasks a police officer can be called to do, but doing them six months after the fact means bringing back bad memories that should have been forgotten.

However, as the coffee kicked in and my body began to come a little bit more alive, I started feeling a bit better about things, or at least hating them less. I paused a few minutes before hoping in the shower to re-read the files of the people I was visiting and tried to envision what I was running up against.

The first was a man by the name of Alex Carney. He lived in a middle-class suburb of Jamesboro, which was about three and a half hours away, If he was anything like his wife, he was middle aged, Caucasian and pretty straight-laced. But as the old adage goes, opposites attract.

After that, I was planning on visiting Claire Duveaux's son Harold. He lived a little bit north of Jamesboro, up near the state line and, if he wasn't adopted, he would be Caucasian, probably fairly wealthy and on the fast track to success. I knew he had children, two daughters, but not a lot else.

Finally, there was Samson Nash whose sister, Marceka, was killed on the turn eight months ago. Since he stumbled upon the accident on his own trip home from work, he was stopped and interviewed by the police at length. He was a black man, age 26, living in a rural area on north end of the highway about thirty minutes past the turn. He was a factory worked and made a good living, but was, by his own admission, uneducated. Apparently though, he's a genius at fixing things, his record listed him as a former mechanic in the police motor pool. Tough environment for anyone.

I'd gone ahead and, using the Internet, mapped out routes to all of the houses. It was a little over three hours to the Carney residence and I wanted to get there before noon. I also wanted to leave a lot of time for searching around since I wasn't familiar with the area.

However, when I was comfortable I had everything together, I jumped in the shower and started slowly getting ready.

April, for her part, didn't stir. She had grown accustomed to my odd hours and could easily sleep through my stirring around. She wasn't coming along this trip, since you only bring two people for hostile interviews and, besides, I figured having one figure dressed in all black would be intimidating enough.

Regardless, I ended up taking my sweet time getting ready and didn't leave the house until a little bit after eight thirty. I figured, if nothing else, I could take advantage of April's absence to drive a little faster and, hopefully make all of my mental deadlines. So, with little more than a kiss on the cheek, I left April behind and headed north to parts unknown.

The drive itself was uneventful. The only part that was really memorable was driving past the accident site. Though I was warned about it by the newly-unveiled speed limit sign, I still wasn't ready for the shock of seeing it in plain daylight. With the mangled car and police cruisers about, the spot looked almost peaceful and calm. Though I felt no ill effects myself, nothing that could be called a trance to be certain, I was still a bit taken in by the gravity of the situation and it shored up my resolve to press on and find a solution to this little mystery.

As I took the turn, I made note that, though it was difficult, it wasn't impossible, even at fifty-five, which was how fast I was traveling. It was easily visible, especially with the reflector arrows, and anyone not accustomed to taking tight turns would have had ample time to slow down, even if they had missed all of the previous signs. Simply put, there was no reason for an alert driver to go flying off of the road.

To be blunt, that knowledge lingered with me and only deepened my sinking feeling that something was going on.

Regardless, I pressed on and eventually made my way to Jamesboro. It was there that I got my first unpleasant surprise. Though I easily found my way to the address of Mr. Carney, I quickly learned that he had recently vacated the quiet house he and his wife had shared. Luckily, the new owners had his current address and they, in turn, sent me on a wild chase through back roads and trails that eventually ended up at a shady mobile home park on the outskirts of town.

Admittedly, I was reluctant to enter. It was the type of park that's often a haven for drug dealers, petty thieves and a variety of cop-haters and I didn't want to be a police officer caught in the middle of it all, not with out some form of protection at least. Since being a “special detective” didn't afford me the privilege of carrying a gun, I had to rely on my wits and my hands to get me out of any shaky situation I might land in.

So, understandably, this wasn't the place I wanted to be. However, wearing all black and driving a beat up late model car aren't exactly monikers of the police force so I figured, as long as I didn't make too much noise, I'd be fine.

However, that didn't comfort me much as I drove to the edge of the park and approached the door to one of the older, run-down trailers. I paused before knocking on the door to look around a bit. Though the trailer was of decent size, probably larger than my apartment, it looked like hell. The siding was coming off of the wall, the ground was littered with debris and the roof was lined with bent antennas and a mess of wires that I doubt any electrician could have figured out.

To call it a dump would have been a radical understatement.

With a deep breath I knocked three times on the door and, almost immediately it swung open and a large, unkempt man wearing nothing but an undershirt and a pair of jeans was standing before me.

“Are you… Mr. Carney?”

“Yeah, that's me,” he said with a growl, “What do you want?”

It was ten seconds into the conversation and he was already angry with me. I immediately began to wonder what I'd done to deserve this fate but decided to play it straight. I pulled out my badge and showed it to him, “I'm special detective Tony Altru. I'm here to talk to you…”

“Hey, if this is about them parking tickets, I'm going to get that later. I'm good for it.” he interrupted.

“Mr. Carney,” I said softly, “I'm here to talk to you about your wife.”

The look on his face changed. Though I still wouldn't say he was remotely pleased with me, a look of bewilderment sank into his eyes and he opened the door wider, “Why don't you come in and sit down.”

“Thank you,” I said nodding as I made my way into the house.

The living room looked like a cross between a swap meet and warehouse. It looked as if he'd tried to fit twice as many things into the room than would comfortably fit. Though he had a seating and a TV area, it was cramped and surrounded by boxed. The walls were so crowded with pictures that the wallpaper was almost completely covered and the whole room seemed to be filled with odd trinkets and display items.

It was starting to sink in. Mr. Carney, since his wife's death, had fallen on some hard times. Though I suspected it when I heard he had moved out, this confirmed it. He was living rough and probably hating it.

“So what do you want to know about my wife,” he said sitting down in a recliner opposite the TV.

I took a moment to examine Mr. Carney in more detail. He was a big man, but not what one would call fat or even overweight, he looked like someone who worked with his hands for a living. His thinning dirty blond hair left a very strange pattern on his forehead and made the rest of his face look round and heavy, like a pitbull's almost, and his clothing, all ripped and mangled, seemed to complete the picture nicely.

“Your wife, as you know, was killed in an accident along route 81. This was about six months ago.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said impatiently.

“The death was ruled an accident, however, nine other people have since died at that exact location in the same way. There are those that think there's something else involved.”

Mr. Carney leaned forward and began to slide his chair closer to mine, “You're damn right there's something else going on. I suppose you've heard about that curse.”

“I have,” I said flatly.

“Well, I didn't believe in curses until I found out about that road. That's bad magic going on there. I don't drive it myself you know. I take highway 25 up and around.”

I looked at him puzzled, “That adds at least an hour to your time though,” I said.

“I don't care!” he exclaimed. “I don't want to drive by the curve that killed my wife and I sure as hell don't want to drive on no cursed road.”

“Sir, please,” I said motioning for him to calm down, “I'm here to get to the bottom of this, curse or no curse, and I need your help.”

He settled back in his chair a bit, “What do you want?”

“I want to ask you a few questions about your wife, see if there's any reason that someone would want to do this…”

“You think someone killed my wife?” he said excited.

“I don't know,” I said trying to remain calm, “But I need to find out.”

“Alright, go ahead,” he said with bitterness dripping from his tongue.

I opened up my file and my notebook and situated myself to where I could both read and jot notes, “Now, it says here that your wife was a nurse, is that correct?” he nodded his approval. “Did she have any enemies at work? Someone who might want to harm her?”

Mr. Carney started shaking his head, “Naw, she worked in the cancer wing, not a lot of people can do that you know? I don't think anyone hated her. They all loved her really. Gave her a big birthday party a few months before she passed on. She'd been there for umpteen years. Never had a bad word to say about anyone. Lovinest creature ever was.”

“Was she politically active at all?” I asked trying to maintain the momentum.

“Naw, some of the other nurses wanter her to join this pro-choice group but she said she didn't care one way or another about it. She said it wasn't her business. Hell, I don't even think she voted come to think of it.”

“Was she a member of any clubs or organizations?”

Mr. Carney started shaking his head trying to think, “Nope, not that I know of. Tried the nurses union once, many years ago. Ended up leaving though.”

I settled back on my seat a little trying to plan my next move, “Listen, I'm going to read you a list of names, let me know if you've heard of any of them in relation to your wife.”

After Mr. Carney nodded his approval, I proceeded to read the names of the other 12 crash victims, including the survivors. None of them rang a bell and the brick wall I was running into was getting thicker by the minute. I could see the case stalling on the train tracks and decided to push a little harder.

“Did your wife have any enemies outside of work?”

“Not really, she and I pretty much minded our own business. We went to the movies every Friday but that was about it.”

“Did anyone stand to gain financially from her death?”

Mr. Carney's eyes turned to stone. I immediately knew that I had made a huge mistake. He dug his nails into the armrest of his recliner and I could see him visibly restrain an explosion. He didn't strike me as a guy with stellar temper control and I could tell this was pushing him to his threshold.

“I didn't gain shit from my wife's death,” he shouted.

“Sir, I wasn't necessarily talking about you…”

“Do you think I'd be living in this dump if I had?” he said bowling over my pathetic attempt to quell his rage, “My wife loved me you know? She was college educated, had all of them fancy degrees and me, I barely got by high school. She didn't care though, she loved me and made me feel like I meant something. She never called me stupid, she helped me when I was down and didn't care that all I did was solder shit together in a factory.”

“I understand that sir, I wasn't saying necessarily you but someone else…”

Mr. Carney's rage had turned to despair, he was starting to get visibly upset and he rocked back into his chair, choking back tears, “She really loved me and I never got to tell her that I loved her before she left… When she died… She didn't have insurance or nothing and I lost everything because I can't pay for shit with my job. All I could give her was a decent burial…”

The weight of what he was saying began to get to me. I'd seen crocodile tears before and could sniff out fake despair easily. This was the real deal though. I could also see that it was time for me to be thinking about my exit, that I wasn't getting any more here and that I'd done enough damage for one day.

I procured a card from my wallet and laid it on the table, Mr. Carney, for his part, began weeping almost uncontrollably and was completely beyond comprehension. I felt a huge pang of guilt as I looked into his tear-filled eyes and I started kicking myself for bringing back all of his pain, especially to no avail.

“Mr. Carney,” I whispered, “If you think of anything else, call me. I'm going to show myself the door.”

He waved me on but I could still hear his sobbing as I left the house and it followed me through the thin walls of the trailer until I shut the door of my car.

At that exact moment, the only thing I could think about was the fact that I had two more to go.

The Dead Hypnotist: Part Three

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The other two interviews didn't go much better. Though no one broke down and cried and there were no further unpleasant surprises, nothing interesting or of use was yielded. The frustration from all three interviews more or less banished from my mind any thoughts of interviewing other victims and forced me to return home, admitting defeat.

However, this was one time the trip home was longer than the trip to. Not only was the way longer, but the constant self doubt and hopelessness of the case was nagging at me non-stop. There was no reprieve from this failure. Though experience had taught me that dead ends such as this were common, even in solvable cases, I felt like I was completely out of ammunition.

Worse yet, though I was no longer convinced that these were merely unrelated accidents, I had less evidence than ever to prove me right. Though all of the relatives had at least heard of the curse, none provided any tangible connection with the other victims or even the scene of the accident. The word random kept coming up in my mind and it kept irking at my senses.

Nonetheless, I returned home. April was waiting on me in the living room and, after switching off the TV, gave me a tremendous hug and a firm kiss to welcome me back. Though from the look on her face I could tell she knew the answer, she still felt compelled to ask, “So, how'd it go?”

I told her all about it. First about Mr. Carney's breakdown and then the other interviews. I laid out everything, my frustration becoming more and more apparent as I talked, until I'd covered nearly every last detail. She must have listened patiently for a good twenty minutes or so before I finally covered the drive home.

When it was all done, she asked the one question I'd been dreading, “So where do we go from here then?”

“I don't know, I'm running out of options. I could monitor the curve but that could take weeks and I need something now.”

April let out a deep sigh as she shared in my frustration, “Well,” she said, “I did have a productive day of it.”

“Oh?”

“Yep,” she said with a smile. She walked over to the kitchen table and picked up an inch-thick stack of photocopies and handed it to me, “I spent the day at the hall of records. Seeing if I could find anything.”

I began to leaf through the pages. The horrible photocopies made the text barely legible but it was pretty obvious much of it was criminal records. “So, what did you find?”

“Well, I originally went there to do criminal background checks on all of the victims. Nothing turned up though. All of them were clean except for one guy who had an assault charge in the seventies, probably protest related. But, what I did find interesting was the stuff I dug up about this Marx guy and his land.”

I slid over to the couch and sat down, “What's the story there?”

“Well, it's a long story, but it actually starts with Jeffery's father, Alan. Alan and his girlfriend had Jeffery in '52, during the Korean war. It was an unwanted pregnancy, but they were still, by all accounts I could find, happy about it. Unfortunately Alan got drafted and shipped to Korea during the war. Since the two of them were never married, he was powerless to stop it.”

I leaned back in the chair and rolled my head causing my neck vertebrae to grind, “Hell of a way to be brought into the world.”

“It gets worse. Alan made it back when the war ended the next year, however, he'd taken a Korean wife during that time and pretty much abandoned Jeffery and his mother. However, when Jeffery's mother died in the early sixties, Alan began to feel guilty and took him in. Unfortunately, the relationship wasn't exactly stellar. Though Alan constantly worked to earn his son's trust, it never played out and Jeffery never forgave him.”

“So how the Hell did he wind up with the land?”

“I'm getting there,” she said motioning for me to be patient, “I told you, it's a long story. Anyway, Jeffery went off to college in the seventies, on his father's dollar I might add, studied psychiatry. Apparently he liked it, he stuck with it and even got his doctorate in it. By the end of it, he was licensed to practice psychiatry.”

My senses jumped at hearing those words and I leaned forward in my chair, “That's odd.”

“Why?”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and my chin on my fingers, “Well, most stage hypnotists, if they have a degree at all, get a certification or just a Masters. For someone who's so interested in hypnosis, getting a psychiatry degree is overkill. Any idea why he did that?”

“Actually, there is,” April chimed in, “Some of his clinical records are in there, he studied hypnosis through drugs and probably needed the degree to administer them legally.”

“That explains why he was a fraud on stage, but not why he went there in the first place.”

“Why don't you ask his son?” April said slyly, “He currently lives on the land. David is his name.”

“I see,” I said trying to listen while letting the gears churn in my head.

“Unfortunately though, it looks like the bad father gene got passed on. Jeffery had David when he was in college in '77 to be exact. However, when David was just five, Jeffery went out on the road, leaving him behind. When his mother got arrested for DUI a few years after that, Jeffery sent David to live with his grandfather, the same one I mentioned earlier. That's where he's lived up to now.”

“Let me guess,” I chimed in, “when Alan died about twelve years ago, Jeffery was left the house,” April nodded her approval, “I bet that irked David.”

“That's putting it modestly, David contested the will in court and tried to get his father thrown out of the house. It was to no avail though, the will was rock solid. The judge ordered the two of them to to share the house. From then on, we don't have any evidence of the two of them as much as speaking, at least until Jeffery's funeral.”

“How did Mr. Marx die anyway?” I asked as I leaned back in the chair.

“Glad you asked,” April said as she pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket, “The cause of death is listed as a hunting accident. But you know well what that means don't you?”

I took the paper from her and looked it over, “Yeah, that's the polite country way of saying 'suicide'. It looks better in the papers.”

“Exactly.”

I folded my arms and let out a large sigh, “This is one hell of a story, but it doesn't affect this turn one way or another and, unless Dean Koontz is looking for some new characters, I don't see how this is useful.”

“Well, don't you think you should talk to this David. He might have some perspective. You seem to be at a dead end anyway.”

I had no choice but to agree. Though I was no fan of rural drama, the family affair was the only thing I had to go on. I solemnly nodded my approval and told her that there was no way in Hell I was heading out again the next day so I'd go there on Monday.

Satisfied, April looked at me smugly and said, “Anything further questions?”

“Only one,” I began, “Did you get all of that from the hall of records?”

April let out a small chuckle, “Of course not, you're not the only one who can read between the lines though. It's all there, I'm sure you'll find it. But first, get out of those clothes, we need to wash them and you need to call Mike back, he wanted and update on the case.”

I stood up and began taking off my shirt, “I'll call him Monday,” I said, “Maybe by then I'll have something for him.”

* * *

The third trip into the country was even more dull than the first two. The only thing worth mentioning was the struggle to find the mysterious house. The erected tree wall effectively hid it from the road and the driveway was on a side street cleverly disguised as a small dirt road. It was painfully obvious that this was a place that didn't want visitors and I took no joy in knowing that I was probably the least welcome of all possible visitors.

Nonetheless, I patiently drove along the bumpy dirt road and eventually the long snaking driveway that more closely resembled an old wagon trail than a passageway for mechanical vehicles. Every rock and every hole made my poor car shake violently, rattling my teeth and making me question the soundness of my shocks.

Eventually, after enough damage to shake even the best dentist, I drove up to the front of the large three story farm house. To put it modestly, it was huge. A blue house with a full wraparound porch, it seemed to tower over even the distant trees and the fact it was situated in the middle of a large clearing didn't make it look any smaller.

However, complete with white shutters and impeccable landscaping, it still felt strangely inviting, almost like one could call it a home as opposed to a castle.

With some trepidation, I rang the doorbell. Though the chimes echoed loudly through the house, so much so I could almost see the windows rattling, there wasn't an immediate answer. I gently pressed my ear to the glass of the storm door and listened for any sign of life. There was none.

I rang the doorbell again and again, hoping to get an answer but to no avail. I turned around and scanned the vast yard and tuned my ears to detect any sign of life. But all I heard was birds chirping and all I saw was the gentle sway of the trees a hundred yards away.

Frustrated, I gave up. I paused only a moment to kick myself for not calling ahead before I began stepping off of the porch. But, as I was about to clear the final steps, I heard the sound of shuffling behind me and, with a swift motion, the door flew open. After a quick spin on my heels, I found myself face to face with a tall, thin wisp of a man.

I paused a second to look him up and down. Though he was clearly younger, almost certainly younger than thirty, he had a receding hairline that was made worse by the fact he still kept his dark black hair very long and tied in a tight ponytail. His face seemed cold and distant, he had ice blue eyes and a very square jaw at the bottom of his long face. Though dressed in only gray jeans and a dark shirt, he looked imposing and, judging from his heaving chest, he was either angry, exhausted, or both.

“Can I help you?” he said gasping for air, his voice slightly bitter.

“Are you David Marx?” I said squinting for a better look.

He looked around him for a split second before settling his gaze back on me, “Yeah, what of it? You know this is private property right?”

I reached into my shirt pocket and produced my badge, “My name is special detective Tony Altru. I'm here to talk to you about your father.”

He paused a second and lowered his eyes from my face to the badge. He studied it for a few moments, as if trying to memorize something, and then looked back up at me, “Very well, come on in,” he said with a slight smirk.

He led me through his entrance way and into his den. Like the rest of the house it was huge, almost overstated. It was filled with plush chairs, a sofa and fireplace. Though a TV was mysteriously absent, it was obvious he was going for more of a wealthy look than a rural one. It was hard to mistake the mixture of dark wood and red furniture for anything else.

David motioned me to sit down on a plush couch and he took a seat in a recliner opposite to me. Though between us sat a large cherry coffee table, the way he leaned forward in his chair made it feel as if he were sitting right on top of me.

“So what can I do for you Mr. Altru?” he asked after making sure we were both comfortable.

“As you probably know Mr. Marx,” I said shifting in my chair, “There's been a lot of accidents on your property over the past two years. Thirteen to be exact.”

David leaned back in his chair, “Yeah, I'd heard about them. All of them hitting that rock wall up the road a bit.”

“I don't need to tell you that this number is exceptionally high. Ten fatalities in two years on the same curve is very odd.”

“Well,” he said with a slight chuckle, “When those jackasses cut the road they snaked around that wall like they didn't know it was there. Truth is they were just too lazy to plan right.”

“But even then,” I said sliding forward, leaning in toward him, “The number is very high and it's the single most deadly curve in the entire state.”

“Listen,” he said rubbing his forehead, “That's tragic and all, but what does it have to do with me or my father?”

I stood up and started pacing the floor in front of the couch. With my palms pressed together in front of me, I began to explain, “Your father was very opposed to that highway being built. He even attacked some of the construction workers that were building it. Is it possible he could have done something to the road to make it, shall we say, less safe?”

David rocked forward and started laughing out loud, “You're talking about that curse aren't you? Don't tell me those bumkins have you city cops scared too.”

I pressed my palms down on the coffee table and leaned over it as far as I could, “I said anything Mr. Marx, anything at all.”

He rocked back in his chair and kept chuckling despite a futile attempt to stifle his laughter, “I'm sorry this is just too much,” he said trying to cover his face with his hands.

“Are you going to help me or are you not?” I asked flatly.

“Well,” he said still giggling to himself, “Let me get out my voodoo kit and I'll see what I can do about this curse. Ok officer?”

I'd had it. Though I was no fan of the curse theory myself, it didn't strike me as this funny. I started looking around the room and, after a few moments, walked over to where a shotgun was mounted on the wall, “You know, I know about your father's death. Tragic wasn't it?”

David sobered up quickly, “Yeah, you know about the accident?”

“Sure,” I said with a scoff, “If that's what you want to call it.”

“What do you mean?” he said, bitterness seeping into his voice.

I put my hands in the air, “Nothing, nothing. Tell me, was this the gun he died with?”

“Yeah it was, when I got it back from the police I put it back where he kept it, kind of like a shrine to him you know?”

“Let me guess, haven't touched it or anything?” I said walking around behind him.

“Not at all. Not since, well, that day,” he said somberly.

I started pacing up and down beside his chair, “Now correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you get a huge insurance settlement out of his death? Something like seven digits wasn't it?”

“Yeah,” he said looking up at me unsure, “Where are you going with this?”

I stepped around behind him and pressed down on the back of his chair causing the recliner to lay out flat, laying him prone beneath me, “The point is that I'm not like these local cops. I investigate deaths for a living. I don't take a look at a shotgun next to a corpse in the woods and say 'hunting accident' because it looks good in the papers. The truth is your father committed suicide and if that ever got out then you'd lose that big fat settlement.”

“I… Well… But…” he stammered.

I reached under the back of the reclined chair and set it up. I leaned over, close to his ear, and said, “So, if I don't get your full cooperation in this investigation. I'm going to send an anonymous tip to your insurance company. Now, is that funny?”

“No sir,” he said meekly. He looked down at the ground for a second and I made my way back over to the couch I was sitting on originally. His chest was heaving from a combination of nerves and anger. It was easy to see that I'd finally gotten underneath his skin.

“You know this is extortion right?” he eventually said, trying to be strong.

“No, this is an exchange, you help me, I help you. You answer my questions honestly and in a serious tone and I'll exit your life without ruining it. Do we have a deal?” I asked.

David, still unable to meet my gaze, nodded his approval.

“Now, the records also show that, when your father inherited the house, you protested it in court. You tried to have the will nullified. The judge, however, decided you two had to share the house. Now, how did that work out?”

David leaned forward in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, “At first it was really bad. He kind of took the upstairs and I took the downstairs. The attic and the entrance way pretty much became neutral territory. However, we kind of grew to like each other, even became friends. He offered to pay my way through college if I wanted to go.”

“But you didn't, did you?”

“Nah,” David said shaking his head, “I was never good with books.”

“So what do you do for a living?” I asked, trying not to sound pushy.

“I write some, do some music, but those don't pay the bills. Mostly I get subsidy money from the government for keeping the land barren.”

“So you're one of those farmers that gets paid not to farm?”

David chuckled for a second but caught himself and straightened up, “Yes, sir,” he said, “And, sorry about that.”

“It's alright, I'll forgive that one,” I continued, “Is that subsidy one of the reasons your father hated the highway so much?”

“Yeah, he thought it was going to cut the amount we got each year. It did, but not by a lot, maybe five percent or so.” David said.

“Didn't stop him though did it?”

The look on David's face changed suddenly. It was as if he were looking off into the distance and getting lost within himself. After a breathy sigh he began talking, “My father became kind of different as he got older.”

“How so?”

“I don't know. He was kind of a broken man when I first met him, after that whole stage career thing fell dead. He was pretty cool for a while but eventually, I don't know, he just went nuts.”

“Any examples?”

David leaned back in his chair and started thinking hard, after a few moments he leaned forward so fast he nearly rocked out of the chair and said, “You know that time he attacked the construction workers? Well, he did that a few times actually.”

“Really?” I asked, confused, “Only once is on the record.”

“Because they only reported it once, the first few times they just ignored it because they figured he was just trying to scare them. Well, once he came a little to close to their heads and they called the cops. Luckily the police convinced him to stop.”

“He's lucky he didn't get arrested, or worse.”

“Eh,” he said waving his hand at me, “They still saw him as an old nut and the police here don't arrest anybody anyway. All they do is write tickets.”

“So I've gathered.”

“Anyway, the police just figured that, with the highway set to be opening up soon it was just too much and that he killed himself. Honestly, it made sense to me.”

“So, where were you when it happened?” I asked, trying to keep a level tone.

“I was inside. He had gone hunting for the day, which he did all the time. I heard the shot and didn't think anything of it. I didn't think anything was wrong until he didn't come home after dusk.”

“He went hunting alone a lot?”

“Only way to go hunting out here.”

“Anyway, to get back on track, do you think he did anything that could have made that road less safe?”

David started shaking his head wildly, “My father hated the road. But he wasn't a wizard or anything like that. He put up a bunch of damn trees and tried to forget about it. Obviously it didn't work, but he pretty much failed at everything, his private practice, stage hypnotism, even stopping the road from being built. In the end, he failed at life too, I feel sorry for him you know?”

I stood up and began pacing the floor again. I began to understand how it felt to repeatedly hurl yourself against a brick wall. All of my work and all of my chess playing had gotten me no closer to anything useful. Just a more pathetic picture of a broken man that the whole area was scared of despite being long since dead.

I paced the room silently, reaching into my brain trying to find my next question. In the stillness, I was able to get a sense of the house and I picked up nothing special. It was a home, people lived there and it had their presence, but I didn't get anything out of the ordinary. Nothing that screamed “curse” or bad magic in any way shape or form.

Desperate, I decided to try my last hope, “Is there any way I could see your father's old room, if it's still intact, and perhaps look through a few of his things?”

“Sure, but is there anything in particular that you're looking for?” David asked, getting a little more comfortable.

“A diary if he kept one.”

David stood up and scratched the side of his neck, “Hm, he kept a journal of his studies, but that's all I know about. Would that work?”

“Better than nothing,” I said.

Without another word, David motioned me to follow him and he led me up the stairs and into a small, crowded bedroom on the second floor. It was obvious that the room had been turned into a de facto storage room since his father's death. Though the bed, dresser , end table and mounted deer's head on the wall obviously belonged in the room, the deluge of rickety old chairs and various boxes clearly didn't.

The room itself didn't feel special in any way either, except for a pound of dust covering everything, there was nothing out of the ordinary. It was pretty much what one would expect from a bedroom of a deceased relative, homage slowly giving way to function.

David, without missing a beat, opened up the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and handed it to me. “This was his journal. He kept researching right up to his death. Nothing major though. I guess he was hoping to get back into the business.”

I took it from him and opened it up, idly thumbing through a few of the pages, “Do you mind if I keep this for a while?”

“Sure,” David said shrugging his shoulders, “Just make sure I get it back.”

“I will,” I said closing it and sliding it underneath my arm, “I'll return it personally in a few weeks, once I turn in my report.”

I extended my right hand and we met for a firm handshake. Though most of the tension from earlier was gone, I could still feel his hand trembling a bit as it met mine, “Will that be all?” he asked.

“For now,” I said, trying to be calming, “Thank you for your help and I'm sorry I had to be so rough with you. But this is a serious matter and, frankly, I'm not a comedian.”

“No worries, just um, well, keep the deal ok?”

I nodded softly and said, “Alright.” With that being said, I turned around and showed myself the door, heading back down the stairs and eventually back through the endless miles of boring woodland roadway.

The Dead Hypnotist: Part Four

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I returned home to an empty house. April had left a note on the refrigerator saying she'd gone to the post office and the grocery store. This was a pretty typical thing for her. Every time her online business received a large order she'd head to the post office to ship it off and then run to the grocery store for a cheap bottle of Merlot for us to share that night. I would have complained about her absence at such a critical time, but frankly, I loved Merlot too much to risk losing my share.

In the quiet solitude of the apartment, I threw the journal down on the desk and began leafing through it. Immediately, it became apparent I had a long road before me. Though the notebook wasn't thick, almost all of the pages in it were filled, front and back with very small handwriting. To make matters worse, he wrote like one would expect a doctor to and various parts of it were practically illegible.

However, the information contained in it was impressive. The book spanned almost his entire hypnosis career from his graduation from college until his death. It quickly became obvious that, even though he was a fraud on stage, he was actually a very talented hypnotherapist when he could use drugs. His patient logs made him seem like a miracle worker as he helped people break addictions, deal with repressed memories and break bad habits of all varieties with very few sessions. So impressive were his results that I had a hard time understanding why the practice failed.

But then, as the pages of the notebook turned, so the story of his life unfolded. Soon, he found himself confronted with allegations of unethical behavior regarding his use of drugs. Though no patients brought up objections against him, his peers didn't like his choice of method and, slowly, their campaign began to eat away at his client list. Though he didn't say it outright, he alluded to the possibility it was due to his Russian ancestry and the ongoing cold war.

In the years he took to the stage, there were few entries. Though he reported on performing research in the use of sound to hypnotize, probably as a bid to become a legitimate performer, he didn't seem to make much progress or have much success. His voice, by all accounts, was wrong for the art and the type of presence he commanded seemed to prevent patients from feeling at ease enough to go under.

However, once his father died and his life settled down, the book began to fill up again. He apparently discovered the Internet somewhere in that time and had begun researching new forms of hypnotism that could be better suited for him. The most promising was hypnotism through light. The latter pages of his books were filled with clippings and studies about experiments with LED lights and various projectors designed to relax and entrance the viewer, making them susceptible to hypnotic suggestions.

It was fascinating material. Though I was well-versed in psychology, I wasn't familiar with hypnotism and this crash course on all things hypnotic engrossed me for hours on end. So much so that I was completely oblivious to April's return home, her trip to the computer room or her shuffling around in the kitchen until, after nearly forty five minutes of being ignored, she walked up from behind me and kissed me on the cheek.

“Oh, hey,” I said jumping to life.

“Hey yourself,” she caught a glimpse over my shoulder, “Whatcha reading?”

I held the notebook up for her to see, “It's Dr. Jeffery Marx's clinical and research notebook. It's pretty much everything he did in the world of hypnotism and psychology between his graduation and his death.”

“Ah, I see,” she said sitting down in the chair next to me, “Any mention of our road or it's mysterious effect?”

“None whatsoever, but some interesting reading about hypnotism through light if you're interested.”

April held her hand up, “I'll pass, but thank you.”

“Had a feeling.”

“So, tell me how your interview with the other Mr. Marx went?” she said eager.

“Horrible,” I said looking up at her.

April leaned back in the chair and took a sip of a coke she'd laid on the counter behind her, “He wasn't helpful huh?”

“No, he was plenty helpful,” I said as I closed the notebook, “That's to say, after some persuasion. It's just that he didn't have much useful to say.”

“Another dead end?”

“Another one,” I said letting out a heavy sigh, “I can't even consider the curse anymore because there was nothing special about father or son. Neither seemed magically inclined enough to curse a dung beetle, much less a mile-long stretch of road.”

“So what do we do now?” she asked trying to look upbeat.

“I don't know. All I've got now is a hunch.”

“About what?”

“I don't know,” I said standing up from my chair, leaving the notebook on the table, “Something about this Marx guy didn't feel right.”

“What do you mean?” April asked puzzled.

“Well,” I began my hands waving through the air trying to signal the random thoughts washing through my mind, “You see, usually, when someone gets a visit from the police, they're nervous, uneasy but helpful. He however, he seemed almost smug you know?”

“I see,” April said, “Do you think he was hiding something.”

“Perhaps. Or he could have just been a real jackass. I straightened him out. But something isn't sitting well.”

“Do you think he might have something to do with the crashes?”

“I don't think he cares about the road either way. He's got his money. But something just seems off about him. Like he was too eager to paint a bad picture of his father or too eager to write me off.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing that I can do right now. No evidence, not even a crime really. Having an attitude isn't criminal, though sometimes it should be.”

April stood up and positioned herself in front of me with her arms folded across her chest, “Then you, mister, would be prison for a long damn time,” she said poking a finger into my chest, “And I'm not waiting up for you.”

I chuckled to myself and started pacing the living room, “Regardless though, this case is dead in the water and I get to call Mike tomorrow and let him down.”

“I thought you were going to call him today.”

“Sorry,” I said with a scoff, “Got busy reading.”

“I'll forgive you, but I don't think he will.”

“Probably not, but the case is dead anyway. It's just a bad curve, created by some lazy road designer, that's all that there is to it.”

“Too bad that won't be enough for Mike,” April said with a smirk.

“It's not enough for me, but I'm pretty much out of leads here. Maybe I'll get away without being fired.”

It didn't matter though, the case was dead and, frankly, I was sick of police work. The cases I had worked prior were much more straightforward than this wild goose chase through Hell. In the matter of a few short week's, I'd banged my head against a brick wall so many times that it was finally bleeding and I was ready to stop.

I scratched the back of my head and tried to push all of the work related thoughts out of my mind. With a sharp exhale, I turned to face the window. It was evening and the sun was setting. My apartment, complete with westward exposure, had just gone from getting blared by the evening sun to being privy to one of the most beautiful sunsets of the year.

I reached over and grabbed the wand on my blinds and opened them up partly to let in more of the view. Wanting to share the moment with April, I took three steps backward watching the orange sun peek through the blinds until finally I backed into her and she wrapped her arms around me.

Then, without warning, it hit me. A look of total shock came over my face and I turned to April and said, “I've got it.”

“Got what?” she asked, puzzled.

“I know what's going on along that road,” I spun around to face April and I grabbed her arms. My face must have been lit with excitement because April's eyes brightened as she saw my face, “I've got it figured out.”

“What's going on?” April stammered, “Are you sure?”

“Not at all. I need to interview one more person but I bet, if I hurry, I can catch him while he's still at work.”

I immediately started piecing together my personal effects, grabbing my wallet, a jacket and my keys. Just as I began to sprint for the door, April called out, “Who?”

I opened the door and started to head out. I stuck my head back in just long enough to say, “It's a secret, you can put me in prison later,” before dashing off.

I'm sure April made some unintelligible utterance before I dashed away, but there really wasn't any time. Instead I called her up on my cell phone and explained it to her as I drove back into the country.

However, as grateful as she was for the call, I knew she was going to let me have it when I returned home that night.

The Dead Hypnotist: Part Five

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As I paced the stage in the small town hall auditorium, it began to dawn on me exactly how lucky I was. Most detectives, even those that spend years studying the craft before entering the field, wait years, sometimes decades before dealing with a case like this. Even then, very few are able to crack it and even fewer solve it with an epiphany out of the blue.

Indeed, this was a once in a lifetime moment for me, or so it seemed, and I was going to take a moment to relish it.

Though the auditorium didn't have much in the way of equipment, I made do with the overhead projector and stack of aluminum easels they had in storage. From there, it only took a steady hand, a good marker and a few over-sized pieces of poster board to create the drawings I needed and a few minutes on my computer to develop the transparencies I wanted.

I knew that I was playing to a tough house. Even Mike and April were very skeptical of my solution. However, a few quick interviews and a return trip to the site more or less proved my case and left Mike feeling so sure of my work that he called a meeting of all of the survivors and families of the victims. I, in turn, asked that David be included on the guest list as I did the local police. I figured they too would be interested in what I had to say.

However, Mike's confidence nor April's support did anything to waylay my nerves. As I frantically went through my impromptu presentation, April set out folding chairs for the guests and checked all of the signs outside. Though refreshments weren't being served, I sure as Hell at least wanted to offer the courtesy of making sure everyone could find the place with ease.

About fifteen minutes before the meeting was scheduled to begin, the guests began to trickle through the door. Since most of the faces were new to me, I took a moment to introduce myself to each group as they came in. Not only did they seem genuinely relieved to meet me face to face after receiving Mike's call, but it did wonders to take my mind off of my upcoming presentation.

Originally I had expected only six or seven of the families to be represented, but by about ten minutes after I was scheduled to begin, the small auditorium was standing room only and, by my count, all ten of the victims of the turn had someone there and two of the survivors had shown up. Also, to my further surprise, so did the local police, in full uniform, and even David Marx sneaked in as I was preparing to start opening remarks.

Once I was sure everyone was seated, I dashed up to the stage and positioned myself front and center. Almost immediately I realized that, without a podium or even a mic to hide behind, I felt very vulnerable and awkward. However, the tension was far too thick to turn around now and, with only a slight crack in my voice, I began.

“As most of you know by now, my name is Special Detective Tony Altru. I have spent much of the past month investigating the bizarre accidents on Route 81. As you all are aware, ten people have died on that road in the past two years and another three have been seriously injured. It is, officially the deadliest turn in the state and it's apparently become embroiled in some local folklore about a curse on the property. I'm here today to assure you that there's no such thing.”

Some members of the audience began to get uneasy and either started whispering among themselves or idly shifting around in their chairs. Though they were all fairly quiet, in the high ceiling auditorium it sounded more like a dull roar.

“Now, before I begin, I want to apologize to some of you. When I first began this investigation, I tried to tie together the victims. While this is a tried and true method of investigating that usually yields great results, this time it was the wrong approach to take and, in the process, I can tell that I brought up some painful memories for a few of you. For that I am sorry.”

Only Mr. Carney reacted to that statement. Though I couldn't tell if he was still bitter or if my apology had helped at all, it seemed to have had an impact on him and, in the end, that was the best I could hope for.

I walked over to my first easel and unveiled a diagram of the turn. It was a crude drawing, lines for the road, circles for trees and a mass of scribbling to represent the embankment, but it was clear and legible.

“Now,” I continued as I pulled out my laser pointer to use with the diagram, “All of the accidents took place on this turn. In every case the car was traveling northbound, on the road, lost control at the start of this turn and slammed into the embankment without any evidence of braking or trying to swerve away. The question on everyone's mind tonight is 'What did that happen?'”

The crowd was already getting impatient with me, though I'd only been talking for about ten minutes, some of the men were checking their watches and the women were folding arms across their laps. David, for his part, seemed ready to fall asleep and the cops were standing at the back chatting among themselves.

“Now, to understand how it happened, we have to understand what happened and that means looking at what the accidents had in common,” I walked over, flipped on the overhead and threw on my first slide, a bulleted list of similarities, “All of the accidents took place between four and seven in the evening on clear days. All of the victims were driving roughly fifty-five miles an hour and they were all alone. Most were driving light colored cars and none, as far as we know, had music on in their vehicle.”

The crowd erupted, no longer were they whispering politely between themselves, but now they were talking to one another, loud enough where I could easily hear snippets of their frustration as they vainly tried to keep their bitterness quiet.

“If you'll let me finish, I promise this will all be worth your time,” I said motioning for them all to calm down.

One of the family members stood up from his chair, “What does this have to do with how my daughter died?”

“What do you mean?” I asked flatly.

“I mean, music, come on, what does that have to do with anything? If I found out that you dragged me here to feed us a line I'm going to…” his wife reached up and pulled him down before he could finish his sentence.

“Music,” I continued, trying to keep my voice calm, “Probably doesn't mean anything to you. But it would have meant everything to Jeffery Marx.”

Some of the members of the crowd let out a sharp gasp. It was obvious that the name had been elevated to something of bogeyman status in the area and these people, either consciously or unconsciously, were scared of him.

More importantly though, I knew I had their attention.

I walked back up to the overhead projector and swapped out the slide for another bulleted list, this one about Jeffery Marx. “Mr. Marx, by profession, was a hypnotist. After his graduation from college he embarked on a mildly successful private practice using drugs to induce hypnotism. Though he was good at what he did, he was too controversial and was shut down, after which, he was forced into stage hypnotism.

“Unfortunately, drugs don't work well on stage and Marx was never able to use sound successfully. These days you can buy tapes to do it for you, but back then he resorted to bribing his participants, which was what led to his second downfall.”

The crowd was unimpressed, they had heard all of this before. Least impressed was David who was literally twiddling his thumbs to keep himself occupied.

“What isn't known is that, after his father's death and subsequent move to this part of the world, Jeffery resumed his studies. However, rather than taking up his old trick of using drugs again, he delved into something relatively new, hypnotism through light. He pushed forward into the subject, apparently making a lot of progress and even doing a few test trials of it, only to have that come to a halt when he launched his campaign against the new highway.

“Unfortunately, like almost everything else he tried, Jeffery failed at stopping the highway. Though it didn't drastically hurt his farm subsidies like he had predicted, it was still a personal defeat.”

The family members started taking slightly more interest in what I was saying. The new information, as little as it was up to that point, had whet their appetites nicely and I decided to keep the ball rolling.

“But then, he saw something, an opportunity. Here was a man who was a total failure. He was known as a fraud hypnotist, a lunatic and now a failed political figure. He saw a chance to prove his authenticity and he went for it, even though it would mean that many people would get hurt or killed, sadly, including you and your family members.”

The crowd was literally on the edge of their seats. Every time I stopped to take a breath I could hear nothing but the sound of perfect silence coming from them. Even David had started paying attention to my speech.

Unfortunately though, I realized that I had gotten ahead of myself and that I needed to backtrack some to adequately explain what was going on.

“Now, Jeffery knew where the road was going to go, the path had already been cut and some of it even paved. He knew that the speed limit would be fifty five since that's the standard speed limit on these types of highway and, with that simple knowledge, he laid out a plan. For his final act of revenge, he did one simple thing, he erected a tree wasll along the road.”

The room let out a sharp groan, the anti-climax was uncontrollable. Several people stood up to shout at me but all were dragged down by their husbands, wives or children. Finally, after a few moments of murmuring, Mr. Carney stood up and said, “What the Hell does a tree wall have to do with this?” The crowd murmured their approval.

I scratched my head idly and gave him a few seconds to cool off, “If you'll let me finish, I'll tell you.”

With that Mr. Carney sat back down and, slowly, the room began to quiet.

“I spoke with Jeffery's landscaper the other day,” I continued, “Though this company erects tree walls all the time, Mr. Marx's was a first. He didn't want just a simple tree wall to hide the house from the road, he wanted it done his way exactly. He had marked where he wanted each tree planted and even picked out the trees from his lot. The landscaper noticed that the spacing was uneven and tried to sell him on a more straightforward approach that would be cheaper and offer more privacy. Jeffery didn't bite. However, since he exhibited the same kind of totalitarian control over his flower beds, the workers wrote it off as him being an obsessive-compulsive lunatic and merrily took his check.

“However, the truth is that the tree wall was more than a privacy screen, it was a weapon. A weapon that became activated when the sun started to go down.”

I walked over to the second easel and revealed another drawing of the curve. This one had the tree line clearly marked and a series of black streaks running across the road. My audience, for their part, was looking back and forth bewildered, wondering where I was going with this.

“As you can see on this diagram, as the sun sets in the west, it causes the trees to project a series of shadows onto the road. These shadows produce patterns of light areas and dark areas on the road. As as a person drives down the road, flashes of light are reflected off of the hood and, some times, into the person's eyes. Jeffery, for his part, spaced the trees perfectly so that, if you were driving fifty five miles an hour, the trees would simulate a pattern of lights used to relax and subdue someone undergoing hypnosis.”

The crowd finally reacted sharply. There was so much shuffling and murmuring that none of it was coherent. The survivors, were the only ones not moving around, they sat almost completely still as the realization began to sink in.

“Now, this isn't a perfect or even a good set up,” I continued once the crowd died down, “There's a million ways it can go wrong. If you drive too fast or too slow, the pattern is just irritating. If you have distractions around you such as a car stereo or another person in the vehicle, you likely wouldn't pay enough attention to the flashes in order for them to have an effect. Finally, you had to be susceptible to hypnosis. Likely candidates there are people who were tired, older or somehow rendered weak mentally or had their focus dampened. However, driving along route 81 for a few miles is enough to make you zone out no matter who you are.

“But, despite all of the odds against it, it still worked thirteen times in the past two years and, if given long enough, will work again. All it takes is the exact right combination of variables to come together and, as you all know, tragedy strikes.”

The crowd began to rise up again. I phased out for a second and began to watch and listen to their talking. From what I could tell, it was all a mixture of patting me on the back and disbelief of my theory. Though I had done the math and confirmed the pattern, I knew that breaking out my calculator wasn't going to quell their doubt. Instead, I just decided to let them debate it amongst themselves and let time prove me right.

After all, I didn't care if they believed I was a voodoo priest that lifted the curse or a good detective, all I wanted was the killing to stop.

One of the men in the crowd stood up and snapped me out of my daydreaming, “What are we going to do about this?”

“I'm glad you asked,” I responded trying to sound courteous, “I invited the current owner of the land, David Marxam, Jeffery's son, here so that we can get his permission to cut down some of the trees in the tree wall. It wouldn't take much to break the pattern, a few dozen along the mile stretch perhaps, but we still need his permission to do it.”

David seized the moment and stood up, “Um, I just want to say that I'm sorry about this. Listen, I had no idea this was going on, I just, well, I just thought it was a bad curve, that's all. I didn't know what my father had done. I'm sorry, very, very sorry” he said in a solemn, timid tone.

An unintelligible cat call came from the back of the room causing David to hang is head for a second. “Listen,” he continued, “I can't make it up to you guys, I know. But, if it'll do any good, you can cut down all of the trees you want. Take down the whole damn thing for all I care. It's not worth this.”

“Thank you David,” I said calmly, “I'll see to it that crews are there next week. The rest of you, don't hate him for what's happened to you and your relatives. It's not his fault. He didn't know. If you're going to take it out on anyone, make it your local police.”

The comment caught the cops off guard. They broke their conversation suddenly and nearly fell over. I met their gaze for a split second, one of them, though I couldn't tell which, hated me with such ferocity that he was almost foaming at the mouth. The other just threw a cold, icy gaze that looked almost criminal in nature.

“You see,” I said with a smile, “Jeffery Marx based all of his calculations on the speed limit being fifty-five. What he didn't predict was that, due to the dangerous turn, that most of the mile was actually reduced to a forty five mile an hour zone. Of course, you didn't know that and neither did your deceased relatives because the sign was hidden behind an unpruned branch. However, the police did know about it and ignored it because it made collecting speeding tickets that much easier.”

One of the two officers lurched forward as if to rush the stage but was held back by his buddy. Almost the entire crowd turned around to face the two of them, some were shouting obscenities, some were simply asking, almost pleading, for them to say it wasn't true. The men behind the badges said nothing. The one that had just tried to rush me stood there and foamed, locking his gaze on me while completely ignoring the mob forming around him while the other hung his head slightly and let the realization sink in.

Mike came onto the stage. For most of the talk he had entrenched himself in the corner beside me, content on watching from the sidelines. I'd offered to let him explain it but he said, since I was the one that cracked the case, I got to break the news. Truth is, he just didn't want to do it. Whether he didn't think he could explain it or simply didn't understand it, I don't know, but at this moment he realized he could make a major political move and leaped for it.

“My name is Mike Digowski,” He said in his typical politician tone, “I'm with the state Police Commission and I'm going to do everything I can to ensure that there is a full investigation of these two officers and their actions and, if anything is found, they will be disciplined.”

That did nothing to soothe the crowd, I seriously doubt half of them even heard his comments. They continued yelling and the dull roar was become a loud, almost violent mess. By now both of the officers were fully aware of the crowd around them and were starting to looked panicked at the sight of the the angry populace.

Unsure of what to do, the one that had been moping just a few minutes before tapped his buddy on the shoulder and motioned for them to get out. They did so, backing out slowly with a loud, jeering mob not far behind them. When they hit the door of the auditorium, they broke off into a trot.

The audience pursued no further. Rather, the shouting became a dull murmur and then an almost universal exhale. The two cops were gone and they were going to have to deal with their neighbors later. Though I could tell from their faces that the crowd had gotten no peace from their shouting match, I figured that they could now begin to heal, because, if nothing else, they now had the truth.

The Dead Hypnotist: Part Six

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The talk continued for another hour or so. After the cops ran out, the crowd had plenty of good questions for me. I did my best to answer them. Some of them, like questions about Jeffery's mental status or motivations, I could only give partial answers to, if any at all. Some others were too complicated to be answered right then and there, but most I answered with at least perceived grace and tact.

In the end, most of the families seemed convinced of my theory. At least they weren't angry with me for wasting their time or blowing smoke. Even those that weren't sure about what I had to say were thinking about it and, honestly, I understood. If I hadn't seen it myself, I doubt I would have believed it.

Though I offered to stay as long as they wanted and chat with them individually, when there were no more questions and everyone was dismissed, none stuck around. Instead, they just quietly gathered their coats and purses and headed for the exits.

When David went to do the same, I called out to him and waved for him to come over. With some trepidation, he did, and Mike slid over to join in the conversation.

“Hate to say it David, but we're not done with you yet.”

“Listen,” he said exasperated, “You can cut down as many trees as you want, I feel terrible about this and I want to make it right.”

“This isn't about the trees,” I said keeping my voice low, “This is about the gun in your house.”

“What about it?” he said puzzled.

“You said you haven't touched that gun since the date of your father's death. Is that right?”

“Yeah,” he said looking back and forth between Mike and myself, “I don't have license or registration for it, You're not going to bust me for having an illegal gun are you?”

“No, we're not going to bust you because you own a gun, but because your father never did.”

“Huh?” Was all David could muster.

I went to speak but Mike butted in, apparently he wanted to be the one to move in for the kill, “Your father hunted deer. You don't hunt deer with a shotgun, you use a rifle or a…”

“Haven't you heard of buck shot?” David said angrily. “Plenty of people hunt deer with shotguns you idiot.”

Mike reeled back. The tone of David's voice made him sound like a caged rat, but he had a point. Mike had jumped the gun and his ignorance was even more striking than David's arrogance. I tapped Mike softly on the shoulder and he correctly read it as a cue to step back.

“True, you can hunt deer with a shotgun, but your father didn't. He was a bow hunter. When he attacked the construction workers, he used a bow and I've talked to several locals and none of them recall seeing him with a shotgun at any point though most remember seeing his large, professional bow. Furthermore, though you can shoot deer with a shotgun, you wouldn't use a small 28 gauge like yours. It'd be a 12 or a 10 gauge.”

David could do nothing but stammer, his look of anger changed to panic. His eyes began to dart back and forth between Mike and myself as he frantically scrambled to find something, anything to say.

Mike, smelling blood, stepped in a gain, “The truth is that was your grandfather's gun wasn't it? People around here know that he was a good squirrel and rabbit hunter and a few remember him carrying that small shotgun around or buying ammo for it.”

“But if you need any more proof,” I said leaning in, “You said your father took the upstairs to the house and you took the downstairs after he moved in. Now why, on earth, would he hang his shotgun in your part of the house?”

David said nothing and a smirk came across Mike's face. He'd clearly missed his days on the force and was enjoying catching the perp, even if it was on my ticket.

“Be honest,” Mike said, “There was no suicide, there was no accident. You killed him. You hated what he was doing to your land, you hated that he had abandoned you and you hated that you were forced to share your house and your money with a runaway dad. You hated it so much that you went out and killed him, trying in vain to make it look like a suicide.”

Panic once again gave way to anger in David. Mike was playing too rough and I could see David clinching his fists, literally digging his nails into his palms. I tried to remember if he was right or left handed so I could watch for a wild swing, “You can't prove it,” he said through his teeth. “You can't prove a damn thing.”

I waited a few more minutes to let David's heaving die down. Mike was looking mortified. The two of us were unarmed and the only police for dozens of miles were probably trying to outrun a torch mob.

“You're right,” I said, trying to be as soothing as possible, “We can't prove anything.”

The reaction from David was swift. He relaxed. His eyes unclinched and his teeth stopped grinding. After just a few seconds, his trademark look of smugness came back. One could even catch a glint of white behind his smiling lips.

“But the FBI can,” I interrupted, “They probably just got done executing a search warrant on the gun and are going to dust it for fingerprints. If your father's prints don't show up on the gun, it's going to look very suspicious. Plus they're also reopening the case, including pulling all of the old files and blocking off the scene. Your father's death is going to get the investigation it should have gotten over two years ago.”

David's jaw dropped. There was no anger, no smugness, just disbelief. He darted back and forth between Mike and myself but said nothing though he gasped a few times as if to speak.

Then, without warning, he turned around and ran, dashing out the door of the auditorium and toward the parking lot. Mike went to go follow him but I grabbed his arm to stop him, “Let him go.” I said.

Mike didn't resist me. He just dropped his shoulders and straightened his jacket. “Yeah, he won't get far.”

I walked back over to the stage and began pulling all of my belongings together, “Don't worry about it, he's not trying to run, he's just going home to protect his property. He's strange that way.”

Mike sat down on the edge of the stage and leaned back resting on his hands, “Tell me something though. How'd you get a search warrant for his place? You don't have nearly enough to get a warrant for suspicion of murder.”

I switched off the overhead projector and started work folding up the first easel, “No, I didn't. But there was more than enough for suspicion of insurance fraud. I just told the FBI I thought Jeffery had killed himself and that his son and the police had covered it up for insurance reasons. All I needed for that was the inadequate police report and the information about the policy and suddenly both the FBI and judge were very cooperative.”

Mike let out a soft chuckle, “You're a slick bastard, you know that?”

“Yeah, I can be,” I said as I laid the first easel out and started work on the second, “But the FBI is still going to have to figure it out on their own and, when and if they do, they'll get full credit for it.”

Mike hopped up onto the stage, walked over to me and patted me on the back, “But we'll know the truth right?”

“Yep,” I said laying the second easel on top of the first, “And that's all that really matters. Now quit being lazy and help me pack this stuff away.”

Mike stopped and started looking around the room, “By the way, where's April?”

“Oh,” I said, “We noticed there wasn't a car registered to Jeffery Marx. She's getting the make, model and license of the car he drove in with and reporting it to the FBI, she should be back any second. You know, just in case I'm wrong about him not fleeing.”

“Well, lately, you don't seem like you can be wrong,” Mike said as he hopped down from the stage and began to move the folding chairs around.

I paused for only a second, remembered what I had done to poor Mr. Carney and resumed putting things away. My only hope was that, for him, the relief of knowing the truth was greater than the pain of the memories I'd drudged up.

“Everybody makes mistakes Mike, everybody.”

* * *

With cleanup, April and I didn't make it home until late that night. By the time we opened the door to our apartment, we were dead on our feet and could only manage to make it as far as the couch before we collapsed like a house of cards. There we sat, as still as the walls around us, trying to overcome the tension not only of the meeting, but of the long drive to and from the auditorium.

Though Mike had offered to put us up in a hotel room for the night, we refused, wanting nothing more than to sleep in our own bed. However, the long drive home quickly took it's toll on us and, like so many before us, we found ourselves unable to move from the splendid comfort of the couch.

April, for her part, had gotten all of the essential information from Jeffery's car and had already called the FBI. Apparently though, Jeffery did show up at his house where he was powerless to stop the investigation. If nothing else, his life wasn't going to be the same again.

After what seemed like an eternity, April got up and started stirring around in the kitchen. “Do you want a cappuccino?” She called out.

“Please,” I shouted back.

I continued zoning out and staring at the walls. For the first time in years I was frustrated at our lack of cable television. Though I've never been the type to watch much TV, it was certainly tempting right then, if nothing else than to have something to do while thoroughly ensconced on the couch, helpless to move.

Soon enough though, April came back with the cappuccino and I took a few sips. The caffeine and the sugar began to make it's way through my veins and I found myself perking up, at least enough to move around. After about half the mug, I set it down on an end table and slid over to April, holding her tight in my arms.

“Tired sweetie?” she asked.

“No, I'm just so awake I'm about to fall asleep,” I said, unable to bite my tongue.

April pushed me off and slapped my arm playfully before reaching around behind her, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at me. “Listen smartass,” she said with a giggle, “You can't get away with that here.”

I chuckled and grabbed my mug, taking a long sip, “I know, just couldn't help myself.”

“It's ok. I'll forgive you, you've had a long day.”

She was right too. I leaned forward on the sofa, clutching my cup in one hand and resting my other arm across my knees. I let my mind drift off as I began to remember not just the day behind me, but the entire investigation. Everything from the first call to the final meeting came back to me in a giant flood of emotions.

“You ok?” April asked after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah,” I said solemnly, “Just memories.”

“Hey!” She said, raising her voice to get my attention, “Don't get sad on me now. You solved the case, you should be happy.”

“I am,” I said flatly, “I'm just tired,” I raised my cup in the air, “But here's to busting curses and catching murderers. May we continue to do both.”

April tapped her mug with mine and we both took long gulps, “You know though,” April said after she pulled away from her cup, “In a way, there was a curse on the land. It just wasn't magical you know?”

“Yeah, well, at least this one we can do something about.”

“But you know the next time a yahoo goes flying off of that curve at ninety miles an hour and dies no one's going to believe you any more.”

I got up from the couch and began to take off my shirt, “Probably, but at least we know the truth and I'll be happy with that. Well, as long as I'm not the yahoo in question.”

April let out a soft chuckle and scratched behind her ear,

“Come on, it's time for bed. At least it is for me.”

April rocked back hard on the couched and rolled forward to her feet.

“I couldn't agree more.”

Runaway: Part One

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There's nothing special about me, I'm just an ordinary guy. I'm just an
everyday Joe, another dumb schlock walking the streets.

The world would disagree with you I'd think.

The world would be wrong.

Why don't you tell me about yourself anyway?

Alright, well, my name is Jake Simpson, I'm 26 years old and I'm a
current resident of Atlanta, well, the suburbs at least. I'm not much to
look at, about five foot six, short brown hair, brown eyes. My job never
required me to wear a suit so you'd probably see me wearing khakis and a
dress shirt on most days, jeans on casual Friday.

Are you married?

Yeah, I'm married, for the time being at least, to a beautiful lady
named Marie. We met in college, both of us were studying art at the
University of Georgia and we hit it off almost immediately. We dated off
and on most of the time we were there.

I'll tell you, those were good times, she was gorgeous, the parties
were great and we just had a lot of fun. I wish I could get that back.

Anyway, we both graduated and we decided to get married right after
that. The wedding was beautiful, everyone was telling me how great of a
bride I had and everything. But then after the honeymoon the old maxim of
not knowing someone until you marry them came true.

How so?

Listen, I love her, don't get me wrong, but things changed a lot right
off the bat. I had always remembered her as a wild child who I could have
fun around and laugh with. But that screeched to a halt within a week and
she was wanting to only go to dates at fancy restaurants and drink nice
wine. She knew I was never in to that stuff, but she never bothered to
tell me.

But I guess what really got to me was the kids thing. I wanted kids
bad, I still do! But she waited until two weeks after the honeymoon to
tell me that she was infertile and would have to undergo some kind of
serious and painful surgery to fix it and that she wasn't going to do it.
That just broke my heart.

You didn't talk about kids before the honeymoon?

That's the thing, we talked about it all the time, well, I did anyway.
When we started getting serious, I'd bring the issue up, talk for about
fifteen minutes on the whens and whys I wanted them and she'd just sit
there and smile. When I was finished she'd tell me how sweet I was and
changed the subject. I should have known something was up right then.

I want to know more about you.

Like what?

Your job? Maybe?

I am, or at least, was a graphic designer for a local design firm. We
did mostly contract work. A small business would want an five-star
brochure for their clients to read , but wouldn't have the people in-house
to make it so they'd hire us. The service didn't come cheap but it was
easier than hiring a full-time graphic designer and probably a lot better
quality

The end result is that I did a lot of work for a lot of different
companies who don't even know my name. Doesn't matter though, the pay's
good, the work's fairly easy and you don't get burdened down with
overtime.

Plus, it meant that Marie and I had enough money so that she would only
have to work part time. Even that wasn't really necessary but I guess
without kids to take care of she didn't want to stay around the house all
day. Besides, she got a job as a graphics consultant and between the two
of us we could afford a lot of the finer things in life without busting
our humps.

Sounds like a good life?

It was. I'm not saying it was a bad life. But I guess I kind of got
worn down by it. I mean, in college I was an artist. I used to make
sculptures out steel and glass. I loved working with my hands and showing
off what I made. I used to have them all over the house until Marie told
me to put them away because they were ugly and that I wasn't that artist
anymore. She told me I'd have to accept that.

In a way, she was right though. I was doing the 9-5 grind and I wasn't
complaining. I hadn't made a sculpture in three years and I can't say that
I had any plans to either. I guess just because you graduate with honors
from a recognized art school doesn't mean you're an artist for life. I
should probably just be happy I found a way to integrate my love for art
with my work and leave it at that.

So when did you start thinking about going on your little adventure?

I didn't. When I woke up the morning I left, to me it was just another
Tuesday morning, no different from the one before it, or before that one
and so on. It was just another day.

So what happened then?

I woke up, I ate my breakfast, I brushed my teeth, I read my paper, I
went to work and I even left work thinking everything was ok. I got in my
car, made my way through downtown traffic and started heading up 85 to go
home.

But somewhere along the way, somewhere in that thick traffic I began
thinking about what I had waiting for me when I got home. A cold wife who,
while I loved dearly, hurt me to be with. A home without art or fun, a
life without expression and all so that I could get up and go to the same
damn job that while I guess I shouldn't complain about it, I felt like it
was grinding me away.

I just got more and more mad about the whole ordeal and by the time I
looked up at the road I only had half a mile to my exit and no way to get
over. Ok, that's a lie, I could have gotten over if I had really wanted
to, but when I saw the sign and realized I was in the left hand lane, I
didn't even put on my blinker, I just floored it and started weaving
through traffic like those idiots I usually shoot the bird at.

By the time I looked up again, I was two miles past my exit and I
started to panic. I thought I had lost my damn mind, I was wondering if I
had a death wish or something. I began to think that I should seek therapy
or something like that.

But then I remembered something, when I was in college, I had often
wanted to just roam the nation, see the world so to speak. I mean, if you
don't count vacations, I'd never really left Georgia in my life. I mean,
Florida's nice for a vacation, but let me tell you, the people there are
assholes. No offense if you happen to be from Florida of course.

None taken.

Well, I realized about 20 miles later that I was doing it, I was really
doing it you know? Traffic was so thick still that it had taken me a good
thirty to forty minutes to get that far and there was no way I could
explain that to my wife. So I decided to go for it. It was that simple. I
wasn't going to let life break me any longer.

So then you started planning?

Sort of. I got my head back if that's what you're asking. I knew that I
needed money and that since my checkbook was at home my only means was my
ATM card. But I also knew that my ATM card could be tracked and if my wife
was determined to find me, she could use the trail of purchases to find me
like a homing beacon.

So, I figured while I was close to the city, I'd hit an ATM and take
out what I could. So I found the nearest one and tried to withdraw a
thousand, but of course the ATM would only let me get five hundred. I
guess I wasn't completely clear at the time after all.

Anyway, I figured I had that, the forty dollars I had before I started
the day and my watch, which could be sold if needed. But beyond that I had
no clothes except for the ones on my back and my gym clothes, no food and
about a half a tank of gas.

Sounds pretty rough. Were you scared?

I should have been, but I was exhilarated. For the first time in years
I felt truly free. I didn't know where I was going, what I was doing or
anything, but I loved it and I jumped right back in my car and kept going
up 85.

I had no idea what was going to happen next, but I knew it was going to
be great.

Runaway: Part Two

10 Comments

So you're heading up 85, what happens next?

I just drove really. Not much to say about it. Traffic gradually
thinned out as I got farther away from the city and I gradually began to
move faster and faster. I figure I was on that road for about three hours
or so before I had to stop.

Why did you stop and where?

Well, truth be told, I was out of gas. I had a full tank when I started
the day but the commute to work and evening drive left me with an empty
tank and an empty stomach. So, I pulled in to this greasy spoon restaurant
on the outskirts of Greeneville, South Carolina for a bite to eat.

Greenville?

Yeah, Greenville. You ever been there?

Can't say that I have.

Shame, it's a good city. Pretty big actually. I mean it's not the size
of Atlanta or anything, but it's pretty big. It has a lot of advertising
agencies and so forth. I did some contract work for a couple of them a
year back and actually got a pretty good feel of the city from that.

So what did you do in Greeneville?

Like I said, I stopped at this greasy spoon near the city limits. I'll
tell you, this place was a real shithole. I mean, it was straight out of a
bad movie. The place was wall-to-wall truckers, there wasn't a clean booth
to be found in the joint and it reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap
alcohol.

Personally, I was just hoping to get in and out of this place and get
out as quickly as possible.

Pardon the interruption, but why didn't you just go somewhere else?

I guess I could have gone to a Burger King or McDonald's but, I don't
know. I guess I just felt drawn to this place. Besides, in those fast food
places you get food and you get the hell out. You really don't meet people
and I guess I just wanted some conversation.

Sorry about that, keep going.

It's all right. Anyway, I got in there and sat down at the counter
about two chairs down from this big, huge biker-looking guy. I'll tell
you, he scared me just looking at him. But still, like an idiot maybe, I
sat down next to him and he was talking to the waitress on duty.

When she spotted me, she put the conversation on hold to come over and
get my order. No sooner had I told her what I wanted than she disappeared
in the back. Probably to give my order to the cook.

But the minute that door shut behind her, the guy next to mean leaned
in and said, "You know that girl? She is something isn't she? I'll
tell ya, she's as sweet as the day is long but I'm too old for her. Way
too old. I'm so old I've got one foot in the grave."

I looked over at him, he had a grin from ear to ear and even though his
voice could wake the dead it was kind of soothing in a way, like a gentle
giant or something. I knew right then he was good guy and though he looked
like he'd been in more than a few fights, I just had a feeling he wasn't
going to hurt me.

So I spun around on the chair, chuckling with him and said, "Now
come on, you're not that old. You don't look like you're about to keel
over to me."

He kind of leaned back against the counter, "How old do you think
I am then?"

Right about there I realized I was in over my head, so I started
choking on my words. He really didn't sound like he was being hostile, but
I didn't want to piss him off you know?

"Aw, come on, guess. I won't bite ya. I promise," he said
with a smile.

I looked him up and down really good and said, "Forty, maybe
forty-five."

He slapped his hand down on the counter with a bang and yelled for the
entire restauarant to hear, "Hot damn I fooled another one.
Fifty-seven, would you believe that I am fifty-seven years old and not a
gray hair on my head?"

About this time the waitress came back with my food. "Now you
can't be 57," I said. "You barely look 40."

"I am too 57," he said. "Claire," he said motioning
to the waitress, "tell this guy how old I am."

She spun around from whatever she was doing, "He's 57 sweetie.
I've seen the license. I don't get it either."

I began to eat my food but I didn't get more than two bites in when he
spoke up again, "What's your name man?"

I swallowed hard to avoid choking, "Jake, Jake Simpson,
yours?"

"Well, my name's John but all my friends call me Little John, so
that's what you can call me," he said shaking my hand so hard I
thought he was going to rip my arm off. "So where you from?"

"Atlanta."

I could feel the eyes in the room turning to me as I said it. They
didn't like outsiders, especially those from the city but Little John
spoke up again, "Don't you pay no mind to them, they're just a bunch
of hillbillies and rednecks," he said raising his voice so the room
could hear. In unison, everyone looked back at their plates and resumed
eating.

"So what brings you to our humble town?" he asked.

"Just passin' through," I said trying to eat more quickly.

"Well, where you going to then?"

That's when the reality hit me. I looked up from my food and set my
fork down, "I don't know," I said chuckling, "I really have
no idea where in the hell I'm going."

Little John just kind of gave me a puzzled look and leaned in a little
closer, "You mean to tell me you left Atlanta and you have no idea
where you're going?"

I picked my fork back up, "Yeah, I did. I really did."

"Now listen," he said, " I don't want you to take a
offense to this, but I have to ask you something. What the hell were you
thinking?"

So what did you tell him?

I told him everything. I told him about my wife, about college, about
art about love and even about my sex life. I've never in my life opened up
so much to someone. What's funny is that I didn't even think twice about
what I was saying. I just started talking and I laid it all out there. He
got more confessions out of me in fifteen minutes than I think my wife has
gotten out of me in all our years. I couldn't believe it.

What did he say?

He smiled really big and said, "Son, I think you just became my
new hero." I couldn't believe it. I mean, I had just bared my soul to
another human being and he thought I was some kind of hero? But he kept
going, "You see, I was married for sixteen years. They were three of
the best and thirteen of the worst years of my life. She was an alcoholic
slut who banged half of Greeneville behind my back. But not once did I
have the guts to leave her, not once did I have the guts to do what you
just did. You are my hero man."

He gave me a playful jab on the arm and I quickly finished up my food.
He called for his check and I took a quick tally of my money. I knew with
food, gas and hotels that my cash wasn't going to last long. I figured
maybe 10 days at the most. A bit panicked I called the waitress over and
asked her if there was any way I could work off the bill, that my money
would have to last me a while.

"Don't you mind him Claire," Little John said chiming in,
"Just put his bill on my tab. I'll take care of it for him."

"Thank you so much," I said turning to face him, "But
listen, if it's any trouble, I got it covered."

"Naw, it's alright. Listen, you staying the night in town or do
you need to be getting on?"

I checked my watch, it was almost ten o'clock by this time, "Well,
I hadn't planned on it, but it is getting late isn't it? Know any cheap
hotels?"

"Yeah, how about free?"

"Listen, you've done too much already, I can get a hotel room,
that's not a problem…" I'd have kept going but Little John was
already waving me off.

"It's not a problem," he said, "I got a guy that owes me
a favor. Listen, when you leave the parking lot, make a left, go through
two lights and make another left, not onto the Interestate, but the side
street that's beside it. Go about half a mile that way and you'll see a
hotel called Best Inn. Go there, ask for a guy by the name of Mike and
tell him that Little John sent ya. He'll take care of you."

"Ok, I'll do it," I said jotting the directions down on a
napkin, "But can you tell me why you're being so nice to me?"

He smiled real big and said, "Didn't I tell ya? You're my new
hero."

"I still feel like I owe you something though."

"Listen, if you want to repay me, make your way to the Blue Moon
Bar. It's on the same road as your hotel, just two miles down. I'll be
working there tonight from midnight on. Just show up there, I'll buy you a
drink and make you a deal you can't refuse. I always help my heroes out
and I think I know just what you need."

Did you agree?

Yeah, I agreed. I figured if it was anything too bad, I could get
myself out of Greenville easily. I didn't see there as being much risk.

Well, anyway, he said goodbye to Claire and after finishing my coke I
left too. The only difference is that I had no idea what the hell was
about to happen next.

Runaway: Part Three

5 Comments

So you left the restaurant, what did you do?

Well, I followed the directions on the napkin and sure enough, right
where he said it would be was run-down little shithole of a hotel called
"Best Inn." It was one of those no-tell motels that you probably
read about in the paper. I used to stay in them all the time in college,
only places I could afford, so I guess I wasn't too out of place but I
still didn't like the idea of sleeping there.

To make things worse I really wasn't sure what to do when I got in
there. I'd never done the whole so-and-so sent me routine and actually
gotten anything for it. I thought about just paying for the room myself
since it looked really cheap, of course I also thought about forgetting
the whole hotel thing and just driving on.

So what did you decide on?

I figured that a free room was a free room and the worst things the
Best Inn could do to me is throw me out which leaves me with the options
of getting another hotel room or driving on. So basically I had nothing to
lose.

Anyway, I went in there, rang the bell at the counter and out came this
filthy looking guy who was probably in his forties. He was short,
unshaven, had a huge beer gut and had this hideous Hawaiian shirt on.
"Can I help you?" he asked with a very gruff and even sarcastic
voice.

"Are you… Mike?" I asked him a bit unsure.

"Yeah, what of it."

"Well, Little John sent me here and said that you might be able to
help…" I didn't even get to finish the sentence. That man snapped
to attention, grabbed a key out of the wall chest and laid it on the
counter. I tell you, I've never seen a man move so fast. "Do I need
to sign anything or…"

He interrupted again, "No sir, any friend of Little John is a
friend of mine. You're in room 213, that's out the door, to the left and
up the stairs. Please enjoy your stay." Before I could even thank him
the man ducked back into the office out of sight. I just stood there with
this dumb look on my face trying to figure out what just happened. Never
did though.

How was the room?

It was shit. The air conditioner barely worked, the toilet didn't flush
well and three channels on the TV came in fuzzy. Since I didn't have any
luggage I just kind of plopped down on the bed and watched what I could on
the television to pass the time.

Actually, that's a lie. I did watch television, but I don't remember
any of it, mostly I just lied there and thought about what I was doing.

How so?

At first I thought about just scrapping the whole thing and heading
home. I had to stop myself a couple of times from grabbing the keys and
making the haul back to Atlanta. It was the first time I'd really stopped
to think about how crazy this was and I started getting really scared. I
even cried a little bit over the whole thing. You know, I hadn't cried in
years but it felt good in a strange way.. Kind of like getting back in
touch with your emotions. Even though I was bawling like a baby I felt
free for the first time in years. 

But anyway, every time I thought about quitting I just saw Little John
smiling at me and telling me I was his new hero. There were probably three
times I would have headed back home if it hadn't been for him, but I
didn't want to let him down and I guess I didn't want to let myself down
either. Besides, I figured I was in too deep to turn around now. 

So after I got through all of that, I started thinking about what I'd
do next. I figured I'd go see Little John at the bar. It was the least I
could do after all his help. If things got too hairy there, I'd either
leave to  go home or head the other direction up 85 and go toward
Charlotte. I didn't really have a plan to make that decision if needed, I
kind of figured I'd wing it if it came up.

So what did you do when you finished all of that heavy thinking?

Nothing. I never got to finish it really. I looked up at the clock and
it was 12:30, time to head out. I got in the car, followed Little John's
directions and found the Blue Moon Bar. When I pulled into the parking
lot, I cringed. I mean, the place looked nice enough, big parking lot,
neon sign and even a small porch, but the parking lot was filled with
Harley's and I just knew that the biker crowd was going to kick my ass.

But somehow, someway, I got the courage to go in there and I had to
laugh at myself because no one even noticed me walk in. I mean, for one
the place was mostly empty and second it turned out to be one of those old
country-western dance bars that you see in bad movies. When I walked in,
the jukebox was going real loud and everyone there was either on the floor
or drinking at the bar, either way no once noticed me.

Sorry, I can't see bikers doing line dancing…

Oh, they weren't line dancing. I guess it wasn't even really dancing;
it was more about having fun. They had their wives or their girlfriends or
whatever out there and they were just moving to the music more than
anything. Nothing organized about it.

Sorry to interrupt, just had to ask about that.

It's alright. I understand.

Anyway, I began to walk over to the bar and sure enough there was
Little John behind it polishing some glasses but before I could even get
over there to sit down, he calls out for everyone to hear, "Hey
ya'll, it's Jake."

Immediately two guys got up and began to walk my way. I froze in
mid-step out of fear, but when the first guy reached me and grabbed my
hand in a firm handshake, I relaxed a little, "I gotta tell you boy,
I heard about what you done and holy shit you are like a God to me. Man, I
wish I had what you have. I can't believe it, someone who's actually done
it," he said in a thick southern accent.

I didn't get a chance to respond though, the second guy put his arm
around me and squeezed me a little, "Tell me something, how does
freedom feel? What does it taste like? I have to know. I've been wondering
all my life."

"It's a little nerve-wracking right this second."

He gave me a couple of playful jabs in the gut, "Aw come on, we
can fix that right here, let me buy you a drink," he said as he began
escorting me to the bar.

"Hell no," said one of the patrons at the far end, "I'm
buying him his first drink, you said I could."

"Well, I'm a lying sack of shit, you should know that by
now," the guy around me shot back.

I took up a stool at the bar and before anyone else could speak Little
John shouted out, "Now ain't nobody going to be buying him drinks
until he gets to make his decision," I'll tell you, the crowd fell
dead silent and all eyes turned on me, "Sorry about that, I've been
telling these fellas your story. Guess I got a little carried away. Anyway
though, it looks like you got a choice tonight."

"A choice?"

"Yep. You see, my second hand quit today. Now, I just talked to
the owner and he's willing to pay you fifty dollars plus tips to cover for
tonight. Since you've got such a huge fan club tonight, I'd say that
should total around a hundred dollars and it'll be the easiest hundred
you've ever made since I'll be doing most of the work."

I looked around me. Everyone was still looking at me like dogs watching
the television. I got a sick feeling in my stomach like something bad was
going to happen.

"Or," Little John Spoke up again, "If you don't want the
job, I'll take the hundred since I'll get it anyway and give you a hell of
a deal on this," and let out a loud whistle.

I looked side to side but no one moved. I couldn't figure out what the
Hell was going on. Up and down the line everyone was perfectly still, just
staring at me practically drooling with anticipation.

"Hello," a soft voice said from behind. I tell you, I was so
startled I almost fell off the stool, but slowly I spun around and there
were two girls standing there, "You must be Jake."

Prostitutes?

Yeah. I never thought of them that way but I guess so. But before what
happened could sink in Little John spoke up again, "Now they've
agreed to a special deal for you. For $150 they're yours for the night and
since you've already handed me a hundred, it's only $50 out of your
pocket. It's a helluva deal son. I know I'd take it."

Must have been a tough decision.

Oh it was. I mean I'm not the kind of guy to cheat on his wife. I
actually buy that "till death do us part" crap but these girls
were gorgeous. I mean, one was about five and a half feet tall, had long
brown hair, a delicate face and a very curvaceous build. With her features
she might have been foreign, but I couldn't tell. The other was tall,
thin, with blond hair, blue eyes and that all-American face guys can't
resist. She was the one doing all the talking and she had a charming
southern accent to boot. God that just drives me wild.

So what did you do?

At first I didn't say anything. I just kind of sat there with my mouth
open. But Little John didn't let that go on long, "So what's it going
to be, the money or the girls?"

I swallowed so hard I nearly choked, "Can I think about it for a
few?"

Little John let out a huge laugh, "I wish you could, but if you
don't want them I need to get them over to the club. So you ain't got long
to make up your mind."

That was about when everyone in the bar started leaning in and
whispering to me, "How can you say no to these girls," said one.

"Whatcha got to lose, your wife's already going to kill you. Might
as well have a little fun," said another.

After about four people whispered at me and I guess peer pressure got
the most of me and I stood up and said to them, "Ladies, I'm in room
213. I guess I'll see you there." I tell you, the crowd let out a
huge cheer when they heard me say that, even Little John was applauding.

"Hot damn son you made the right decision. I am so proud of
you," he said applauding like a giant gorilla. "I tell you what,
why don't you just take them with you and we'll settle up in the morning.
Have fun tonight my friend. Have lots of fun."

With that I left the Blue Moon Bar with a woman on each arm and my head
held up high. I wasn't even thinking about what I was doing, just how
popular I'd become.

Of course, foresight at this time might not have been a bad thing…

Runaway: Part Four

4 Comments

So what happened next?

What do you think happened next? I got what I paid for.

Was it worth it?

Was it worth $50? Shit! It was worth twice that much.

No, I mean, how was it? Was it everything you thought it would be?

What do you want details? Listen, I ain't the type to "kiss and tell" but
I'll tell you this, it isn't the fantasy it's cracked up to be, but it sure
it a Hell of a lot of fun and if I was presented with the same offer again,
I'd sure as Hell do it again.

Ok, well, anyway, what happened after you, uh, did your thing?

Well, I actually fell asleep with the two girls. I mean, after we were done
we all just kind of dropped off and were out the second we hit the pillow.
Never thought it would be that tiring.

Anyway, when I woke up, they weren't there and I started to panic. I mean,
I had heard about these types of things where rich travelers spend a night
with prostitutes and wake up with all their money gone. But when I finally
found my wallet in my pants, I saw that all of my money was still there including
the fifty I was supposed to pay them.

I began picking up all of my clothes and checking to make sure everything
was where it should be and sure enough, nothing was missing, even my watch
was on the floor by the nightstand.

But actually, that watch was kind of a realization in itself because I had
no clue what time it was and when I saw it was 12:30 in the afternoon, I
nearly freaked. I mean, we had had the curtains drawn tight and the alarm
clock was useless so the realization there was sunlight out there shocked
the Hell out of me.

Anyway, I didn't get to think about that long because someone started pounding
on the door as loud as they could. It was actually kind of funny though,
I was standing up trying to put my pants on when the banging started and
well, it startled the shit out of me and I ended up busting my ass on that
hard carpet.

Who was it at the door?

I'm getting there. Getting impatient on me? Anyway, I opened the door and
there was Little John staring back at me.

"Hey…" he said but he stopped himself as he got a good luck at me. "Hoooooly
shit man!" I must have looked like Hell because he then started laughing
his ass off in that Jolly Green Giant style he has and said, "It looks like
someone had a real good time!"

I couldn't help but chuckle a little myself before inviting him in. I took
a seat on the edge of the bed and he pulled up one of the chairs. Still not
fully awake I kind of slurred, "What brings you here?"

"Well, I'm here to talk about money," he said.

That woke me up real quick because everything clicked, I mean the meeting
at the restaurant, the bar, the hookers, everything. I'd set myself up for
a good old-fashioned shake-down. But I was too tired to fight him, I just
plopped back on the bed and groaned, "How much do you want? Take it, I don't
care anymore."

He took a long pause and said with a loud booming voice that I'm sure the
people in the next room could hear, "Dumbass, I'm not here to take your money,
I'm hear to help you earn it." I sat up like a shot in disbelief. "You did
pay the girls right?" he asked as an afterthought.

I scratched my head and looked around the room, "No, I uh, fell asleep and
they were gone when I woke up, all my money's still here."

He just looked at me in disbelief. "Well, shit, they must have liked you!
You are the man of the hour, that's all I have to say," he said smiling.
"But listen, just to be safe, why don't you hand me fifty and I'll give it
to them when I see them, alright?"

Did you pay?

Yeah, I did. I actually gave him sixty because all I had on me were twenties
and, well, it was still one hell of a deal. But anyway, he told me he'd buy
lunch and not to worry because I'd be making the money back quickly.

"Listen," he said, "I've been working the phones with my buddies in Charlotte.
One of them's got some work you can do. It's easy work, make deliveries and
crap like that, but I'll warn ya, it ain't exactly legal. You won't be gun
runnin' or anything, but you'll still be breaking the law. But take it from
me, the money's good on the wrong side of the law."

"I guess you would know, you are their pimp right?"

"Sort of, I mean, I ain't their owner or anything but I get paid if that's
what you're asking."

I leaned in a little, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, anything you want."

"How did a guy like you get into this business? I just have to know."

"Well, take a look at me," he said holding his arms out, "What do you think
a guy like me would do for a living?"

I looked him up and down real close, "I'd say a bouncer."

He slammed his hand down on the table, "Hot damn boy, you got a good eye.
You're going places with that intuition." I just kind of stared at him, "For
years I was a bouncer, I bounced at a 'gentleman's club' called 'Wyld Ladyes'.
It was a shithole, but I made a good living."

I didn't realize there were strip clubs in South Carolina.

Neither did I, that's why I said, "There are strip clubs here?"

"Let me tell you something about Greeneville. You're a stone's throw away
from Atlanta, even closer to Charlotte and not that far from Columbia, Charleston
and all of these other business cities. Now, a lot of these businessmen get
a hankering for a little action and don't want to crap in their own backyard,
so they make the drive to Greenville. We got more strip clubs, massage parlors
and escort services than cities twice our size and since no one in their
right mind comes here, there's no risk of being caught."

"I didn't know that," I said stunned.

"Trust me, you're not the first businessman to come to Greeneville for some
tail, but you're probably the first who isn't going home."

"Thanks, I feel special again," I said laughing, "but still, how'd you get
in it all?"

"Well, like I said, I bounced at that club and one day one of the regular
customers got a little too rough with one of the girls and, well, I took
him out back and taught him a lesson. The little shit bitched to the manager
about what I did and I was fired on the spot but the girls, who saw the whole
thing, wanted me to keep protecting them."

"And since some of them were turning tricks on the side," I interrupted,
"they took you own as their pimp."

"Yep, that's about it. But like I said, I don't own them or anything, I just
protect them. They do what they want and they can leave anytime."

"But they don't do they?" I asked.

"Nope, no one's left yet."

"Well, I wouldn't mess with you, that's for sure."

"Aw, you ain't gotta worry about that, I don't beat up my heroes."

Well, at about this point there was a real long pause as I tried to think
of what to say next. This is also when it occurred to me that I needed to
finish getting dressed and getting my stuff together so I could leave.

But just as I was putting on my shoes, Little John spoke up again, "Any thought
on my offer?" he said.

"The one in Charlotte?"

"That's the one."

"Can't you tell me anything else about it?"

"Not really, don't know much. This guy's the silent type you know? But knowing
him, it probably involves either drugs or homemade whiskey. Either way, nothing
too serious."

"How much does it pay?" I asked.

He kind of rolled his head back like he was thinking real hard, "I don't
know. Usually it's a percentage thing, like 10% of the sale, but don't worry,
you'll be making enough. I mean, listen, the worst thing that can happen
is you say yes, go up there, talk with him and decide you don't want it.
You got nothin' to lose? You're already in deep shit as far as I can tell."

Something about that really clicked with me, I just stood up and shook his
hand, "You have a deal then."

He just started smiling real big and said, "Listen, go on up 85 until you
hit Charlotte, there, find a bar called the Red Wolf. I have no idea where
it is so just ask someone. When you get there, ask to speak to Stan, just
tell them I sent you and everything should be A-Ok."

So you decided to be come a runner?

Yep. I just chuckled at him and said, "I can't believe I'm dropping your
name twice."

He got up, slapped me on the back and said, "Well, it's a good name to drop
my boy, it's a damn good name to drop." and before I knew it I was on the
road again, on my way to Charlotte.

Runaway: Part Five

4 Comments

So what happened when you got to Charlotte?

Actually, that's getting a little ahead of the story.

Oh?

I mean, I left Greenville right after lunch and started making the drive
up I-85. Things were going pretty smooth, I mean, traffic was light, the
weather was good and all of that stuff, but it was about halfway through
the trip, almost an hour into it, that I looked into my rear view and saw a
cop riding the back of my bumper.

Now I mean this stuff happens all the time to me, I don't drive like a
nut or anything, but I'm used to having cops follow me around on the
Interstate, so this type of stuff doesn't bother me too much. But for some
reason, when I looked back and saw those blue lights, I realized that I was
only a couple of hours away from becoming a missing person.

I mean, it was bad enough that I had just run away from my wife, but I'd
already been with two prostitutes and I was on my way to being a drug
runner and I guess I just got paranoid as Hell. I just kept waiting for him
to flick on the blue lights, pull me over and take me back to my fucked-up
life back home, or worse, take me to jail where I'd eat dog shit three
meals a day and get raped by my cellmate every night.

And it got really crazy after a while too. I mean, this cop was
following me for at least ten minutes and after a while I just started
really losing it and freaking out bad.

How so?

Well, I got these crazy visions of one of those old-style APBs being put
out on me and cops chasing me everywhere I go, police helicopters circling
me. I was even making plans to ditch the car and hike through the woods for
dozens of miles just to avoid getting caught.

And realize, even though I feel stupid as Hell about it now, right then
it made perfect sense and I started getting very jittery about it. I just
KNEW that cop behind me was radioing headquarters and was going to bust me
any second. My hands started trembling, I couldn't hold the wheel very well
and I was starting to worry I'd begin swerving and get pulled for a DUI, or
driving like an idiot.

So what did you do?

Well, I got lucky on this one, before I started hyperventilating, I came
across one of those highway rest stops and I pulled inside. I probably sat
there for ten minutes in my car just trying to calm myself, forcing myself
to breathe slowly and all of that crap. I'm pretty sure everyone who looked
in my car thought I was having a panic attack or something, which I guess
isn't that far from the truth.

But anyway, when I got myself to where I could breathe like a normal
human being, I decided to get out of the car and get some fresh air. I
walked over to the vending area and got myself a coke at sat down at a park
bench where I could watch the other cars on the interstate go zooming by
me.

I sat there, sipping my coke, just trying to think about what the Hell I
was doing. I mean, two days before all of this, I had never done anything
more illegal than a little weed in college and a few parking tickets. But
in a 24-hour time, I was sleeping with prostitutes and going to run drugs.
It just never dawned on me until right then exactly what the Hell was going
on.

It must have been quite a shock when it all set in.

It was, it was, I'm not going to lie. But the funny thing is that I sat
there and I kept trying to feel bad about what I was doing. I knew what I
was doing was wrong, at least in the eyes of the government, and that I
should probably feel at least some guilt about my behavior. But try as I
might, I couldn't. I just couldn't make myself feel bad or wrong for what
I'd done.

I mean, the way I saw it was that I hadn't hurt anyone, all I had done
was have a good time, I wasn't going to hurt anyone, just make deliveries
and the only person in the world who was going to have any legitimate beef
with what I was doing was my wife and, well, fuck her you know? She wasn't
worth feeling bad over.

So all that was left was fear. I was scared of getting caught, scared of
having my life, as bad as it was, made worse and I was scared of being a
bigger screw up and a bigger failure than I was before. I will say, that I
did get so scared that I seriously considered just going back and trying to
salvage what I could of the life I had. Truth be told, the only thing that
probably stopped me was that I was almost four hours away from home, but
less than one away from Charlotte.

So I kind of decided that I didn't have much choice but to go ahead and
make the trip to Charlotte. Like Little John said, worst thing that could
happen is that I get there, decide I don't want it and leave. If that
happened, it was only five hours back home and, Hell, I guess I didn't
think I could do much more damage by pressing on.

Well, anyway, I got back in the car thinking I had calmed down, I went
to put it in gear and I just locked up again. I wasn't hyperventilating
like before, but I just couldn't make myself drive. I tried, I tried and I
tried, but I couldn't get my hands to listen to my brain, it was like when
you're trying to wake up in the morning and your brain sends the message to
your legs to get out of bed but you still don't move. The best I figured is
that my mind might be calm, but my body wasn't. Didn't matter thought,
either way I wasn't going anywhere and I didn't want to waste any more
time.

So what did you do?

Luckily, it was one of those rest stops where, when you arrive, truckers
go one way and cars go another. So I figured that strangers have been my
best friends through this whole ordeal and walked about forty yards over to
the truck area and caught one of the drivers out walking around his rig,
probably checking the tires or something. Anyway, I explained to him that I
was on my way to Charlotte, that I had a very important meeting and that my
car had broken down leaving me in need of a ride.

Well, he whipped around from what he was doing and shot me a dirty look
that made my blood freeze. He probably thought I was a hippie, a bum or
someone just looking for a free ride. But when he saw my clothes, I guess
he figured I was being straight with him and relaxed a bit and explained
that he wasn't going to Charlotte, just around the city to head up to some
town I've never heard of before. However, he did jump into his cab and get
on his CB to see if there were any other truckers in the area who could
give me a lift and, as luck would have it, someone else right there in the
rest area heard the call and offered to take me.

So, without much in the way of second thought, or a first thought for
that matter, I left my car behind and got in the cab of some guy's truck.
To tell you the truth, it was the first time I had ever been inside a big
rig like that. I had always wondered what one had looked like on the inside
and well, I guess now I wish hadn't found out.

That bad?

Well, the guy was nice enough, I can't remember his name though it'll
probably hit me any second now. He was a quiet guy and didn't talk much,
but he clearly didn't bathe or clean much either. I know it sounds cheesy,
but the place reeked of cigarette smoke and grease. I know it's the
stereotype and all, but he definitely fit the bill and, frankly, it was a
long drive to Charlotte. I mean, I didn't want to offend the guy by rolling
down the window or anything, so I just kind of sat there and tried my best
to hold my breath the entire way there.

Anyway, he took me some kind of distribution center in Charlotte. I'd
never heard of the place but it was one of those office supply companies
that no regular person has heard of, though almost every company in the
known world uses them. But that's beside the point, the manager there was
nice enough to lend me a phone to call a cab, which in turn was able to
take me to the Red Wolf Bar in the middle of downtown Charlotte.

I really didn't know what to do, so I spent a few minutes pacing outside
the bar weighing my options and trying to take in what I was getting ready
to do. But I didn't dawdle long really, maybe a few minutes because I kind
of realized that I didn't have much choice on the matter. I had nowhere
else in the world that I could go to and, besides, I was here already.

Well, I went into the place and it was actually quite nice. It was dead
because they had just opened a few minutes beforehand, but it wasn't
anything like the Blue Moon Bar in Greenville. Outside of being clean and
well-lit, it was big, open and not flooded with thick smoke. It was almost
the kind of place I would have gone to before all of this crap started.

But anyway, I walked up to the bartender on duty, who was polishing
glasses at the time, and said, "My name's Jake, Jake Simpson, I'm here
to see Stan, Little John sent me here."

He looked up at me and after giving me a thorough once-over said,
"Come with me," and led me into the back of the bar.

Runaway: Part Six

5 Comments

So what happened when he took you to the back of the bar?

Well, the bartender didn't say much of anything; he just walked me
through the kitchen area and led me into what was probably a storage room
of some kind. In there, well, it was a scene straight out of one of those
bad gangster movies. There was a card table with a guy sitting behind it
shuffling papers, a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and nothing
but bare walls and concrete floor.

Literally, my first thought when I entered the room was "Oh Jesus,
I've walked into a cheap mob flick."

I can see why you'd think that.

It was bad, very bad, and I wasn't making things any better. In high
school I used to watch a lot of Humphrey Bogart films so I just sort of
slipped into character without realizing it. I kind of put my hands in my
pockets, threw on a scowl, walked up to the table and said, "Hello,
I'm Jake." I'm lucky though, I stopped myself from talking with the
accent, that could have been embarrassing.

Anyway, he looked up from what he was doing, "Yes, you must be the
guy Little John sent up here to help us out." I just kind of nodded
politely and let him continue. "I don't know how much, if anything, he
told you about what you'd be doing so I want to let you know now that it's
not legal and there are risks. If you're going to back out, I suggest you
do it now."

I looked around the room for a second, out of the corner of my eye I
still saw the bartender standing in the doorway. "I've got nothing
better to do."

"Very well," he said motioning to the bartender to take a seat
beside him, "I've got a job for you that will take about two weeks of
your time. If you do it though, it'll make you a lot of money and it
shouldn't be that dangerous as long as you don't freak out."

I glanced over at the bartender and back to Stan, "Ok."

"You still on board with us?" Stan asked.

The Bogart in me slipped back out, "I'll have to check my day
planner, but I think I'm free for the next few weeks."

That dumb crack only got a chuckle as he reached under the table and
pulled out a small brown suitcase. Carefully, he punched in the
combination, opened it and spun it around to face me. Inside it was several
bags filled with a white powder. Now. I'd never it before then, save on TV
or the Internet, but I knew right away it was cocaine. There was no
mistaking it.

"What you see in here," Stan started, "Is a little over
eight pounds of cocaine. The street value of this is well over one million
dollars but to you and me, it's worth a three-quarters a million. Your job
is to get this bag and it's contents to Los Angeles in one week. Think you
can handle that?"

That's a lot of cocaine you're talking about.

I know, it looked to me like it almost filled up the suitcase, though
I'm sure they could have put a lot more in if needed. But it still amazes
me that you can fit one million dollars worth of anything into one
suitcase, just shows you how valuable the stuff really is.

But anyway, I reached over into the suitcase and pulled out one of the
bags and held it in my hand feeling how heavy it was and trying to grasp
what I was really holding. That, of course, really pissed off the
bartender, who was apparently playing watchdog, but I didn't care.

In fact, I really didn't give a lot of thought to much of anything, the
whole moment just felt so surreal to me that I just kept doing what I
thought was expected of me. "Sure," I said.

Stan went to speak but the bartender leaned into his ear. I don't know
if he wanted me to hear what he was saying or if he's just a bad whisperer,
but clear as a bell I heard him say, "Can we really trust this guy? We
don't know him after all."

Stan just muttered something back about Little John and the way I was
dressed and the issue seemed to be dropped. Then he turned to me and said,
"Sorry about that, here's the details. At 5:30 PM, one week from
today, an acquaintance of ours will be waiting in the men's bathroom right
inside terminal one at LAX airport. He'll have a bag identical to this one
only that bag will be carrying $750,000 dollars. Now this is important,
before you switch bags, ask him his name, if he answers with anything but
'Cobra', you get out of that airport as fast as you can without drawing
attention and get your butt and that suitcase back to Charlotte. Anything
besides 'Cobra', got that?"

"Cobra," I repeated, "Got it."

"Then," Stan continued, "You bring that 750,000 dollars
back here within one week, one week, and we'll settle up. For your part,
you get ten percent or 75,000 dollars. Not bad for two weeks work? We'll
even give you a few hundred to cover expenses to get you there, but the
trip home comes out of your pocket. If you need to, use the money in the
suitcase but if more than 75 grand is missing when you get back, we're
going to have problems."

"Sounds easy to me."

"It is, but let me warn you real quick, you run off with that
money, you're dead. I've got guys all over this country, you will be found
and you will be killed. The same goes for if you're caught by the police
and rat us out or do anything stupid like try to sell it yourself. You give
it to 'Cobra' at 5:30 a week from today and no one else. Then, you bring
the money here and nowhere else. Do it right, you'll be rewarded, fuck it
up, you die."

Pretty strong threat?

Yeah, it was and I got a lump in my throat just hearing it. I knew he
wasn't screwing around either. He was dead fucking serious. Sorry for the
pun.

So what did you do?

The only thing I could do, I looked at him and said, "You don't
have to worry about that."

"Good," he shot back. He then spun the suitcase around, closed
it back up and slid it across the table, "There you go."

Without even thinking about what I was doing, I snatched the suitcase of
the table and said, "I guess I'll see you in two weeks then."

"One more thing," Stan called out, "I need the license
plate of your car. Just to make sure you're not going to get pulled for
something stupid like a suspended license or too many fucking speeding
tickets.

Then it hit me. Like a 2×4 my stupidity smacked me right in the back of
the head, I had just agreed to run drugs across country and my car was
parked in a rest stop along I-85. I've never wanted to kick myself so hard
in all of my life.

So what did you say?

I stuttered a lot. "I-I-I don't have a car right now. It's kind of,
uh, inaccessible to me right now."

Stan just jumped out of his chair and slammed his palms against the
table, "You what!?"

"I-I don't have a car, I left it at a rest area along I-85. I'm
sorry."

"And just how the fuck were you planning to run anything when you
don't have wheels?"

By this time I was really panicking. He was very pissed and that
bartender looked like he was ready to do some real damage to me "I
didn't think about that, I'm sorry!"

"Give me that suitcase back so I can find someone with brains to do
this?" he shouted.

I started looking around the room frantically trying to find a solution.
I knew I needed the job. It was my only break and without the money I was
either going to have to go back home or just straight to jail. My first
thought was to fly, but that's too much money and security is way too tight
for that. You can't just walk into an airport with a million dollars worth
of cocaine these days you know?

You'd like to think that at least.

Then the big idea hit me, "I'll take the bus," I said.

"The bus?"

"Yeah, the bus. It's perfect. It's something like two and a half
days from Atlanta to LA it shouldn't be much longer from here. That's
plenty of time, it's cheap, there's almost no security and, best of all,
cops don't pull Greyhound busses over. It's the safest way I can go."

If nothing else this got him to calm down and think, he sat back down
and started whispering with the bartender, even though I couldn't hear much
of what they were saying, they seemed to be nodding their approval. Finally
they broke apart and Stan said, "Well, I guess if you ain't got a car
then you aren't going to run off with the money," he said.

I just sort of smiled and said, "You got a point."

"It's cool by us as long as we book the tickets for you." I
just nodded my head. "Then I guess that's that. I'll call a cab and
have him take you to a hotel. If things go well, I won't see you again for
two weeks."

"Do you want me to take this with me?" I asked holding up the
suitcase.

"Take it, I don't want to see it again." I turned around and
started walking toward the door but he called back out to me before I could
leave, "One more thing, guard it with your life… literally."

Runaway: Part Seven

5 Comments

style="font-style: italic;">So what happened after that?

Well, the cab came and took me to the hotel, it was another dump for
the record, the place literally smelled of mildew and cheap cigarettes,
and I sort of crashed there for a while, not exactly sure what I was
expected to do. I mean, for all of the planning that supposedly went
into this, all I knew was that they were going to buy me a bus ticket
to L.A. I had no idea how they were going to get in touch with me, give
me the ticket, or do even get to the station.

So what did you do?

A lot of nothing. I wanted to look at the cocaine again, I mean, I
didn't want to try any or anything like that, just look at it some
more. To me it looked so harmless and so stupid that the idea it was
worth almost a million dollars seemed crazy. However, Stan locked the
case before he handed it to me and I didn't know what the combination
was and I wasn't about to break it open. The last thing I wanted was to
get killed for breaking into a million-dollar suitcase.

However, I did manage to pass sometime watching television and walking
around the hotel. Though the channels sucked and the picture was fuzzy,
it was better than nothing. Actually though, now that I think about it,
I spent most of my time sleeping I believe. Of course, all of this is
just me guessing, the clock in the room was flashing twelve and I
really didn't think to check my watch, it didn't seem important.

But can I assume your respite
ended quickly?

Somewhat. I mean, it took them longer than I had expected for them to
get back in touch with me, but after, I don't know, maybe a day or so
of waiting, the phone rang and Stan pretty much told me that my bus
left in three hours from the Charlotte station and I needed to be on it.

That's not a lot of time.

No, but it was enough.

Enough for what?

Well, you see, I got dressed right away and decided I was going to get
to the station early, you know, better safe than sorry. But when I took
a look at myself in the mirror, I looked like crap. I mean, I'd
showered and everything, but I was wearing the same clothes as the day
I left Atlanta. I hadn't even had the time to rinse them out in the
shower or anything.

I decided that since money was coming my way I could afford to spend a
little. I called for a cab and had him take me to a mall. I picked up a
few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts and one nice outfit, slacks and
button-down shirt, to wear if I needed it. To be honest, I paid way too
much for it, but since I was short on time, I really wasn't in much of
a position to argue and, besides, I was still left with more than
enough cash to cover food and such on the road. I mean, hey, I was a
college student, I know how to eat cheap.

I'll bet you do.

Yeah, I know a thing or two about getting by. But anyway, that's beside
the point, after picking up what I needed clothing-wise, I picked up a
small suitcase to take with me and a few toiletry items, toothbrush,
toothpaste, so on and got a cab to take me to the bus station.

Now, I have to admit, Greyhound is one of my favorite ways to travel. I
mean, with driving you get way too tired, flying is too damn expensive,
you don't get to see the country and these days security is so anal
that I always feel uncomfortable and trains, well, this is America you
know? We might as well not have train service at all it's so bad. So,
even though it's not the quickest way to get from A to B, I've always
loved the bus and I used to take it to all my spring break vacations in
college.

But none of that means I love bus terminals or bus passengers. I
honestly think I wasn't the only drug runner on that bus but I was
certainly the only one dressed respectably. I mean, a lot of these guys
looked like they'd as soon kill you as look at you, you just got this
feeling that life was cheap to them and that, well, they were pissed
off all the time and probably packing some kind of weaponry.

Must have been scary.

Not really, getting on was a challenge and mingling with the passengers
at the station was Hell. Those hard plastic seats, the noise, the
commotion and that odd smell made the terminal unbearable, but once I
got on the bus, I found a row with two empty chairs, threw down my
stuff and started reading the magazines I had bought at the terminal. I
got lost in my own little world and every time I stuck my head up above
the seats, I could see that everyone else was doing the same. I guess
between the Walkman's and the Game Boys, they really didn't care about
me one bit.

Must have been a huge relief
then.

Boring was more like it. The bus was almost empty so no one was sitting
near anyone else and the scenery in that part of the world isn't the
best. Plus, for some reason we were stopping in every little podunk
town that had a "bus stop" sign posted somewhere in it. I swear some of
these places were the towns you read about in southern gothic novels,
small, falling apart, strange names you can't pronounce, that type of
thing.

Seriously though, not more than an hour passed before I found myself
ready to scream with boredom. I'd forgotten that in college I'd always
go in a group and load up my bag with things to do, you know, music
games and such, I'd never been stuck on a bus with nothing to read,
nothing to do and no one to talk to. And you know what? It's fucking
torture.

How'd you survive?

At first it was a lot of finger tapping, gum chewing and munching. I'm
one of those people that like to eat when he's bored and, well, the
food I'd bought to last me on the first leg of the trip disappeared
really quickly. I was left with pretty much just a pack of gum, a few
sodas and a long, long wait ahead of me.

Luckily though, we hit more of those small towns we began to pick
people up. By the time we'd hit either Knoxville or Nashville, the bus
was pretty full and people were sitting close enough to me for me to
talk with them.

Meet anyone interesting?

A few people, it was right about then the billboard salesman got on the
bus. He was on his way to Texas for some kind of convention and had a
fear of flying. He told me all about billboards, how you sell them,
what they cost, how they're painted, all of that stuff. It sounds like
boring stuff, but it's really interesting, I'll never look at a
billboard the same way again, that much is for sure.

But honestly, the thing that saved me was the layover in Memphis. I had
a few hours or so that I was stuck there and jumped on the chance to go
exploring. I knew I needed something to keep me entertained the rest of
the trip if I was going to stay sane and, well, I don't think "Popular
Mechanics" was going to do it. We're talking about a three-day trek
here.

So I got a cab to take me to a used CD store. I bought myself a small
CD player, some batteries, a good pair of headphones and probably way
too many CDs. I was seriously cutting into my food fund by this time.
But this place had a lot of good rock, metal and 80's music and at only
a few bucks a CD, how could I turn it down, really?

Wait a minute, I thought
Tennessee was the home state of country music?

I thought it was too, maybe that's why it was all so damn cheap, but I
wasn't about to question it. I just paid for everything, grabbed my
loot and left, taking the first cab I could find back to the station,
getting there just in time to meet my connecting bus.

Boy am I glad I made that run though, that bus was dead. The billboard
guy was on there, but he sat elsewhere on the bus and there was no one,
I mean no one around. Plus, we were driving through Arkansas for most
of the next leg and it was dead as Hell. No scenery, just more of those
stupid towns taking up more and more of my time. I really wanted to
kick someone for agreeing to pick all of those idiots up.

But at least it filled the bus
up again right?

I didn't get that lucky this time. The bus was just too damn empty from
the start. Someone sat down in the seat in front of me, but that was as
close as I got to human contact, even the seats across the aisle were
empty.

But that really didn't bother me too much though. I had hours of music
to listen too so I just did what everyone else did and I got lost in my
own little world. When I wasn't listening to music, I was nibbling,
sleeping or reading. But, to be honest, I don't remember much of
Oklahoma, Texas or even New Mexico though we spent literally over a day
on those portions. It's all just a blur of rock 'n' roll music, trees
and towns with names I can't pronounce.

How long was it after that that
you got to L.A.?

About a day or so I think, like I said though, it's all a blur to me.
You really lose track of time when you are trapped in a metal tube
driving across country, especially since the windows were tinted and
sunlight didn't make much of a difference.

However, somewhere around Flagstaff, Arizona things started picking up
again. A lot of people from Phoenix and Mexico started getting on the
bus and most of them were going either to L.A., San Diego or Oceanside
but either way they all pretty much were going to the coast.

I struck up conversations with a few of the people heading to L.A., I
got some tips on where you can find good, cheap hotels, I was kind of
tired of staying in dumps you know, and got a few pointers on what I
should see and where I could get a good meal on a budget. They were
actually very welcoming to me and very willing to help, something that
caught me off guard.

Yeah, I hear L.A. residents
have a history of being a bit inhospitable.

Exactly, but I think these guys weren't so much residents as travelers
so they probably didn't care that I was an outsider. Hell, I'd almost
say that they were comforted.

But anyway, it wasn't long before the driver came over the loudspeaker
and said, "We're now pulling into our L.A. terminal, this is the last
stop for this so I hope you have enjoyed your time on Greyhound and
that you have a safe and pleasant trip!" 

Runaway: Part Eight

4 Comments

So
what did you do after you pulled into the station?

Well,
one of the tips I had gotten was for a hotel with a great weekly rate
that was practically within walking distance to the airport. Sure,
they're nightly rate sucked but if you were going to stay longer than
something like four nights, you'd get off cheaper just paying for the
week and checking out early.

Anyway,
sure enough, the tip was dead on. It wasn't a chain hotel or
anything, in fact, best I could tell it was run by an elderly couple
that probably just made it to America, but it was clean, it was in a
decent part of town and it even had a few restaurants around it and
places to shop. It wasn't a Hilton, but it would work you know?

The
only downside to it was that the hotel fee was more than the cash I
had on hand, I guess I'd bought too many Cds in Nashville. I ended up
having to put it on my credit card, which I knew was a huge risk, but
I figured that since I was on the other side of the continent, by the
time I'd been tracked down, I'd be long gone. After all, what was my
wife going to do, drive to California and get me?

So
what did you do in L.A?

Not
a lot really. I think I got there late Sunday and my "appointment"
wasn't until Wednesday. I pretty much just spent my time either
eating, watching TV or sleeping. Well, I also did a fair amount of
planning about how I was going to spend the money, you know, start my
new life.

I'll
tell you, for a while there I had it all mapped out. I was going to
get a new identity, move to LA,, Miami or some other coastal town, buy
a nice house and start up a new life doing whatever I wanted. I mean,
I might take breaks to make runs like the one I was on, but that
would only be once in a while and to pay the bills. I just wanted a
good, easy, happy life away from the people I knew, the work I hated
and the world, I… I guess the world I felt trapped in.

But
anyway, to answer your question, I spent most of my time killing
time.



Well,
that is, save your little run-in.

Yeah,
well.



You
going to tell me about it or do I have to tell it for you?

No,
you'd get it wrong and I want you to hear how it really happened.

Ok.
Go ahead then.



Well,
at about 3 o'clock Friday, afternoon for the record, there was a
knock at my door. Thinking it was housekeeping, I answered it without
even looking through the peephole and found myself toe-to-toe with a
huge guy, something like 6'6 weighting 250 lbs., wearing khaki pants
and a bright red polo shirt. He took a look at this notepad he had in
his hand, one of those little "black books" you know, and asked
me "Are you Jake Simpson?"

Kind
of knocked back, all I said was "Huh?"

"Jake
Simpson, you him?"

At
this point, I knew something was wrong. This guy was giving me chills
he was so cold and he had that kind of energy, you know, like a
killer almost. However, the best I could do was continue to act
surprised, "Who the Hell are you talking about?"

"Jake
Simpson. You don't know anything about him?"

"No,
I don't know any Jakes, much less a Simpson," I said trying to keep
calm.

"You
sure look a lot like this picture I got of him," he said holding up
a copy of my wedding picture.

When
I saw the picture, I panicked because that was when it all added up.
My wife had tracked me here and had probably sent the police after
me. I had a million dollars worth of cocaine and my wife was going to
get me arrested for something stupid like abandonment. "I look like
every white-collar American on the planet, listen, I'm here on
vacation…"

He
interrupted me, "But his credit card was used to reserve…"

"I
don't know anything about a credit card, I paid with cash," I
shouted back.

"But
the hotel manager said…"

"Then
he got it wrong alright? Now get out of here before I call the
police!"

That
was my great desperate bluff. You see, I still thought he was the
police and I was honestly expecting him to just reach back, flash his
badge and take me away. Still though, it was the only thing I could
say to get him to back off and I was very surprised when it actually
worked. He heard the word "police" and just shut up.

Then
he made me real nervous. You see, he didn't say anything for a long,
long while. If he had just said something, anything, it would have
been better than staring up at his flaring nostrils for about five
minutes. Instead though, he just reached into his shirt pocket,
pulled out a card and handed it to me. I took a look at it and though
I can't remember the name or anything like that, I'll never forget
seeing the words "Private Investigator" written across the top of
it in big, bold letters.

"If
you see anyone named Mr. Simpson," he said, "Have him give me a
call, his wife wants to speak to him about some urgent matters."

I
just took the card and nodded. He slowly turned around and walked
away. Heading straight out into the parking lot. Me, I just shut the
door behind him and watched him from the window. He walked out to the
far side of the lot, got into his car, a blue sedan of some kind, and
moved it to a space directly across from my room where he parked and
waited. It was so flagrant! He wasn't even trying to hide what he was
doing. He just sat there in plain view, in broad daylight, letting me
know he was there.

Must
have been scary.

It
was. I knew I was in trouble right then. My first thought was to
ditch the suitcase somewhere. However, if I did that then Stan would
have me killed. Then I thought about running to the police but life
in prison didn't sound too appealing either. I felt trapped. I was
literally on the verge of just breaking down and crying. I mean, how
helpless can you feel?

What
did you do?

The
only thing I could do. I got on the phone and I got the number for
the Red Wolf Bar in Charlotte from information. There, I got the bartender and I asked
to speak to Stan. Let me tell you though, Stan wasn't too happy to
hear from me. I started out telling him that I made it to Los Angeles
ok and that everything was fine, but he kept insisting "What's
wrong? Why are you calling me?"

Eventually
I broke down and said, "Listen, I'm being watched."

"Who?
The police?" he barked back.

"No,
no cops." I said. I could hear him breathe a sigh of a relief. When
he calmed down enough I continued, "I think my wife has sent a
private eye to bring me back to Atlanta."

"Your
wife?" he asked.

"Yeah,
I kind of, you know, left my wife."

"So
did I, but she didn't sick no private dick on me."

"Yeah,
but, you see, I didn't tell her," I said as calmly as I could.

I
heard him turn his head away from the receiver on the phone and
scream "Fuck!" as loud as he could. Then he put it back up to his
ear and said, "You should have told me about this shit!"

"I
didn't think it would be a problem…"

"You
don't think!" he shouted back at me, "You just do. I do all of
the thinking for you. You got that?"

I've
never felt so small in my life, "Yes sir," I said in a pathetic,
weak voice.

"Good!
Now do you know who this guy is?"

"Yeah,
he gave me his card."

"Perfect,
give me all of the information on it. Everything, even the fax number,
and I'll handle it."

And
you did it I assume?

Yeah,
I did. I gave him every single line, even the fax number like he
asked. I didn't know what he was going to do with it; I honestly
figured he'd just pay him off or something. You know, private eyes
are for hire anyway, they work for the highest bidder, you give them
a little more cash, and they go away. Made sense to me you know?

But
that's not what happened is it?

No,
it's not. I finally got the courage three hours later to peek through
the curtain and, when I did, I saw that the car was gone. It was a
huge relief. Just envisioned that private investigator getting a call
on his cell phone offering him twice the money if he dropped the case
and him speeding off into the night. Seemed logical enough to me you
know?

I
never even considered that, well, this would happen.

And
what exactly is "this"?

The
next morning, I was woken up early by blue lights outside my window
in the parking lot. I looked out the window and saw a whole bunch of
cops around the hotel dumpster, they were pulling out a body and,
from where I was, I couldn't see the face or anything, there wasn't
much mistaking that bright red polo shirt.

So
it was him?

Yeah,
it was him. I heard about it on the morning news a few hours later
and I was just waiting, just waiting for the cops to come knocking on
my door. I mean, how suspicious can you get? Finding the body of a
private eye in the dumpster of the hotel of the guy he was tracking.
That's beyond suspicious.

The
worst part was that I couldn't leave, I had nowhere to go and all I
could do was sit there and bite my nails, waiting for the knock that
I knew would come. Again, I was trapped.

Why
didn't you just go to the police and turn yourself in?

At
that point, I felt like I'd killed him, like it was my fault you
know? Sure, I didn't know what Stan was going to do, but any idiot
could have figured it out. I mean how stupid am I really? If that
wasn't as plain as fucking day, I don't know what is.

Anyway,
I wasn't about to turn myself in but I wasn't about to run. I figured
that if the police wanted me for questioning, it'd be best to let
them come to me. After all, I didn't see anything, I didn't hear
anything, and maybe I could just go about my business and play
oblivious just a little longer.

Still
though, must have been tense.

That's
just it. Even though it was tense as Hell, this time I was too angry.
I honestly wanted to strangle Stan. I'd called him for help and what
did his guys do but make things worse. I mean, they dumped the God
dammed body in the hotel dumpster, not that I wanted him dead in the
first place. For a few thousand dollars, this guy probably could have
been on his merry fucking way and they instead decide to kill him and
leave his corpse maybe fifty yards from where I was standing. It was
like they were trying to get me arrested.

God
I could have killed him right then, I really could have?

But
what happened?

The
knock never came. I just sat there and watched the news unfold. By
something like eleven o'clock they were calling it a "drug-related
killing", whatever that means, and said they had pictures of
suspects, two black guys that looked nothing like me.

You
were off the hook.

Yeah,
as off the hook as a guy carrying a million dollars worth of cocaine
can be.

Runaway: Part Nine

1 Comment

So, after the heat blew over about the private eye, what did you do?

Nothing. I mean I was still scared to death. I just wanted out of California and fast. My gut was screaming at me to runaway and runaway fast. I just knew that any second the police would figure out why the private eye was really killed and come knocking on my door.

So why didn't you run?

Like I said, I was holding a million dollars worth of cocaine. I stay there I might go to prison. I leave, I' be killed for certain. Better to be judged by 12 than carried by 6, that's what my dad told me.

So, eventually Wednesday came around and then…

I made my way to the airport. Well, first I had to fight the urge to get there early, really early, and sit around in the terminal with the suitcase from Hell dangling in my fingers. Not smart. So I used what willpower I had left and I called a cab at about 4:50 pm and he dropped me off sometime around 5:10 pm in front of the terminal.

At first I was nervous that the bathroom might be past security and with all of this post Sept. 11th stuff going on, I knew I'd never make it past the screeners, much less with the guys carrying the M-16s. I mean, there was enough shit there to make a pro nervous, me, I was practically shaking.

So how did you get in?

I played it Bogart again. I got out of the cab, paid my fare and walked right into the airport, right past the reservists with the M-16, pretending like I was in a hurry for some imaginary flight. I then got inside, found the bathroom in question, went inside and locked myself in a stall.

Figured you'd be safer in there?

No, I needed to throw up. I felt more trapped then than I ever did with my wife and the game was much more serious. This wasn't about a job or a house, this was about my life. For the first time I could remember, I felt stuck, helpless and, worst of all, scared out of my mind.

But anyway, after I got out of the stall and started cleaning myself up, I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was about a minute past five-thirty and, as if on cue, someone else walked into the bathroom carrying the exact same suitcase as me.

Can you describe him?

I didn't really look at his face much. He was a big black guy, probably around 6 foot, 6 foot 2 maybe, 250 pounds or so and he was wearing a nice suit, tie and everything. Looked kind of like a bouncer you know?

Anyway, when I saw him I started running my hands under the water like I was washing them and he took the sink next to me and started doing the same. I really don't know what came over me, I guess I just started acting out a scene from a movie I saw, but something clicked and it was like I knew just what to do.

"So where you flying to?" I asked.

"New York," he said with this really gravely voice, "Going to see my family."

"You know, I thought I'd seen you in New York, what's your name?"

"Cobra," he said more softly.

I exhaled loudly, it was the right guy. I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, as far as I was concerned, all I had to do was switch bags, get the Hell out of the airport and on the first bus back to Charlotte. It was like the weight of the situation had been lifted from me you know?

"That's a nice suitcase you got there," I said as I used my foot to nudge my bag over closer to him.

"Yep," he said, sliding his bag closer to me, "Real nice. Real expensive though. Plus, if you don't read the instructions on the inside flap you might not know how to use it and wind up doing something stupid."

The tone of his voice really spoke to me there. He wasn't just making fake conversation at this point, he was giving me instructions. I didn't know what, but I knew it was important.

"I know what you mean," I said, still trying to be nonchalant. There was a long pause while I waited for him to say something else, when I was certain he had nothing left I added, "Well, it's been nice chatting, I best be on my way," as I scooped up the bag he came in with.

I turned to leave but as I stepped away he called from the sink, "Just remember, those bags are very expensive, don't let anything happen to yours, it would be a real shame if it did."

Pretty ominous, if subtle warning wasn't it?

Yeah, especially with the way he said it. It was very condescending and threatening. Right then I was more scared of him than the guys outside with the machine guns.

So what did you do now that you had the bag?

I got out of the airport as fast as I could without drawing attention. I left by a different exit so different people would see me coming and going and I hailed a taxi out front as quickly as I got to the curb. I had him take me straight to the hotel where I barricaded myself in the room for a few minutes, trying to take in what had just happened.

Must have been hard.

It was, very hard actually. I had just made a major drug deal in a major airport bathroom with army men literally twenty feet away. Pretty gutsy. But when I calmed down I realized that I needed to at least check the suitcase and see what ?Cobra? was referring to by instructions.

Now, honestly, I expected the case to be locked, I figured anyone who put three-quarters a million dollars in a suitcase would lock it, but it sprang right open when I flicked the latches, exposing the contents to me without any fight at all.

What were the contents?

Money. All denominations and in all forms imaginable. There were several packs of fresh hundreds, some loosely strewn about twenties and even a few tens and fives floating around. It wasn't neat and pretty like in the movies, but it filled up the entire suitcase, and entire suitcase filled with cold, hard, green cash.

Must have been beautiful.

It was. It was. But I was too scared to mess with it right then. Instead, I just slid my hand into the front pouch and pulled out a sheet of paper with some handwriting on it.

What did it say?

It was hard to read, it had obviously been hastily written, but it basically told me that the heat was on Stan back in Charlotte due to the Private eye and that, rather than meet him at the Red Wolf Bar I was to meet an associate of his in the men?s restroom at the Greyhound station in Charlotte. Apparently it was the same deal though, a week from that day, 5:30 pm and so on only this time I'm looking out for the name ?Gabriel?, like the angel. I would take my 75 grand and pocket it in advance, then hand him the suitcase. Pretty simple.

The funny part though was that on the back of the sheet were the instructions on how to input a combination and lock the suitcase. I don't know if that was on purpose or not, but I followed them to the letter and set the dials to triple sevens, I guess I was hoping it would bring me luck.

Sounds like luck was already on your side though, I mean, one down, one to go right?.

Yeah, that's how I saw it. Or at least that's what I was telling myself as I got my return ticket from the bus station. I honestly figured that the worst was behind me.

I guess I should have learned though, the worst is never behind you…

Runaway: Part Ten

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So how was the bus ride home?

I don't know really, I slept through most of it, I mean, most of the time I was in California I didn't sleep a wink. After that whole ordeal with the private eye, I just sort of stayed up most of the night wringing my hands.

Magically though, as I watched the bus leave the station and eventually cross the California state line, I just felt all of the weight, the guilt, the pain, everything get lifted right off of my shoulders. The air was thinner, the sun was brighter and even though Greyhound buses aren't the safest place in the world, especially when you're carrying 750 grand in a suitcase, it still felt as secure as home ever did.

Long story short, once I watched the bus turn it's back to the California sunset and cross the state line, I nodded off and only remember bits and pieces of the rest of the trip.

Anything interesting?

Not really. The same dirty Greyhound stations, the same bad food and the same dull scenery. You know, nothing special.

So what did you do when you made it to Charlotte?

Well, since I didn't want to sit around in that California hotel room, I left right after I was done at the airport. The bus trip itself was only four and a half days and my appointment was a week from the first pickup. This meant that when I got off the bus in Charlotte, though I could literally see the bathroom where the next drop would take place, I couldn't just wait around for it. Standing around a Greyhound station for 2 days with a suitcase full of money is just begging for it to be stolen.

What I ended up doing instead was catching a cab and going to another hotel. This one just a cozy chain hotel fairly close to the station. It was a bit of a dump, but it was nice enough for a few nights and it was still within walking distance to food and such. I couldn't complain.

Oh, and for the record, this time around at the hotel, I paid cash and I used a fake name. It's amazing really, but if you pay cash and put down enough for a few nights in advance, they won't even ask to see your ID or anything. They just took me at my word you know?

Maybe you just look like an honest guy?

Doubt it. By that point I'd been sleeping in the same clothes for almost a week and I looked like I was worn down to my wits end. All I really needed was a shower and a shave though, especially the shave. Beyond that I was pretty happy though.

Anyway though, you were still set up for two more boring days in a hotel room.

Not really. I mean, there wasn't a lot to do, but I did find a small hole in the wall bar down the street from the hotel to hang out at. I just told them all I was in town for some big graphic design convention and they just kept asking me about my job, my family and my life, hanging on every word like I was some kind of idol or something. I guess the fact that most of them were stone drunk might have had something to do with that.

Anyway, I spent some time there, watched some TV, got a lot of delivery pizza and kind of made a party of it. Honestly I felt like I was celebrating my survival and my freedom and, though I was still kind of lost and unsure about what to do, I made the most of it this go around.

Still, the honeymoon had to come to an end right?

Yeah, it did. Wednesday came around and it was time to take care of business. I walked to the bus station, it was about four blocks away, and ended up waiting nervously in the lobby for about twenty minutes while I watched the clock, praying and praying for 5:30 to come early.

Well, it didn't come early, but when the clock did finally read a few minutes before 5:30, I made my way into the bathroom and immediately choked back vomit.

Your nerves finally catch up with you?

No, the bathroom. My God. In college I used to hang out in bars and clubs all the time, I've seen my share of disgusting bathrooms. Hell, to be honest, I've thrown up in a few. But this was wretched. The smell alone was enough to make me gag and somewhere between the holes in the wall and the bad lighting, it was almost too much to take.

And the weird thing there was that the rest of the station was actually pretty nice. I mean, well-lit, fairly clean, you know, not bad for a bus station. It was like night and day, or something like that at least.

Anyway, I started breathing through my mouth and went over to the sink to start washing my hands. Unfortunately though, I wound up standing there for at least a good five minutes running my hands under the water. This guy was obviously late and if anyone walked in they'd probably think I had a disorder or something. I was literally washing my hands that long.

However, he did eventually come in, about 5:35 on my watch, and he followed suit, washing his hands in the sink next to me.

So what did this one look like?

He was different from the guy in California. The other guy was big and dressed nice. This guy was a smaller white guy with a goatee and long hair wearing khakis and a polo shirt. Looked kind of like a yuppie blues player or something. Same as last time though though, I probably couldn't draw you much of a picture of him. It wasn't his face I was interested in, just his name.

Well, he pulled up next to me and almost immediately started talking, "Hey, haven't I seen you around here before?"

"Probably not," I said pretending to focus on my hands, "I'm just passing through."

"Come on, what's your name?" he asked.

I didn't know how to answer really. I wasn't given instructions on what to call myself but since I figured "Gabriel" probably wasn't his real name, I could lie too, "Daniel," I said.

"Cool," he said, "My name is Duma."

I almost froze. He was the only guy in the bathroom, he was playing the game, but the name was wrong. I tried to keep my cool, but I know that he could see the terror in my eyes, "Duma, huh, like the angel of, um, silence isn't it?"

"Yeah," he said, puzzled, "You know your stuff don't you."

"Yeah, I've done some studying," I said turning off the water, "Well, I need to be going. I've got a ride to catch. I'll talk to you later though."

He went to speak to me again, but I just walked right past him and out the bathroom door. From there, I hurried across the lobby and, when I got outside of the station, I just broke out in a dead run. I mean, I'm not in any real shape or anything, but I ran, just ran all the way to the hotel.

You were that scared?

Yeah, I was. I got to the room, I threw open the door, dashed inside, shut it, locked it and leaned my body up against it like someone was going to break it down. I was just freaking out. I was seriously losing it.

I was there, alone, in Charlotte with three-quarters a million dollars in drug money on my person and no way to get rid of it. I'd never seen so much money in my life and it was amazing how eager I was to give it away.

So what did you do?

I paced the room and tried to think about what I wanted to do. You know, try to collect myself. I thought first about going to the Red Wolf bar and seeing if I could get in touch someone there, but I knew the cops would be there waiting on me. I then thought about going back to the bus station, but I figured that guy was probably a cop as well and that they'd be waiting on me there, besides, without knowing what this Gabriel guy looked like, I'd never be able to pick him out and he probably wouldn't be able to pick me out either.

So, all I really did know was that I was a sitting duck where I was. A hotel room with one door was not a smart place to hide out at. I needed to move. So, I basically started planning my escape.

I dashed to the nightstand and ripped open the phonebook. I knew that I had at least 75 thousand that I could use in order to get away, more if things became real ugly.

What was your plan?

First I wanted to go by bus again. But I realized that that would make me go back to the station where I envisioned swarms cops waiting on me. Flying was out of the question thanks to airport security and I didn't know enough about trains to make a call there. Besides, there you have the problem with waiting at the station again. Not a smart place to be.

So, what I eventually settled on was the idea of dipping into my funds and buying a cheap used car, you know, hopefully find a crooked car salesman where if you paid cash he'd look the other way type of thing. Figured it couldn't be too hard and it didn't have to last long, just enough to get me out of town.

Anyway, I had just about finished finding a car dealer when a knock came at the door. I almost completely froze. I was literally shaking as I set down the phone book and walked over to the door.

I looked through the peephole and I saw a guy that looked a lot like the one I'd seen at the bus station just awhile before. You know, long hair, goatee and all of that.

Frightened, I shouted, "Who is it?" through the door.

"It's Gabriel," he replied, "Open up!"

I exhaled so hard I though my lungs were going to collapse. I threw off the chain, undid the deadbolt and opened the door as fast as my nervous hands could move. When I got it open though, there he was, looking almost exactly like the first guy, just a little taller and with different eyes if that makes any sense.

Somehow though, I just knew that this guy was the real deal. He even acted more authentic, especially when he barged in the room and shut the door behind him without saying a word to me. Oddly enough, his rudeness was comforting, it just seemd more real I guess.

Well, he came in, checked the room quickly and switched off the lights, letting the room only be lit by the sun coming through the partially closed blinds. Beautiful sunset that day by the way.

When he was satisfied, he looked at me long and hard and said, "Ok, you didn't give the suitcase to the guy in the bus station did you?"

"No," I said pointing to the case on the bed.

"Good," he said as he dashed over to the bed and began to pick up the suitcase. I told him the combination to the lock and he threw it open.

"Have you taken your cut yet?" he asked.

I shook my head no, "I put it back after the bus station."

He started counting quickly and laid a pile of money on the bed. "Here's a hundred thousand, consider the extra twenty five grand a bonus for not screwing this up."

I walked over and sat on the bed where I started counting the money, "Thank you, but what the Hell is going on?"

"Bad shit man, bad shit. You know that private dick in L.A.? Well, Stan paid off some gang there to take him out. The dumbasses got caught, screwing up an easy as Hell job."

"I saw that on the news, they called it a gang shooting," I said trying to relax.

"Yeah, well, it was. That is, until those dipshits started talking. They told the police everything to save their own skin. Now their gang is pissed at us because two of their guys are in jail and the cops are after both of us."

"Shit, that is bad," I said, "Which gang was it though?" I asked knowing full and well I wouldn't recognize the name.

"Some hispanic gang, Los something or another. I don't remember Stan told me."

"So where is Stan now?"

"Stan, he's out on bail, hiding out. They arrested him on some bullshit charges. Got me too though. I just got out myself a few hours ago. That's why I missed our little appointment."

Suddenly I started realizing how serious this all was. Sure, it was Stan and them that were being arrested and shot at, but I was now a drug runner too, this could fall on me as well. "So, is any of this going to stick?"

"Not likely," Gabriel said, "Cops don't got any evidence but the weak confessions of two scared young gangster punks. They can't get him, not with his lawyers."

"That's good to hear," I muttered. For his part though, he just ignored my comment and kept counting.

On an on he went until he blurted out, "It's too dark in here, turn on the fucking light so I can finish this and get lost."

I obliged without saying a word and he wrapped up the last few stacks of bills in a hurry.

"Well, it's all here man. You're about fifty bucks short but right now I don't think anyone will care," he said standing up by the bed," just be sure to take your cut and get the Hell out of town. Where you go ain't my problem, but get lost and quick. Stan might call you when things cool down."

I nodded my approval and extended my hand to shake his hand. He met me with a firm grip and I said, "It was real nice to see you."

"Nice doing business with you too," he replied.

I turned to open the door but, just as my fingers touched the knob, I heard a muffled explosion. Though I didn't recognize what it was or where it came from, it was immediately followed by the sound of shattering glass and a loud, but dull thud.

I turned around just in time to Gabriel, his eyes already lifeless, fall straight to the ground like a bag of rocks.

I'll tell you, I've seen dead people before, I've been to funerals and such, but I'd never seen anyone die right in front of me and it was scary. I mean, he was obviously dead before he hit the ground. He didn't rattle, no blood spurted out of him or anything for that matter. None of the stuff you read about. The only thing I saw when he hit the ground was a deep dark red hole in his head that was kind of oozing this really dark blood out of it. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before.

I stood there in awe for a second, too stunned to even think about own safety you know? I knew he'd been shot, I knew I should take cover, but I just couldn't move.

I know I wasn't there long though, it sure seemed like an eternity. I snapped out of my trance when someone outside shouted, "That's Los Gorilas motherfucker! Los Gorilas!"

I knew then I was in deep shit.

Human Chess Rules 1.0

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Definition: Human chess is the never-ending game in which people, seeking to fulfill their own needs and desires, work for, with and against others positioning themselves, others and the world around them in such a way that they have a better chance of reaching their goals than those who seek the same thing or things conflicting with their desires.

The Cardinal Rule: When playing human chess, one's mind should always be in the game. It is the only sport where there are no play periods, no time outs and no end in sight. Even if your needs are met, others are not and they may be prone to move against you if for no other reason than you have done/acquired/achieved more than they.

On Desires:
1) People are always motivated by selfish desires
2) Selfish desires are rarely rational
3) What one desires if often affected or influenced by their environment
4) Therefore, by positioning or altering one's environment, you can change their desires
5) You are a part of a person's environment, therefore, altering your position can change another's environment

On Knowledge:
6) Knowledge is paramount, you must know what one desires in order to alter their will.
7) You must also know what you desire in order to know which way to alter other's wills. 8) If you do not know these things you are playing the game blind and will lose without knowing.

On Perception:
9) Perceptions are 90% the law.
10) If a good deed is perceived to be an injury, then it is an injury.
11) If a bad deed is perceived to be an aid, than it is an aid.
12) Always remember, a diplomat is someone who can tell another to go to Hell in such a way that they think they might enjoy the trip.
13) It pays to be a diplomat.

On War:
14) There is little to be gained from open war, you should avoid it.
15) If an enemy seeks open war, you should smite him/her as quickly as possible and be the first to offer the olive branch. A beaten enemy will jump at any truce offered, no matter how unfair.

On Alliances:
16) Sometimes in order to gain what you need, you must submit to the will of others.
17) There is no dishonor in serving another so long as your own agenda is being met.
18) Every alliance places a strain on all parties involved.
19) Every alliance has a benefit for all parties involved.
20) If the strain should ever exceed the benefit, the alliance should be broken immediately.
21) Unless an alliance is truly mutually beneficial it is prone to betrayal.

On Groups:
22) Groups are a means by which a collection of weak people use their number as a bargaining chip to gain strength.
23) All cohesive groups larger than 12 have a leadership of some kind.
24) To deal with the group, it's best to deal with the leadership directly rather than the individuals that make it up.
25) To keep a group cohesive, the individuals in it must sacrifice their right to judge to the leaders.
26) To split a group up, make the followers question the leader and convince a handful of the sheep that they could be the shepherds. A rebellion will be inevitable.
27) On the whole, powerful people should steer clear of joining cohesive groups. The sacrifice is simply too great.

On Individuals:
28) Everyone is unique in some way; no two people are alike.
29) Therefore, it should never be assumed that you could deal with one person exactly the way you dealt with another, unless it is proven to be true.

On Plans:
30) The best way to understand a person is to understand their desires, then to grasp their problems and opportunities in attaining those desires. This will help you understand their plan.
31) Everyone has a plan, they may not admit it, but everyone is scheming of how to get what they want/need.
32) Everyone has a talent that can be useful and a flaw that can be detrimental. Understanding those will help you see how someone can fit into your own plan.
33) A wise man will see how someone's talent can help them in their current plan, the wisest man will see how they can alter their own plan to make use of another's talent.
34) That's why fluid plans, on the whole, reach their target the quickest.

On Emotions and Beliefs:
35) Never anger those you need help from if avoidable.
36) Never anger someone who has served their purpose if avoidable, they might be necessary later.
37) If you make someone believe they can do something, odds are they will.
38) If you make someone believe they cannot do something, odds are they won't.
39) People will believe what they want to believe, trying to work against that is unwise.

On Friends:
40) If you want to make a friend, whenever possible, give someone the chance to help you, never offer to help them. People would much rather be a creditor than a debtor.
41) However, be prepared to repay the debt someday. Do not gripe when the time comes.
42) Never, for any reason, stab a friend in the back. It only creates an undesirable open war and makes the acquisition of future friends more difficult.
43) If you do not desire friends, that is your decision, but realize the weaker position it puts you in.
44) However, weaker position aside, the lack of friends or dependants can make your playing field much more simple to navigate.
45) If you do desire to keep friends, keep only as many as you can maintain and trust.
46) A friendship without maintenance or trust only creates a wild card in situations where certainty is essential to survival.

On Enemies:
47) Everyone has enemies, accept the fact that you have them and always will have them now.
48) Don't shy away from making enemies. Just make sure they are weaker than yourselves and either have nothing to offer you or are more beneficial to you as an opponent (IE: any enemy of my enemy is a friend of mine).
49) If a battle with an enemy becomes too draining, seek peace, even at the cost of pride.
50) Make your peace complete and total, do not leave open doors for future hostilities.

On The Goals:
51) The goal of human chess is to fulfill your desires.
52) If you can help others fulfill theirs at the same time, so much the better.
53) As soon as you attain one desire, another will take it's place.
54) That is why the game of human chess is never-ending.
55) That is why even the best players get beat.
56) and that is what makes the game as entertaining as it is…

The Trump Rule:
57) Like in life itself, every rule in human chess has an exception. Always be on the lookout for these exceptions so you can play them with confidence. The thing that separates the great chess players from the simply good ones is the ability to spot the exceptions and ride them to victory.

The Warlock and the Pupil

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One day, many years ago, I met a warlock I admired greatly. His knowledge of the world and the people in it greatly exceeded my own and I was determined to learn from him. Luckily, he was very generous and spoke with me at length about magic and how it works.

But when he told me about a curse he had thrown and how he put his victim in the hospital with it, I interrupted him. "Aren't you afraid that will come back on you?" I asked. "Don't bad deeds come back to haunt you?"

He sneered at me as if I had insulted him and said, "Dear son, if you are ever to practice magic you must learn one thing and learn it now. That good and evil are just like right and wrong, they're ideas that are as individual as fingerprints. Hardly a deed done in the world has been evil because the doer has always thought it just. Never throw a curse you believe to be unjust and it will never come back to haunt you."

With that he turned and walked away.

Many years passed, I grew older and wiser. I went to college and even got engaged to a wonderful woman. However, a blonde girl with too much energy and too little brains kept trying to come between my love and me. Even after subtle and not-so-subtle hints she continued to pursue me with greater and more irritating vigor.
One day, she wouldn't leave me alone and wouldn't even listen to what I had to say. I stormed home, remembered the warlock's advice and threw my curse. I threw it without remorse, regret or caution for I was in the right and there was no room for such things.

The next day, the girl fell ill with a mysterious lung ailment and was forced to miss most of the rest of the semester. She found herself very far behind and failed most of her courses. Rumor spread that she was even thinking about dropping out.

Soon thereafter I saw the warlock again. He somehow remembered me and asked me how I was doing. I told him, "I threw a curse just as you said. Because of it, a beautiful, friendly and sociable girl fell ill, missed class and may have to drop out of college. But I was within my right, I knew it then and I know it now. It has not come back to haunt me and I don't fear it will."

The warlock smiled and said, "My son, you are well on your way." With that, he turned and walked away from me, never to speak to me again.

The Prediction

4 Comments

I was walking down the street when a friend who I had not seen in some time passed me going the other way. We both stopped to talk but after I greeted her, she looked up, raised her hands up to the sky in pure frustration and screamed, "Please tell me I will have a better day!"

I looked at her oddly for a second and then put on the best poker face I could and said,"You desire three things, before you sleep you will get two," and abruptly walked off.

Several days later I saw her again, this time in the cafeteria. I sat down next to her and asked her if that horrible day had improved. Her face lit up and she began to explain.

"When I woke up that morning, my car was dead and I had to get a friend to take me to class. Then after my first class, my boyfriend came up to me and said he wanted to see other people and to top it off, at the last minute, I checked my history syllabus and saw I had a test that evening. Then I saw you."

Judging from the smile on her face I could tell things must have improved and I told her to go on.

"Well, after I spoke with you, I hit the books and didn't let up until class started. I wound up acing the test effortlessly. Then, when I got back home, I decided to take a chance and call my boyfriend. By the time we got off the phone, he was in tears over how stupid he had acted and didn't know what had overcome him. I was angry but decided to forgive him, he's been very good to me for nearly a year now and I didn't want to let cold feet break us up."

"I'm glad it got better," I said.

"Yes, and your prediction came true. I desired three, my car, my boyfriend and my 'A'. I got two of them. But how did you know?"

"Know what?" I asked.

"That I wanted three things."

"Because everyone wants three things," I said.

"But then how did you know that I would only get two?"

"Because everybody only gets only two, just good enough to cut it, but not perfect," I said. "It was the safest prediction I had ever made."

Human Chess

11 Comments

I had just published an essay on magical theory in a local weekly. It was making waves through the community and everyone was wanting to talk to me about it. That's why it didn't surprise me when that the first words I heard when I entered the cafeteria were, "Can I ask you a question about your essay?"

It came from a well-dressed gentleman who was eating a large meal over in the corner of the room. I waved at him pathetically and got in line. However, I quickly learned I had left my wallet at home along with my money.

With nothing better to do, I walked over to the man and sat down with him. He was a freelance journalist and wanted to do a story on my essay and that he needed to ask me some questions. I told him I'd agree as long as he got me a slice of cake and a tea. He smiled and without a word made the purchase.

After getting my name and other information he checked his notes and said, "First off, I need some clarification. In your essay, you make a passing reference to something called 'Human Chess,' what is that exactly?"

I leaned back and said, "Human Chess is the art of manipulating human beings to meet your needs and desires."

"So basically it's forcing people to do what you want them to?"
I scoffed and leaned in, "Hardly, forcing people is one of the poorest moves in the game. It's best to alter other's wills so they match your own. If you convince the sheep it's better off shorn, he'll smile as you take the razor to him."

"So, you in trick people into doing what you want them to?"
I looked at my empty plate and then over to his tray. I motioned over to his corn and rice and asked, "Do you mind?" He nodded and I sank my fork in.

"As you were saying," he said.

"Tricking people is worse, tricks are eventually discovered. You have to position the world around people carefully and use words gingerly. Most people don't know what they want and are waiting for direction. Others do know what they want and they can be dealt with by trades and deals."

"It can't be that simple," he interrupted, "you can't honestly manipulate people that easily!"

"People are soulless creatures by nature. They seek television, advertising, bosses, wives, anything that can tell them what to do. Most men are either slaves by choice or ignorance. Either way, I win."

I glanced down at my bowls and asked if I could have the last of his turkey cutlets. He once again nodded and moved it to what was the rice bowl and began to eat hungrily.

"So what you mean is that you can manipulate the masses through suggestion and trades?"

"I don't waste my time with the masses, I focus on people. A person has value, talent and even a sense of intelligence. People are stupid and emotional. One man can do more than a thousand when given a purpose. That's all I provide, purpose."

With that he slammed his hands down on the table and exclaimed, "I'm never going to understand this or you! I'm giving up before I get a headache!"

I got up, took one more bite and said, "But can I say one more thing?"

"Very well," he said with a sigh.

I tossed the fork onto his plate and said, "Checkmate."

Beauty

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I was late to my science class when I was startled by the sound of books hitting the pavement. A girl walking the other way had slipped, dropped her entire load and was scrambling to pick them up. Without hesitation I started to help her gather them.

"Thank you," she said, "would you mind helping me carry them to class?"

"Where are you going?" I asked

"To the business building."

It was then I got my first good luck at her. She had a very petite frame with long flowing blonde hair and a perfect complexion. She could have been a model easily.

"Sorry, I can't," I responded bluntly.

A look of shock came over her and she paused for a second before speaking up and saying, "Why not?"

I pointed to the west and said, "I'm going to the science building, we are but crossing paths in the opposite direction."

I started to walk away and she started to walk with me, "Are you sure? These books are really heavy."

She was exaggerating, her load, while heavy, was manageable. If anything, she needed a book bag, not me.

"Yes, I'm sure."

I continued toward my class and she sprinted after me. After about 100 feet I looked back and said, "You're not used to being told no are you?"

She lowered her gaze and said, "Most guys trip over themselves to help me. Why not you?"

"Walk with me and I'll tell you." I let her catch up and we continued. "I'm sure most guys find you very attractive I said, but you're just not my type. I've never cared for the idea of the American standard of beauty. "

"What do you mean?"

I glanced back over at her, "You obviously work out and diet to maintain your figure. I'm sure most guys enjoy that, but I've always gone for healthier looking women. The two things I find most attractive in a woman are curves and personality. You seem to be short on both."

"I have personality," she exclaimed, "you just don't know me!"

"If you had personality you wouldn't be asking strange guys to carry your books. People with personality like to do things for themselves."

She got quiet. I started to feel bad about railing on her so hard. I realized I was letting my foul mood get the better half of me. "So you don't find me attractive at all," she said.

By this time we were right outside of my class. I turned and looked at her again and said, "Well, you do have a very pretty smile and very nice eyes. I never said you were hard on the eyes. Just about anyone would feel blessed to have you around."

She shook her hips lightly, put a slink in her voice and said, "So you do admit to being interested in me after all?"

I paused to kick myself for being generous. I quickly regrouped and said, "No, but you've admitted to being interested in me."

Once again shock came over her face, "How so?"

"Because we're at my class and yours is a full eight blocks in the other direction." I paused to point in the direction of the business building. "And you're still carrying your books."

I walked inside the building and never saw her again.

Lunchtime Encounter

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I was enjoying my lunch break at an outdoor café when a female student walked up beside the table where I was sitting.

"Excuse me" she said, "can I talk to you for a moment?"

I took a sideways glance at her. She was of medium height and build, with long dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. She wore plain clothing and did little to attract my attention by her appearance but I was intrigued by her bravado and motioned for her to sit down.

She threw her book bag down on the table and sat across from me. "I only have a few minutes before class but I have a question for you. You do a lot of talking about emotions and how they can work for or against you, but you don't seem to feel many of your own. You always look so… well… neutral."

"I feel emotions as strongly if not stronger than you. But unlike most people I rule them rather than them ruling me. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean I don't feel all the things you do."

"Well, everyone I've talked to who's met you mentioned how spiteful you are. What about love? Do you feel that."

I arched an eyebrow at her a little bit annoyed at the question, "I feel love. I just save it for those who are worthy of it. Anything given too freely loses value."

"I just don't see how a creature so filled with hate can know what love is."

"One's capacity to love is defined by his capacity for hate. The two define each other the same as pain defines pleasure. How would you know what love is if you have nothing to compare it to?"

She retreated back into her seat, beaten. But before she drew a full breath she spoke up again. "So tell me, is there any love in your life?"

"You mean romance?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Not at this time. I haven't found the right person."

"How will you know when you do?" she asked.

"Because she will be my equal."

"How will you know that?"

"Because she will be able to beat me."

She paused a moment before responding, "Don't you mean equal you?"

"No, beat me."

"But wouldn't that make her your superior?"

"Only if I couldn't beat her."

Once again she leaned back, "I'm confused."

"If all someone can manage to do is equal you, then they are still your inferior having a few lucky rounds here and there. But if someone can beat you, and you in turn beat them, then you have an equal."

"But what if you tie someone all the time?"

"That's a statistical impossibility. Someone has to win at some point, it's the way nature works," I said.

She leaned in close for her final assault, "But what if, what if, you could go your entire life and every time you crossed swords with someone it was a perfect draw?"

"If we defy nature and play your game, then life would be exactly like this conversation, a time-limit draw."

She sat back down in her chair, "huh?"

I motioned at my wrist, "You're ten minutes late for class, you'd better get moving."

She glanced quickly at her watch and a look of panic came over her face. She hurriedly threw her books over her shoulder and took off leaving me to finish my meal.

As she was leaving I called out, "Better luck next time!" but I realized I had a worthy opponent on my hands…

The Party

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It was a rare burst of social interaction that brought me to the party, a mingling session of the honors students on campus. It turned out to be just a bunch of students dressed nicely, roaming the university's guest house munching on finger food while chatting the evening away.

I was about to leave when I noticed the tail of a red dress disappearing into the other room. Since everyone was dressed semi-formal she stood out from the crowd. I stuck my head around the corner and caught a glimpse of her face. She was a beautiful creature, with flowing amber hair and a wonderful smile.

I wanted some information so I asked a friend of mine if he knew her. He gave me a name, Jennifer, but could provide me little else. I decided to and I watch her out of the corner of my eye.

In about an hour of casual observation between idle chatter, I made several key observations. She had been a dancer at some point, I could tell by the way she walked and carried her weight. Judging from the way she spoke, it was apparent she was not only well versed in English literature but also at least fairly fluent in Spanish. Lastly, and most importantly, I could tell by the way she was darting from conversation to conversation that she was just as miserable was at this party as I.

When she stepped outside into the garden area I decided now was as a good time to talk to her. I broke off my current conversation and hurried outside and walked up beside her.

"Well, this is a perfectly miserable time," I said casually.

"Yes it is," she replied calmly.

"So tell me something, do you prefer Shakespeare's comedies or tragedies?"

She spun around to face me. "How did you know I read so much Shakespeare?"

I grinned slightly, "I overheard you quoting Othello earlier, very nicely I might add."

"Well, thank you," she said.

"So which is it?" I asked again.

"Well, I like the comedies for light reading but his tragedies are best for serious study."

"So you study him seriously?" I asked.

"I study many things seriously."

"Like dance I assume."

"Well, that was a long time ago, but yes, I did and still do it as a hobby. But how did you know that?"

"It was just an observation," I replied.

"Well, did you happen to observe anything else?"

"Not much, just that you were intelligent, interesting and just as miserable at this party as I am."

"Anything else?"

I was a little bit confused, "No."

"Then you missed the most important observation you could about me."

I got a sinking feeling in my stomach, she spun on her heels a way from me and looked over her shoulder. When she glanced at me, it all came together, I saw beneath the make-up and flowing red dress. It all added up but before I could speak she said, "Better luck next time!"

It was the girl from the outdoor café.

She began to walk away but before she could take a step I lightly grabbed her wrist and she spun around to face me. Our eyes met for a second and suddenly they became the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. I couldn't bring words up but I managed a huge smile and then began to laugh at myself. She started laughing and we found ourselves needing to take a seat to catch our breath. Once we recovered, we started talking, but this time as friends.

A year later she would become my fiancé.

The Shock Jock

5 Comments

After my incident with the reporter in the cafeteria, I was invited to appear on a local radio show. The invitation said that the show was “A lively forum for discussing relevant and interesting issues.” But I quickly discovered that the Barry Samuel show was nothing more than one person, Barry, berating his guests with the aid of his loud-mouthed cohort Dr. Scream.

The first guest was the local sanitation manager. He took Barry’s abuse for a full hour being called everything from “our highest paid garbage man” to “the head stinker in the county.” I knew then that I had a fight on my hands.

After the sanitation manager left the studio, I was waved in. I sat in the chair opposite of Barry and waited for them to return from commercial. Once they did, Barry didn’t waste a second before tearing into me.

“Now we’re here with that famous warlock that everyone has been talking about. Now, I have to tell you, sitting here across from him, I just see a skinny kid in black. By the way how old are you son?”

“20,” I replied.

“The big two-zero well congratulations kid. But I asked you here to day to tell me why, on earth, do you call yourself a warlock.”

“Because I make the impossible possible…”

He interrupted, “Oooooh, big man, making the impossible possible. So tell me, can you walk through walls? Levitate beautiful girls? Speak in strange tongues? Turn water into wine?”

“No, I can’t.”

“So what the hell can you do that’s impossible?”

I was very irate, “Why don’t you ask that reporter who wrote the column on me?”

He leaned back in his chair, “Yeah, I have to admit kid, you made a fool out of that reporter. But let me tell ya something, I’m not that dumb, you can’t make a fool out of me.”

“I think you’re doing a fine job of that yourself.”

“What did you say?” he asked leaning into me.

“I think you heard me just fine.”

“Why you little punk I oughta…”

I got out of my chair and stood in the center of the room, “Why don’t you?”

He looked around the studio for a second, unable to believe what was happening. Dr. Scream chimed in, “Yeah boss, kick his butt!”

He stood up but leaned into the mic first, “Kid, I’m twice your size, now sit down and no one gets hurt.”

“So you’re scared,” I had to speak up so the mic could hear me.

“No, I just don’t want to go to jail for a little punk like you.”

“I assure you, you won’t go to jail. Now, if you’re not scared of me, prove it.”

He placed his headset upon the table, and began to walk toward me. “Want me to hold him for ya boss?” Dr. Scream injected.

Barry glanced over at him and said, “Naw, just keep your seat, I’ll handle him.”

He raised his right hand and took a swing. Quickly, with my left hand, I grabbed his arm and dug my fingers into a pressure point between the bones in the wrist and gave a twist. This dropped him to his knees at which point, with my free hand, I dug two fingers into the soft spot between the collarbone and the neck.

It was all too easy.

He moved his right arm to try to break free. I applied more pressure on both points causing him to let out a scream so loud it red lined all of the meters in the studio. He was trapped.

I spoke up, “For those of you listening at home, I currently have Barry trapped in a combination wrist lock/neck pinch. He is kneeling in front of me powerless to get out. I could kill him if I wanted, but he’s not worth going to jail for.”

“Dammit you idiot! Help me!” he cried out.

Dr. Scream looked at him and shrugged his shoulders, “Sorry boss, you told me to stay here.”

I looked down at Barry. “Now didn’t you say that I would never be able to make a fool of you?” He nodded and I applied more pressure, “then say it out loud so your listeners can hear.”

“YES!”

“Do you feel like a fool right now?”

“YES!”

I let him go and shoved him to the floor. “Well, there I go, making the impossible possible once again. Any questions?”

He looked up at me and wiped his nose with his sleeve, “Get the hell out of my studio!”

I made my way to the door pausing only a second to look over my shoulder at him and say, “That’s where I wanted to be in the first place.”

The Book

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It was a lovely day out and I had just checked out a new book from the library for some light reading. I decided to take it to a nearby bench and start rummaging through the pages.

I had gotten maybe halfway through the book when I heard footsteps coming my way. I glanced up and saw a pack of athletes making their way from the gym and immediately returned to my book. They were snickering amongst themselves and motioning to me, but I thought nothing of it.

However, one of them, the biggest in the group, decided to make his way over to me, apparently on a dare.

"Yo, if it ain't that Warlock, the new big man on campus. You don't look so big to me though."

I didn't even look up to acknowledge his existence. I just checked the index of the book and skipped ahead to a more interesting section. He looked up at his friends and shrugged his shoulders.

"Whatcha reading?" he asked.

Once again I didn't relent. He wasn't worth it. I just read faster and focused more intensely on the words.

He leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "Now, what could be so damn interesting that you can't even look up from it to see my pretty face huh?"

"It's a book," I replied, "I know you haven't read any but I thought you'd at least be able to identify what one is."

It took a second for the insult to work its way through all the layers of his mind. He stepped back and I could hear his friends snickering at him. He cocked back as if to punch me and I decided not to take a chance. I don't know if he really meant to hit me, but I wasn't about to find out.

With a sharp thrust of my right hand I dug two fingers into his Adam's Apple knocking the wind out of him. With the same fingers I pressed into the soft spot of his shoulder dropping him to his knees and from there I placed one finger on the gap in the front of the collar bone.

"Make one move outside of falling backward and I shove this finger into your throat and kill you immediately," I said.

He was gasping for air desperately and with an awkward motion fell as straight back as he could. He rolled around in the grass for a second getting his breath back. His friends, still stunned from my initial strike didn't even make a move to help him.

When he finally got his breath back, he stood up, doubled over and between gasps asked, "Ok, ok, ok, no need to get violent," he let out a sharp groan, "I just wanted to know what you were reading."

Without a word I flipped the book over and showed him the cover, it read Pressure Point Tactics of the Far East.

The Strip Club

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One day, my fiancé and I realized that neither of us had ever seen the inside of a gentlemen's club and were curious about what one was like. So we headed out that night to head out to a small club on the edge of town and sat down at a quiet table near the corner.

While the novelty of the show wore off almost immediately, the people, in particular the patrons became endlessly fascinating. The two of us began pointing out people we found interesting and keeping an eye on the various dramas taking place that night.

After about an hour someone approached our table and without warning sat down across from us. "I didn't expect to see you here," he said, "This really doesn't look like your kind of place."

I saw his face briefly when a spotlight passed over us, it was the reporter from whom I had stolen a lunch. The look in his eyes told the truth, like a shark, he smelled blood in the water and was looking to attack.

"I'm in a lot of places you'd never expect to see me. Every ghost has a few unusual haunts."

"Well, are you at least enjoying the show?"

I looked around the room briefly, "The people are fascinating. If that's what you're asking."

"So you're trying to tell me you're not watching the girls," he said.

"Not in about the past 45 minutes."

"Then what in the Hell are you doing here?"

"Getting stories, yourself?" I asked.

"I'm a reporter, I'm doing some work for the paper. You on the other hand, are of full of it. There aren't any stories here for you."

"Really?" I asked. "What makes you think that?"

"Look around you. Two-dimensional women, guys foaming at the mouth half drunk and all the scum in between. I'd say it's the making of a seedy crime story, not the type of thing you'd write," he said.

I could read the headline already, "Warlock caught in local strip club with fiancé in tow." Throw in a few sordid lies and you'd have the makings of a great scandal. I had to act fast.

"Strip away the dancers and the terrible lighting and what do you have? You have people who are under an extreme situation who don't think they're being watched. All around you have people responding to their base instincts like no one else was in the room. Where else are you going to get that?"

He thought about it for a minute, "I don't know."

I pointed to one guy near the stage, "You see that guy over there. I overhead a waitress say that he's been here since three this afternoon at that same table. He's been ordering one drink every hour on the hour and he's so regular the waitresses have it ready before he asks. He's watching his money very carefully."

He looked over his shoulder at the man, "Why do you figure he's doing that?"

"I didn't know either at first, but something caught my eye in the light. He's wearing a wedding band. Now, if there's not a story there, then where is there one?"

"I see," he slipped into deep thought for a second.

"Then there's her over at the bar," I motioned in the general direction. "She used to be a stripper here. You can tell by her bag that bears the club name and the fact she hasn't paid for a drink all night. But she's not dancing tonight and won't for a while because of that knee brace. Looks like she banged it up pretty good. But not a single guy has paid her any attention all night and she's been sulking over that since I got here."

"Wow, good eyes."

"So tell me, what story are you working on Mr. Reporter?"

He whipped around in his chair to face me, "Um, I'm doing a report on new laws that affect local strip clubs."

"Does it really take four hours in a club to ask about new laws?"

"What do you mean? I just got here!"

I glanced down at his hands, "Really, the stamp on the back of your hand reads 'Happy Hour' and I believe that ended at six."

His eyes opened wide and he stammered for words, "I-I-I've gotta go, I'll chat with you later."

He got up to walk away but I called him out, "Hey, you didn't tell me if you were enjoying the show."

He just scowled at me and walked off. The headline never appeared.

The Slip

4 Comments

I needed to make a stop by my apartment late one morning last week and headed out on foot from work. There's a section of the sidewalk that's been torn up for construction and replaced temporarily by gravel.

This has never bothered me since I always wear comfortable walking shoes, but a young lady ahead of me wearing high heels was struggling terribly to keep her footing. Sure enough, just as I went to walk around her, she slipped and began to fall face-first into traffic. Reacting out of instinct alone, I reached around, grabbed her by the waist and stood her back up until she regained her footing.

She stood there for a second, breathing hard saying only, "Thank you" between gasps.

"No problem," I said. "However, you probably shouldn't wear heels when walking through gavel."

She started turning around slowly; "Yeah, I think I broke my left heel there, I don't know…" Her sentence trailed off as she finally saw me. "It's you."

"Me?" I responded puzzled.

"Yeah, you, that Warlock guy."

I drew a sigh, "Yes, that would be me."

A look of anger washed over her face, she huffed out loud and tore her shoes off from her feet, throwing them in her purse. "Listen, just don't you ever touch me again, alright?"

I was taken back and couldn't respond right away, "I was just trying to help, I didn't want you to fall into traffic."

She took a couple of steps up the side walk and repeated, "Don't you ever, ever touch me again," with a slow drawl and exaggerated finger pointing to accent her point.

Realizing that I couldn't win this particular argument, I just shrugged my shoulder, tipped an imaginary hat and walked on.

It wasn't until lunch the same day that the issue resurfaced. I was eating at one of the local cafes, enjoying a light sandwich and a newspaper when a very large and athletic gentleman sat down in the empty chair across from me.

He wasn't long on words, after making eye contact he said, "You, me, outside, now," and ended his threat with a low growl.

I calmly turned the page of the newspaper over, "Might I ask why?"

"My girlfriend over there," he motioned to the far side of the restaurant where the girl I had rescued was sitting, "tells me that you grabbed her."

"Her," I said, "She fell and I caught her. If I hadn't been there she could have fallen face first into traffic. You should be thanking me rather than threatening me."

Without a word he got up and went back over to his girlfriend, after a brief conversation he came back, as mad as ever. "She says she doesn't know what you're talking about. Now she's a good woman, she's never lied to me, so why should I believe you over her."

"Check her shoes," I said. He responded with an unintelligible question, "Her shoes, ask to see her shoes," I repeated

Sure enough, he went back over to her, asked her and she held up one of her feet. Apparently, sometime after her fall she had switched into green sandals. Satisfied he came back over to me. "They look fine to me."

"No, the shoes in her bag."

"What shoes in her bag?"

"The white shoes with a very tall black stiletto heels. They're nice shoes though they don't go with that dress. However, you'll find that the heel on the left shoe is broken."

A look of awe washed over his face, "I bought her those shoes last week. They were a present."

"She was obviously going to wear them to your lunch date to impress you, that is until the left heel broke. Since they really don't match her dress she probably brought those sandals to slide on after lunch. But why don't you go and check her bag and find out for yourself."

He got up and backed away from the table as if to avoid eye contact. But this time it was terror in his eyes, not anger. When he got to his table he motioned to see in the bag, his girlfriend hesitantly complied.

"We need to step outside, we need to have a talk."

With that he stormed out of the café, leaving his girlfriend to try and pack everything up and scramble to meet him. But she didn't even look at me as she walked by my table; she just let out a loud groan and stomped her way noisily to the door.

The Speeding Ticket

4 Comments

A couple of months ago I was making the long drive to a family reunion when I saw the twinkle of blue lights in my rear-view mirror. My brother and I were late leaving and I was probably going faster than I should have been, but I didn't think I was going unreasonably fast.

Things didn't get any better when I gave him my license and registration. He took one look at the name and said, "Well, looks like I've caught a big fish today. I've seen you on the news, talking about that magic stuff. Pure crap if you ask me." I let out a sigh wishing that just once I could go somewhere without being recognized. "So where you going anyway?" he asked after a pause.

I decided to be humble, "We were going to a family reunion and we're running late, I guess I just wasn't watching my speed. There isn't much I can say, you got me fair and square and I'm very sorry for speeding officer."

"Don't you tell me sorry, tell that to the people you could have killed. I clocked you doing 65 in a 55 zone."

I had to stifle a laugh, while I was over the limit, traffic was blowing by us averaging about 70. I couldn't tell if he was a genuine jerk or if he was just being hard on me because of my standing, but I could see how eager he was to start writing the ticket and I decided to change tactics. "Of course officer. But can I ask you a question? What was it like heading to the academy right after college? It must have been hard for you and your parents."

He maintained his composure almost perfectly but his energy changed drastically, "How did you know that?"

"I bet your parents were very upset when you told them college wasn't working out for you and you were leaving it to join the force," I continued. "They probably wanted you to be come a doctor or something and saw law enforcement as the easy way out."

He was clearly stunned but he tried to act firm, "I'll be right back," he said as he left my window.

My brother looked over to me and said, "Ok, I give up, how'd you know that?"

"Look at his cruiser, tell me what you see."

"He's got a cord hanging from his rear view mirror. But that's about it."

"Good eyes," I said, "It's actually a cord for the Delta Lamda Chi fraternity. They were booted off campus four years ago for having too low of a graduation rate and too many alcohol violations."

"You've got to stop reading so many newspapers," he said.

"Speaking of newspapers, his cruiser is a Capri. Two years ago they switched to Corvettes. At his age, if he had graduated college, he would have been driving a Corvette."

He didn't get to respond. It was about that time the officer came back, looking as baffled as ever, and said, "Listen, I'm going to let you off with a warning, but first I want you to tell me how you knew that about me."

I took the warning from his hands and said, "Isn't it obvious, it's magic. I'd tell you more, but you don't seem to be very interested." He just stared at me for a moment, murmured something about slowing it down and sent us on our way, probably never to meet again.

The Jumper

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I was visiting a classmate's dorm for a study session when someone outside started shouting down the hall, "There's a girl on the roof who's about to jump!" Within seconds almost all of the doors in the hallway opened as people piled toward the stairwell, heading down to get a better look.

Without a word, I grabbed my jacket and headed toward the stairwell, but found myself fighting the stream of traffic to head up instead of down. Finally, after several minutes of struggling, I made my way to the roof entrance where a smaller group of students had gathered, too timid to go onto the roof itself, and made my way past them.

When my eyes adjust to the bright sunlight, I saw a girl standing precariously on the edge of the building. I tried to make my way to her as quietly as I could, but, when I got about ten yards away, I crunched some gravel beneath my boot and she quickly spun to her side and barked, "Don't you come any closer or I'll jump!"

The suddenness of everything startled me for a second, it took a moment for me to collect my thoughts but when I finished I resumed walking toward her and said, "No you won't."

A look of awe and disgust came on her face as I sat down about ten feet away from her, letting my legs dangle over the edge. "Don't you tell me what I won't do," she said, "You don't know anything about me!"

I looked her up and down slowly, "I know more about you than you probably realize."

She scoffed at me and spun back around fixing her gaze on the horizon, "Yeah, like what?" she said with disgust in her voice.

"I know that you're here because of your boyfriend, David I believe his name is. He's a controlling and manipulating prick but you care about him a lot, especially since he's an older guy. In fact, I think you came over here today to surprise him with a special date, but you two had an argument of some kind, probably because you caught him with another woman, and, after some tears, you ran up to the roof."

She spun around so fast she nearly lost her balance. Even though she tried to maintain a poker face, the look in her eyes changed to shock, "H-H-How did you know all of that?"

"If I tell you, will you come down?"

She looked around for a second a bit unsure but when her eyes met mine again her curiosity piqued, "Sure, I guess."

"Very well, today is Saturday but you're dressed in very nice clothes, including make up and freshly-washed hair. You were clearly planning on doing something nice or at seeing someone special," I began.

She nodded impatiently.

"On your left arm there's a bracelet and on it is printed the name 'David'. Now, only manipulating and/or self-absorbed guys give their girlfriends jewelry with their name on it…"

"Wait a second," she interrupted, "How did you know I didn't have it made?"

"Easy, the rest of your jewelry is silver, the bracelet is gold and it doesn't even match your clothes. It's clearly not something you would have bought for yourself."

"Oh," she sighed.

"Anyway, I knew you had had an argument with him recently because the make up on your face is still running from the tears. Oh, and I knew he was an older guy because you're on the roof of the guys upperclassmen dorm and you yourself look like a freshman, though I have to admit that was just a guess."

She dropped her head for a second. "But a very good one," she said solemnly.

"There's nothing wrong with being a freshman," I said. "But there is something wrong with standing on the roof of a building threatening to jump so, if you don't have any more questions, would you mind coming down so we can talk about this in a bit more reasonable environment, preferably before the police arrive?"

"One more question," she said as I began to move, "How did you know I wasn't going to jump?"

"That one's easy. If you were going to jump, you would have done so before I got here, " I leaned over the side of the building to look down, "Besides, it's only a seven-story building. Tall enough definitely, but certainly not a jumper's first choice."

She glanced down for a second and nodded.

"I figured you were just trying to get someone's attention. But, if you want my opinion, I don't think this guy's worth your time. So why don't you come down and I'll buy you a late lunch so we talk in a more relaxed environment?"

With that, she smiled brightly for a second, grabbed my hand, stepped away from the edge and together we quickly dashed out of the building. We spent the rest of the day talking about what had happened and by the time the sun set I realized that out of the ordeal I had gained one very good friend.

A friend that remains to this day…

The Carnie

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One of my earliest "warlock" moments occurred when I was in high school. I had been set up on a date with a girl that was a horrible match for me. Even though she seemed enthralled with me, I had little interest in her but, since it was a favor to my family, the date went on.

To make matters worse, instead of going to a movie or even dinner, she chose to go to the state fair. I quickly found the fair to be a great for people watching, but not much else. However, this didn't stop her from dragging me onto every ride she could and eventually asking me to win her one of those giant stuffed bears.

Bored beyond compare, I decided to make an attempt to do exactly that and began walking along the games boulevard for something I seemed to have a decent chance at. Finally, I stumbled across a carnie running a game where you popped balloons with darts.

At this time I had been playing darts pretty regularly and I felt comfortable with my skill so, with only a little trepidation, I approached the wooden booth. However, just before I got to the table, one of my friends ran up to me and grabbed my arm. "Don't go to that guy, he waits until you get to the last dart and bends the tip right in front of your face so you can't break anything but a sweat. Goddamn cheat," he said.

I looked long at my friend and then back at the carnie, "Thanks for the warning, it'll be a big help," I said before I finished walking to the booth.

Quietly, I laid two dollars on the table and, after dealing with another customer, the carnie came over and spread three darts out in front me. I took my time with the darts, trying to get the feel for the game and ended up only breaking two balloons. My prize was a cheap stuffed dog that easily fit in my shirt pocket.

My date began to tug at my arm, "Come on, let's try a different game, no one wins these," she said. I motioned to her to give me one more shot, placed two more dollars on the table and was given three more darts.

This time, there were no mistakes. Three darts, three balloons. The carnie, having heard the three balloons burst came over and said, "Hey, we got a winner!" and handed me a four-inch high stuffed lion. "However," he added, "you can give this back and get three free darts to play for the next level if you'd like."

I tapped the table twice, "I'll take three more darts."

The carnie smiled lightly, "I like you kid, here you go," and pulled three darts from the board and spread them on the table.

The second time, the results were the same, three darts, three balloons.

This time the carnie wasn't all smiles, he threw down a foot-tall animal of unidentifiable species and grumbled, "Once again, you can give it back and this time play for the next level, which is those bears up there," as he motioned to the giant teddy bears hanging from the ceiling.

My date's eyes lit up and I knew it was what she wanted. Meanwhile, I felt like I was being challenged. "Three more darts," I said and he responded by tossing two onto the table.

Both of those darts hit their mark and at that point, the carnie, practically infuriated with me, took another dart from the wall and bent the tip of it before tossing it on the table, "Here's your third," he said before turning to help another customer.

My date, upon seeing this, had decided to start flirting with a guy sitting at the next booth. Unfazed, I calmly closed my eyes and threw the dart against the wall with all of strength.

Bang.

The whole booth seemed to halt, the other players halted their throws and the carnie nearly dropped the money he was holding. Even my date, who I thought was too far away by this time, dropped the guy she was hitting on and ran over to me.

"I want the blue one," I said to the carnie.

The carnie didn't say a word, just shot me a series of dirty looks as he grabbed the step stool and plucked it from ceiling.

At this point my date started jumping up and down excitedly, "You won me a bear! My favorite color too! Oh thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" she practically screamed.

"I didn't win you anything," I said coldly, "If you want a bear, maybe he'll win you one," I said as I motioned to the guy she was just hitting on. "As for me, I'm done with you and this date. Your ride will be here soon enough."

As I turned and walked away, my friend, obviously excited, grabbed my arm again. "How'd you do that? I saw him bend the tip of the dart."

I quickly ushered him over the side of the booth. There, I reached into my right sleeve and pulled out the bent dart, "You mean this dart?"

A look of confusion came over my friend's face, "Yeah. But, I don't get it."

The first game I played, I only threw two darts, I stuck the third into my jacket sleeve and since he was so busy and there was another dart close to mine he didn't even notice. Then, all I had to do was switch the two darts out on the last balloon when the carnie turned his back.

His eyes lit up with excitement, "You're a genius!"

"Not really, I just know how to cheat a cheater. By the way, how much did you spend on the guy?"

He paused for a second to think, "About ten dollars. Why?"

"Here then," I said handing him the hear, "I think you deserve this more than me."

"Thanks, my girlfriend will love it!" he said with a huge smile. "But what are you going to get?"

I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out the small dog, "I already have my souvenir."

The French Song

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I had just finished guest-lecturing for an introductory psychology class at a small local college, when I found myself grabbing a quick bite to eat in front of the school's humanities building. Though the campus was gorgeous, the food at the small cafe was inadequate and I found myself stewing over a half-eaten sandwich and a handful of chips.

Having given up on eating, I went to throw away the rest of the meal when I heard two girls giggling amongst themselves and pointing in my general direction. They were smiling and laughing, one was even mimicking me discreetly. However, even though I could easily hear them talking, since they were speaking only in French, it was impossible for me figue out exactly what they were saying.

Not having much to do and perhaps feeling a bit braver than usual, I decided not to leave immediately and rather took a table near them. I took a book out of my bag and began reading idly, glancing up from the pages to look up at the two girls.

The girls, for their part, just kept on talking like I wasn't even there. They laughed, harassed and even pointed at me, apparently finding something about my demeanor humorous. They were obviously French students as every once in a while they'd have to look in a book to find the right word, but they were still carrying on the entire conversation in French.

I continued to observe them and let them continue their talking for a full ten minutes or so when I finally decided I had had enough.

When the time was right, I got up from my table, walked the ten paced over to them and said, "Je parle Français, vous savez," which roughly translates to "I speak French, you know."

Though my accent was rusty, the point was made clear. The two girls clammed up instantly and looks of total shock came across their faces. Seeing as how they weren't going to say anything, I continued, "Now, you know it's rude to talk about someone like that. So why don't you be honorable ladies and tell me, to my face, in plain English, what it is you were saying."

The two girls continued to stammer, one of them finally mutterd, "I am so, so sorry about… If we had known we never…"

"So it's OK to make fun of someone if you think they can't understand you?" I interjected, "That's beyond cowardly."

They rocked back in their chairs with the insult and continued to stutter, each looking to the other to speak up. "We were just having a little fun, making a few jokes you know?"

I let the comment site a few minutes before I continued, "I came over here to give you ladies a chance to redeem yourselves to see if you had the courage to tell me the full truth. However, I see that you don't have it in you after all. Seeing as how I have somewhere else to be, I'm going to bid you two adieu and hope that you learn from this experience."

With that, I tipped an imaginary hat and walked off.

I got no more than twelve steps away when another French student, this one a male, walked up to me and said, "Hey, I heard you speak French, can you help me with something real quick?"

I looked at him and smiled, "Sorry, you just heard all of the French I know."

He looked at me puzzled for a second, "But you understood them… You told them that…"

I raised a hand to silence him, "Body language is the only truly universal language. I know exactly what they said, just don't bother telling them the truth about how."

He nodded his understanding, "Got it."

I smiled at him softly, shook his hand and went about my way.

The Student: Part One

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The Characters:

Dr. Holderman – Holderman is an old man in his late seventies, he walks with a slight limp and talks in a very slow careful manner. He is very intelligent and though the years have not been kind to his body, his mind is still very sharp and he is able to express himself well. He dresses in archaic clothing and a pair of glasses with a thin frame.

William – William is a young man of about 16-19 years of age. He dresses in modern clothing but always-fashionable garb. He is fairly tall and walks perfectly erect. He has a normal speaking pattern for someone his age but a large vocabulary and love to flaunt his mastery of the English language. Though he is normally shy he moves about today with confidence and grace.

The Setting:

A quaint living room and kitchen area. The place is filled with antique patterns and furniture. The place is meticulously clean though, not a wrinkle in the sofa or in the chair covers, everything is as strait and as neat as one could possibly make it. In walks Dr. Holderman, an old man in his late seventies, he sits upon the sofa and turns on his old-style television and begins to watch an old war movie. He has just settled into his chair when a knocking comes at the door. Dr. Holderman gets up to answer it and finds William on the other side.

William: Dr. Holderman I presume?

Holderman: Yes, I am Holderman. And you are?

William: The name is William (offers a handshake to Holderman but Holderman ignores it) I live just down the street from you.

Holderman: I see, and what brings you here… William

William: I wanted to talk with you for a bit, mind if I come in sir? If you’re not to busy. (Holderman thinks about it for a moment nervous to let a stranger into his house but finally motions for him to come in)

Holderman: Have a seat… William (William sits down on one of the chairs and Holderman sits on the couch) (somewhat irritated) What brings you here?

William: I wanted to talk a bit about your past if I could.

Holderman: (sits back and rubs his chin like he’s trying to think) My past?

William: Yes, your past. I know who you are, or rather who you were.

Holderman: Oh, and who was I?

William: The famous poet Marcel Mudall. The best known poet in the years following World War II. According to my records you published five volumes of poetry between the years of 1947-1954 and three of those made it to the best sellers list. You were an icon of poetry for nearly eight years and then you vanished into thin air. Since Marcel was just your pen name no one knew who you were, until I started working for your former publisher and saw the record. I was shocked to find you lived so close, the coincidence is amazing…

Holderman: I’m sorry, but you are mistaken.

William: I am… I checked the records and everything I can’t be mistaken, it was all there in black and…

Holderman: It was SIX volumes of poetry between the years of 1945 and 1954. The first was with another company, under another name. Yes, I am Marcel Mudall, or I was. Now I’m just an old man waiting for death like an lost relative.

William: So it is you… (Holderman nods) (excited) Well, why did you disappear? What have you been doing? You were a God among men. I love your work. There are so many things I want to say and do…

Holderman: (calmly) Why did you come here?

William: (pauses, unsure of what to say) I-I-I wanted you to help me write. I wanted you to help me learn how to write well, how to write like you, how to be good how to be… (Holderman raises his hand to silence William)

Holderman: (still calm) Write about what might I ask?

William: (nervous) My feelings, my emotions, my thoughts, my dreams, my… my… what’s inside of me. You know? Me. I want to write about me.

Holderman: What are you feeling?

William: Anger, hate, love, happiness, sadness, all of the things you wrote about and then some you see…

Holderman: (loudly) No! What are you feeling right now?

William: Now?

Holderman: (normally) Yes, right now.

William: I’m r-r-r-rather nervous, you are kind of scaring me some.

Holderman: Fear?

William: Yeah, I guess so.

Holderman: (loudly) There is no fear in poetry! There is to be no fear, there will be no fear and there canNOT be any fear. You see, to be a poet is to have a mental disease. Poet’s have the compulsive need to spill their guts to the world in it’s purest form. (quietly)Some day psychologists will make a little pill (pretends to hold a pill between his thumb and index finger and shoves it in William’s face) that will wipe out all of poet-kind. It’s a sick need to hide nothing and give everything. But to complete that process there can be no fear. Fear is the constricting emotion, fear causes people to hold back not only in action but in words. There is no great poem about fear because to write about fear it to automatically hold back. Sadness, despair, happiness, love, joy, these are emotions that are both completely consuming and freeing at the same time. (loudly) If you are afraid you should leave now and not come near this place again. (Sits back down on the couch and loosely crosses his legs)

William: (There is a long awkward pause as William thinks things over) (Meekly) Does this mean, you’ll teach me?

Holderman: Aye, I’ll teach you. If that’s what you still want.

William: I don’t understand why though, you don’t seem to care much for me and I’m not sure…

Holderman: (Interrupting loudly) You’re right, I don’t like you. In fact I despise you. However, I am an old man in ill health. I have left the world nothing save a handful of now forgotten books of poetry. But maybe through you I can live on in some small way, there is hope for you, I see it in your eyes, but it will take a lot of work, on your part and mine.

William: Well, I’ll come back tomorrow and we can begin my lessons then, Dr. Holderman, thank you very much. (Gets up to leave, begins to walk to the door)

Holderman: (Shouting) You will not leave this place until I say you are ready. (William turns to face him) It is warm outside, that means it’s summer and you, being a school-aged fellow have nothing important to do today. So sit (points to chair) and we shall get started. (William nervously inches his way back to his seat and eases back into the chair)

William: Ok… (A long pause)

Holderman: So tell me, what are you ashamed of?

William: Pardon?

Holderman: (more loudly and succinctly) What are you ashamed of?

William: I don’t understand.

Holderman: To be a writer is to be human, to be human is to have regrets, shames and so forth. What are YOU ashamed of… William?

William: (Nervous chuckle) I’m not going to tell you that… You’re crazy..

Holderman: (outburst of anger) If you can not tell me, than how will you ever tell the world?

William: I-I-I-I don’t know…

Holderman: If you ever hope to be a writer you must learn to be open and not the least big afraid of everything that makes you up. If you have the slightest hesitation, then there is no hope for you.

William: (nervous) ok…

Holderman: So…. (calming down) What are you ashamed of?

William: Well… (thinking) when I was twelve my friend and I decided to have a little fun. He got himself some small firecrackers and there was a little stray black cat that roamed the neighborhood. He grabbed the cat and had me hold it down while he tied the firecracker to its head he lit the fuse. I let go at the cat ran off behind a house and we heard the explosion (heavy sigh). He went and looked, but-but I never did. I still can’t believe what I did. You asked… I told. (He looks up scornfully at the old man).

Holderman: You are upset because you had a small part in killing a cat?

William: Yes… (nodding his head slightly)

Holderman: First of all, if what you said is true, you did not kill that cat. Your friend, provided he hasn’t grown out of it should seek help for his destructive behavior. However, you, you were just being a stupid kid as we all were at age twelve.

William: I don’t think you understand this is something that…

Holderman: I understand you feel guilty for not helping that animal and while I pity that poor creature you must learn that guilt and shame are two different emotions and guilt can be absolved by others but shame you must face yourself.

William: (very angry, yelling) Well, what are you ashamed of? You’re asking me all these questions, watch me spill my guts and you nail them to the table. What about you? I want you to go first then.

Holderman: You want to know what I am ashamed of?

William: Yeah, since you are pushing me, yes I want to know.

Holderman: You killed a cat. I killed people. Five of them in fact, two of them were under the age of fourteen.

William: (Skeptical) When?

Holderman: World War 2. That’s when.

William: You weren’t IN World War 2. I checked your biography. Your brother was in the war, but you were too young.

Holderman: I lied.

William: huh?

Holderman: My brother was drafted in the closing months of the war. However he was a pacifist with bad lungs. He never would have survived basic training much less an actual battle. Being stronger but too young I went down to the army office with all of my brothers information and pretended to be him. Since we looked alike it wasn’t a challenge. They just wanted soldiers, they didn’t care that there were a year shy of drafting age.

William: Ok, so you went to war and killed people, big deal, millions of others did.

Holderman: I made it just in time to help the armies siege Berlin. As we got closer to the city limits the younger the soldiers got. Hitler was getting desperate and he was giving guns to little boys. Twelve, thirteen, it didn’t matter. He gave them rifles and sent them against tanks, artillery and hundreds of well-trained troops.

William: I didn’t know this…

Holderman: (interrupting) I meant to shoot one of them in the leg, he was coming toward me clumsily and I didn’t wish to kill him. I shot at his feet but when I started firing he hit the ground and on the way down took a bullet square in his brain killing him instantly. Another time, my unit was in a suburb of Berlin and we came under fire from a gunner behind a small brick wall. We were pinned down pretty good but I saw his head stick up over the wall for just a second and I fired, and blew his entire skull out from the ear up. I was ecstatic at first, wondering what medal I would get, but when we went over there and saw it was a young man of just twelve, I broke down and cried. THAT is shame, not guilt.

William: Wow

Holderman: Yeah, wow… That’s what shame does, wow people. It’s soul-bearing, eye-opening and awe-inspiring. People spit on guilt, but are struck hard by shame. (long pause) So let’s try this again, what are you ASHAMED of?

William: (sighs heavily and pauses to think, he’s visibly worried about saying anything). Shortly after I was born… my parents divorced. I lived with my mother for many years but when I was about five she re-married. My stepfather didn’t care much for me. He seemed to think that I stood between him and my mom. As a result, he would hit me at the drop of a hat. I recall one time, I spilled my soda on the carpet and he hit me right across the chin chipping my bottom tooth. He told my mother that I fell down the stairs, she bought it but a week later she saw him toss me to the ground as hard as he could and we ran out on him. We spent several months in a shelter after that… (long pause)

Holderman: (happily) Excellent, now you have something to write about.

William: Write about it! I can barely tell anyone about it! How the hell am I going to write about this and let the whole world see it! You must be crazy!

Holderman: You don’t write about it and tell the story. You write about it by using it. Use the emotions, the pain, the hatred, the fear, use them to write about whatever subject comes to mind. Write about the night but include the fear you felt when your stepfather raised his hand. Write about a thorn but use the pain of the blows you took to help you. Emotions are more powerful than events, always have been, always will be.

William: I see…

Holderman: Yes, you do see. You have your first assignment before you now. You are to go home and write something and impress me with it. Bring it here the same time tomorrow that you arrived today and I will read it. Use what you have learned and we will see where you stand. Now go…

William: Ok, same time tomorrow you said? (Holderman nods, William gets up and begins to walk to the door)

Holderman: Another thing… (William turns around) If you should show up tomorrow and I seriously doubt you will. You will be on your way to being a writer. It will be but the first step in a journey of many miles.

William: I’ll be here…

Holderman: We’ll see…

(exit William, Curtain falls)

The Student: Part Two

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The scene is set exactly as the first. However, this time there is a lovely antique vase on one of the end tables and Holderman is using a crutch to aid him in getting around. There is a knock at the door. Holderman slowly works his way over to answer it and it’s William on the other side who then barges into the house before Holderman can say a word.

Holderman: (Sarcastically) Come on in William. (Seriously) I didn’t expect to see you here today.

William: (making his way to the living area) But you invited me to…

Holderman: I figured I had scared you off…

William: (takes a seat in the living area, Holderman slowly follows suit but William notices the crutch he is using) Dr. Holderman, what is the deal with the crutch you didn’t have it yesterday…

Holderman: I have a very strange back ailment, one day I’m using a crutch, the next it’s a walker and then the third I’ll be well again. I can’t explain it and neither can the doctors, I’m getting old William and this is what happens when you get old.

William: (unsure) oh, ok. Well, ummm, I brought a poem of mine for you to read, I wrote it last night. (He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to Holderman)

Holderman: (Unfolds the paper and quickly reads the contents obviously not paying attention.) It’s crap. (Crumples up the paper and tosses it over his shoulder)

William: (In awe) What the… I don’t… How can you do that!? You didn’t even really read it! My God, did you even glance at the letters?

Holderman: I read enough

William: (shouting) I spent three hours on that the least you can do is take the time to read it!

Holderman: (shouting even louder, gets softer as monolouge goes on) Don’t you try to impress me with how long you took to write that excrement. Your readers will not and should not care how long you took to write something. It isn’t important to any degree. The time it takes to write something matters not. I knew a guy in the sixties, a damn hippie if I ever saw one, but he could churn out a fine poem in five minutes flat. It’s a shame he didn’t better harness his writing talent. He went on to study business I think and run one of those companies he protested. I also knew another guy who took weeks to write anything, but everything he did was magic. Some people even die before they finish a poem. So DON’T ever mention the time it took to write something again or I will beat you with this cane until you can’t so much as pick up a pen.

William: (humble) sorry.

Holderman: That’s what I thought…

William: (there is a long awkward silence between the two. Finally William looks up and sees the vase and decides to make another run at conversation) I see you have a new vase there (points to it) it’s lovely.

Holderman: It’s not new.

William: Well, I didn’t see it yesterday.

Holderman: That’s because I didn’t have it out yesterday you imbecile. I re-arrange things in the house to my will. That’s what I like about living alone, no wife to coordinate with, everything fits MY purpose and no one else’s.

William: But you were married once. At least for a short while.

Holderman: I was married for longer than you have been alive..

William: What are you talking about? I checked the records you got divorced 6 months aftergetting married.

Holderman: You have looked up every detail of my life yet you know nothing. You should be ashamed for thinking things could be so narrowly defined as to be fit in records and statistics. Yes, we got divorced, but it was for purely financial reasons. We still lived together, slept together, ate together and everything else married people do, just not in the official capacity of the word.

William: (unsure) I see..

Holderman: But she died in a horrid car accident that severed her head just above the shoulders. The found it in a nearby yard several days after the crash. A stray dog was reportedly nibbling at it and the owner of the house called the police. I was upset for weeks about the whole affair.

William: (gasping) I am so sorry I didn’t know.

Holderman: (loudly) of course you didn’t, you and your records.

William: (eager to change the subject) What can you tell me about that vase?

Holderman: It’s older than me.

William: Older than You?

Holderman: Yes, it's was my mother's. It was made in the roaring twenties, bought in the great depression and handed to me just after the World War II. It's a lovely vase isn’t it? Wonderful colors, marvelous shape and with such age and history, it’s probably worth a small fortune.

William: No doubt that it is, and you’re right, it’s beautiful.

Holderman: (Gets up and walks over to it) It’s the only thing in this whole house that’s older than I am. The only thing that has seen more and heard more than me. It has a place of honor in my own mind. It always will. But in the end it’s still a material thing (raises his cane, smashes the vase and rakes the pieces off the table) and is utterly worthless.

William: Wuh? Huh? What the hell did you do that for? (Stands up and motions to the pieces of the vase on the floor) The least you could have done is given it to me! Damn man. That’s a lot of money to smash.

Holderman: It doesn’t mean a damn thing you young fool. You measure everything by the almighty dollar. If that same vase had only been worth a buck you would have called it ugly and smashed it just as quickly. That hideous sense of judgment will get you in trouble. Especially with poetry.

William: (Settles back down into his seat, Holderman begins to do the same) So, you were just trying to teach me a lesson?

Holderman: No, I was tired of staring at it. Your lesson is different. (removes a small book from his shirt pocket tosses it into William’s lap) That is a book on the science behind poetry. It will teach you how to find the meter of a piece, use rhyme more effectively and the basics of the different forms of poems. You are to read it and write me another poem, this time an Italian Sonnet.

William: (picks up the book and looks at it with a quizzical look on his face unsure of what to do) Is that all?

Holderman: No. It’s Friday is it not? (William nods yes) Then I have another mission for you.

William: (sarcastically) Do tell.

Holderman: I assume your generation has a place where you go to meet members of the opposite sex do you not?

William: Well, there’s a dance club in town that a lot of people go to on weekends.

Holderman: It’ll do. I want you to go there, there will undoubtedly be a member of the female sex that you will find attractive. I want you to walk up to her and say exactly what you feel. If it’s sexual, say it, spiritual, the same. Say whatever you feel about her as bluntly and as directly as possible. You’ll probably get slapped, but that’s the price of being open. Just pray she doesn’t have a boyfriend who’s bigger than you.

William: (In shock) What? That’s insane. I can’t do that. I can barely talk to girls as it is. Are you trying to get me killed?

Holderman: No, I’m trying to get you to open up you twit. The problem with that piece of crap you wrote last night was that you didn’t open up at all. You held back everything because you knew I was going to read it and judge it. You were scared. I can’t say I don't blame you but I’m hoping that you can conquer that fear.

William: (panicked) and… what if I can’t?

Holderman: (point to the ball on the floor) Then crap is all you’ll ever write and there is nothing I can do for you.

William: (unsure) I see…

Holderman: There is nothing more for you to do today. Complete the assignments and return here same time Monday. If you have done everything I asked and written something better than that. (points to the ball again) We will begin the next phase of your lessons. Now go.

William: But…

Holderman: GO!!!! (shooing motion)

(exit William in a hurry)

The Student: Part Three

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The scene is set exactly as the first two. Holderman is peering out a window and he goes over and opens the door for William before there is even a knock. Holderman motions for William to take a seat and as he walks by him William hands Holderman a piece of paper. Holderman sits down and reads the paper while William sits down directly facing him. Holderman’s mannerisms are clearly different today; he’s more relaxed and open, more polite and friendly.

Holderman: (not looking up from the paper) This is good, not very good, but definitely good. Your meter breaks in a few places, but your rhyme is perfect and your word choice is marvelous. You can adjust it easily and make it a true sonnet. Once you do that, you should have little trouble publishing it.

William: (in awe at the compliment) But… well… thank you… sir.

Holderman: You have a lot of room to improve you see, a lot. But your potential finally shines through. I think there may be hope for you yet.

William: (shuffling in his seat some) Well, I’m just glad you like it.

Holderman: I do… But there is still something wrong with it, something I can’t put my hand on.

William: Oh? Can you help me out? I’d like to know since I’m on the right track it seems.

Holderman: (pauses a moment) Do you paint?

William: (puzzled) Ummm no… (chuckle) I don’t have a lick of artistic talent. I can’t even draw stick figures worth a damn.

Holderman: Have you ever painted?

William: (shaking head) Nah man, never.

Holderman: (imitating motions with his hand as he goes through monologue) Did you ever pain in kindergarten. The kind of painting where you sink your whole hand into the finger paints, you smear the colors all over the construction paper not caring what it looks like to any one else but yourself. Your only goal to create an impress and an expression of you. The kind of painting that comes from childish brashness and freedom. The kind that inspires adults to be more open and relive their childhoods. Have you ever done that?

William: (dazed) Well, yeah, sure, I guess so. I don’t remember kindergarten that well but yeah, I guess so. Sheesh. Why are you asking me this?

Holderman: Because you are a painter.

William: Huh? I’m not quite following you here.

Holderman: You see, you as a poet are a painter. The only thing that separates you from a Van Gogh, a Rembrandt or a Monet is that your medium is words and your canvas, a blank sheet of paper. You must paint and express in much the way they do. You must use your pen as if it were a paintbrush and your words as if they were strokes.

William: (flailing hands about) Ok, woah woah woah woah here chief. Last time I was here you were smashing vases, crumpling up my work, calling it “excrement” and today you’re all compliments and now feeding me these lines about being a painter? What the hell is going on here? Are you deranged? Do you have some disorder I need to know about? Because this is really weirding me out.

Holderman: Would you rather me smash a vase? I have plenty (motions over his shoulder).

William: Well, know I rather like it, it makes you seem like less of an ogre

Holderman: (loudly) that’s because I’m not an ogre! (William jumps back, Holderman stands slowly and gets as much in his face as he can comfortably) I am a complicated, intricate, three-dimensional human being the same as you and all your readers I am no more an ogre than you are. As a poet you must be all things, the good, the bad and yes, the ugly. Accept them as a part of you and let them all shine. That’s the only way your readers can ever associate with you or even tolerate you.

William: (humbled) I see.

Holderman: (continues) The reason I use this analogy is because you didn’t paint enough. You vented, you opened up and you did everything right but you simply didn’t let the words flow like smooth strokes from a tiny brush. You have been brave dear William but now you must be an artist. That is the greatest challenge of all. Few even come close. But I think you can do it and damn it man, I’m going to see that you do.

William: (looking up at him) Ok… sorry. Calm down please, I liked the other side of you better.

Holderman: Very well. But now I’m frustrated. Now comes the part where you have to pull through. I can’t toss you a book to teach you this or even tell you how. You just have to remember what it was like to smear those paints onto that paper as a kid. (long pause) In fact, perhaps you need to relive that. Yes, when we break for the day, I want you to go home and make a finger-painting. Relive the joy and the emotion. Get back in touch with that side of your self. I think that will do you a world of good in your writing. Yes… you do that.

William: (unsure, but making a mental note) Ok… I guess I can do that.

Holderman: Also, be sure to bring me the painting. I wish to see it.

William: (looking around) Ok…

Holderman: (there is a long awkward silence that seems to take forever) Didn’t I give you another assignment? Yes, I believe I did.

William: (hangs head and begins to twitch nervously) Yes… you did.

Holderman: (sternly) Tell me about it.

William: (wringing hands) Well, it didn’t go too good.

Holderman: (more sternly) All the more reason, talk to me.

William: (Blushing some and getting more and more nervous) Well, I went to the club…

Holderman: That’s a good first step

William: (continues) but for the longest time no one was there. No pretty girls my age that is. But after about two hours, one walked in. She had gorgeous eyes, and long flowing blonde hair. Her warmth and personality radiated off of her. She was almost angelic.

Holderman: Did you talk to her?

William: Well, I walked up to her, swallowed the whole of my stomach… (pause)

Holderman: and…

William: (deep sigh) I told her I thought she was very sexy and that I wanted to (waffles) be alone with her.

Holderman: I see. What happened next.

William: (hangs head) She got angry, stormed off, told management what I had said and had me thrown out. (tries to speed through the rest) I’m not allowed to return for a few months at least. Not that I liked the place, damn rat-hole.

Holderman: (lound chuckle) Congratulations dear William. You have had your first experience of being punished for telling an uncomfortable truth. (imitates a toast) May it happen many more times in your future. It is your duty as a writer to say what is true and real, even if it hurts. A duty you must take to your grave. Some take that literally though, one writer friend of mine died a few years back, his epitaph simply reads, “I’m dead”. He had a knack for bluntness though, something you lack I’m afraid.

William: (puzzled) What do you mean?

Holderman: Be alone with her… please.

William: (lays back in chair) Ok, fine. But I completed the assignment and even if I didn’t I can’t go back. So there, you happy?

Holderman: (directly) Happier. But not happy.

William: (slightly frustrated) Well, I’m sorry.

Holderman: Nothing to feel sorry for. You gave it a good run though, the bluntness will come over time. You’ll see, soon you’ll be writing the most heart-felt pieces of all time but be constantly scolded in your day-to-day life for being unfeeling and heartless. You’ll see.

William: Well, it’s getting late, I guess I should be going.

Holderman: Perhaps, but, before you do, you have to get your assignment.

William: (confused) I thought I already had it? .

Holderman: Yes, the painting is important, very important. But you must also write a poem to go with the painting. Make it something to mirror your colors and strokes. I’ll expect both parchments the usual time tomorrow.

William: (gets up to shake his hand, Holderman doesn’t move, William begins walking toward door) I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.

Holderman: (not looking at him) Yes, you shall… Yes…

(exit William)

The Student: Part Four

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The scene is the same as before. This time Holderman is in his chair rocking gently when a knock comes at the door. Holderman doesn't budge. The knock sounds again but this time it's much louder than before and is followed by several doorbell rings. After the third ring Holderman finally gets out of his chair slowly and lets William in. William is carrying with him two sheets of paper. Holderman motions for him to take his typical seat and William does so without a word being exchanged and sets the paper on the table next to it. Holderman continues to stand over him.

Holderman: Sorry for taking so long answering the door, are you comfortable dear William? It's a warm day out, would you like something to drink perhaps, some juice, a soda? Perhaps a bite to eat?

William: (puzzled) Why… no… I'm fine.

Holderman: Are you certain?

William: (uneasy) Yes, thank you…

Holderman: (backhands William as hard as he can across the jaw and hovers over him staring at him) You lied to me.

William: (shocked) What? Huh? What the hell did you do that for? I never did anything to you? What's going on here? Are you CRAZY!?

Holderman: (sits down calmly) The owner of the club you mentioned yesterday is an old friend of mine, after hearing your tale I gave him a call. He told me that night no one was thrown out of the club for any reason and no one matching your description was even there. He says he even knows of you and would have recognized you. (Angrily) So one of you is lying to me and I know for a fact he has no reason to.

William: (stands up and starts to pace) Alright, Alright, Alright, you got me. Jeez, calm down. I lied. Take it easy. I'm sorry (getting louder). I didn't have the courage to do it, is that what you want to hear? I didn't have the guts to go through with it, I was a damn chicken who couldn't do a simple task! There are you happy? I said it! I never set a foot inside that club, I hate that place anyway. I'm probably not cut out to be a poet and you have no business dealing with me. Is that what you want to hear? To hear that everything I do is crap and nothing you can do can fix it? Because it's the truth. (Throws himself back down in the chair)

Holderman: (Slaps him again) Dammit man calm down! You're overreacting.

William: Well I'm not the one hitting people left and right.

Holderman: Well some people need to get hit. (leans into William as he finishes the sentence)

William: (pauses and thinks) I don't see what you're so mad about, it's just a stupid lie.

Holderman: You're right, lies are a part of life. Everyone tells them, I've told my share and I can safely assume you have told yours. Now I don't care if you lie to your parents, your siblings, your girlfriend, your grandmother, your pets, your teachers, your friends, your enemies or even God himself. You can go out, cheat on your wife, beat your kids, drink like a fish and do drugs until you can't stand and still come in here and not be judged by me. But the minute you lie to me, you've broken the sacred code and have stepped on hollowed ground. (raising voice) You will be honest to me no matter what! You will tell me the truth! Otherwise there is just no hope for your as a human being, much less a poet.

William: I-I-I-I'm sorry, I didn't know how much it meant to you.

Holderman: You knew, but didn't care. Within the confines of this room, THIS ROOM, you will be completely honest. I wanted to guide one of the best poets of the next generation and I got some child who couldn't hold his own spine with both hands. I suppose it's just another one of fate's cruel tricks on me.

William: (hangs head) What do you mean "wanted?"

Holderman: Why should I bother? You can't handle the work obviously, you'll never make it as a poet if you can't live your life and be honest about it.

William: Don't I get another chance? I mean it was just one mistake.

Holderman: Some sins are unpardonable. Lying to another poet is one of them. People rightfully expect honesty in print and they should get it. People like you can't give it. Just because people today live in fantasy worlds doesn't mean that they can't and won't call you on a lack of sincerity on your part. Don't be naïve and think you can lie to the world, you'll get caught William and pay for it dearly.

William: So I guess that's a no.

Holderman: We'll see what fate has in store for you. (reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a deck of cards and begins to shuffle) I'll cut you a deal you can't beat. We'll both draw a card. If I get the higher card, you leave and never return, if you get it, we continue as planned and try to put this behind us. If there is a tie, we draw again. Do you understand?

William: (nods excitedly) If I win you'll teach me?

Holderman: If what you did last night is any good at least. But yes, I will continue. (Shuffles some more and then lets William cut it. William pulls off the top card and starts to raise it to his eye when Holderman grabs his wrist to stop him) There's a catch to this Game William. You don't look at your card, you just show it to me and I tell you what it is. You'll do the same for my card. So now hold it up where only I can see it. (William does so) You have a three dear William, things don't look good for you.

William: But a two or a three for you would…

Holderman: Yes, it would. Either a tie or a win would save you, but be realistic about the odds. (Draws the next card and shows it to William)

William: (looks at it and thinks for a few moments) You have a t-t-t-t-tw… (upset) You have a seven goddammit. You have a seven. (long pause, rocking gently in his seat) I guess I'll be leaving now.

Holderman: (turns the card over and looks at it) So I do. So I do. (William starts toward the door and reaches to open it when Holderman calls out) You don't need to leave William, you have passed my test fine.

William: (confused) Test?

Holderman: Yes, test. This one of the pass/fail variety.

William: (eagerly sits back down) So this whole card game was just a test?

Holderman: Yes, exactly.

William: But how did you know the cards that would be drawn?

Holderman: When I was younger I would frequent Vegas. I knew a blackjack dealer who could stack any deck in any casino he worked. He was kind enough to show me a few tricks.

William: (amazed) But I cut the cards.

Holderman: To exactly where you were supposed to cut them. Besides, it's marked deck, I knew what I had even before I flipped it.

William: So what would have done if I had said two?

Holderman: Physically remove you from my home. That's what.

William: (deep sigh) So now what?

Holderman: Now I think you have learned today's lesson. You will walk away from here wiser than when you came in.

William: (confused) I see, what about the things I did last night.

Holderman: (scratches chin) Leave them where they are, I'll go over them tonight and I shall see you tomorrow. We can discuss them then.

William: Ok, do I have an assignment for tomorrow.

Holderman: (Tosses him the deck of cards) Yes, learn to read the marked cards and a card trick for tomorrow. I'll explain why then. The instructions for the cards are in the box and you can ask about anyone for a card trick.

William: (sits up) Ok… I guess that's it then.

Holderman: For today…

William: Yes… for today.

Holderman: Be back at the usual time tomorrow, I'll be here.

William: Ok, so will I. (Starts to leave)

Holderman: William, one more thing. If your mother asks you where you got those bruises on your face, well, don't be a fool and carry today's lesson too far.

William: (looks over at Holderman) Ok, I won't.

Holderman: Good boy, now go on.

William: (nods and exits)

The Student: Part Five

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The scene is the same. Holderman is sitting on the couch reading the newspaper when a knock comes at the door. He gets up, answers it and William enters carrying the deck of cards. Holderman sits back down calmly in his chair and William positions himself so that he faces Holderman on the opposite side of the coffee table. There is a long awkward silence between the two before William goes to speak.

William: So?

Holderman: So…

William: What do you want me to do?

Holderman: You were supposed to learn a card trick were you not?

William: Yes.

Holderman: Motioning toward the coffee table, may I see it?

William: (Pulls the coffee table closer to him) Well, I’m not very good at it, but I’ll show you what I got.

Holderman: (sarcastically) I can hardly wait.

William: (fans the cards out for Holderman) Pick a card. (Holderman complies) Now look at at it and then place it at the bottom of the deck. (Holderman does so and William begins to lightly shuffle the deck) Now I’m going to turn over the cards one by one and I’ll tell you which card is yours. (Turns over about ten cards) You had the ten of spades did you not?

Holderman: (slightly impressed) Interesting trick William, not bad for a night’s work. Though I’ve seen that one before it’s one that requires some good shuffling. You’ve come a long way.

William: (settling back) Yeah, it’s amazing what that little book in the deck can teach you.

Holderman: Yes it is. It’s a wonderful little book.

William: (moment of silence) So…

Holderman: Hm?

William: So what does it mean?

Holderman: What does what mean?

William: The card trick, you making me learn the trick. What does it mean? What’s the point? Everything you’ve had me do up to this point has had some kind of lesson or deeper meaning. What’s the purpose behind it?

Holderman: Does it have to have a purpose?

William: (raising voice slightly) With you, yes, it does.

Holderman: (amused) Some things are what they are William. A card trick is but a card trick. It’s an illusion like most other things in the world. Entertaining, but meaningless.

William: So I stayed up late to learn that trick for nothing.

Holderman: (chuckles) You now have a wonderful trick to fool your friends with and breathe life into any party. I would hardly call that nothing.

William: (stands up and paces some) So let me get this straight. This has no deeper meaning, no larger purpose nor anything to do with poetry at all.

Holderman: Nothing at all.

William: Are you still trying to get me back for lying to you? Trying to make me feel stupid or something?

Holderman: (stands up and raises his voice) How dare you mention that again! I’ve spent the past 24 hours trying to put that behind me so I can help mold a future poet. My goal is not to make you feel stupid, though I now think you need to, it is not beat you, to turn you into a model citizen or anything, just to make you (points) a writer. If you are going to second guess my work then you should leave… now.

William: (sits down hurriedly) Ok, ok, easy. I’m sorry. You need to learn to control your temper.

Holderman: (sitting down slowly) My temper is not the issue here and you know that. But I will make this note William. If you can’t tell what is completely devoid of depth and meaning, how can you every hope to find it where it does lurk?

William: (slyly) So there was a moral there after all.

Holderman: Not on purpose. I was trying to teach you a damn card trick, you’re the one trying to pull magic out of it.

William: So, then what is today’s lesson? If it has nothing to do with the cards, what is it?

Holderman: Just a simple question. Are you human?

William: What?

Holderman: Are… you… human?

William: I guess so (chuckle) I’m not a gorilla or anything.

Holderman: (leans in) There is more to being a human than your species William.

William: (puzzled) Ok…

Holderman: Humans are interesting creatures. We laugh, we cry, we feel joy and we feel pain. We’re all different, each with our own quirks and eccentricities. We each have certain events that define us, we are born, we die and we live an exciting life in between. If we’re lucky we feel the gamut of emotions from the agony of death the the highest highs of love.

William: (impatient) So what does this have to do with me?

Holderman: Your job William, is to be human. Hopefully you will write poetry to express the human experience. For that is what poetry is at its core, its a literary expression of what it means to live and die as a member of the human race. (voice rising) but to do that, to reach that, you must first learn how to be human inside and out.

William: Well, that’s all great, but I don’t think you can teach me how to be a “human”.

Holderman: (stands up and paces slowly) You’re right. I can’t. But I can at least give you a start. Every human I’ve known has had one thing that they excel at and one thing that they’re terrible at. One character trait and one character flaw. We have several candidates for your flaw William, but I ask you now, what do you do well?

William: (unsure) I… I… I… write well… I think.

Holderman: (glares at William) That’s up for debate but you’re missing the whole point! Your writing is not a part of your humanity, it is an expression, an extension of it. You need to find a way to establish who YOU are outside the pages of your notebook. Because as far as I can tell you’re just an identity-less blob who happens to write some mediocre poetry!

William: (stands up in anger) What the hell do you know about me old man? Huh? As far as I can tell you’re just a bitter old man trying to mess with some kid’s mind. What do you know about me? You know nothing! You hear me, you know NOTHING!

Holderman: (louder) Then teach me! Turn the teacher into the student, take control, take the reigns, teach me for once! (points finger) You come and you go from this room without leaving as much as an impression on my chair. Like some kind of phantom you enter and exit my life without leaving any kind of mark and that’s the problem with your poetry, it doesn’t leave a mark.

William: (sits down slowly, upset) So you’re saying it’s bad? That my poetry is bad?

Holderman: (sitting down slowly) I’m saying that you need to reach for the next level. That you are inches away from greatness but like a child reaching for a brass ring you are unable to grasp what is right in front of your face.

William: So… what can I do?

Holderman: (pacing) Tell me what you’re good at. What makes William, William? How do I distinguish you from the thousands of others of idiot youths I see out there roaming the streets. Besides writing, what is one thing that you do well?

William: (panicked) I don’t have any other talents!

Holderman: You have to have another talent. Do you hold your liquor well? Can you dance the flamenco? Do you play chess with the best of them? What about poker? Do you compete in athletics? (loudly) Can you do a damn thing besides writing?

William: I… I… I… I cook! Yes, I cook!

Holderman: (puzzled) You… cook?

William: Yeah! My dad was a chef in a fancy kitchen when I was young and he ended up teaching me a few things as I got older. I mean, I still have a lot to learn, but I’ve been told that I do it very well.

Holderman: (intrigued) Hm, the cook poet. I think I like that. Pardon my reaction but you understand kids your age don’t typically take up the whisk and bowl.

William: (blushing) It’s alright, I understand. (nervous chuckle) I don’t believe it either sometimes.

Holderman: You also have your assignment. Go home and make me something for tomorrow.

William: What would you like?

Holderman: Whatever you do best.

William: Wait a minute, does this have something to do with my poetry?

Holderman: (raises voice slightly) It’s at the very heart of the matter, your humanity is at stake here. The quality of your dish might as well define your quality as a human and in turn a poet.

William: Well, I’ll do my best then.

Holderman: (walking toward the door, speaks without looking at him) William, take the cards with you on your way out.

William: (begins to gather them) Why?

Holderman: Because if this whole cooking thing doesn’t work out, you’re going to need another talent to fall back on… (opens door)

William: Ok… (looks around uneasy as he finishes gathering the cards)

(William exits)

The Student: Part Six

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The scene is the same. Holderman is sitting on the couch reading a book when a knock comes at the door. He opens it and William enters carrying a container of food. The food is obviously very hot as William scurries past Holderman to set the food down on the coffee table.

Holderman: (Making his way to his chair) I see you brought your dish. What is it?

William: (Sitting down) It was one of the specialties of my dad's old restaurant, Chicken Parmesan.

Holderman: (Sitting down) Chicken Parmesan?

William: Yes. Chicken Parmesan.

Holderman: (Leaning over the dish and examining it) You'll have to forgive my skepticism William, but I've eaten at many nice restaurants and while Chicken Parmesan has almost always been on the menu, it's hardly been the house specialty.

William: (Leans in as well) That's because you've never had THIS Chicken Parmesan (points at dish for emphasis)

Holderman: Very well. (Grabs the plastic fork and knife out of the container and takes a bite) Mmmm I've never had Chicken Parmesan quite this spicy before. What's in it?

William: (Chuckles) I can't tell you all my secrets can I?

Holderman: (Chuckles) I suppose not. It's a very interesting dish and while it's no my favorite, still very good. I'll just have to get used to the spice.

William: Well, I'll tell you this, the owner of the restaurant my dad used to work at was part Cajun. He used to experiment with putting Cajun spices in otherwise normal food. The Chicken Parmesan was one of his successes.

Holderman: (Takes another bite) I'd hate to taste his failures.

William: (Soft Chuckle) Some were quite awful. But his restaurant did have a very loyal if small group of customers.

Holderman: What happened to this restaurant.

William: Oh it was in Washington D.C. you wouldn't know anything…

Holderman: I asked what happened to it, not where it was.

William: (Taken back) The recession of the 80's forced it to close. That's how I wound up way out here. My dad swore off cooking professionally after that found a job maintaining the appliances he once used to cook with.

Holderman: (Takes another bite) Interesting transition. What did you think of it?

William: (Scoffs) Oh I was very young then.

Holderman: I didn't ask how old you were, I asked you what you thought of it.

William: I-I-I don't know really. I didn't like it much. I had always thought of him as a chef and when he changed jobs it was hard to define him in my mind. I had always wanted to be like him, a cook, I guess I found his maintenance job to be less admirable even if it pays more and is just as essential.

Holderman: Interesting way of looking at it.

William: Yes, I guess it is. And that's twice you've done that now.

Holderman: Done what?

William: Said, "I didn't ask you that."

Holderman: (Forces a bite into his mouth) Then stick to the questions I ask you.

William: (Awkward silence) Then can I ask you one and you stick to it?

Holderman: (Takes another bite, sets down the knife and fork and looks directly at William) Yes.

William: Does this make me human?

Holderman: (bluntly) No.

William: But yesterday you said…

Holderman: (Loudly) It's a big step William, bigger than you realize, but just the first step on a long journey. You have so far to come that odds are I will be dead before you reach the end of your quest.

William: (sits back in his seat and thinks for a moment) There's no end to this is there?

Holderman: Everything has an end William, even if it is death, there is an end.

William: You're just going to keep jerking my chain to keep me coming over here so you can have some company aren't you? (Louder) Aren't you?

Holderman: If I wanted company I'd get a prostitute.

William: (Loudly) Nothing mattered, nothing meant anything. You just wanted someone to write poetry, show you a damn card trick and cook you a meal. This has nothing to do with making me a poet! It's about keeping your lonely ass company!

Holderman: (Stands up and points at door, shouting) If you believe that then leave! Leave now and don't come back! I can't keep you here by force. If you think that this is about keeping a lonely old man company then get the hell out.

William: (Stands up and heads toward door) Then I will!

Holderman: Fine! Live your life as you see fit, write all of the mediocre poetry you want. It'll be meaningless! Meaningless. You'll toil, you'll slave and you'll breathe but for what? What? You'll just grow old and fat, you'll be the lonely old man needing company and when you look back on your life you'll have nothing, NOTHING to be proud of. At least I left something genuine behind for the world to remember me by. You'll be lucky to leave behind your timecard.

William: (Turns around and gets in Holderman's face) You miserable old man. I have learned one thing from you and it's that I don't have to take the crap you put out. All you've done is insult me, berate me and make me do stupid tricks. All the while you hold the carrot of enlightenment farther and farther away, just to tease me more.

Holderman: (normal voice) You haven't learned a damn thing from me, just how to BE me. Look at yourself, your tone, your attitude, your words, you've learned how to copy my greatness, but you haven't found your own. If you leave now, you'll be nothing but an imitation, a mere copy of what you saw and felt. If that's what you want, then go. Go now. But if you want to find your own, then I suggest you stick around.

William: (Glances over his shoulder at his seat) Why should I?

Holderman: Because you've now forgotten who you are and if you're to find that, you'll need at least one more lesson.

William: (looks at him quizzically) One more lesson? Just one?

Holderman: Just one. Just one to find yourself again.

William: Then what?

Holderman: Then you decide what's next. If you don't like today's lesson, you can complete it and never return. No hard feelings if you don't. We'll go our separate ways and you'll at least have your identity back.

William: And if I return?

Holderman: (sitting down) I'll make you a poet yet.

William: (pauses a moment and sits down, faces Holderman) One lesson. (Long pause) You can go ahead now.

Holderman: What are the two things we define ourselves by?

William: What?

Holderman: What… are… the… two… things… we… define… ourselves… by…?

William: I… don't… know… Why don't you tell me?

Holderman: (Scowls at William) We are defined, entirely by two things, what we love and what we hate. Those questions are as simple and as bold as what we are and what we are not. They define our borders from both sides and are of equal importance in making us who we are.

William: Ok…

Holderman: So your assignment is to go home and make a list of ten things you love and ten things you hate. If you come back tomorrow, bring the list with you, if you don't, cherish it and read it at least once a week to remind you of what you stand for and who you are. Otherwise, I fear you'll lose it.

William: Is that all?

Holderman: Yes

William: (Stands up) Then I'm gone. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow.

Holderman: Maybe…

William: In case I don't, I guess I should thank you.

Holderman: Why?

William: Even if you've been son of a bitch, it's been interesting.

Holderman: I wish I could say the same for you.

William: What?

Holderman: You might have been interesting some day, but right now you're just a boring, identity-less clod.

William: (scowls at Holderman) We'll see about that.

Holderman: So we shall, now show yourself the door.

(William exits)

The Student: Part Seven

6 Comments

The scene is the same. Holderman is sitting on the couch reading a book when the doorbell rings. He gets up slowly and opens the door and William comes inside. Holderman motions for William to take his usual seat and he does so. Holderman slowly takes his own on the couch, having to lower himself slowly to avoid straining himself.

Holderman: I'm glad to see you decided to come back. I was worried you wouldn't.

William: Yeah, well I thought about it.

Holderman: I figured you would. But what changed your mind.

William: I just had to see you one more time. I guess I couldn't stay away.

Holderman: I suppose that's all well and good. Did you make your lists that you promised me?

William: (Stands up and runs his fingers through his hair) Well, you see, I couldn't do it.

Holderman: (Angry) Why not?

William: (Nervous chuckle) Well, you see, you asked me to do a list of ten things I loved and ten things I hate right?

Holderman: Right.

William: Well, I came up with ten things I love. You know, family, friends, so on. Real easy. But, when I tried to think of ten things I hate, I kept repeating the same thing over and over again.

Holderman: (Leans back in his seat, angrily sarcastic) Do tell.

William: (Soft Chuckle) You.

Holderman: Me.

William: (Points) You.

Holderman: I see.

William: (Starts pacing nervously) So, I decided to just scrap that assignment and bring something else to show you.

Holderman: What?

William: First, I have a new poem I wrote, especially for you (takes poem out of his pocket and sets it down on the table) and then I brought this (pulls out a small pistol from his pocket and points it at Holderman).

Holderman: (Looks up unimpressed) And why did you bring that?

William: (Shouting) Because ever since I started coming here you've been doing whatever you can to get a reaction out of me. You've done nothing but mess with my head, give me orders and do whatever you can to play with me all for your entertainment. Now it's my turn. You're going to do what I say.

Holderman: You need to take the safety off.

William: (Confused) What? (Clicks safety off, shaking badly)

Holderman: Your hand is trembling. If you shoot like that, you'll miss. Here, let me help you. (Grabs Williams arm and places the end of the gun against his forehead) There, much better.

William: (Looks around) What are you doing? Are you crazy? I'm not screwing around this gun's loaded!

Holderman: (Calmly) I've had much bigger guns pointed at me by much more dangerous people. Besides, I've lived a good life, if I die, I die content. But if that happens, then you'll die a lonely old man in prison.

William: (Squares up) I don't have a life to look forward to. Poetry WAS my life and now you have ruined it. I should kill you.

Holderman: Why don't you?

William: I don't know.

Holderman: Maybe because you need me? Maybe because I've pushed you over the edge and you need me to find your way back? Or maybe because you're too scared to?

William: (Softly) I don't know.

Holderman: Admit it William, you don't want to kill me. You want to scare me. You want to see me tremble. But look at you right now; even though you have the gun to my head, you're the one shaking like a leaf. You're not prepared to take my life, even to save your own.

William: (Shouts) Shut up.

Holderman: You know I'm right William, you know it. (pauses) William?

William: What?

Holderman: If you had wanted to kill me, you would have put a clip in the gun.

William: (Lowers gun, slowly) You son of a bitch. (Sits down hard and puts his head in his hand) You knew all along didn't you?

Holderman: It wouldn't have mattered. You fear spending the rest of you life in jail more than you hate me.

William: (Shakes his head) You must be pretty good with guns to have been able to pull that one.

Holderman: I know a few things. For one I know that's a pretty rare pistol you're holding, a .22 I believe. Where did it come from?

William: (Looks at the gun) It's my dad's, I think he said it came from a pawnshop. I think he got it and a couple of clips for a few hundred.

Holderman: It's a great pistol. Might I see it?

William: Sure, what the hell. (Goes to hand Holderman the pistol, both men lean in for the exchange and as soon as both their hands touch the pistol it goes off and both men jump back hard and the pistol goes flying.) (Shouting) Holy… What the? Oh My God, Holderman! Are you ok?

Holderman: (Groans loudly and stretches out on the couch, clutching his abdomen)

William: (Frantic) Oh my God, you've been shot! I've got to get a doctor? Where's the phone? Where's the phone? Oh God, Oh God.

Holderman: (Holds his hand up to signal William) Don't bother.

William: (Dashes over and kneels by Holderman) Are you going to be ok? How bad is it?

Holderman: Bad enough. Bad enough.

William: How did this happen? It wasn't loaded. I swear!

Holderman: I know, I know. There must have been a bullet in the chamber William. It happens all the time.

William: (More frantic) I got to get a doctor you should be saving your breath (Stands up) I'm going to go call 911. I just hope the police will understand. Oh my God I'm going to jail aren't I?

Holderman: (Grabs William by the shirt and pull him back down beside him). Don't bother. Nothing can save me now William. They can just prolong the inevitable. Will you please hand me the poem you wrote?

William: Huh?

Holderman: The poem you brought with you, it's on the table.

William: Oh, that, you don't want to see that now do you?

Holderman: Now more than ever. Hand it to me, now!

William: (Spins around, scoops up the poem and thrusts it into Holderman's hand, Holderman unfolds it and begins to read it, some time passes.)

Holderman: It's very good William, extremely good. There's not much more I could teach you anyway, the rest of your lessons will have to be on your own. I'm just glad to know you're ready.

William: (Sits down on the floor) Yeah, I guess I'll have a lot of time to write in prison won't I?

Holderman: No one is going to jail William. Hand me the gun would you?

William: (Searches for a second and finds the gun, picks it up and hands it to Holderman) What do you want this for?

Holderman: (Pulls out a handkerchief and begins wiping the gun down) Because I can't let one of the great future poets of our time rot away in some jail cell for an accident. (Clutches the gun tight to leave his fingerprints)

William: (Shouting) What are you doing!?

Holderman: Saving you. The police will ask you about this. Tell them that I asked to see your father's gun. I was a fan of antique pistols and you left it over here by accident. After you leave I'll pen a suicide note that will say pretty much the same thing. I have a very well known and distinct style of handwriting. It'll match and the police won't question it.

William: They won't buy it. They'll just accuse me of covering up your murder.

Holderman: Men like me die every day William. No one cares. The police won't waste their time on this. But you had better get moving. I need to think about what I'm going to say in my suicide note. These aren't easy things to write you know.

William: (Sighs) I can't leave you.

Holderman: You have to. Otherwise, my life and my death were all in vain. Go now, save yourself and carry the torch for me. You have a lot of work to do William; you had best get on it. I'll tie up the loose ends around here.

William: (stands up and walks over to the door) You sure?

Holderman: I'm sure, GO!

William: (Pauses) I know I haven't always been nice to you, but I am going to miss you.

Holderman: Wait a minute; I have two favors to ask of you. First, will you be at my funeral.

William: Of course.

Holderman: Good, sign your name real big in the guest book, make it look like someone actually showed up.

William: (Soft smile) Got it.

Holderman: Two, dedicate a book to me will you?

William: I'll dedicate them all to you, every last one.

(William exits)

A Common Tragedy: Part One

4 Comments

(Curtain comes up revealing a small, plain bedroom with the body of a young lady laying on the bed already covered, and an empty bottle of pills on the nightstand. Standing in the room is Sheriff O'Riely and Charles Flint.) Sheriff: What was your relation to the girl?

Charles: I was her friend, that's all.

Sheriff: Had she ever threatened to kill herself?

Charles: A few times, her step-father…(coroner marches into the room)

Coroner: (To Sheriff) What do we have here?

Sheriff: Looks like a suicide, girl about 15.

Charles: 16, she was 16.

Sheriff: Probably an O.D. on sleeping pills, you see the bottle over there (points to ;the bottle). Pretty boy here found her.

Coroner: (Examines the body some) How did you come to find her?

Charles: I came to pick her up to go to school, when I got no answer at the door, I peeped through the window and saw her there. I forced my way in but she was already dead.

Sheriff: Why did the lack of an answer concern you so much, maybe she was sick?

Charles: Well, she was the type of girl to never miss school, I knew something had to be terribly wrong. (there is an awkward silence as the Sheriff makes some ;notes in his book and the coroner resumes his work)

Coroner: (To Sheriff) She has some bruises around her eyes, someone hit her and hard, possibly with a blunt object.

Sheriff: (To Charles) What do you know about this Charles?

Charles: (Stammering) N-N-Nothing, I swear!

Sheriff: (loudly to Charles) This girl has been beaten and now is dead and your story doesn't seem to make much sense and I want to know what is going on!

Charles: It was her step-father ok! (Fights off some tears) Her step-father beat the hell out of her. One time she threatened to kill herself. He put her in a mental hospital for half a summer! (The other two men look stunned)

Sheriff: (Takes a moment to regain his composure) You had better be able to back up what you just said. (Charles sits on the floor with his head in ;his hands) Look at me when I'm talking to you! Because her step-father is a state senator, if you're wrong, he will make you sorry you were born!

Charles: It's true, I swear!

Sheriff: I hope you know what you are ;getting into. (To Coroner) What else have you found?

Coroner: Well, I found this pill bottle suspicious. The label has been torn off. We don't know what it was, or who it really belonged to.

Sheriff: (Takes bottle) Do you recognize this?

Charles: Yes, they were her Amaxol pills, a sedative, she brought them to school to take with lunch, they kept her calm.

Sheriff: Ok then…

Coroner: (Pauses, looks up) Wait a minute… Amaxol wouldn't cause death unless it was taken in astronomical proportions, so that couldn't be the cause.

Sheriff: (To Charles) There is something that you are not telling us…

Charles: (nervously) I've told you everything, what more do you want?

Sheriff: (Grabs Charles by the collar and brings him to a standing position) Tell me!

Charles: No!

Sheriff: Tell me now or with God as my witness I will put you out of your misery right this second.

Charles: It's cyanide that killed her! (crying now) She couldn't take what her father was doing to her. I hooked her up with a guy who sold poisons…Oh my God! I killed her. (crying worse)

Sheriff: Is there anything else that you are not telling us?

Charles: (Weakly) No. (Sheriff lets him go, he collapses onto the floor) (A door slams and the girl's step-father, Senator Livingston walks into the room)

Senator: What is going on here?

Sheriff: We have some questions we would like to ask you.

Coroner: (Looks up from his work) Your step-daughter is dead, an apparent suicide, however, we have some questions about some bruises on her. That boy (points to Charles) says that you abused her.

Senator: I most certainly did not!

Charles: It's true, she told me everything, it's true!

Senator: I loved her like she was my own!

Charles: Did you love her when you broke her nose? Or what about when you broke that wooden dowel over her head, did you love her then?

Senator: You lying piece of trash! (Hoists Charles up and throws him across the room but the Sheriff and the coroner prevent him from following up.)

Sheriff: (To Senator) You are under arrest for child abuse, you have the right to…

Senator: I know my rights. (Senator is handcuffed and escorted out by the Sheriff) (Sheriff returns)

Sheriff: (Sits down and takes a deep breath to regain his composure) Now Charles, I have to place you under arrest for aiding a suicide, you have the right to…

Charles: (Stunned) What? I was only trying to help her, her life was a living hell, I was only trying to help! He's the one who made her life miserable. (pointing out the door) It was him!

Sheriff: That doesn't matter. Come with me please. (Charles is handcuffed and escorted out by the Sheriff) (The Sheriff returns and the two men resume their work, the coroner looking at the body and Sheriff making notes) ( A scuffle is heard outside, followed by a ;gunshot both men ;rush out and the Sheriff returns with the Senator who has sprinkles of blood on him.)

Sheriff: (To the Hall) Is he dead?

Coroner: (Offstage) Yes, he's dead, a shotgun wound to the chest.

Sheriff: (To Senator) Well, it looks like you can add murder to you charges Senator.

Senator: You'll never get me for child abuse, no evidence without the boy. Speaking of him that "murder" as far as you know and can prove was self-defense. By the way, you may want to put the handcuffs on tighter next time.

Sheriff: (Putting a new pair on) I trusted you, I'll never trust you again. (Shoves the Senator out of the room) (Sheriff sits down on a chair and puts his head in his hands) (Coroner walks in)

Coroner: You ok?

Sheriff: Yeah, but he's right though, with his position and our evidence he won't spend a night in jail.

Coroner: Yep.

Sheriff: You know, it's times like this I wonder if it's worth it. If there is such thing as justice.

Coroner: I think there is, he'll get what's coming to him, it's only a matter of when.

Sheriff: Well, it won't be soon enough for me, for her, or for Charles. (Storms out of the room leaving the coroner in awe, the curtain drops)

A Common Tragedy: Part Two

2 Comments

(Gosa, the lead attorney for Senator Livingston and Whitehall, one of the lead District Attorneys, are negotiating. There are two small chairs in the office, but Gosa has chosen to stand over the desk which Whitehall is sitting at. There are file folders all over the desk and it appears that there has been a great deal of stress in the office lately.)

Gosa: Listen, Mr. Whitehall, we both know that your case against Senator Livingston is weak at best. He is willing to plead guilty to manslaughter one in exchange for dropping this ridiculous child abuse charge and not pushing for any higher charges.

Whitehall: You underestimate our case dramatically. Unless you know something that we don't, your client should be in a lot more trouble than man one. We should at least be discussing murder charges.

Gosa: I'm just telling you that if you do not negotiate with us you will be very sorry.

Whitehall: Ma'am, I didn't kill anyone. Your client did, I'm not going to be sorry.

Gosa: You and I both know Charles is the true aggressor here. We're giving you a break.

Whitehall: I refuse to believe that a 120 lb. kid with handcuffs on would be stupid enough to charge a 300 lb. man with free arms, and if he did, I refuse to believe that he was a serious enough threat to warrant deadly retaliation.

Gosa: Believe what you will, but that is our offer.

Whitehall: The other DA's in the case should be here soon. I'll run it by them, but don't expect anything.

Gosa: I won't and if you need me, I'll be with my client down the hall. Good day. (leaves) (Whitehall buries his head in his work and shortly two other DA's, Mr. Hameron and Mr. Michaels walk into the room)

Whitehall: (staring down at his desk, without looking up) Welcome gentlemen, have a seat. (they oblige) As you know, we have a dilemma on our hands.

Michaels: Dilemma isn't the word for it.

Whitehall: (continues) We have Senator Livingston locked up on a murder and child abuse charge. We get the honor of deciding how to play it. As you know, Livingston's lawyers have offered a manslaughter one plea bargain. In exchange, we drop the child abuse charge and the murder charge.

Hameron: I say take the deal, getting him on a…

Michaels: Take the deal? Are you crazy? This man is a cold-blooded murderer and a child abuser, we can't just let him get off that easy.

Hameron: You are forgetting that the man is a State Senator. A trial with him would be an uphill battle to say the least.

Michaels: I can nail that bastard! Let me go to trial with murder one and child abuse and I can put him away for a long time.

Hameron: It doesn't matter…

Whitehall: Why don't we try a different approach, let's look at the charges one at a time starting with the child abuse charge.

Hameron: It'll never stick. The only people that knew about it are dead. All of the evidence is circumstantial. A grand jury would just laugh at us.

Michaels: What about the bruises? Also, someone at the school had to be told about it. We can go down there and talk to them.

Hameron: I already dif. The district must be determined to cover their own ass because no one heard or saw anything that would indicate that there was abuse taking place. That should figure though, his education reform bill got millions for poor school districts, including the one in question.

Michaels: You are trying to tell me that this bastard pushes a bill through and gets some money for the district, and in exchange, everyone there becomes blind to the pain of a child?

Hameron: It appears so.

Michaels: I can't believe this.

Whitehall: So what about the murder charge?

Michaels: I can have the cop testify that he put the handcuffs on loose, and the forensics team report will indicate that there was no struggle. Also, the breaking of the glass in the case and the getting of the gun indicates premeditation. So, it should be little trouble to stick him with murder one. That's a mandatory life sentence.

Hameron: The Senator had the key, why would he break the glass? Also, we seem to be forgetting something here. It doesn't matter what the jury thinks anymore. If we get a judge that is favorable to Livingston he will find some crock of an excuse to overturn the decision…leaving us with little if anything.

Michaels: (getting angrier with every word) First thing, he didn't have the key handy so the only way to get in the cabinet was to break the glass. Second, any judge who wants to keep his seat will distance himself from this case if he remotely knows the Senator.

Hameron: (matching Michaels' anger) If we cut the deal that they have offered, he spends five years guaranteed in jail; we avoid the media frenzy, the costly trial and the gamble that is the judge situation. It's a sure thing.

Michaels: (Pounds his fist on the corner of the desk) Listen! I have three little girls at home, lovely sweet and innocent. I'd love to go home and tell them that I made the streets just a little safer for them today. I took some scumbag off the streets. However, lately I've been watching as 25% of the perps that walk in here get away either scott free or almost because some cop forgot to read him his rights or there was a typo on the search warrant. I'm tired of people beating and abusing the system. I'm not talking about petty thieves and shoplifters getting off, I'm talking about armed robbers, murderers and rapists, the scum of the earth walking the streets because they got one up on the system. No more, I'm making a stand here and I'm taking a child abuser and a murderer off the streets for a long as I can. You have a daughter don't you?

Hameron: (sneering) Yes, I have one, a little girl of 11 months, my pride and joy. Why?

Michaels: You know that serial rapist that you had come through not to long ago, the one that raped ten little girls.

Hameron: I remember him well.

Michaels: (Talking louder) Good, because I know for a fact that with the deal you cut he will be out in ten years if he behaves himself. Ten years!

Hameron: It was the best I could get under the circumstances.

Michaels: (Calms himself for a second) The circumstances were that you didn't want a trial. (Gets angry again and leans forward into Hameron's face) I hope to hell that when that man gets out, he picks your daughter next, just so you will have some stake in this other than…(Hameron pushes Michaels causing his chair to flip backwards)

Hameron: No one talks about my daughter like that! (Hameron wants to follow up but Whitehall speaks up first.)

Whitehall: Gentlemen, please! This job is hard enough without resorting to physical violence. Just let it go for a second. (Michaels stands up and brushes himself off) Take some deep breaths and let's focus on the job at hand. I'm sure that none of the things said were really meant. Now, let's shake hands and move on. (They lightly shake hands) Here's the problem as I see it. One of you wants to dig in and fight. The other deal with the devil. We can't have it both ways gentlemen. However, Solomon did say, "split the baby in half." Maybe we can split this in half.

Michaels: How so?

Whitehall: We offer a deal for murder 2. Maximum is 25 years. I think his lawyers will be favorable to that.

Michaels: I see no harm in offering, as long as we don't seal the deal just yet.

Hameron: I'm fine with it.

Whitehall: Good. Mrs. Lute, can you come in here a moment. (Mrs. Lute, the secretary steps in through the door) Go down the hall and give the attorneys for Mr. Livingston this note (jots a quick note), wait for their reply and bring it back. (she grabs the note and leaves)

Michaels: You realize murder 2 is a complete farce, if there was any murder it's in the first degree. The breaking of the glass and obtaining the gun shows premeditation.

Whitehall: We can pretend that he did it in the heat of an argument. Besides, it may be our best hope for settling this argument and putting a real piece of trash behind bars.

Hameron: (starts chuckling)

Michaels: What's so funny?

Hameron: I was just reading over some of the things that Senator Livingston has done in the State Senate over his term. Remember that big prison bill a couple of years ago.

Michaels: Yeah, it was all over the news, so what?

Hameron: He speared it through the Senate. In fact, he co-sponsored it. It took away conjugal visits, cigarettes, enforced uniforms and even removed the weight lifting equipment from the gyms.

Michaels: If that gets out while he's in jail…

Hameron: It gets better, last year, he killed a bill to build a new prison to ease overcrowding. He filibustered the damn thing to death despite the support of most of the Senators.

Michaels: He's going to have to watch his back in jail.

Whitehall: Perhaps, but you are forgetting something important. This bill made the lives of several people high up in the prison system a lot easier. There are some wardens and higher-ups very glad for what he did.

Hameron: Do you think they'll protect him?

Whitehall: You seemed convinced that judges would protect him, why not a Warden?

Hameron: Hmm (a knock is heard on the door, the secretary comes back in and drops a note off on the desk but doesn't leave the room) (Whitehall picks it up and reads it)

Whitehall: "Murder 2 is negotiable" what the hell does that mean?

Hameron: Beats me.

Whitehall: Mrs. Lute, bring Livingston's attorneys here if you could. (she nods and leaves)

Michaels: What does he want, preferential treatment?

Whitehall: It beats me.

Hameron: Is it possible the Senator did it in self-defense?

Michaels: No, what's brought that on?

Hameron: Charles was not very balanced going into that room, even though he was cuffed he may have tried to attack the Senator.

Michaels: Two things: one, Charles was handcuffed, he wasn't much of a threat to the UN-cuffed Senator and two, all the Senator had to do was call for help and the two officers just outside would have come in.

Hameron: I guess so, I'm just trying to cover all of the bases because I have a bad feeling about all of this.

Michaels: Me too, but we can't dwell. (There is a brief silence but soon there is a tapping at the door and Ms. Gosa, Senator Livingston's attorney enters the room but remains standing)

Whitehall: I thought the Senator had three Lawyers, not one.

Gosa: The other two have gone back to base so to speak for research. I have been authorized to make decisions unilaterally until they return.

Whitehall: Very well, I'll cut to the chase, what do you mean by negotiable?

Gosa: We'll settle for murder two but we want him up for parole in ten.

Whitehall: Ma'am, you realize that there are laws and that a violent offender has to serve a certain percent of his sentence before coming up for parole and ten years will not meet that requirement.

Gosa: Very well, then I guess there is no use in me being here.

Whitehall: We might be able to negotiate something else.

Gosa: You are either willing and able to offer that deal right now or I have nothing to be here for.

Whitehall: I'm willing to make the deal, but I would need special permission from a judge to impose such a sentence. So, it appears I am unable.

Gosa: Then I'll have the Senator return to his cell for the rest of the day, afternoon gentlemen. If you were wise, you would take this deal.

Whitehall: Maybe another night in jail will do him some good and wizen him up a little. We could have him for murder one, we're the ones being generous here.

Gosa: Afternoon. (walks out)

Hameron: I've just gone back on view, I think we should fight it out.

Whitehall: Very well, a decision has been made, Michaels, find out everything that happened in that room from the time Charles arrived to his death, I want to know: what he said, where he stood, where he sat and even when and if he went to the bathroom. Hameron, your job is to find any connection between the Senator and Charles you can find. I don't care if they just passed on the street once, I want to know about it…. (there is a knock at the door) (Mrs. Lute comes in and leaves a note on the desk) (Whitehall reads it and is visibly surprised)

Hameron: What does it say?

Whitehall: The Senator has been released!

Hameron: How?

Whitehall: The forensics report came back. They're saying Charles broke the glass somehow and it was self-defense. (Michaels buries his head in a file folder)

Hameron: That's bull! The boy was handcuffed, what did he do, ram it open with his head? I think that would have been obvious.

Whitehall: All that it says is that Charles was the clear aggressor, probably broke the glass and was killed attacking the Senator.

Hameron: I don't believe this. What did he do? Donate a new lab to the forensics team, new microscopes, what is it?

Michaels: Try computers, he sponsored a bill that got the state forensics team over two million in new computers. These computers are touted for helping catch the cross-road rapist and the back-woods murderer.

Hameron: (cups his head in his hands) I don't believe this, I understand what you were talking about earlier Michaels and I apologize for going against you for so long. We can go after the team, we can get an independent analysis and prove that this was a fix, we can put an end to this… (Whitehall is shaking his head side to side)

Whitehall: He's won. The evidence has probably been destroyed. If we tried to put him on trial, all his defense would have to do is introduce this report to evidence and then we could never nail him. He's free.

Hameron: I don't care what you say. I'm going to fight. This bastard is doing his time like everyone else, and I'm going to take those cocky bastards at the forensics department down a notch.

Whitehall: You can try, but you are messing with people a lot more powerful than you, tread carefully.

Hameron: I'll tread where I have to! (storms out) (an awkward silence falls over the room)

Whitehall: What are you going to tell your girls tonight?

Michaels: Probably that daddy has quit his job. (walks out) (Whitehall just sits there for a moment then crumples up the note he was handed, throws it away, opens a folder and starts reading)

(curtain falls)

A Common Tragedy: Part Three

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(The setting is a small break room with scattered tables and chairs centered around a small television. In the room are three lab workers at the Livingston Crime Laboratory: Richardson, Daniels and Smith. They are eagerly watching the TV)

Television Reporter: With two weeks to go until the election, incumbent Senator John Livingston has come from a twenty point deficit to obtain a slight lead on his opponent, local businessman Rob Anderson. This is despite the incident a year ago in which Livingston was arrested and subsequently released for his involvement in the death of a young boy and the apparent suicide of his step-daughter. Allegations of murder and child abuse have subsided in the face of a booming economy. Most political analysts say the public at large has forgiven the Senator and that we can expect to see him in the state house for another six years…

(Cheering erupts from the viewers followed by high-fives and a few playful hugs)

Richardson: Did you hear that!? In the lead, I didn't know the man could do it. Man! I am impressed. (Gets up and turns the television off)

Daniels: I knew he could. He'll be back in office and before we know it, it's going to get a lot better around here.

(Enter Davis)

Davis: What the hell is going on in here?

Richardson: Ah, nothing man, we're just celebrating our man Livingston taking the lead in the polls. We're really routing for that guy.

Davis: Yeah, the place is named after him. I guess you would be.

Daniels: Yes, he is the man. Got us all of this cool gear, we have been busting criminals left and right lately…

Davis: It's amazing that more conspiracy theories weren't raised about tampering with his involvement in this place. It's a good thing you guys followed everything by the book or this place would still be crawling with feds.

(The mood changes in the room to a more sullen one, subtle lighting changes act thusly)

Smith: Yeah, right…

Davis: There isn't any truth to the rumors is there? I mean. Come on guys, I know you did things by the book, right?

Smith: Kid, how long have you been working here?

Davis: Five months.

Smith: Then don't bother with it because it doesn't effect you.

Davis: Whoa, whoa, whoa. I have a right to know the truth about the place in which I work. You said if I have any questions just ask. I have one now, what's the deal here?

Daniels: Ok. listen, four years ago this place was on the verge of being shut down. The state government saw no need to keep this lab up. All of the evidence that we process here could have been shipped to the main lab in the capital just as easily. Well, Senator Livingston stepped up to bat for us and, as a part of his "get tough on crime" bill, kept this place alive and even updated it.

Davis: So why didn't you use all of this equipment to nail him for his crime…

Smith: (holding back anger) Because, you don't bite the hand that feeds you…

Richardson: Hey, look around. We've got the best computers. Our own electron microscope, and even our own DNA testing lab. There are departments in other states wanting our help. We are easily the most advanced lab in this part of the nation.

Daniels: Besides, as soon as we lose Livingston's support this place will either be shut down and combined with the other, or they'll move here. Either way we lose our leadership of the lab.

Davis: Let me get this straight. You let a child abuser and a murderer go because he gave you some equipment and pledged his ever-loving support.

Daniels: We had to protect our jobs. It's hard to find work in this profession…

Davis: (furious) This is sick!! This is the biggest load of crap I have ever seen. I can't believe that people like you, sworn to protect the public let one of it's worst pieces of scum not only go free but back into public office.

Smith: (getting in Davis' face, shouting) You will be grateful for what you have you little snot-nosed punk! You come in here all holier-than-thou. You will not ruin what we have worked for, so sit down, shut up and enjoy the fruits of our deeds! Just be grateful!

Davis: (shoves Smith out of his face knocking him back a few paces) I will not! I will not be grateful for the gifts from a murderer. Why don't you just ask me to drink the blood of a child and treat it like it's wine! It's poison, it's all poison! Can't you see all your equipment and every case you win is tainted with the blood of two children! Don't you see how sick this is!

Smith: You will not ruin this for us! (charges in and punches Davis knocking him on the ground, begins to kick him on the ground while yelling) We've worked too hard for this to let some little twerp fresh out of school spoil it all! I'll kill you before I let you take it away! (He is pulled off by the other two men)

Davis (Checks his face for blood) I bet you'd get away with it too!

Richardson: (shouting) Gentlemen! Calm down! Settle down! Take it easy! (motions to Daniels) Get him out of here, we can talk to him!

Smith: (Being forcefully removed by Daniels) You and your God-damned ideals! You little college punk! When are you going to learn that you have to let go of them! When are you going to wise up! (Fighting harder as he gets closer to the door) There are murderers and thieves loose all over the country! The world isn't going to be ideal! Deal with it! (Is thrown from the room and locked out)

Davis: (shouting at the door) If we lose our ideals, the scum of the planet go free and rise to run the land you are supposed to defend!

Daniels: (calmly) Calm down now, we can talk about this rationally…

Davis: What's there to talk about?

Richardson: (calmly as well) Listen to reason, it's in the past. You had nothing to do with it and never will. It's over, it's said and done. Forget about it. In two weeks the people will elect him for another term, if the people still have faith in him he can't be all bad.

Davis: The reason the public still believes in him is because of the lies you've fed it.

Daniels: Listen in two weeks it will all be over, how about you take some time off to forget about this whole ordeal. Come on, it's paid time and I won't even dock you sick leave… You just need some time to get things into focus.

Davis: What is there to get into focus? Because of you guys, two kids are dead and the person responsible for their deaths is not only free but he is going to be elected again to public office.

Richardson: He's a very powerful man. He can help us catch many more criminals.

Davis: You're just using that as an excuse…. it's just something to make you feel good about what you are doing…

Richardson: No I'm not, with the equipment he got us we've caught criminals that might have otherwise gotten away. Because of this lab there are countless rapists, murderers and hardened criminals in jail that would otherwise be patrolling your neighborhood.

Daniels: Besides, think about it. Livingston's harmless, he's not going to break into your home, kill your children and rape your wife. He got put in a bad situation….

Davis: Yeah, he beat his step-daughter and killed a young boy. He sure was put in a bad situation.

Daniels: Ok, even we can't prove if he really beat his step-daughter or not. But she killed herself, that was her choice. Our evidence does show that Charles did attack the Senator first. The way we see it, anyone might have done what the Senator did.

Davis: You are trying to tell me that a handcuffed boy who is half the size of the Senator was enough of a threat to warrant lethal force. Please… this is nothing but a pathetic excuse. Who the hell are you trying to convince… me or yourself?

Richardson: (Getting in Davis' face) Listen, this is the real world. Look around you, this isn't college, boy. Criminals get off every day. We wanted to cut down on the number of perps that are walking. So, we made a deal with a demon. More equipment and more help will translate into fewer criminals walking free later on.

Davis: It also results in more money for you, doesn't it? (Richardson sighs and takes a few steps away)

Daniels: You just don't understand, this is a win-win situation. We win, Livingston wins and even society wins. The only people who suffer because of it are dead anyway.

Davis: Do you know how many late nights I've spent wondering if a corpse can feel. (Walks toward Daniels) Just because someone's dead doesn't mean they don't feel anything or don't seek justice.

Daniels: (looking toward Richardson) And you said the kid didn't have any sense of religion? (facing Davis) Listen punk… they're dead, you might as well forget them and move on with your life. Now get out of my face, kindly…

Davis: (very angry) First of all, just because I acknowledge that there's more to a person than mind and body doesn't mean I believe in a higher power. So, don't even drag religion into this, because I will shoot your hypocritical little ass right down. Secondly, what about the family… huh? That boy had a father and a mother.

Daniels: (trying to keep calm) You really are trying to push your luck aren't you? You know his parents loved Charles about as much as Senator Livingston himself. They just wanted to crap on him and kick him to the curb. They're probably glad he's dead.

Davis: So you think that makes it ok?

Daniels: (pauses) No, but it makes it an acceptable evil….

Davis: (explodes with rage) Acceptable in who's mind? Yours, his, (points to Richardson) who? You claim to believe in a God and here you are playing him! (Daniels goes to strike Davis but Davis throws him to the floor. Richardson tries to come from behind to grab Davis but is backhanded by Davis and sent to the floor as well. Smith charges in from the hall and manages to take Davis down but Davis slides to his feet before any further blows can be delivered)

Davis: (Yelling) Don't you see what you are doing? Don't you see how wrong this is? You are destroying the memory of two children just so you can get what you want in the world. Capturing more criminals and making the streets safer is nothing but a side-effect in your mind isn't it. As long as you have money in your pocket and a healthy retirement fund you are happy! You guys are so full of it! I just wish you could see it!

Daniels: (getting off of the floor) (yelling as well) Perhaps, but why can’t you see what a powerful side-effect that is. Believe what you want about us, but you can not deny the good it will do the world.

Davis: You people make me sick. The very sight of you makes me want to vomit. I'm out of here. If I ever smell the foul stench of this place again I may choke… (walks toward the door)

Daniels: (Just as Davis gets to the door) You walk through that door there is no coming back…

Davis: (Doesn't even turn around) Good, the last thing I want is a return ticket to hell (walks through)

Richardson: (to Daniels) Do you think he's any kind of threat to us?

Daniels: (checks for blood on his face) Nah, he's just some dumb kid right out of college. He won't even be able to find a lawyer to take the case. Trust me, we'll never hear from him again, except to pick up his last check.

Richardson: I hope you're right, that kid's got a fire the likes of which I've never seen…

Daniels: True, but fire is easily extinguished…

(curtain falls)

A Common Tragedy: Part Four

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(The scene is Michaels' new law office. It's in rather poor shape, full of books and such but in need of repair. Michaels is sitting behind a desk rummaging through some papers when Davis walks in carrying a file folder)

Davis: Might I have a word with you sir?

Michaels: I guess so, I don’t seem to have an appointment for a while. What have you done?

Davis: I didn’t come to talk about me, rather, I came to talk about an old friend.

Michaels: A friend of mine or of yours?

Davis: Both

Michaels: Then who is he?

Davis: Senator Livingston. (There is a brief moment of tension as Michaels looks up at Davis but says nothing) I know you are an opponent of his and I thought I could talk to you about him.

Michaels: (looking back at his work) that case has been closed for some time now.

Davis: But I have new evidence…

Michaels: (getting angrier but not looking up) Then go to the police.

Davis: But they are the enemy.

Michaels: (trying to avoid yelling) Then I guess you have a problem don’t you?

Davis: (heavy sigh) Listen, I know how much you hate this guy, I know how you wanted to bust him as an assistant DA, I know you led a crusade against him for months after the crime and that you are still today a political opponent of his. Trust me, you are going to want to see what I have.

Michaels: (clinching teeth) Listen, that case is closed and it shall remain as such, there is nothing that you or anyone else can do about it.

Davis: (raising his voice) I want to bring him down too, I know the truth!

Michaels: (gets up and leans over the desk) You have no business here. Please leave immediately. I am now a defense attorney now. If you ever have trouble with the law, please stop by but otherwise good day and let me finish my work!

Davis: (begins to head out, Michael's eases back into his seat, Davis stops halfway) Just answer me one question, why did you stop?

Michaels: Dates and politics.

Davis: Pardon, I don't understand.

Michaels: (buries his nose in his work again) About five years ago the McCarthy Bill was passed. This set the statue of limitations on all alleged crimes committed by state elected officials to one year. This was designed to protect political careers from repeated false allegations. This stems from the fact Senator McCarthy's comrade Congressman Smithson was a victim of repeated allegations of soliciting prostitutes though none were true. However, he was still voted out of office.

Davis: I see… well, that's a crock of…

Michaels: (stands up and raises his voice) You know, I counted the days, I counted the God-damned days. I have it marked on this calendar here, (walks over to it and flips one page back) it's been one month almost exactly since it expired. I fought right up until that day.

Davis: Is there anyway around it?

Michaels: Well, to prevent it from being completely illegal they added a clause in it so that should new evidence appears the prosecutors can go before a judge in a closed-door session to present the evidence, if the judge gives the ok, then the case is re-opened.

Davis: That's great, we can go before a…

Michaels: This is where politics comes in, (walks closer to Davis) no judge is going to open a case against a State Senator. It's a "you scratch my back" deal. Everyone wants favors and everyone wants to be owed favors. It's simple, two kids are killed, a year goes by, they are forgotten and lost in the legal shuffle. It's a tragedy, but it's a common tragedy.

Davis: So just like that (snaps fingers), you’ve given up. Now you won't even look at what I got?

Michaels: Don't you see it doesn't matter? No one cares what's in the envelope, this world revolves around money and power, not truth.

Davis: I can't believe this. You have given up. You've sold out. You've quit! I came to you because I thought you believed in things, I thought you believed in justice, in rights and…

Michaels: (grabs Davis by the collar) I did believe in those things. Look what it got me. (Shakes him) Look! A crappy office in the back of an alley, outdated law books and debt so high I can barely see the sunrise. This is what justice got me! (shoves him to the ground)

Davis: (looks up) So it's that simple is it? You lose a battle or two and surrender the war. It's no wonder American justice is just a dream if you are one of the keepers of it. Look at what you do now. You make a living off of keeping criminals out of jail. (gets up) How many Livingston's have walked free because of you?

Michaels: I provide a necessary and constitutionally required service.

Davis: You don't believe that so how do you expect me? You can't even live with yourself can you? I see the lack of sleep in your eyes. This isn't what you want to do…

Michaels: (sits on his desk and hangs his head) I quit the DA's office in disgrace, I couldn't get the job done, the system was working against me as it always has. At least here I can do my job.

Davis: (walking closer to him) I am giving you in this envelope a chance at redemption. True it is only a chance, but won't you at least take that chance.

Michaels: Livingston is a state senator, I am just a lowly defense attorney. I can give you names of people who will eat whatever is in the file up and will have the power…

Davis: (yelling) I want you to do it dammit!

Michaels: (shouts) Why!? Why me? What is so special about me that you came out to the bad part of town just to see me and turn your crusade over to me? Why?

Davis: (calmly) Because it's not my crusade, it's yours. You're a wounded warrior, you lost a battle but you are ready to try again, I know this.

Michaels: (shouting) You don't know me one damn…

Davis: (shouting to top Michaels but getting softer) I know you wanted him bad and still do. No one knows this man better than you. No one has dreamed about him being in jail more than you and no one, no one, wants this as much as you.

Michaels: (staring at the floor) I've given up on wanting the impossible.

Davis: Then there are two dead kids that will never see justice.

Michaels: I've watched Livingston destroy so many lives. Not just the two in question but so many others. He has been careless with his laws, he's run people out of business, turned communities to dust and trashed whole towns with just a stroke of his pen. What's worse is that there's never anyone there to speak out against him.

Davis: Then be that voice…

Michaels: I can't! Don't you get it! I'm one of those lives. I had it made before I heard his name and now look, I'm trapped in this hell known as a law office when I could be living the American dream kissing the DA's ass.

Davis: There are a lot of "I"s in there.

Michaels: So?

Davis: Doesn't that seem selfish to you. But, don't you forget that it was you who quit the DA's office.

Michaels: (yelling) I couldn't get the job done!

Davis: (matching volume) So that's the way it is! One big failure and you're out? I don't understand you. You've turned your back on all that's sacred because of one lost battle. The war must go on!

Michaels: One criminal on the street is one too many. Livingston is among the worst, you will get no argument from me on that note. But I can't stand to see people like that go free…

Davis: So you become a defense attorney, that makes a lot of sense.

Michaels: I deal with shoplifters, not murderers.

Davis: So that's how you rationalize it? That's pathetic. Just face it, you've become what you hate.

Michaels: Perhaps, but I'm useless on the other side…

Davis: Useless because you failed?

Michaels: Yes… (softly) yes…

Davis: Then take my advice, (drops the folder on his desk) redeem yourself. (exits)

(Curtain Falls)

A Common Tragedy: Part Five

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(The scene takes place in Judge Samson’s chambers. Samson is sitting behind a nice oak desk with Michaels sitting in one chair on the opposite side holding the envelope from ACT 4. In a corner of the room, Gosa and two of her co-workers are chatting)

Samson: Ladies and Gentlemen if we can please begin these proceedings I would be very happy. I do have a court to run you know. (Gosa sits down leaving her companions standing)

Michaels: Well, first of all, I do believe that the McCarthy Bill clearly states that the defendant may have one of his attorneys present, not three. Can we please even the odds some here your honor?

Samson: He’s right Mrs. Gosa, your friends have to go. (Gosa raises a hand and the two gentlemen leave) As I am sure you know we are here because the McCarthy Bill states that such a congregation is needed to re-open a case against a sitting state official. Mr. Michaels, you are the reason we are here. Please tell us what new evidence you have.

Michaels: (Confidently but calmly) The evidence is in this envelope your honor. (Holds up envelope)

Samson: That’s nice of you to package it so nicely, but could you please tell us what’s in it. (Gosa grins at the comment)

Michaels: (Pauses a moment and stares at Samson) I was getting to that. In here is the original forensics report before higher-ups at the lab doctored it. (Drops envelope on the desk, Samson pulls out the contents and thumbs through them) You can tell the authenticity of the documents by the date and time stamp at the bottom. It was filed three and a half-hours before the one the police saw. It was done by some new guy at the lab who has been since transferred to God-knows-where. It clearly states that the Senator was the aggressor in the bedroom when the shooting took place. It proves that the death of that boy was nothing short of cold-blooded homicide.

Samson: Very interesting report. Gosa, your thoughts on the issue?

Gosa: (Opens her briefcase) I have a motion to suppress the evidence. (hands a paper to Samson) The evidence was obtained illegally by an ex-employee of the lab without a search warrant or any other legal grounds to remove the papers. In essence, they were stolen.

Samson: hmmm

Michaels: Your honor, while all of that was true, he had probable reason to suspect that a crime was taking place. After all, he was told all about it and henceforth had reason to swipe that file.

Gosa: That rule only applies to police officers and people acting in an official capacity for the law. Your friend was neither at the time.

Michaels: (Raising his voice) Your honor, if we allow this to stand, a cold-blooded killer will not only go free, but be allowed to stay in public office making the laws that he has broken.

Gosa: (Matching volume) Your honor, if we don’t allow this, then people will just start breaking into each other’s houses in search of evidence to convict each other of crimes.

Samson: (Raising his hands, talking softly and coolly) Calm down people. Calm down. Gosa is right on this one Mr. Michaels. That evidence is inadmissible as it is. Either you think of something else, conjure up new evidence or this meeting is over.

Michaels: (Shouting) Give me a minute to think! Just give me a goddamned minute. (Sits back in his chair)

Gosa: (Leans into Michaels a little) Think all you want but that evidence will not be allowed in a rational courtroom as long as I’m around.

Michaels: (Long Pause) (Softly) You’re wrong. (Louder) You’re wrong. (Almost yelling) You are wrong!

Samson: I assume you have something for us then Mr. Michaels.

Michaels: Yes I do. The gentleman in question, Mr. Davis, was an employee of the lab at the time he removed the papers.

Gosa: Mr. Michaels are you delusional? He quit his job just before storming out to steal the papers. There’s no secret of that, no shortage of witnesses either. How can you try to convince anyone that he was an employee?

Michaels: I don’t know for sure, but I feel certain that it works the same in that lab as it does any government agency or any corporation. You are required to give a two-week notice before leaving. This allows for paychecks to be dealt with and give the employers an opportunity to find a replacement. He may not have been working there but he was employed by that lab! (Shouting and pointing a finger at Gosa) You can’t deny that now can you?

Samson: hmmmm….

Gosa: That is completely irrelevant, he was not acting in the official capacity of his job, which is required for that evidence to be legal.

Michaels: He found out about a crime, dug up evidence to bring authorities closer to a conclusion and he gave it to the right people in order to bring it to light. I think that fits his job description to the T.

Gosa: (shouting) He gave the evidence to YOU! You’re just a bargain-basement defense attorney. I’d hardly call the likes of you the proper authorities.

Michaels: (sitting back calmly) This is a rare occurrence where the police would not have been the best people and since the DA’s office has officially given up on the case, taking this evidence to them would have done no good. I am the only person who worked on the first case who is not currently at the DA’s office. I was the logical choice.

Gosa: This is a complete crock of….

Samson: People please! My mind is made up. I don’t want a headache on top of everything else. The evidence is admissible. But don’t worry Mrs. Gosa, you still can try to prove why it’s not enough to re-open the file. (Motions with his hand for her to speak)

Gosa: (Draws a Breath) I…. Well, for beginners this report of yours could have been faked. Mr. Davis did have a motive to lash out against Livingston. He also had the means and the time to conjure up just such a report.

Michaels: First of all, he had no such motive, he only had a problem with the lab and lashing out at Livingston would have done nothing to cure that ill. Secondly, the time stamp at the bottom of the first page clearly indicates the time that this report was filed as well as the date. He couldn’t have done it.

Gosa: He had access to the time clock the same as everything else.

Michaels: Those clocks are very much like the clocks used in more major corporations, they are designed to be tamper-proof. To alter one of them in this manner would have taken a lot of tools and a lot of time, Davis had neither.

Gosa: You’re trying to convince me that a man who became a Doctor of Medical Sciences at the age of 23 was not smart enough to take apart that clock, change the date and time, punch the form in and be gone in a timely manner?

Michaels: His specialty was not in that area. To quote a famous line "Dammit Jim he’s a doctor not a mechanic"…

Samson: (Raising a hand to silence Gosa) Please, don’t bother. You’re case along those lines is falling through. You had better come up with a new defense and quick.

Gosa: (meekly) I…. I… I have nothing more that I can say your honor.

Samson: My mind is made up then. I am re-opening the case. I have no choice. In the light of the new evidence it’s the only logical conclusion I can reach. Mrs. Gosa, you are free to go, however, I would like to speak with Mr. Michaels for a moment. (Gosa hesitantly gets up and exits)

Michaels: What do you want from me?

Samson: A favor.

Michaels: Ok…

Samson: (Leans in) I want you to promise me that you will nail him. I’ll pull some strings and see to it that you are allowed to help the DA prosecute this case. It shouldn’t be much trouble with your background. However, in return you must promise me that you will get a conviction and make it stick.

Michaels: (Confused) Why?

Samson: (Serious tone) I have a wife, three kids, a mortgage, three cars, a boat, a dog and a goldfish. Senator Livingston, if he's allowed to, will certainly take all of that away from me. If he is allowed to continue in office he will apply pressure and I will lose my job and from that I will lose everything. If you send him to jail, he can’t do that. So please, send him to jail. I’m begging you.

Michaels: First of all, Livingston has taken everything I thought I had already. I’m not dead, I’m not crying, life goes on. It may not be as glorious as before, but it does go on. Secondly, I can’t guarantee a conviction, but I will do everything I can to protect those things that you hold dear. But I won’t do it for you; this one is for me. (Gets up suddenly and walks as if to leave, Gosa passes him on the way out but turns around as if to speak to Michaels)

Gosa: I hope you are happy with your victory. You must realize that it will get you nowhere. If it by some miracle makes it to trial I will have so many motions ready you could swim in them. (Michaels doesn’t turn around to face her)

Michaels: (Long sigh) (Whips around hard, points a finger in Gosa’s face and raises his voice) I only have two things to say to you. The first is that you are protecting scum. You’re defending a child abuser and a murderer. I don’t think that I have to tell you, it’s only a matter of time before he gets what he deserves. The second thing is this, you may be Johnny Cochrane in a skirt. You may be the best lawyer in this state, but to me you will always be a snobby little spoiled bitch and I’ll testify to that under oath. Good day…

(Exit Michaels followed after a while by Gosa)

A Common Tragedy: Part Six

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(The scene is a standard courtroom. At the back is a tall judge’s bench, on either side and toward the office there are two tables. The one at the left seating the prosecution and the one on the right seating the defense. Michaels and an assistant DA are sitting at the prosecutor’s table and Gosa and Livingston are seated at the defense side. It’s closing arguments in the trial and Michaels steps up to give his speech.)

Judge: Mr. Michaels you have five minutes to make your closing arguments.

Michaels: (playing to the audience as if it was a jury) Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Far more than one man is on trial today. Our entire legal system that we hold dear hangs in the balance. For far too long a grave injustice has been allowed to take place simply because of the influence of power and money. If this grave injustice is allowed to be carried any longer, then we are saying to the world that our sense of justice, our way of life and all the things we built this nation on mean nothing in the face of a government office. You have seen the evidence, it’s plainly clear that Livingston is guilty. You have also seen how he has covered it up, obscuring the truth (voice crescendo) and even outright lying (calming down) to keep himself from justice. I for one will not let this continue and neither should you. The only way to vote is to vote guilty and if that man (points to Livingston) walks free after this trial, may God help this nation and it’s values for they are both clearly dead. (Sitting down)

Judge: Ms. Gosa, you have the same.

Gosa: (Getting up and beginning her speech) Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. With all of the talk of justice and truth, with all of the talk of fairness and decency, has it occurred to anyone that my client is the victim? Imagine, you come home to find a girl you had nurtured as if she was your daughter dead of a suicide and an understandably distraught young man accusing you of child abuse not realizing nor caring about the truth of the matter because of his rage over the death of his friend. Then, this boy attacks you and in the struggle you kill him. Now you are faced with charges of child abuse AND murder. But the charges are dropped; the nightmare seems to be over. Then, after many years two of your political enemies don’t find, but conjure up new evidence, in an attempt to take your freedom away from you simply because they were not happy with your political decisions. If you can fathom that reality, you can grasp what my client is going through. He doesn’t deserve to be locked up; he deserves an apology. He is no more guilty of these crimes than you or I. To lock him up would be to let him become a victim once more, and this time, to rob him of his life.

Judge: Mr. Michaels, you have two minutes for a rebuttal.

Michaels: (standing up and facing the jury) It’s ironic that Ms. Gosa would call her client the victim. It’s also quite laughable. Take a good look at Senator Livingston, (motioning toward him) he feels pain, he feels joy, he feels love and he feels hate. He feels these things because he’s alive. Two people no longer feel these things because of that man, one by suicide because of his abuse and the other by the bullet from his gun. With all this talk about victims, I just wish that the victims could talk to you. (Sits down)

Judge: Jury you have your instructions, you are to find Senator Livingston either guilty or not guilty on the charges of child abuse and first degree murder. I wish you the best of luck and may your decision be truthful. Court is in recess until they arrive with the verdict (pounds gavel). (Everyone stands up, gets their papers together and starts talking over each other, enter Davis who walks up to Michaels)

Davis: Great job on the case (pat on the back) I was really impressed. It looks to be a lock to me I don’t see a way in hell the Senator can escape this one.

Michaels: (ordering his papers) Don’t be so sure, if he gets let off it won’t be the first bad verdict a jury has given.

Davis: I saw the way they were listening to you compared to Gosa, they were paying far more attention to you. They seemed to find truth in your words.

Michaels: Listen, not to be offensive, but you don’t know anything about being a lawyer or how to tell what a jury is thinking. Leave that to me.

Davis:: (backing off some) Fine, fine, fine…. So what do YOU think?

Michaels: The evidence is overwhelming. I just hope I made it understandable enough for the jury. Your testimony was also a big help. I’m just amazed you didn’t crack under cross-examination.

Davis: (Glancing at Gosa) She was tough man, but your advice on how to get everything in order helped me not only answer her but show her every detail. One might say I put her on the defensive.

Michaels: (Enter Whitehall) One might… (To Whitehall) Mr. Whitehall… how are you? This is a surprise.

Whitehall: Please call me James. You did a wonderful job Michaels. Listen, I know you are under contract for just this one trial but Hughes, my lead assistant, is leaving me. I was wondering if you’d consider taking a full-time job with the DA again. We could really use you and your talents. It’s not just a re-hiring, it’s a great promotion.

Michaels: (Hangs his head in thought for a second and pauses) I’ll think about it, ask me after the trial is done and I’ll see how I feel then ok?

Whitehall: Ok. (Turns to walk away then turns back around to face Michaels again) One more thing, Livingston is toast, you nailed him to the wall. It’s just great to see a good prosecutor in action and I’d like to see more of that (wink). (exits) (there is a long pause where nothing is said) (Gosa comes over to talk to Michaels)

Gosa: You realize that even IF you win this round, I can always appeal.

Michaels: (Doesn’t even look up at her) On what grounds?

Gosa: You can name it, the judge didn’t like us, the jury was biased, this case reeks of grounds for appeal. I’m telling you, you cannot convict this man…

Davis: (interjecting) That’s where you are wrong. Not only will this man (points to Michaels) convict Livingston here today, no judge is going to stick up for a jailed Senator. He’s going to find out how few real friends he has.

Gosa: (turning to Davis) Now that’s where YOU are wrong…

Michaels: (intervening, shouting) How much money are you making from this Gosa!? How many of tens of thousands of dollars have you earned on this case? I hope it was a lot, I hope you’ve made millions because not only have you sold your soul, but the lease ends today. (slams briefcase shut, hangs head) I should know, I sold mine for pennies on the dollar. (Sits down) (Exit Gosa and Davis) (After another pause the judge returns to his bench)

Judge: I have been informed that the jury has reached a verdict in the case of the State vs. Senator Livingston, this court is now in order. (Everyone takes their seat) Foreman, will you please read the verdict to the court. (Enter Foreman)

Foreman: (slowly opens envelope, slides out the card, glances at it, looks up, glances again) We hereby find the defendant, Sen. Livingston GUILTY on the charge of first degree murder and GUILTY on the charge of abuse of a minor. (murmurs of excitement are heard all around, however, Michaels, Livingston and Gosa sit unmoving)

Judge: Order! (pounding gavel) ORDER!!! (murmurs die down)

Foreman: Your honor, the jury also has a statement it would like to read before the court with your permission (judge nods). We the people of this jury are appalled not only at this heinous crime but the flagrant abuse of power used to cover it up. We deeply hope for a swift and harsh punishment to beset this gentleman before us now. We ask for that in the name of the two people who’s lives he stole far too early as much as ourselves. Please let justice work against Livingston as strongly as he has twisted it to work for him.

Judge: All rise! (everyone complies) It is about time for this court to close so I will have to sentence you tomorrow. This court is adjourned until 10 AM tomorrow (pounds gavel) (Senator Livingston sits down and sips his water while Gosa and Michaels are sorting papers, suddenly Livingston starts to choke and eventually falls out of his chair onto the floor. Everyone huddles around him and is wondering what is going on, Davis charges in out of nowhere)

Davis: Get aside. I’m a doctor. I’m a doctor. (Everyone moves back some, he slides in and checks his breathing and his pulse. He gets a pained look on his face) (Softly) He’s dead. (Louder) He’s dead (Almost yelling) I don’t believe it, he’s dead!

Michaels: (anxious) How did he die, can you tell?

Davis: (sniffs above Livingston’s lips) (near shout) Cyanide. (Softly) Cyanide, a classic. That bastard…

Michaels: (shouting) How did he get the pills! Who gave him those pills? Was it in the water, where? Who gave him the…

Davis: (stands up and grabs Michaels) It doesn’t matter right now. (Hangs head) It’s over…

(The scene begins to disperse as Gosa leaves and Livingston’s body is carried off stage by the Foreman and two others. The judge leaves and only Davis and Michaels are left) (Michaels is just hanging his head while Davis is pacing some)

Davis: We should be happy. We won.

Michaels: No, we didn’t. We didn’t win anything. Our lives are STILL ruined, two kids are still dead and Livingston was never punished for it. We won nothing.

Davis: You got the conviction. He was so afraid of being punished he killed himself.

Michaels: That’s not why he killed himself. He had a nice house, a dog, a world-famous gun collection and even a nice car. He didn’t fear being punished as much as he feared being separated from those things, the things he truly loved. Prison would have meant nothing if he could have taken those things with him.

Davis: Maybe… (enter Whitehall)

Whitehall: I know this may not be the best time to ask but, how do you feel about the job offer?

Michaels: (Takes a long pause) I don’t know, I really don’t know. If I go back I sell my soul, if I come to you I wind up in constant defeat. Which is the lesser of the two pains, I don’t know. All that I do know is that I’m going to go to sleep tonight and in the morning maybe things will be clearer.

Whitehall: Well, you know where you can reach me. I would still love to have…

Michaels: (Raises hand to silence Whitehall) I know. We’ll see. (Whitehall exits)

Davis: So this is it I guess, this is how the tale ends, two lonely heroes in defeat.

Michaels: If we’re heroes, then I can see why there are so few. I don’t want it anymore that’s for sure.

Davis: Maybe we’re not heroes. But you can’t deny the fact we were brave and daring in the face of overwhelming odds to fight the forces of evil.

Michaels: You can view it that way if you want. But I’m going to call a spade a spade. (picks up his briefcase) It’s a tragedy and we are the last of its victims still alive. That’s all it is, that’s all it will ever be… (exits)

Davis: (aside to the audience) My father told me that tragedies never die, they just grow bigger over time. I learned in school that some cuts never heal and I learned in high school that sometimes you simply can’t repair what is broken. Maybe that’s the case here my friends, maybe…

SoulRipper

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I remember the day well, it had snowed the night before, something it rarely does in SC. It snowed several inches and it actually stayed. I spent the morning walk to Philosophy walking slowly, taking in the breath-taking scene. All of the grass and roofs were covered in a thin layer of powder-white snow. While the snow never stuck well to the walkways and roadways, it still made for a beautiful sight across the largely open and grassy campus.

However, by lunchtime the sun had come out and most of the snow had melted away. There were only a few patches of snow in the places that were well shaded such as underneath bushes and overhangs.

It was past time for me to be heading to my English class, I was going through my usual debate of whether I should skip it or not, I never did. At last, about five minutes late, my resolve broke. I grabbed my books, the soda I was sipping, and began the walk to the other side of campus.

I decided to take a short cut that took me through some of the more unsightly landscaping of the campus, so I could cut a corner and shave precious seconds. However, as I began to trudge through the mud formed by the melting snow, I heard a very faint noise. I stopped, tuned my ears and heard it again. It sounded like, whining…

I looked toward my feet and there, lying next to a small patch of snow under a shrub, was a small puppy. He was very thin and frail. I could easily see all his ribs protruding through his skin. He was white with black spots all over him and looked like a deflated soccer ball laying there.

I paused and hovered over him a second to study him closely. He looked up at me with a pair of big, dark brown eyes that could have brought an executioner to tears. I glanced around to see if anyone else was nearby, both hoping to find help and wishing a moment alone. However, despite the fact many of the dorms are nearby, this trail is well hidden and little used.

I knelt down and stroked him across the head and back. He let out a sigh of relief. I decided to offer him a drink of my soda and I poured a little in front of his face. He began to lick eagerly at the stream of cola. I soon poured the entire remaining contents of the can, but the dog wasn't satisfied. I could still see the thirst in his eyes.

I stood up and realized I was caught in a moral dilemma. I was already late for English and I had done all I could for the animal there. No one seemed to be around to help. I couldn't have animals in my dorm and there was nothing more I could do. But then I looked back down at the creature. His eyes were begging me for help a way no human eyes could. His eyes pleaded with me to spare his life. He must have gone through hell to get there. I couldn't let him die there.

I scooped him up in my arms and began the trek back to my dorm. I had no real plan at this point, no idea how to help it, but I knew that the only place where I could do anything was in my local base of operations, the dorm room.

I had an immediate challenge staring at me, getting the animal inside. I could have easily slid him in my bookbag and carried him in that way, but I was afraid the frail creature would be crushed inside there. I figured since most of the security guards during the day are students, I could plead my way by him or her.

However, I wasn't so lucky. On duty was the Hall Director from the floor above, a well-known bitch (Note: It's a co-ed dorm, the floors above me are all female and the ones below are all male). She halted me in the lobby and forbid me to bring the dog up to my room. I explained the story to her with all the emotion and imagery I could in attempt to thaw her heart but it was to little avail. I promised to keep it on my balcony and to call Animal Control as soon as I got there but she still held her ground.

Not knowing what else to do, I begged. I would never have begged for my own sake, but for something as innocent as this animal, I knew that the pain of it's death would be far greater than the dishonor of a plea. The combined patheticness of both me and the dog broke her will and her heart broke through the icy layers at last. She let me take the dog up provided I tell no one and keep it on my balcony, it also had to be gone in 24 hours. I eagerly accepted the deal and dashed for the elevator.

When I go to my dorm, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw my roommate wasn't there. He hates animals. He hates them with a passion. Though I can't see how he would have hated this dog, I just knew he would loudly object to its presence, ruining the deal. I put him on the balcony. He was small enough to get through the bars, but he didn't have the energy needed to do that. I wasn't worried about his safety.

I got him some water, which he eagerly drank. I ended up refilling his small dish some three times before he got his fill. I still have no idea how such a small dog could inhale so much liquid.

While the dog was resting well on the balcony, I plotted it's fate. I had no desire to turn it over to Animal Control unless it was completely necessary.

I decided to call my mom at work, since my house was only thirty minutes away, to see if my family would take it in. I did the same pleading with her that I did with the security guard, but this time it was to no avail. I begged like a child to "keep him" and promised to take care of him and even pay for him. My mom would hear nothing of it. I then tried to make my story as tear-jerking as possible. However, ever the logician, she turned all of my emotional pleas into logical reasons not to keep it. She cited various diseases and other ailments the dog might have. I eventually had to give up.

I then set the phone down and began to think again. I knew no one in the market for a dog and my 24 hour limit was inadequate to find a good home for it. I looked out onto the balcony and saw the puppy looking back at me through the glass doors with those begging eyes that were tearing my soul up. I so desperately wanted to help him, but I had to call Animal Control. I was out of options.

I was on the verge of tears the entire time I was thumbing through my phone book. I took some confidence in the fact that the local animal shelter was among the best in the nation. But still, it felt like I was giving him over to death himself. Like I was failing him.

I made the call, a polite lady on the other end got some information from me and said someone would be by in about half an hour for the animal. About 45 minutes later, someone did show up and I had to meet him in the lobby, because the ice queen downstairs wouldn't let him in the building.

I took a moment to say goodbye to him, but his eyes of pity were never daunted. He seemed to have perfect trust in me, like I was the one to save him. I handed him over to the man, whom for some reason didn't bring a cage with him, laid the dog across his shoulder so that the entire way out the door I could see the dog's big brown eyes staring at me with complete trust and complete need. I could only hope I had done the right thing.

That weekend I visited my house. The entire time I was there we made no mention of the dog. However, I was anguished by the whole ordeal, I felt I had failed him, but I knew if I showed my parents my concern they would blow it off as a sign of my immaturity. I let it eat me up inside.

After I got back I called them and then the conversation turned to the dog. This time, through begging and insane promises I managed to break my mother's will and she agreed to take the dog in. I was overjoyed. I leapt around the room like a four-year-old on Christmas and once I calmed down immediately called Animal Control.

I told them who I was and what I wanted. I heard the lady on the other end clicking on her keyboard. Then she sighed and casually informed me that the animal had been "put to sleep," some two days beforehand. I maintained my composure, thanked her and hung up.

Then I cried. I cried like a child with a wound. I cared not if my roommate walked in and found me in this state of misery nor what the others on the hall might think if they overheard. I couldn't help it or control it. I cried.

Every night I go to sleep I see those big eyes looking back at me on their way out the door. I see them and I know I let them down. I'm the reason his fight for survival was for naught. I know I'm the reason he was destroyed.

I wasn't good enough.

SoulRipper II

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I remember it was getting to be about evening or so. It think it was around 6 o’cloc