My Long Lost Story

It's Always Sunny....    The Gang Goes Michael Vick

11:23 am On a Wednesday   In Philadelphia 

Dennis, Charlie, and Frank are in Paddy's Pub discussing various sports figures and their falls from grace.   Being in Philly, Michael Vick comes up as a topic and they debate whether he actually broke any laws. Dennis thinks it is Philly that is bad for sports figures and cites Pete Rose.   Charlie and Frank take offense at putting Pete Rose in the same class as Michael Vick as they don't believe dog fighting is illegal if the dog isn't your pet.   Dennis agrees but points out that, like Pete Rose, Michael Vick also bet on the dog fighting bringing Frank and Charlie into agreement.

Charlie: You can never predict who will fall these days.

Frank:  Or any day.

Dennis:  Who saw Michael Vick fall?

Charlie:  I sure didn't.

Dennis:  Nobody did, that's my point.  And Pete Rose too.  I tell you what I think; I think Philly is bad for sports figures.

Frank:  Woah there!   Are you actually putting Pete Rose in the same class as Michael Vick?

Charlie:  Yeah, cause one plays football and the other plays another entirely different sport.

Frank:  No Charlie, he is talking about dog fighting.

Charlie:  Pete Rose was into dog fighting too?

Frank:  No Charlie, Pete Rose gambled and Michael Vick fought dogs.

Charlie:  Since when is dog fighting a crime?

Dennis:  Since always.

Frank:  Yeah, but only if the dog is a pet.  

Dennis:  Well naturally, a trained dog fighter can fight.   Who would even want to see a Poodle or little Taco dog fight, but I would like to point out that Michael Vick also bet on the fights.

Frank and Charlie:  Ah!

Charlie:  You can't bet if you own the dog?

Dennis:  No, you can't gamble if you play professional sports.

During the debate, Dee enters with a dog she found outside the bar and brings it in.   It is a cute and non-descriptive mutt; medium build, harmless looking.    She intrudes into the debate and says that clearly, both men were wrong because they bet, but Michael Vick was also wrong in that he was cruel to dogs.   

Frank asks how he was cruel to dogs, pointing out that, to fight, they have to be trained, fed well, and in great shape, so they must be better cared for than random wandering dogs like the one she found. While Dee and Frank debate the merits of dog fighting, Dennis and Charlie begin to show affection to the dog as Mac enters to grab a bottle,thick with his cologne, before his date with....nobody (Carmen). Instantly the dog charges at Mac who must flip over the bar and run to the back office to avoid being eaten.   The dog, previously cute and mellow, begins growling and clawing at the door.

Dennis, looking at the action comments “maybe Philly brings out the worst in dogs too.”

Frank smiles with glee as he suddenly has a wonderful idea...

"The Gang Goes Michael Vick"

The dog and Mac switch places (the dog gets locked in the office for the moment) as Dee tries to explain to Frank and Charlie how they can't use the dog for fighting because it is illegal.   Charlie insists it  isn't because, if it were, then how could Michael Vick be playing football?   Mac says he went to jail to which Frank responds that he was charged with gambling,  they don't allow felons in the NFL.  

Eventually, it falls to Dee to trump them all by saying she found the dog and she will decide what to do with it and she wants to keep it.

Dee:  Well, I am taking this dog home with me and that makes him a pet which trumps any dog fighting plans you may or may not have had, so there!

Mac: Of course you are keeping the dog.

Dee:  What does that mean?

Mac:  What?

Dee: You said “Of course” I am keeping the dog.

Mac: Right.  Of course, you are keeping it.   You are selfish.

Dee:  I am not

Mac:  You are too!

Dee:  I am giving this dog a better life.  It was living on the streets!

Mac:  You are giving yourself a free pet.

Dee takes it to her house, where it proceeds to destroy everything in sight including some shoes she just bought, can't afford, and has not yet worn.   She manages to calm it down with 6 beers and takes a photo of the dog and calls Mac to help her find the dog's owner so she can prove to him she is not selfish, not mentioning the chaos the dog has created in her home.

Frank, Charlie, and Dennis are in Paddy's basement, preparing what they imagine a “dog fighting ring” would look like and planning how to get the dog.   The plans becomes: Dennis calls Dee's cellphone and gives her a lame excuse to get her to come to Paddy's.   To his pleasant surprise, she can't because she is making fliers to find the dog's owner with Mac, “like a good person does.”   Dennis gives Frank and Charlie  the all clear to break into her apartment only to find the passed out dog.

Dee with Mac's help posts pictures of the dog all over Philly with the bar's number and address on it as Frank, Dennis, and Charlie, in Dee's apartment, try to get the dog to re-enact what it displayed before.   Instead, they get a drunk and unmotivated dog.    

Dee again brings up the debate and Mac agrees the debate was stupid, but he misunderstands which side Dee was on and actually agrees dog fighting is not illegal if you raise the dog specifically for dog fighting.   He does agree using the dog Dee found is wrong, but more because he doesn't know how much training it has had.

Dee:  Can you believe those boners?   How dumb can you be?

Mac:  Yeah, there is no way this dog could fight.

Dee:  What?

Mac: This dog could never fight.

Dee:  No dog should fight.

Mac:  Not without proper training, no, but a trained dog can have a great life.

Dee:  Oh my...what...really?

Mac:  There is a lot of money in dog fighting and, a winning dog is worth more than gold Dee.

Dee: And the losing dog?

Mac:  I am sure they have a thorough and complete retirement package for dogs.

Dee: They die, Mac!  The losing dog dies.   That is how the fight ends.

Mac:  There is no way a referee would let a fight go that far.  Sure, it may happen once in a while...

Dee: Once in a while?

Mac:  Yes, once in a while.   It is a violent sport, but people have died boxing before and I don't hear you crying out against that or saying it is illegal to box.

Dee:  It is called “Assault” outside a ring.

Mac:  And inside a ring, it is called “boxing,” just like inside a ring, this is called “dog fighting.” 

Dee:  So why did Michael Vick go to jail then?

Mac:  He bet on the dog.   Just like all professional sports, gambling within an organization is frowned on.  Look at Pete Rose.

After much trial and error, Frank realizes it is probably Mac's smell that pissed the dog off, and so they go to Dennis and Mac's apartment to let the dog loose in Mac's room to find which of Mac's many odors the dog hated the most.

After hanging up exactly 4 fliers, Dee and Mac decide it is too hot at that time to do a good job and that they should go back to the bar and see if anyone had called about the 4 they hung up, have a beer, and start when it is darker, thus cooler outside.

Back to Frank, Dennis, and Charlie: the dog has thus far torn apart and shat all over Mac's bed, ripped a few shirts leading Frank to think it is Mac's pits that does it; also utterly destroyed four pairs of boots convincing Charlie it is Mac's feet as the dog did two pairs, did a shirt, then returned to do two more "as if to get the taste out of his nose."   The dog finally knocks over the nightstand that holds Mac's ultra cheap cologne all over the pillow and the dog soon forgets everything else in the room and leaves barely a shred of the pillow as the guys celebrate finding the magic dog fighting ingredient and decide to head back to Paddy's for a drink and to finish converting the basement into a dog fighting ring.    Frank says he has to make some calls (to his Vietnamese buddies.)

It suddenly occurs to Frank that they don't know for certain the scent will work on a living thing.  The dog was already kind of going crazy when it attacked the pillow.  They need a human subject to test it on.

As Dee and Mac arrive at Paddy's, so does a beautiful girl who claims the dog belongs to her.  In fact, she says the dog was never lost at all, but rather tied to a post while she went into a store for cigarettes.   Dee asks if there is a reward for finding the dog which the owner points out was not lost until Dee took him.   Dee points out the dog ruined her shoes and the owner responds the dog would not have if Dee had left it alone.  Dee then asks how much would she be willing to give her.   When the response is “nothing,” Dee turn reward into ransom and asks again.

Mac, on the other hand, finds the girl incredibly attractive and steps in to be the hero and tells the girl he can help find the dog.   She becomes very appreciative to Mac as he says Dee was only joking about the ransom thing, the dog is at Dee's apartment and they can go get it then go get some dinner.

Frank and Charlie have gone to Cricket's tunnel home to tell him they found out the secret to getting Dee: this cologne.   The smell drives her nuts and she just has to bone whatever is wearing it.   They are telling him about this as their way to apologize for all that they did to him.   They feel terrible and would like nothing more than for him to finally be with Dee once and for all.  Meanwhile, Dennis is holding the dog outside the tunnel just out of sight.

Dee, Mac, and the girl arrive at Dee's apartment to find it trashed even more than when she left and without a dog.   Mac asks where it is and Dee explains that she has no idea: she left it passed out drunk.   This does not sit well with the owner.  Dee tries to justify it as the only way to save the rest of her things from destruction; Mac says he would never give a dog alcohol and would have placed it in a bathroom as he dog-proofed the house.

As they argue about where the dog is and the merits of getting a dog drunk, Mac finds a note from Charlie saying they took the dog to train it to fight.   They decide they need to head to Paddy's because it is the ONLY place Charlie, Dennis, and Frank could go with a slightly drunk dog.

As they leave Dee's building, they see Cricket running frantically down the street.  Before they can wonder what that was about, the girl points out that it's her dog who is now seen rounding the corner chasing Cricket.   Dee and Mac turn to ask one another what is going on as Charlie, Dennis, and Frank, gun in hand, round the corner and stop at Dee and Mac.   Frank quickly hides the gun when he notices the girl.

The girl confused and pissed off by the news of dog fighting, drunk dogs, ransom, a short man with a gun chasing her dog, and now a homeless priest being chased by her dog, demands to know what is going on.

Mac, still trying to win the girl over, take charge and says "Well, you see..."

He is cut off by Charlie saying "the dog is coming back."

Mac turns, sees the dog is charging full force at him, says "Oh Shit" and runs off.

END

Editing Beach Writings: Part One

The moon filled the gap between the buildings entirely and the clouds parted to let it. Full to the point of bursting, it sent a ring of light out thousands of miles around itself just so it could contain itselfl. Even the stars moved to the other side of the sky in respect of the Lunar Majesty.

The beach was mine and mine alone for as far as I could see, save for the washed up corpse of an unlucky fish. Roaring waves welcomed me and this was the solitude I came here for: just me, a few scattered stars, and the Lunar Majesty watching over me.

There is a beckoning of the open ocean, the waves begging me to join them and the horizon teasing me with curiosity. I am not a nautical person by nature and I have never so much as sailed a boat, but something about the beach just looms and lures. Even the sea of random half naked sweating people on the shore during the daytime cannot diminish this perfection of night.

Perhaps it is because I was raised in the city of Miami and perhaps it is because I still live there under the nocturnal pink luminescence of city lights, but I often forget about all that is happening above and below me when there. The ground is solid and the sky is illuminated, so there is little mystery, even at night. The beach, on the other hand, especially the Gulf Beaches, have this “out on your own” feeling at night. They are so isolated from major cities, that there is actual darkness at night and stars that seem to boycott the city.

Right now, it is day and the people are out. The beach has a different vibe during the day as the children run and play on the dunes. It is an exciting and promising land full of high energy and song. Very unlike the night at the same beach. I prefer the solitude of the evening, but I do enjoy the watching of these people during the day. Helps me realize how unlike them I actually am.

It is odd to think of yourself as part of a species it is quite obvious you are not part of. I don't understand what motivates them, what inspires them, or why they do most of the things they do. The beach at night does not lend itself to these wonderments.

At night, the beach only draws your curiosity to the vast sky and the roaring seas: both hiding forms of life you may relate to better from your view. The dead fish on the shore only serves to fuel my curiosity of what lies beneath, but my allergies have never allowed me to explore below and will probably keep me from ever exploring above. The pressure would be too great, so I am left to sit, wonder, dream, and hopefully write...

“HE had the self assured confidence that drove the less secure into fits of envy fueled hate. He never bothered to consider these feelings may exist within the masses as he always deeply longed to be one of them and was not, as they felt, above them. Maybe it was because he didn't find men attractive, but he always saw himself as a disfigured freak. He looked in the mirror and looked at others of his supposed species and always noticed the difference between how they looked and he. Sure, they had common features: nose, two eyes, a mouth; but they seemed to be misaligned on his face compared to the others that were “like him.” He found beauty to be commonplace, but believed he missed out.

Perhaps he was of another species all together. Perhaps he was the alien among the normals. Perhaps beauty was rare among them and his self assured confidence as they saw it was due to the fact that, while they were what he felt were beautiful, so too was he to them. The gap he felt that prohibited him from reaching out to the masses was also felt by the masses in regards to him. To them, it was he who was beautiful beyond approach. He thought himself dumb because nobody understood him yet they felt themselves dumb for the same reason. They would see him and think “nobody that cool, that perfect could ever be stupid.” He would look at the blank faces surrounding him and think “I am not that cool or smart.”

This separation from what he thought versus what the others saw is what lead to his solitude because he felt the problem was with him. Overtime, he too hated them as much as he felt they hated him. He looked out on the masses and felt nothing. Sometimes there would be a feeling of wanting to join the herd, but that was fleeting. He was alone on a planet of twos and that was the way it was to be.

“Solitude ain't that bad once you get used to it,” he would often say. And, if you are crazy, like he was, then you always have plenty of company in your head to keep you company. Warring personalities trapped within a singular head can cause mass headaches however. This is best remedied through a strict and constant regime of medication, the more underground the better. Music seems to be the best medication, but does have lingering effect that can include, but not be limited to, the Earworm.

The Earworm is the most contagious of all ailments that afflict man. It is simple to spread, unlimited in scope, and made up of pure evil. It can infect you from something as harmless as a passing child singing a kid's tune that suddenly burrows deep within your brain and will not let go. Suddenly, you are an adult being caught singing Barney tunes and, when you have no children, this becomes hard to explain away. Soon, your friends all think you are that freak who digs Barney CD's and they begin keeping their children FAR away from you because any adult who digs Barney tunes is an adult not safe to be with kids. Why?

Any adult who digs Barney tune is either a retard who is not able to watch himself let alone kids, or is a pervert far too interested in watching kids. Either way, if you see an adult singing “I love you, you love me,” and you see no kids around...RUN!”

Pizza Wars: Custies

" I think it's kicking in."

"You think?"

"Well, I'm not really sure," Peter said. "Should my arm be doing this?"

"Are you making your arm do that," asked Patty.

"I think so."

"Then it probably should be. Let me know when it starts acting independently of you."

"Is that an option?"

"With the amount you took? No, more of a certainty, but that's ok."

"Why is that OK exactly?"

"It ain't my arm."

"Oh fuck, oh fuck,oh fuck,oh fuck oh.....did you hear that?"

"What?"

"That!"

"What?!"

"That damnit! IF I could describe it beyond "that," believe me, I woulda by now."

"I have heard many things....most of them in my head, so I may have heard it, but without knowing what 'it'"is, I can hardly give a solid answer. What did it sound like?"

"Well, it sounded quite a lot like...a sound.

"Can you get more specific? Was it a loud sound, a scary sound, a voice?"

"IT was musical in nature I would have to say. There it is again!"

"I didn't hear anything dude. Can you tell me now what you heard?"

"It was musical...rhythmic. Kind of like 'knock, knock, knock.'"

"Knock, knock, knock? Like someone at the door?"

"We ordered pizza, didn't we?

Pizza Wars: Happy Face Pizza

I like posting rough drafts for some reason

“Do you even have the slightest beginning of an idea where you are going?”

“Why do you insist on asking questions you know you don’t want to know the answer to?”

The rear window shattered as the Honda did its best to make the sharp turn ahead. Michael and Jonas were not exactly happy at this moment and were wondering why they took the job in the first place. A second shot rang out from the following car hitting the rear-view mirror and knocking it onto Jonas’s lap.

“OK, that was cool.” he said, joint dangling from his lips as he loaded the shotgun he brought with them. “Slow down a little bit.”

“You are not firing that in my car! Get the fucking nine or something.”

“What is the difference?”

“The fucking shot is going to ruin my fucking backseat so use the fucking pistol or get the fuck out.”

“Fine” Jonas said while simultaneously unleashing both barrels of the shotgun. While the backseat did get horribly ruined, so did the driver of the following car. Now Jonas was happy, but Michael was far from that state as the Honda came to a screeching stop. The driverless following car rushed past them out of control and slammed into a nearby trash dumpster.

“What the fuck?” It was the most Michael’s rage would allow him to get out at the moment.

“It worked.”

“So would the pistol. You ruined my car….again!”

“We really need to find this damn address already. The pizza’s getting cold.”

“Fine....ASSHOLE, but you are buying me a new backseat. What’s the fucking address again?”

The Honda drove past 35th street and into the safety of their delivery area. The street was pitch dark save for the car’s headlights and the huge yellow smiley face logo on the “Happy Face Pizza” roof sign.

The Pizza wars had gotten silly years ago; now they were deadly. Each delivery area had become a turf and each store a fiefdom. The managers were the generals who waged this war for the honor of each store’s owner. Below the manager were the cooks and the dishwashers. The cooks were the ones who had the most contact with the drivers and each driver had someone who rode “shotgun.” One had to serve as shotgun for two years before they could be a driver and then had to driver five years before they could move up to dishwasher. Very few ever made it that far.

There was only one position that was deadlier than the “shotgun rider” and that was the position of “couponer.” These were the poor souls who had to wander in neighborhoods in the light of day hanging fliers on people’s doors. This was quite possibly the most dangerous job in the world to be honest. “Shotgun Riders” from opposing companies would usually earn extra money taking bounties on other store’s coupons since they were technically employed by the driver and were not paid by the company.

Technically, the “couponer” is more of a group than a single person and the word "group" should be replaced with "street gang." The company would hire one couponer, but it was expected for that person to then hire a crew and pay them out of his earnings. There is always safety in numbers and the average couponer crew would consist of six to ten people: most days only six would return.

The average Pizza store really only employed ten people. Those ten would then hire people who worked for them and not the company. The owners both loved and hated this aspect of the business. They did not have to pay as many people which they liked, but it also meant that the loyalty of those people are to their employers and not the store. They also did not like the fact that it was common practice for drivers from opposing store to “hang out” together when not on the clock. They were usually friends and many had worked together at other stores before the war began and a few were even still roommates to this day.

The drivers saw nothing weird about being best friends for twelve hours a day and trying to kill each other for the other twelve. The only rule was that no business was ever handled when one of the people involved was off the clock. They were not fighting because they hated one another; they were fighting because it was their jobs and they would never make it personal. They actually enjoyed the concept of a “twelve hour a day war.” It was not uncommon for a funeral to be attended by the person who killed the deceased.

A Conversation

I don't understand it at all he said. I can't see beyond the tip of my nose in this instance.


What are you talking about she wondered.

I am talking about the vast empty before me

WHat empty

My life

An empty is only empty so long as you lack anything to fill it with

I lack

DO you dream

Yes

About what

Color

Any particular color?

No, just of the concept pf color; devoid of application.

The concept of color?

Yes

Can you explain?

Basically, it is the difference between a red toy wagon and just a toy wagon to a blind person- the difference knowing the color of the object would make is the essence of color. The emotional baggage we assign to it.

If you dream, she said, you never lack and the void is only vacant so long as you wish it to be. And, to be frank, a wish of an empty void is still a wish that fills it.


So you are saying the void is never empty?

No, just that it appears empty because we assign insignificance to what fills it at the time. To some boredom is to be avoided as a sign of sloth, while to others it is embraced as a sign of completion. Your life is nothing more than the sum of your perceptions.

What about the perceptions of others?

They should only matter to those others.

But that is selfish.

Why? Are they in your head at night, battling with your ego and conscious to help you close your eyes and sleep just one more time? Are you in their head to have access to their perceptions or are you guess as to what they are? What if yo guessed wrong? You spend your life trying to live up to the ideals of another, but you misunderstand their ideals and, as a result, waste your life and fail to them. Selfish is merely to place one self first and you should. You are the only person who is going to be there for you 24 hours a day, 365 days a year for your entire life.

I was taught it was more noble to place others first.

You were taught that by OTHERS who meant themselves. "Self-sacrifice" is the battle cry of the greedy from way behind the lines of combat.

Yeah..well, thanks for the bag. I gotta go and you should consider smoking less.

You too man, she said.

Stanley Schwartzenburg, attorney to the Horror movie slashers

As the Jury adjured for the day to deliberate the fate of one Eugene Kommerif, Stanley Schwartzenburg, attorney to the Horror movie slashers, accompanied his client to the holding cell. Normally the accused would be transported back to the prison for the weekend, but the bailiffs didn't foresee the Jury taking more than two, maybe three minutes to decide his guilt. The hardest part of the night for that Jury would be in deciding if the evening's dinner was worth procrastinating announcing the verdict, but the bailiffs already knew that answer: it wasn't. It was Friday and they had a blog to rush home and read.

Once Eugene was secured in his cell, the bailiffs left him alone with Stanley one final time before Stanley had to rush out and sell the rights. There were a few holes in the story however that he knew any prospective buyers would need answers to, so he took this moment to do one final interview with his client.

Now really," Stanley began, "why did you wear that George Bush mask anyway?”

“I was making a statement.”

“What was that statement?”

“It was open to interpretation.”

"And the eggbeater, spatula, and misshapen large novelty paper clip..."

"were part of that statement..."

"That was open to interpretation?"

"Exactly." Eugene smiled and leaned back in his chair.

"Are you crazy?"

"To say 'yes' is a clear sign the answer is no, but to say 'no' does not mean the answer is yes. If I am crazy, wouldn't I think of myself as sane and you as crazy? If that were the case, then an answer of 'yes' would be a clear sign of rational thought..."

"What does my confusion confirm?" Stanley asked.

Eugene thought for a moment, smiled, and said "that you were paying attention."

This is what I have so far:

CHARACTERS

Kevin Brittney"KB" Jones and Oswald "Oz" "Shwagz" Schwartz are pizza delivery drivers/ drug dealers. Actually, just KB is the pizza driver while Oz hangs around the pizza shop because the owner lets him sell pot through it in exchanged for a slice of the pie. KB and OZ are room mates and life long friends boarding on brothers.

Bob is a collection agent who uses very extreme methods to collect. His style earned him the attention of the Devil who now uses Bob to collect on souls owed. KB currently owes the Devil one soul.

Officer Nicolas Oliver P'Hune is a narcotics cop who, while friends with KB and OZ in High School and college, as decided they are his ticket to a detective shield and Perseus them constantly. His name has since been shorted to "Officer No Fun."

The Wingnut is a character we have already met, but, to catch you up, he was a chemistry student in college and an old friend of KB and Oz. One day, while working on a combination of Ecstasy and LSD he was going to call "Elestsy," he found the perfect rising high, but got too high to ever figure out how to come down and, as a result, is still peaking on his trip 6 years later.


This is basically going to be a very general outline of the story I plan on writing one day, broken down into an almost "outline" format, but with some dialog and story element. It is as informal as you can get and I will be adding to it as ideas pop up. I am trying to work in some nods to things that influence me so, if something sounds familiar, it very well may be. Let me know if I venture into plagiarism please. I want to pay homage, not steal.

1. THE BEGINNING

Story begins in KB and OZ's apartment. Oz is sitting on the couch, breaking up his latest shipment into eights, or as close as he cared to guess, while KB paces back and forth behind him, "fondling his gun the way a boy who just discovered masturbation fondles his dick." It is clear KB is worried to death about something, and it is clear that his worrying is slowly getting on Oz's nerves. A sudden knock on the door to the tune of "Shave and a Haircut" sends both KB and Oz diving behind the couch is total fear.

"I told you he was fucking coming," KB whispers as he tries to remember in his panic which end of the gun he holds and which he points at what he needs dead.

"Dude," Oz, still unconvinced anyone is coming says, "If this dude is as 'movie villain bad ass' as you say he is, do you think he would knock?"

"What?" KB responded as reality slapped him harshly across the face, but paranoia did not let go. "Then it was the cops man. IT ain't for me, it's for you! Shit man, and I'm holding a gun. Here, take it, they already hate you!"

"It isn't the cops either man," OZ said calmly, the way a mother talks to her child afraid of the "closet monster." "If it were the cops, they would probably just do three hard pounds almost knocking the door off the hinges. I highly doubt they would knock in a jovial fashion."

"A what?"

"Would you not call knocking in the universal friend code of 'Shave and a Haircut' a jovial fashion?"

"Well," KB stalled to try and find some way for him to save what little dignity he had left, but there wasn't any.

"Good, then I'm gonna get the door because it is probably a custie following his nose to the sweet sticky aroma of our coffee table."

Oz lets in the customer and tries to sell some pot, but the customer is distracted and slightly uncomfortable by KB's constant paranoid glances to the door and the gun, becomes convinced he is being set up, and runs out the door. As Oz yells at KB about allowing his paranoia to cost him money, the door almost fall off the hinges from three hard pounds and the fighting stops. One more knock and the house suddenly fills with 5 Narcotics officers.

"I told you the cops would just do three hard pounds," Oz said as the cops sat him and KB down on the couch before the coffee table filled with the sweet sticky digs. Oz could tell by the look on their faces that only half the evidence was going to make it to the station, but it was more than enough to seriously fuck him and KB while they were at it.

As the cops are getting ready to complete the arrest, the door flies open and a silhouette fills the frame as a quick flash sends one of the cops flying back wards, his stomach's contents on the floor for all to see. Two more flashes putting unwanted holes in police uniforms were quick to follow before anyone could even realize how fucked they all were. KB grabs his gun from the table and OZ grabs his bud from the table and both flip over behind the couch as another flash puts a large gaping hole where the two of them once sat.

"I told you he was 'movie villain bad ass'," KB said, momentarily relived his "pants pissing cowardice" was suddenly justified by Bob's carnage. "We should probably get moving. Come on you lazy bastard!"

"I'm coming dammit" Oz said as they both make a break for the back door as Bob continues he murderous rampage on the remaining cops. Being proud of his position in society as a sociopath, Bob couldn't live with himself if anyone, especially a cop, survived his rampage.

K.B. Jones, Oz, and the Wingnut

Oz sat in the bare room; happy he was still buzzed and hoping that he still had some of this bud stashed somewhere for after he got out...if he got out. He had been in this room for three hours without so much as a peep from anyone. He knew what they were attempting thanks to his numerous hours watching the Discovery Channel: they were making him sweat before they started the interrogation. He just had to remember to say nothing other than “I would like to speak to an attorney,” even though the show he watched the other night said asking for a lawyer is the first sign of guilt. He knew he was in trouble and, even though he was innocent...mostly, he could not handle all the pressure on his own. Not with KB dead, a large section of the city in flames, and numerous cops and pizza delivery drivers not coming home that night. Perhaps he was a little more to blame than he first thought...

Oz, sometimes known as "Schwagz" was really named Oswald Schwartz and was a twenty-seven year old pizza delivery driver for Happy Face Pizza.

The Dream Savior and the Manolos

Every plot I think of is difficult to explain let alone write. I have been trying for the last few days to see if I could explain either one of my main stories in a few paragraphs and I cannot. I can't even find a place to start since every aspect of the story needs another to help explain it. I am not even sure a writing class could help me with this. I mean maybe some stories are just not supposed to be told.

The story I have been dying to tell for the last fifteen years or so takes place in that split-second moment between just sleeping and dreaming. I play with the idea that, if dreams are black and white for most people then there can be an entire dimension to our dreams occurring in color that we never see. In the moment we go from our color reality to our gray dream world, there is a chance for possession by a demon. Our nightmares are sometimes possessions by these demons.

The story centers on a character I call “The Dream Savior” for lack of a better name and it is here where the story flies off the handles and gets impossible to explain. If I simplify the story I lose the point of it. It is this character and his main nemesis that creates the entire crux of the problem: it is impossibly convoluted. I can only try here.

The story is a prolonged origin story of the Dream Savior (I am just going to say “Dreamer” from now on). In essence, this is not the first Dreamer and not the last. They are destined to fail and, in their failure the next one is created so, by telling the demise of this Dreamer I am also telling its origin.

OK, Now it gets weird. I was not sober when I thought up this story all those years ago for the record, but I have never forgotten it. It is haunting me in certain ways, but is more taunting me with the fact that I cannot tell it to anyone in anyway that makes any sense to anyone other than me..

The Dreamer's main function is to battle the demons possessing our dreams and collect their evil which he feeds the Manolos. The Manolos is a creature made up of humanity's acts. It is good when mankind is overall good and evil when mankind is evil. It is a mirror of our times. It is the Dreamer's task to maintain the balance in the Manolos by keeping as much evil out of the world as possible.

To the Dream Demons the Manolos is a god. Like the Dreamer, they know the central rule of mankind: good left alone will die while evil ignored will grow. If the Manolos were to escape and be free of the Dreamer, the evil in it would overcome the good and the Dream Demons would have their leader, be rid of the Dreamer, and have free reign over humanity's souls.

The “mythology” of the Dreamer goes as such: the Manolos will escape. The Dreamer's task at that point is to find and return the Manolos to the Dream Realm. The person whose mind the Manolos possesses while it is free is the person chosen to become the next Dreamer and the current Dreamer is punished for allowing the Manolos to escape. Destinies are not always fair..

The punishment for losing the Manolos is that the Dreamer is cursed to forever spend eternity as a mocking bird perched upon the leafless oak tree. The mocking bird is there to guide and teach the new Dreamer, but they are usually bitter and jealous of losing their power and provide little help. They only provide help to keep the Dreamer around as long as possible. Their fates are tied since only three mockingbirds may exist at any time. When a Dreamer fails and transforms the oldest mockingbird dies.

Now the story would take place in two realities eventually, but would start off in only one: the Dream Realm. This setting is composed of a vast desert encircled by a continuous mountain range. The only other object in this desert is a lone leafless oak tree, which is where the mocking birds live. Each grain of sand making up the desert is a dream. They are every dream that ever was or that will ever be. Time does not exist in this reality.

The other reality for the story would be the human world. The Manolos escapes and possesses the mind of a nine year old girl. He slowly drives her insane as his evil grows and forbids her to dream in fear of the Dreamer finding him. Since she never dreams, she drifts far from reality and slowly becomes trapped in a “waking dream” where the Manolos gains full control of her; wake or asleep. This would be the subplot I suppose. There is more to it, but mystery is needed.

I guess that is the story in a nutshell. It can go anywhere I choose in any time I choose since the majority of it takes place in people's dreams. The story would follow the Dreamer in his battles with people's nightmares in his search for the Manolos. I have the main plot points down pat, I just don't have any filler at all.

Any ideas? Please be honest: the blunter the better. “It sucks” would not be out of line. Even posting this now I fear that it is just the silly writings of a 22 year old that has just stuck with me for so long that it sounds good. Ask any questions you may have please because it will help me see where the plot is weak.

Birth of the Wingnut

It felt much looser than it did before. He could feel it rattling about and clanking against the sides. He wondered if he should worry at all about it falling out, but decided his ears were too small to allow his brain freedom, but it definitely did not fit as snugly in his head as it did a few minutes ago. Looking at his watch it dawned on him that dawn was dawning on them all and those few minutes were actually a few hours ago. This was going to be the last time they let Wingnut make the brownies for a 420 party.

Wingnut was a marijuana connoisseur in every way a person could be. He could tell you the type of pot a person had based on a stem if he had to. He kept a sample of every bag he bought and kept them in glass jars in the medicine cabinet. He would take new people on a tour of his bathroom with the pride usually reserved for a first-time parent. “This one is AK-47,” he would say holding up a tiny glass jar. “This is Blueberry; Bubblegum; Juice; Kryppie; the Dank; Maui-Wowi.” The list was never ending. It was honestly amazing he could remember the names of each one considering he smoked so much he once forgot what city he lived in.

The name “Wingnut” was earned while living in the dorms. He was that guy who would take any drug at any time and usually ask what he took hours after ingesting it. He could not only tell how dirty a hit of acid was by looking at the thickness of the paper, but he could tell if it was visual acid or “mind-fuck” blotter. Yes the power of suggestion probably weighed heavily in the outcomes of his acid predictions, but this is simply the story of how he got his name, not if he really was some drug-messiah. The dorm-rats believed so he probably was a minor messiah of sorts. Either way, if you wanted to know if your stuff was any good you took it to the “wingnut down the hall.”

His room in the dorms was THE place to be. A wet towel blocked the airflow through the door so his room would very quickly become a foggy New England night. A foghorn would sometimes blow off in the distance as they smoked their parent’s money away. The lighthouse allowed them to see where the bathroom was and the television’s picutre could sort of be made out through the mist, but mostly no one was paying attention to much of anything except their hair growing and the brain cell apocalypse happening in their heads.

Wingnut graduated with a degree in chemistry, which really does not say much for the university he attended or rather paid for. It is not fair to say he “attended” anywhere since attendance requires being there. He took his classes by proxy. Any class with over a hundred students made it near impossible for any professor to know their student’s faces. All he needed was for someone to sign his name to the roll sheet and let him know when a test was. This way he only had to show up for the labs which usually consisted of a lower student to teacher ratio.

The reason Wingnut got his degree in chemistry was his desire to create the perfect drug. He loved acid probably more than his mother, but hated the come-downs. He would describe them as ripping out one’s intestines, stepping into them like a bag and entering a potato sack race then, after all that effort, losing the race. It was his mission on this Earth to give tripping people everywhere more bang and less pain. What other major could help him produce such ends? “Everything in the classroom will either blow you up of fuck you up” he loved to say. It was his catch phrase.

He never found the perfect acid, but he had mastered the recipe for brownies and his room was still the place to be. It was no longer in the dorms, but in a house just across the street from campus and he was no longer a student, but now a professor, yet the parties remained the same. His brownies unscrewed the fasteners of your mind and allowed it free-range over the farm.

He called them “The Stoner Mind-Munchie-Trap” and it was an apropos name. After eating just one a person would become victim to the most uncontrollable munchies ever known to man. The only thing that would satisfy these munchies would always be chocolate and, by the time the munchies completely took control, the brownies would be the only chocolate left. Soon the dilemma presented itself: do you satisfy your munchies by becoming more stoned, setting up a new munchies attack in thirty minutes or do you just ride out the munchies and find something salt based?

No one ever went the salt road and it would usually be about dawn that the loose-brain syndrome would set in. They would always swear he would never be allowed to make those cursed brownies again, but, the very next April 20 he would get the call to bring those “awesome brownies man.”

Nostalgia

I remember bits and pieces of poems from college
My eyes bleed if I stare too long
They bleed water and my soul hurts
They are random flashes of prose and imagery
Plastic nuns in leather habits
The weary-eyed crucified ladies of the labyrinth
Lining like cheerleaders to the apocalypse after-party
BYOB of course
Some are longer than others and feel almost complete
The dragon wandering without a flame
Playing by the rules, but losing the game
And in his acceptance he lost his might
Laying down and refusing to fight
I question if I will ever find a use for them
He’s looking for gold in a dark silver mind
With no flame to light his way, truth he’ll never find
And we are who he has to blame
For we are the dragon who’s lost its flame
And I wonder if I just did

Twas the Night Before Work

Twas the night before working
It is Christmas day
Nothing is open
And I have little to say
I slept very late
All snug in my bed
Without a thought of work
Occupying my head
My refrigerator is stocked
For the stores are all closed
I short-changed myself on soda
I drank more than I supposed
So ration I must
And ration I will
Pouring each glass with care
Not to cause the slightest spill
And I sit on my computer
Cat on my lap
Hair all disheveled
From my long evening’s nap
Sipping my soda
With the greatest of care
In hopes that tomorrow
Some soda will still be there
As I slowly wake up
And the fog leaves my eyes
I start to wrap this up
As I start to realize
I have nothing to say
Except one last wish:
That my soda lasts today
And you have a great Christmas

The Button: conclusion

I did not expect anyone to really care what the button did. I hope this is satisfactory. It was my original intent, but I felt it was cheesy. Please be honest.

TO THE CONCLUSION

The Button

This has nothing to do with the "Charlie Saga". It is just something felt like playing around with. Enjoy.

TO THE STORY

Long Awaited Babble

Previously Charlie fell to the floor. He was with Adam up to that point. The memories were vague and short, but he thinks he has memories of the crime. He has spent the entire night tormented over the crime. He finally had accepted he had killed Michelle just in time to learn he didn’t. Charlie now hoped he was insane.

Continued

Babble Bubble

Previously
“Charlie IS married?” Dana uttered dazed. She assumed, probably knew, but this still took her by surprise. “Charlie is married.”

CONTINUED

“Charlie, get up” the voice virtually commanded him, “and turn around.”

Charlie would do anything at that moment to not do that. He began listing every horrible act he could imagine and offered his performance of each one to any deity listening, but none answered. He swore to be the best Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu, and Satanist, whatever it took if he did not have to turn around. No deity took him up on his offer. He offered to go right to a police station and confess to whatever it was he did if he could just leave right now.

“Charlie.” Obviously turning himself in was not going to be an option either. “I am here for you Charlie, not against you. I am here to help. Turn around and face me Charlie.”

Charlie slowly rose to his feet and turned around as slowly as humanly possible. His entire body was facing the source of the voice while his head was still turned around as much as he could. It was going to be the last thing to face whatever it was. He even closed his eyes so that he had a few extra seconds before he had to see it.

The voice was so large and full that the source of it had to be monstrous. He knew the voice and knew it was not where it was supposed to be. He did not need to see Michelle’s dead body and did not want to go home. He wanted this voice back in his head where it belonged and silent for just a few hours.

“It is not what you think Charlie” it said. It sounded smaller now. “Open your eyes Charlie.”

Charlie partially opened his left eye and saw a blurry collection of lines everywhere. Realizing it was his eyelashes; he opened his eye fully and still saw a blur. It took a few moments for his focus to return before he could make out… Adam.

“Still have that lighter Charlie?”

“Ye…ye…yea, “Charlie was officially confused. “Adam?”

“Yes. Adam, but not really Adam.”

With the night Charlie had and the morning he was having, this conversation was making sense so far. He was just happy it was not in his head this time. He was happy to actually see who he was talking to.

It certainly looked like Adam. It was obvious it couldn’t have been Adam really because it would mean Adam had not aged a single day, but it was a really good rendition of Adam from the early 90’s. It was Adam right down to the mostly shaven head with the “Hara Krishna” ponytail, badly shaven stubble, and blue “Adidas” shirt.

Charlie tossed Adam the lighter and Adam lit a joint. He took a huge hit and looked up to Charlie. “You don’t smoke anymore, right?”

“Yea, I mean no. I quit when I got married.”

“Just as well,” he said tossing the joint off as he approached Charlie. “You got to go home anyway.”

This Adam had a charm about him the original never could dream of faking. He acted like a man who has “read the script”. “Read the script” was a “Dead Shed” term for those characters that seemed to know things they should not know in a movie. The joke was “that character obviously read the script”. It transferred into what other people would call “déjà vu” or just sheer luck when something goes how you planned exactly. Adam acted like he never knew any other way of feeling.

“What are you?”

“I get the feeling you are not going to go home until we get past this. I suppose the closest thing to what I am would be a ‘Guardian Angel’, but I am not an angel and I do not really guard. I more guide, but “Guide-ian Angel” sounds horrible.
“Basically, me and mine are hiding and following and guiding you through life. Well, not just you but all your kind. We are evolution. We are inspiration. We are the muse. “Not out of benevolence so much as boredom on our part, but either way it’s what we do.”

“And you ‘guided’ me to kill my wife?” Charlie was getting that kind of rage a cat gets when you have toyed with it that one moment too long and it is no longer playing with you. Although he was not sure what this thing was, he was wondering if he could hurt it.

“No Charlie, you cannot hurt me and no Charlie, I did not guide you to murder. I took you as my project the day I gave you the lighter. I guided you to Michelle and I kept Kevin at bay. The problem was I was not alone with you. Like I said, Charlie, we.
“How can I explain this? Ever notice that voice in your head, your inner monologue sometimes uses ‘I’ and sometimes uses ‘you’? Did you never think that strange or did you just assume everyone did it? There are many of us working around you Charlie and we each have our own goals and objectives.”

“Then why don’t you stop them?!” Charlie could not believe he believed this, but it was sadly making sense to him.

“Because I cannot see them any better than you could see me before. We are only seen by who we want to see us and only when we want them to. That goes for each other as well.
“You must go home Charlie. You did not kill Michelle. She is home and worried.”

Charlie fell to the floor. He was with Adam up to that point. The memories were vague and short, but he thinks he has memories of the crime. He has spent the entire night tormented over the crime. He finally had accepted he had killed Michelle just in time to learn he didn’t. Charlie now hoped he was insane.

TO BE CONTINUED

Babble

Previously
Charlie turned the corner to see a detective standing at the end of the block. It was only a silhouette, but no one other than a cop dressed like that. Charlie could make out the trench coat, the smoke rising from the cigarette past the fedora. This was obviously more serious than he had originally thought.

“Do you think they found her yet? Better get there quick Charlie.”
Continued


Charlie really did not want to go home anymore. If he had killed Michelle it was better for him this way with no memory. He could still sleep at night sort of at least without being haunted by the vision of his dead love. He could very easily just go back to Dana’s apartment and wait. He could not have killed her because the door was locked and he did not have his key.

He would just wait for Dana to get home from where ever she was and together they would leave this city and start over. They could go somewhere no one had heard about the “Fireman lover” or his tragic mistake. They could go somewhere no one knew Michelle or Charlie or Dana and they could just vanish.

“Running away again Charlie?”

Fuck yes he was going to run away again. He had gotten very good at it and it has served him well so far. He leaves a long string of people who hate him behind, but he never has to see their faces or hear their words. He knows he will just forget about them over time.

“I won’t let you forget Charlie. You must go home. You must see your work. You must confirm.”

“I don’t want to know. I don’t want to see.” He was begging with the voices this time. He fell to his knees and pleaded with his thoughts to just let him forget this one time. He had to move on. He made mistakes. He has paid for most of them. He never intended for any of it to happen. Please, just let him start over.

“Get up Charlie. Stop begging. There is no other way for you right now.”

The voice he heard was familiar and distant. It was the first voice of his first thought of the night. It was the thought that forced him to remember Michelle. It was the thought that demanded an answer to “What were you thinking? Why did you leave her?” Only right now this voice was not in his head. Right now, this voice was behind him and had a presence about it.

“Get up Charlie” it said again, “and go home.”

Charlie felt himself introduced to pure fear and did not like the company. He could write these voices off as his insanity as long as they were trapped in his head. This was a new level he had not prepared himself for.

Kevin had ducked into an alley by the diner for a smoke, but not a cigarette. Kevin “KB” Jones had not given up all of his habits. He never took to drinking, but felt that same need for a chemical rest after work as every other person. He never thought of himself as a criminal; he was just on the wrong side of the law. He hated having to hide, but so be it. It was what it was.

He had just finished his break when he could have sworn he saw Charlie turn around and run away from him. By the time he had fully processed the thought and made it to the corner however there was no one to be seen, except that waitress from the diner, Alice. He really needed something to tell Michelle already, so he figured it was time to just ask when Dana was working. And he would do it right after a few more hits.

Dana had finished her cigarette and returned to the diner with still no sign of Charlie. She had four hours left on her shift, and then she would kill him at her place if he was there. If he was not, she would find the son of a bitch and kill him slower. He had four hours left to avoid this fate.

The bell on the door rang and she turned expecting it to be Charlie. It was some freak who looked like he stepped out of a Bogart movie instead. The dumb bastard was even smoking an unfiltered cigarette. She was a smoker as well, but unfiltered was just beyond stupid. The guy was also wearing a fedora. Who the hell wears fedoras anymore? If he talks out of the side of his mouth or calls her “sweetheart” she was going to smack him with the coffee pot.

“Excuse me” he said. He sounded remarkably normal considering the sideshow appearance. “I am looking for an old friend of mine. She works here I think. Her name is ‘Dana’. I have not seen her in years; I was in town and figured I would say hi. Can you tell me if she is coming in today by any chance?”

He gave his “KB” smile that never failed him before. He just oozed charm. Normally it would have gotten “Alice” to tell him anything except she was Dana and never had seen this guy before in her life. This was a con. He was a reporter. They were after Charlie again for some reason.

“Fuck off” she practically yelled at Kevin. This was not what he was expecting. “I’m Dana and I don’t know you! What the fuck do you want? Who are you?”

Kevin was officially scared now. His fear level rose considerably when he noticed the cook coming out from behind the counter. Kevin did not notice before, but that short cook was a really built guy. Kevin was in trouble.

“Woah woah woah” he squealed giving his full attention to the cook. “I am Charlie’s friend from college! His wife is worried about him and sent me looking for him. He had told be about Dana and there were charges for this diner so I came here to find her! That is all!”

“Charlie IS married?” Dana uttered dazed. She assumed, probably knew, but this still took her by surprise. “Charlie is married.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Kanrei's Notes to the "Babbling Saga"

Spoilers Ahead

Charlie is haunted by his thoughts and has been since college. They act independent of his conscious mind and are always commenting on his life except when he is around his one true love Michelle, who is also the cause of the voices.

Charlie married Michelle out of college and they were happy together until Charlie lost his job through some major mess up that left him broke. He met a waitress named Dana around that time and began an affair with her.

One week ago Charlie left his house and Michelle is scared either of him or for him. He has been “living” with Dana for three months, but only one or two days a week. Dana is becoming aware she is the other woman.

Michelle has sent Kevin, their college friend, to find Charlie before he does something stupid.

Charlie is wandering around the city trying to figure out the stupid thing he did and believes it is his killing his wife. The only thing he knows for certain is that his he cannot trust his thoughts or his memory.

Dana is waiting for Charlie at the diner to confront him once and for all about his “walks” that she now believes is his going home to his wife.

What we, reader know so far is that Charlie IS married to Michelle and is dating Dana. He was using his job as a fireman as cover to both ladies as to why he was gone for nights on end sometimes. What we do not know is if he has killed Michelle. WE do know Dana is very much alive.



I think that is about it =D

Babbling Broken

Previously
“You killed Michelle to kill your future? You are insane Charlie.”
“Of course he is insane, he has spent the entire night talking to himself.”
“Yea, and the funny part is we are telling him stuff he didn’t know!”


Continued..

They have been telling him things he did not know all night, but they have also shown themselves to be tricksters as well. He remembered the lighter tricked they pulled on him before and suddenly became convinced he had not killed anyone. Michelle never existed and Dana was his wife. He was locked out because she went to work while he was out and didn’t know he forgot his key. There is neither a dead body behind that door nor is there a dead wife named Michelle. Screw his mind.

Charlie decided he needed to head to the diner to prove to himself that Dana was alive and his wife. There was no other choice that he could see. His mind tried to talk him out of it by saying things like “that is the first place the cops are going to go”, but he did not listen. He had to settle this once and for all. He was tired of being boarder-line insane. He either wanted to know he was normal or prove he had lost it long ago, but the wonderment had to end.

It took him ten minutes to get to the diner from her apartment. When he walked in he thought it was closed for a second. There was no one there. He saw Tina and the cook who never told anyone his name, but no Dana. He went outside to make sure he was at the right place, but the sign clearly said “Sam’s Coffeehouse Diner”. He looked at the sign in the door and it clearly said “Open”. He looked back inside and saw no customers. He checked his watch and it was 12:45, on a Thursday.

“It’s a trap Charlie, RUN!”

Charlie listened to his mind and turned around and ran for his life. Something was certainly not right about that scene. Dana should have been there and wasn’t. Customer should have been there and weren’t. That had “set up” written all over it. He did kill Dana that means. And he was married to a dead woman named Michelle. He was a disgraced fireman who lost his job because he chose to stay with his mistress instead of answering a call. He was a disgraced fireman because three people died that night because they were a man down. He was a disgraced fireman for covering the books and getting someone else initially fired. The press was going to love this one more than they did his dismissal.

He could see the headlines as he ran flashing in his mind. “Fireman of Love Kills Again!”, “Active Killer This Time: Lover Fireman Moves Up”, “Charlie the Cheating Fire Fighter Kills Wife then Lover”. This was not going to be pretty. He had one option left to him and that was to go home, where ever that was.

He took out his wallet and checked his driver’s license and saw a mid-town address, along with several credit cards and a picture of a woman he assumed had to be Michelle. The photo was about five years old and faded just a bit, but she was radiant even in the tiny 5x9 form. He felt flush. He felt those chills. He remembered falling in love with her and why he still did. He remembered their first kiss, their first time together, the day she said “yes” to his proposal.

He also remembered her accusations of him cheating on her, even before he was. He remembered her never understanding his job as a fireman and that he had to be away from home. He remembered her becoming so obsessed with him having the affair he was not yet having that she slept with Kevin and let him find them together. He cannot remember his reaction. He cannot remember why they stayed together for three years after that, but he did remember he called her “Dana” that last night at home on purpose.

“Go see the body Charlie. Go see your work. Go say ‘good-bye’ one last time.”

Charlie turned the corner to see a detective standing at the end of the block. It was only a silhouette, but no one other than a cop dressed like that. Charlie could make out the trench coat, the smoke rising from the cigarette past the fedora. This was obviously more serious than he had originally thought.

“Do you think they found her yet? Better get there quick Charlie.”

CONTINUED

Babbling Brooke

Previously
The next logical step then is to head off to “Sam’s Coffeehouse Diner”, after buying that fedora of course.
Continued

It took Kevin twenty minutes to get to the diner, but it took him five hours to find the fedora. He may have decided to buy it on impulse, but he still had to find the perfect hat. It had to be dark of course. It had to be tan, but a dark tan. Most importantly, it had to fit his head just right as to not mess up his hair. That is what really took him five hours, but he found one that seemed to float above his perfect mane.

He stopped outside the diner to get into character. He had decided on the train that he was going to do this right. He even bought a pack of “Lucky Strikes”, filterless for the full effect. Collar to coat was flipped up just right and his fedora was tilted to the left. He was ready.

He walked into “Sam’s Coffeehouse Diner” and just stood in the doorway for a moment. He wanted everyone to notice his entrance and possibly comment on just how cool he was, but the place was empty. “Sam’s Coffeehouse Diner” was a graveyard at 12 noon on a Thursday.

The only people Kevin saw were two waitresses and a cook. The nametags on the girls said “Tina” and “Alice” and the cook was a guy. No Dana it seemed so he turned around and decided to try back later. Better to leave with the “who was that stranger” vibe going instead of stating his business.

With Tina cleaning tables and “Alice” staring off into space worrying about Charlie, no one noticed Kevin coming in or leaving. The cook heard the bell on the door, but peaked around only to see a door closing.

“Who was that?” he asked the girls.

“Who was what?” Tina answered.

Dana never stopped staring out the window. Charlie was really late now and she was officially worried and beyond pissed. She could not decide which she was more, but felt certain that seeing him would bring the stronger feeling out. Either she would hug him to death or just kill him. Either way is good for her right now.

Her main concern was the fact that she was losing her nerve every minute she had to wait. She was going to be so preoccupied with his showing up that she knew she was going to forget to ask what he did on his walks.

She had not known Charlie for very long. She had met him in the diner a year ago. He walked in and ordered coffee. They talked for hours and he left. She never got his name, but he came back the next night at the same time. Again the talked for hours and again he left. This went on for two months before they exchanged names, but only one week before they found their way back to her place. It was three months ago that he moved in, but was away more than he was home. She often would think she was the “other woman”, but would write it off as paranoia. Now she was no longer sure.

“I’m gonna take a few minutes” she told Tina and walked outside for a smoke.

Charlie picked the cigarette up from his crotch. It had burned a hole in his pants, but he appeared uninjured. It was still burning too, but he could not bring himself to smoke it anymore. His thoughts focused on one thing: Michelle.

How could he have killed Michelle? Why would he have killed Michelle? She was his only stability left. She would take him back. Dana was a mistake and she had to know that. It was a moment of weakness. An impulse too strong to deny.

“Any other clichés Charlie? You know, something along the lines of ‘she wanted it’?”

That sounded so filthy. Charlie did not “cheat” on Michelle. He simply found someone else he had feelings for. He was never popular with women so how could he possibly turn one away? Michelle was his love, Dana was just nostalgia. When he was with Dana, he was not 39, he was in college again. He had a chance to start over almost. Everything he screwed up had not happened yet. Michelle represented his future and since he hated his present, he really did not want his future to come.

“You killed Michelle to kill your future? You are insane Charlie.”
“Of course he is insane, he has spent the entire night talking to himself.”
“Yea, and the funny part is we are telling him stuff he didn’t know!”