3/03/2006
At that moment, the left-hand door of the two main doors opened, and Mr. Hooper emerged. He carried a birthday cake, and his old coat over one arm, and the memories of countless delighted children who had visited him in his store over the years.
Ah, the store. How could they have taken it away from him? Thyroid cancer and a 20% chance of survival had been low enough odds to get him written out of the script, but he had survived! Well, *he* had, but his character hadn't.
"I'm not dead yet," he'd angrily told the producers. "I feel happy!"
But they'd had none of it. They couldn't have him keeling over in front of the little ones, you see. And so we have to be proactive you see. And therefore it's in the best interests of the production to remove the character while we can still control the situation, you see. You see?
He hadn't seen.
Or, maybe, he'd seen too much.
Of his life, that last was admirably correct. He'd seen too much beautiful innocence in the children being ground into cynicism under the relentless onslaught of ugliness, dishonesty, and betrayal... an onslaught that poured down onto their perfect little heads like a waterfall of s*** from the adult world.
So, he'd assented to the plan (not that his assent mattered), and left the production.
Well, *most* of him had left. His heart remained behind. Now he was empty of hope, of the future... yet, he was satisfyingly full of the past. He remembered every child's name. He delighted in looking them up on the internet, following their progress through life. He read whatever he found for each of them. He contemplated their great deeds as if their grandfather, savoring their bravery and independence. He forgave their misdeeds as if their grandmother, forever trying to understand what necessitated their ill turns.
He wished they knew he was alive. He wished he still had a store, and that they still came to visit him.
Or, he thought, that they would bring their own children to visit him. His tired heart thudded at the notion.
He really was so very old now. He knew he had very little time left left on this angry little blue-green world.
Before his time was up, he wanted to meet Justin.
Justin was his favorite. Had always been so.
Justin was now a tenured professor here at the university, and had led an agreeable life. Mr. Hooper had read every research paper he'd ever published. He'd even obtained drafts of many of the unpublished papers. He read them over and over again, and over the years had actually come to understand some of the advanced matrix-transformation mathematics that Justin had pioneered.
In fact, Mr. Hooper kept a stack of the papers next to his bathtub, and often mentally chewed on them while soaking. Or -- in recent years, as his mind was fading -- simply re-read the passages that he'd come to understand. The pain of his many ailments was now oppressive, leading him to soak in the hot bath thrice a day, and thus he'd read through the hundred or so papers many times.
In fact, it was only with great difficulty that Mr. Hooper still managed to walk. But he persevered, and after many adventures had managed to bake a birthday cake for Justin's upcoming 40th birthday. That birthday was today -- Saturday.
Justin had not been in his office to receive the cake. This was odd, because the man normally spent his Saturday nights there, excitedly working on his latest research. The man had no family or social life. Perhaps that was part of what so endeared him to Mr. Hooper: they were both hermits. But Justin was out tonight, his office locked.
Mr. Hooper briefly entertained the proudly fatherly thought that his 'son' might be out on a date for his birthday.
The cake couldn't be left. It would be stale by the time Justin returned to his office on Monday. So, bitterly disappointed, Mr. Hooper had sadly gone back downstairs and exited the building, trying to think of a way to at least get it to him in the morning.
Knees aching from the walk down the stairs, he gingerly pushed one of the main doors with his shoulder, and stepped outside. He used both hands to carefully protect his precious cake and to keep it upright so that the frosting and decorations would not be disturbed. He'd spent many hours arranging the name 'Justin' in the very same candies that had been Justin's favorite back at the store so long ago. Cinnamon Red-Hots.
He stepped outside, and did not comprehend the headlights careening towards him. His last thought was the happy, fatherly wish that Justin got lucky on his date tonight.
Ah, the store. How could they have taken it away from him? Thyroid cancer and a 20% chance of survival had been low enough odds to get him written out of the script, but he had survived! Well, *he* had, but his character hadn't.
"I'm not dead yet," he'd angrily told the producers. "I feel happy!"
But they'd had none of it. They couldn't have him keeling over in front of the little ones, you see. And so we have to be proactive you see. And therefore it's in the best interests of the production to remove the character while we can still control the situation, you see. You see?
He hadn't seen.
Or, maybe, he'd seen too much.
Of his life, that last was admirably correct. He'd seen too much beautiful innocence in the children being ground into cynicism under the relentless onslaught of ugliness, dishonesty, and betrayal... an onslaught that poured down onto their perfect little heads like a waterfall of s*** from the adult world.
So, he'd assented to the plan (not that his assent mattered), and left the production.
Well, *most* of him had left. His heart remained behind. Now he was empty of hope, of the future... yet, he was satisfyingly full of the past. He remembered every child's name. He delighted in looking them up on the internet, following their progress through life. He read whatever he found for each of them. He contemplated their great deeds as if their grandfather, savoring their bravery and independence. He forgave their misdeeds as if their grandmother, forever trying to understand what necessitated their ill turns.
He wished they knew he was alive. He wished he still had a store, and that they still came to visit him.
Or, he thought, that they would bring their own children to visit him. His tired heart thudded at the notion.
He really was so very old now. He knew he had very little time left left on this angry little blue-green world.
Before his time was up, he wanted to meet Justin.
Justin was his favorite. Had always been so.
Justin was now a tenured professor here at the university, and had led an agreeable life. Mr. Hooper had read every research paper he'd ever published. He'd even obtained drafts of many of the unpublished papers. He read them over and over again, and over the years had actually come to understand some of the advanced matrix-transformation mathematics that Justin had pioneered.
In fact, Mr. Hooper kept a stack of the papers next to his bathtub, and often mentally chewed on them while soaking. Or -- in recent years, as his mind was fading -- simply re-read the passages that he'd come to understand. The pain of his many ailments was now oppressive, leading him to soak in the hot bath thrice a day, and thus he'd read through the hundred or so papers many times.
In fact, it was only with great difficulty that Mr. Hooper still managed to walk. But he persevered, and after many adventures had managed to bake a birthday cake for Justin's upcoming 40th birthday. That birthday was today -- Saturday.
Justin had not been in his office to receive the cake. This was odd, because the man normally spent his Saturday nights there, excitedly working on his latest research. The man had no family or social life. Perhaps that was part of what so endeared him to Mr. Hooper: they were both hermits. But Justin was out tonight, his office locked.
Mr. Hooper briefly entertained the proudly fatherly thought that his 'son' might be out on a date for his birthday.
The cake couldn't be left. It would be stale by the time Justin returned to his office on Monday. So, bitterly disappointed, Mr. Hooper had sadly gone back downstairs and exited the building, trying to think of a way to at least get it to him in the morning.
Knees aching from the walk down the stairs, he gingerly pushed one of the main doors with his shoulder, and stepped outside. He used both hands to carefully protect his precious cake and to keep it upright so that the frosting and decorations would not be disturbed. He'd spent many hours arranging the name 'Justin' in the very same candies that had been Justin's favorite back at the store so long ago. Cinnamon Red-Hots.
He stepped outside, and did not comprehend the headlights careening towards him. His last thought was the happy, fatherly wish that Justin got lucky on his date tonight.
2/04/2006
Quite a catch, isn't she? He knew what that meant.
The Janitor silently exited from the good Doctor's office and retreated to the elevator. Switching the elevator to the on position, he slowly acended to the first floor. As the car lurched higher he typed Shauna's name into the cell phone. By the time the elevator doors opened he not only had her address and phone number, but also multiple full-color head shot images, detailed police and public safety records, job history, school transcripts, a full medical history, and--most useful now--detailed directions to her apartment from his current GPS-tracked position. Gotta love technology, he mused.
The phone identified her apartment as conveniently located across the street. Maybe this would be easier than he thought.
The Janitor walked out of the math building into the cold air. "A jacket would've been nice," he mumbled to himself. Hopefully, she would come quietly. Having to convince her to cooperate could get messy. And he just wasn't in the mood for messy right now.
The Janitor stepped into University as the black BMW accelerated. He knew that car. The headlights were quickly on him as the vehicle closed ground. His gun was drawn instinctively. Two shots echoed in the night air, and both found their target in the driver. Piece of cake.
Unfortunately, one major drawback to shooting the driver of an oncoming, driverless vehicle is that they tend to behave erratically. And you're in the way. He made a calculated guess and jumped to the right.
A split second later the car's front bumper shattered the janitor's left knee and the sloped hood of the luxury automobile catapulted his body onto the windshiled, breaking the safety glass into thousands of pieces. Now induced in a roll, the Janitor's body shot into the air, over the car, and onto the pavement with a dull thud. His last thoughts were of the blue reflector embedded in the asphalt. They identify fire hydrants from the road, you know.
The car hopped the curb, careened over the gravel path, and mowed down two of the sodium lights in its way, slowing it somewhat. (Had the driver still been alive, he surely would've been pleased at their spectacular removal and the ensuing darkened path.) The car's wheels cut deep tracks in the soggy--though finely manicured--grounds as the vehicle drifted toward the math building's main doors.
The Janitor silently exited from the good Doctor's office and retreated to the elevator. Switching the elevator to the on position, he slowly acended to the first floor. As the car lurched higher he typed Shauna's name into the cell phone. By the time the elevator doors opened he not only had her address and phone number, but also multiple full-color head shot images, detailed police and public safety records, job history, school transcripts, a full medical history, and--most useful now--detailed directions to her apartment from his current GPS-tracked position. Gotta love technology, he mused.
The phone identified her apartment as conveniently located across the street. Maybe this would be easier than he thought.
The Janitor walked out of the math building into the cold air. "A jacket would've been nice," he mumbled to himself. Hopefully, she would come quietly. Having to convince her to cooperate could get messy. And he just wasn't in the mood for messy right now.
The Janitor stepped into University as the black BMW accelerated. He knew that car. The headlights were quickly on him as the vehicle closed ground. His gun was drawn instinctively. Two shots echoed in the night air, and both found their target in the driver. Piece of cake.
Unfortunately, one major drawback to shooting the driver of an oncoming, driverless vehicle is that they tend to behave erratically. And you're in the way. He made a calculated guess and jumped to the right.
A split second later the car's front bumper shattered the janitor's left knee and the sloped hood of the luxury automobile catapulted his body onto the windshiled, breaking the safety glass into thousands of pieces. Now induced in a roll, the Janitor's body shot into the air, over the car, and onto the pavement with a dull thud. His last thoughts were of the blue reflector embedded in the asphalt. They identify fire hydrants from the road, you know.
The car hopped the curb, careened over the gravel path, and mowed down two of the sodium lights in its way, slowing it somewhat. (Had the driver still been alive, he surely would've been pleased at their spectacular removal and the ensuing darkened path.) The car's wheels cut deep tracks in the soggy--though finely manicured--grounds as the vehicle drifted toward the math building's main doors.
2/03/2006
"Jake's?", Owen blurted, "I-I... what do you mean?"
"Come now, Mr. Meadows, let's not be bashful, eh? I want to hear all about how your little date. Why, rumor has it you had quite the time!", the doctor said with a wry grin.
"What? Well, I mean... we talked and had a good time, but...", Owen stammered.
"We? Ah, you mean you and, ummm..."
"Shauna", Owen answered quickly.
"Of course! Shauna!", the doctor exclaimed and then gave a quick glance to the janitor still lurking in silence near the door, "Quite the catch, isn't she?"
"Sure, I guess, but...", Owen paused for a moment to consider whether he should push this conversation or let the doctor speak since she obviously already knew more than he could probably tell her, "...but what's this all about? What does Shauna have to do with the elevator? What the HELL is going on here?!"
"We'll get back to her in a minute, Romeo", the doctor's voice remained calm and firm, "What I'd really like to hear more about is your little, uh...'run-in' with Professor McReese."
"McReese?", Owen was genuinely confused now, "Who's that?"
"Older man? Mustache? Tweed cap? Charming, if a touch colloquial, accent? Ring any bells?"
"Professor?!", Owen blurted.
"Ah, so you do remember! Good, good... I understand you exchanged a few words with the noble professor that night. What can you tell me about that?", the doctor pressed.
"Errr... nothing really. He overheard Shauna and I talking about the new TG-5500 and he started ranting some nonsense about special funds and secret...", Owen stopped cold. "Listen, what the HELL is this all about?!?", he demanded.
"MISTER...", the doctor drew a sigh, "Mister Meadows, it's very important that we stay focused here. Please, tell me exactly what he told you."
Dr. Farrow's voice was firm, but Owen sensed something wasn't quite right. Countless hours spent watching TBS' James Bond movie marathons had set his expectations for just such an encounter, but this wasn't following the implied script. Maybe it was the doctor's tone of voice. Perhaps it was the slight tremble in her hand that caused the ice in her glass to rattle like tiny bones. Maybe it was...
"Wait!", Owen's conscious howled as his mind raced, "Her bracelet! I've seen it before!"
Thinking fast, Owen did the first thing, hell, the only thing that that came to his mind...
He threw up.
"Come now, Mr. Meadows, let's not be bashful, eh? I want to hear all about how your little date. Why, rumor has it you had quite the time!", the doctor said with a wry grin.
"What? Well, I mean... we talked and had a good time, but...", Owen stammered.
"We? Ah, you mean you and, ummm..."
"Shauna", Owen answered quickly.
"Of course! Shauna!", the doctor exclaimed and then gave a quick glance to the janitor still lurking in silence near the door, "Quite the catch, isn't she?"
"Sure, I guess, but...", Owen paused for a moment to consider whether he should push this conversation or let the doctor speak since she obviously already knew more than he could probably tell her, "...but what's this all about? What does Shauna have to do with the elevator? What the HELL is going on here?!"
"We'll get back to her in a minute, Romeo", the doctor's voice remained calm and firm, "What I'd really like to hear more about is your little, uh...'run-in' with Professor McReese."
"McReese?", Owen was genuinely confused now, "Who's that?"
"Older man? Mustache? Tweed cap? Charming, if a touch colloquial, accent? Ring any bells?"
"Professor?!", Owen blurted.
"Ah, so you do remember! Good, good... I understand you exchanged a few words with the noble professor that night. What can you tell me about that?", the doctor pressed.
"Errr... nothing really. He overheard Shauna and I talking about the new TG-5500 and he started ranting some nonsense about special funds and secret...", Owen stopped cold. "Listen, what the HELL is this all about?!?", he demanded.
"MISTER...", the doctor drew a sigh, "Mister Meadows, it's very important that we stay focused here. Please, tell me exactly what he told you."
Dr. Farrow's voice was firm, but Owen sensed something wasn't quite right. Countless hours spent watching TBS' James Bond movie marathons had set his expectations for just such an encounter, but this wasn't following the implied script. Maybe it was the doctor's tone of voice. Perhaps it was the slight tremble in her hand that caused the ice in her glass to rattle like tiny bones. Maybe it was...
"Wait!", Owen's conscious howled as his mind raced, "Her bracelet! I've seen it before!"
Thinking fast, Owen did the first thing, hell, the only thing that that came to his mind...
He threw up.
Owen stepped through the doorway slowly; his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room.
“Dr. Farrows, I presume.” Owen said more confidently than he felt.
A deep, throaty laugh greeted him, followed by the distinct sound of high heels walking toward him.
Dr. Farrows reached the dimmer switch and slowly illuminated the room. She was dressed in a plain white t-shirt neatly tucked into blue jeans. Her hair was slightly curly, cut just above her shoulders, and the color of maple syrup. Her oval-framed glasses covered sky blue eyes. Owen guessed her to be in her early 40s.
“Surprised?” she asked as she stared at him intently.
“Uh,…” he paused “What the hell is going on?” the crack in his voice gave away his fear.
“Have a seat, Owen. May I get you a drink?” Dr. Farrows opened a cabinet to reveal a small wet bar. She pulled two glasses from the shelf, added three ice cubes to each glass, and poured in a healthy amount of scotch.
Owen began to look around the room as she did this. The room was large, probably as big as the entire first floor of his parent’s house! Well, the house they used to have. His parents bought that house when his dad got the big promotion at the plant. A year later Owen and his twin, Timothy, were born, followed by his sister, Rebecca, and then their adopted sister, Quyen. That house had been home for so many years, it was hard to imagine it was gone. Flattened, along with the rest of the Gulf Coast after Hurricane Katrina came barreling through. At least everyone was okay. That’s what everyone always says. Bah.
Owen shook the memories away and scanned the room as he sat down in one of the caramel colored leather chairs. The room looked like a study, not an office, really. It had a sitting area closest to the door with a couple of couches and four high-back chairs. In the middle of the room was a large work table with a glass top. From his vantage point, he could see light flickering beneath the glass. The other end of the room held an excessively ornate desk surrounded by floor to ceiling inset bookcases. Oversized pieces of expensive looking art hung on every available wall.
“Drink.” she said as she handed Owen a glass. She let her fingers linger on his long enough to make him look up at her. “Drink.” she commanded.
She took a sip of her own, and sat in the chair next to his.
Drink? He thought. I… uh… what the hell is this? Who the hell is she? What am I doing here? Why was the damn machine out of Mountain Dew? Why did Creed breakup? What the hell am I doing working on a Saturday night? Why did Shauna call? Shauna! Did she come over to the lab? Was she here? Was she upstairs right now looking for him? Did she run into the janitor?
She watched him momentarily, watching the questions pass across his face, watching as he absently lifted the glass to his lips and took a drink, causing him to cough violently.
Shit! Can't breath. Throat on fire. He looked down at his glass, and then back at Dr. Farrows.
“So, you want to know what is going on?” she practically whispered. “Why don’t you start with last Wednesday night? At Jake’s. Tell me about that night.”
“Dr. Farrows, I presume.” Owen said more confidently than he felt.
A deep, throaty laugh greeted him, followed by the distinct sound of high heels walking toward him.
Dr. Farrows reached the dimmer switch and slowly illuminated the room. She was dressed in a plain white t-shirt neatly tucked into blue jeans. Her hair was slightly curly, cut just above her shoulders, and the color of maple syrup. Her oval-framed glasses covered sky blue eyes. Owen guessed her to be in her early 40s.
“Surprised?” she asked as she stared at him intently.
“Uh,…” he paused “What the hell is going on?” the crack in his voice gave away his fear.
“Have a seat, Owen. May I get you a drink?” Dr. Farrows opened a cabinet to reveal a small wet bar. She pulled two glasses from the shelf, added three ice cubes to each glass, and poured in a healthy amount of scotch.
Owen began to look around the room as she did this. The room was large, probably as big as the entire first floor of his parent’s house! Well, the house they used to have. His parents bought that house when his dad got the big promotion at the plant. A year later Owen and his twin, Timothy, were born, followed by his sister, Rebecca, and then their adopted sister, Quyen. That house had been home for so many years, it was hard to imagine it was gone. Flattened, along with the rest of the Gulf Coast after Hurricane Katrina came barreling through. At least everyone was okay. That’s what everyone always says. Bah.
Owen shook the memories away and scanned the room as he sat down in one of the caramel colored leather chairs. The room looked like a study, not an office, really. It had a sitting area closest to the door with a couple of couches and four high-back chairs. In the middle of the room was a large work table with a glass top. From his vantage point, he could see light flickering beneath the glass. The other end of the room held an excessively ornate desk surrounded by floor to ceiling inset bookcases. Oversized pieces of expensive looking art hung on every available wall.
“Drink.” she said as she handed Owen a glass. She let her fingers linger on his long enough to make him look up at her. “Drink.” she commanded.
She took a sip of her own, and sat in the chair next to his.
Drink? He thought. I… uh… what the hell is this? Who the hell is she? What am I doing here? Why was the damn machine out of Mountain Dew? Why did Creed breakup? What the hell am I doing working on a Saturday night? Why did Shauna call? Shauna! Did she come over to the lab? Was she here? Was she upstairs right now looking for him? Did she run into the janitor?
She watched him momentarily, watching the questions pass across his face, watching as he absently lifted the glass to his lips and took a drink, causing him to cough violently.
Shit! Can't breath. Throat on fire. He looked down at his glass, and then back at Dr. Farrows.
“So, you want to know what is going on?” she practically whispered. “Why don’t you start with last Wednesday night? At Jake’s. Tell me about that night.”
"Oh, shit!"
Involuntarily, her hand went to her chest to soothe the pain there.
She spun back around and started her sprint toward the library. The library! It was well-lit and there were always people around. She didn't care who this creep was, nor did she particularly relish the prospect of finding out--best to find a public place and rethink a strategy.
Her hand found the source of the discomfort and she looked down to see what it was.
Oh, shit!
She'd seen too many movies with this same prop so her mind jumped to the inevitable--and wholly correct--assumption: tranquilizer dart. She pulled it out, dropped it on the ground, and stumbled a step before recovering. Was he gaining ground? Where was he? She was too scared to turn around. That's what the airhead always did in the slasher flicks, and she wasn't about to be caught so easily.
How much time did she have? Those darts always worked so quickly in the movies! Where was she going? Oh, yeah, right. The library. Reluctantly, she looked back in time to see him bending down to pick up the discarded dart. Of course. He was cleaning up the evidence.
Her right shoe was loosening. She hadn't tied it tightly enough in the apartment.
Shit!
She scanned peripherally for someone to help her. Was there nobody else on this godforsaken... this godforsaken... uh... place where a college is? Shit! What's the freaking word? Campus. Jeez. This godforsaken campus. She was getting winded. Too soon. She'd run a lot more than this with no problems. Obviously the tranquilizer was kicking in.
The library was just over this hill.
Ouch! Oh, shit! Pain in her shoulder blade.
She reached around and found another dart. She ripped it out, too. Motherfucker shot me a second time!
She was sweating now. Had to take the jacket off. And she was slowing down, too. Not running as fast. "Library ahead, keep going," she coached herself. Ugh, would this never end? Looking back, she saw him picking up the second dart which she had wisely thrown far, off to the right. That should buy me a little time.
100 yards. Running. Out of breath.
50 yards. Legs burning. The library lights looked starry, and reminded her of when she'd squint, as a child, through teary eyes. Burning up. Must rest.
Finally, she reached the door and pulled it hard. Too hard. She lost her balance and swaggered back as the door swung wide and hit hard against the wall, echoing loudly in the still, wintery air. A heavy hand on her shoulder pulled her back.
So close!
She cried out for help but there was already a hand over her mouth. She flailed her arms back and demanded that her body pry free, but it was no use; her attacker was too strong. He held her there as her heart raced and her vision gradually clouded. It was quickly becoming harder to move. Presently, he looped her arm over his shoulder and half-walked, half-drug her back toward the math building. I thought he was running away from here, she thought.
He turned just before reaching it and headed toward the far end of the parking lot where a lone, black BMW sat in the shade of a large Oak. Five minutes later she sat limply in the passenger seat of the vehicle, her eyelids so heavy that it took all of her strength to keep them open just part-way.
Arms: useless. Legs: useless. Sweating: profusely.
She heard him get in the other side and the ding-ding-ding of the key in the ignition.
Involuntarily, her hand went to her chest to soothe the pain there.
She spun back around and started her sprint toward the library. The library! It was well-lit and there were always people around. She didn't care who this creep was, nor did she particularly relish the prospect of finding out--best to find a public place and rethink a strategy.
Her hand found the source of the discomfort and she looked down to see what it was.
Oh, shit!
She'd seen too many movies with this same prop so her mind jumped to the inevitable--and wholly correct--assumption: tranquilizer dart. She pulled it out, dropped it on the ground, and stumbled a step before recovering. Was he gaining ground? Where was he? She was too scared to turn around. That's what the airhead always did in the slasher flicks, and she wasn't about to be caught so easily.
How much time did she have? Those darts always worked so quickly in the movies! Where was she going? Oh, yeah, right. The library. Reluctantly, she looked back in time to see him bending down to pick up the discarded dart. Of course. He was cleaning up the evidence.
Her right shoe was loosening. She hadn't tied it tightly enough in the apartment.
Shit!
She scanned peripherally for someone to help her. Was there nobody else on this godforsaken... this godforsaken... uh... place where a college is? Shit! What's the freaking word? Campus. Jeez. This godforsaken campus. She was getting winded. Too soon. She'd run a lot more than this with no problems. Obviously the tranquilizer was kicking in.
The library was just over this hill.
Ouch! Oh, shit! Pain in her shoulder blade.
She reached around and found another dart. She ripped it out, too. Motherfucker shot me a second time!
She was sweating now. Had to take the jacket off. And she was slowing down, too. Not running as fast. "Library ahead, keep going," she coached herself. Ugh, would this never end? Looking back, she saw him picking up the second dart which she had wisely thrown far, off to the right. That should buy me a little time.
100 yards. Running. Out of breath.
50 yards. Legs burning. The library lights looked starry, and reminded her of when she'd squint, as a child, through teary eyes. Burning up. Must rest.
Finally, she reached the door and pulled it hard. Too hard. She lost her balance and swaggered back as the door swung wide and hit hard against the wall, echoing loudly in the still, wintery air. A heavy hand on her shoulder pulled her back.
So close!
She cried out for help but there was already a hand over her mouth. She flailed her arms back and demanded that her body pry free, but it was no use; her attacker was too strong. He held her there as her heart raced and her vision gradually clouded. It was quickly becoming harder to move. Presently, he looped her arm over his shoulder and half-walked, half-drug her back toward the math building. I thought he was running away from here, she thought.
He turned just before reaching it and headed toward the far end of the parking lot where a lone, black BMW sat in the shade of a large Oak. Five minutes later she sat limply in the passenger seat of the vehicle, her eyelids so heavy that it took all of her strength to keep them open just part-way.
Arms: useless. Legs: useless. Sweating: profusely.
She heard him get in the other side and the ding-ding-ding of the key in the ignition.
2/02/2006
"Dammit!", he growled as he burst into a dead run toward the apartment building. "Exits! North and South.", his mind quickly matching his feet, "Fire escapes? None. Nearby transit? Bus stop fifty yards East and parking lot another hundred past that." Racing through his checklist as he approached the glass doors, one item nearly caused him to stop cold, "Witnesses? None."
It wasn't that he was worried about resistance. Hell, in this day and age it was rare for anyone to do more than stare with their mouths open. No, he was more concerned with cleaning up later. Finding him would be impossible, of that he was certain, but his client had made it quite clear that unwanted attention would mean severe penalties.
"Nine... eight...", his mental clock had been ticking since he saw his target vanish from the window. Her apartment was on the third floor and he knew, padding for a little panic of course, she should emerge in, "seven... six... WHOA!"
Just as he reached the door, a five foot four inch blur of gray sweats and ponytail planted a pair of bright white tennis shoes square in the middle of the corridor and leapt straight at the far doors with no signs of letting up. "This one's quick!", he noted to himself, "Time to tip the scales."
Slamming into the doors, he pushed off of them and reached into his coat and drew out a slender pistol in a single, effortless motion. He had just a glimpse of his target, but couldn't tell for certain which way she had gone. He cut toward the East corner in an instinctive yet calculated guess.
His frame exploded through the coarse hedge and low pines knocking over a small bicycle rack on the other side in the process. Startled by the clamor, Shauna spun just in time to see his shadowed frame and the flash from the muzzle.
It wasn't that he was worried about resistance. Hell, in this day and age it was rare for anyone to do more than stare with their mouths open. No, he was more concerned with cleaning up later. Finding him would be impossible, of that he was certain, but his client had made it quite clear that unwanted attention would mean severe penalties.
"Nine... eight...", his mental clock had been ticking since he saw his target vanish from the window. Her apartment was on the third floor and he knew, padding for a little panic of course, she should emerge in, "seven... six... WHOA!"
Just as he reached the door, a five foot four inch blur of gray sweats and ponytail planted a pair of bright white tennis shoes square in the middle of the corridor and leapt straight at the far doors with no signs of letting up. "This one's quick!", he noted to himself, "Time to tip the scales."
Slamming into the doors, he pushed off of them and reached into his coat and drew out a slender pistol in a single, effortless motion. He had just a glimpse of his target, but couldn't tell for certain which way she had gone. He cut toward the East corner in an instinctive yet calculated guess.
His frame exploded through the coarse hedge and low pines knocking over a small bicycle rack on the other side in the process. Startled by the clamor, Shauna spun just in time to see his shadowed frame and the flash from the muzzle.
Shauna looked up over her desk and out her apartment window. During these few winter months the leafless trees allowed a clear view to the math building across University Lane. Nestled among ancient Oak trees with wide, bulky trunks and tall Pines that routinely rained hordes of prickly needles and cones, the building was well-maintained, at least on the outside. In front of the building ran a wide gravel pathway (dubbed Geek Lover's Lane by the student body) which was illuminated by a row of sodium lamps.
Despite the lack of sufficiently hot water and a neighbor who insisted on playing gangster rap every Friday and Saturday night for hours after the bars closed, the apartment had its perks, she supposed. The math building was in plain view. Which gave her a really good insight into who was working on their ComSci projects and who wasn't. Having assisted this course for three semester now she could tell by Homework Assignment #2 who was going to pass the course simply by noting how often which students frequented that particular set of doors.
She stood to grab her coat off the back of the chair but was halted when movement caught her eye. A tall, dark figure emerged from the building. It was difficult to tell if it was a man or a woman due to the moonless night and the dark overcoat he wore--but she assumed it was a man by the way he walked. She really should get going but something about this person made her watch. Why was he in such a hurry? Something about this made Shauna uneasy. Maybe it was the way he prefferred to walk in the nighttime shadow instead of making use of the sodium light.
Presently, the figure reached into the overcoat and put his hand to his ear, obviously answering a phone call. Stopping abruptly he spoke into the device. Looking around he gave the impression that he was gathering directions. He turned and pointed at Shauna's building. Then looked up.
To her apartment.
They were staring at each other.
He broke into a run toward the building as Shauna's eyes went wide.
Despite the lack of sufficiently hot water and a neighbor who insisted on playing gangster rap every Friday and Saturday night for hours after the bars closed, the apartment had its perks, she supposed. The math building was in plain view. Which gave her a really good insight into who was working on their ComSci projects and who wasn't. Having assisted this course for three semester now she could tell by Homework Assignment #2 who was going to pass the course simply by noting how often which students frequented that particular set of doors.
She stood to grab her coat off the back of the chair but was halted when movement caught her eye. A tall, dark figure emerged from the building. It was difficult to tell if it was a man or a woman due to the moonless night and the dark overcoat he wore--but she assumed it was a man by the way he walked. She really should get going but something about this person made her watch. Why was he in such a hurry? Something about this made Shauna uneasy. Maybe it was the way he prefferred to walk in the nighttime shadow instead of making use of the sodium light.
Presently, the figure reached into the overcoat and put his hand to his ear, obviously answering a phone call. Stopping abruptly he spoke into the device. Looking around he gave the impression that he was gathering directions. He turned and pointed at Shauna's building. Then looked up.
To her apartment.
They were staring at each other.
He broke into a run toward the building as Shauna's eyes went wide.
2/01/2006
Dr. Farrows? Owen was only a couple of years into his degree but hadn't heard of anyone named Dr. Farrows. Was he with the Computer Science department?
The Janitor's towering frame easily intimidated Owen to retreat, backwards, into the elevator car. Crunching flowers underfoot, he stood there nervously while the janitor turned to the control panel and inserted a bronze key. Rotating it clockwise, the B2 light illuminated as the rickety doors closed and the car jolted to its slow descent.
B2. The second basement.
Owen had never been. Was that where they kept the cool stuff? ...Or dead bodies?
Or both?
The elevator descended down, down as Owen's mind raced. Who was this guy? He stood with his back to the control panel, legs slightly apart and hands crossed behind his back. And his eyes were intently focused on Owen. He didn't look like any janitor Owen had ever seen. He looked... bulky. And pissed off.
Finally, to Owen's great relief, the doors opened. The "janitor" turned the key back to the off position and motioned for Owen to step out.
The hallway was disappointing. Owen had painted a mental picture of elevated, clean-room floors, sparkling white ceiling tiles, bright halogen lamps, and stainless-steel accented walls. Instead, the builders of this corridor obviously used the same suicidal interior decorator who showcased his or her work throughout the rest of the building. The floor was the same depressing shade of tan, the ceiling tiles showed signs of water damage long-past, and the fluorescent lights buzzed and blinked in futility.
One notable exception was an expensive LCD monitor mounted on the wall. The top half consisted of some kind of undecipherable flowchart with colored dots spaced randomly over it, some of which were blinking. The bottom half read:
The monitor was mounted above a nameplate that identified this office as belonging to one Dr. M. Farrows. The janitor knocked three times and opened the door. Speaking to the person inside he said, "He's here. He was upstairs getting a soda."
"Send him in."
The janitor motioned Owen inside.
The Janitor's towering frame easily intimidated Owen to retreat, backwards, into the elevator car. Crunching flowers underfoot, he stood there nervously while the janitor turned to the control panel and inserted a bronze key. Rotating it clockwise, the B2 light illuminated as the rickety doors closed and the car jolted to its slow descent.
B2. The second basement.
Owen had never been. Was that where they kept the cool stuff? ...Or dead bodies?
Or both?
The elevator descended down, down as Owen's mind raced. Who was this guy? He stood with his back to the control panel, legs slightly apart and hands crossed behind his back. And his eyes were intently focused on Owen. He didn't look like any janitor Owen had ever seen. He looked... bulky. And pissed off.
Finally, to Owen's great relief, the doors opened. The "janitor" turned the key back to the off position and motioned for Owen to step out.
The hallway was disappointing. Owen had painted a mental picture of elevated, clean-room floors, sparkling white ceiling tiles, bright halogen lamps, and stainless-steel accented walls. Instead, the builders of this corridor obviously used the same suicidal interior decorator who showcased his or her work throughout the rest of the building. The floor was the same depressing shade of tan, the ceiling tiles showed signs of water damage long-past, and the fluorescent lights buzzed and blinked in futility.
One notable exception was an expensive LCD monitor mounted on the wall. The top half consisted of some kind of undecipherable flowchart with colored dots spaced randomly over it, some of which were blinking. The bottom half read:
[ SYSTEM STATUS ]He wasn't sure what it all meant, but obviously something was rotten in the state of Denmark.
YELLOW
RUNNING, SINGLE USER MODE
EXECUTING SYSTEM SCAN... 68% COMPLETE
117 WARNING CONDITION(S) DETECTED
++ COMMUNICATION UPLINK SUCCRESSFULLY TERMINATED
!! ADMINISTRATIVE ACCOUNT COMPROMISED
!! 1154914 CORRUPT DATA BLOCK(S) FOUND
!! MEDIA FAILED
!! DATA RESTORE FAILED
The monitor was mounted above a nameplate that identified this office as belonging to one Dr. M. Farrows. The janitor knocked three times and opened the door. Speaking to the person inside he said, "He's here. He was upstairs getting a soda."
"Send him in."
The janitor motioned Owen inside.
1/31/2006
"Whatziaaah!?", Owen yelped in a falsetto that would make Barry Gibb green with envy. "You heard me, boy!", the grizzled voice replied, "I just mopped that damn floor! Take the stairs or I'll... what the HELL!?"
Gradually, Owen's heart made its descent from his throat back to his chest. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation. He'd experienced a few months ago when he first saw Shauna, the drop-dead TA from his ComSci class. "Boy, I'd like to instantiate a few of HER objects!", he mused to himself.
"Hey, punk! I asked what the hell you're doing here! What IS all this crap? Is this BLOOD?", the old man demanded.
Owen's shock was amplified by the sudden realization that his feelings for Shauna were somehow significant enough to remove him mentally from the particularly gruesome moment. "No! What!? I don't know!", he replied. He managed to recover the precious shreds of his caffeine-scarred composure. "Look, I was just down in the lab when..."
"You hurt? Are you bleeding?", the janitor interrupted. "No, I'm fine. Listen, I don't know what this is, but I...", Owen suffered another bolt of shock when he heard Shauna's faint voice buzzing through his antiquated cell phone, "Wait! Hang on!"
"Are you there? Are you okay?", Shauna demanded. "Yeah, I... ummm... look, can I call you back? It's just... well, there's something strange going on down at the lab. Can I call you later?", he replied. "The lab? What's wrong? Oh, crap... they forgot to latch the tapes, didn't they?", she answered, "Damn those monkeys! Stay put and I'll be right there! Don't touch anything!"
"Wait! NO!", Owen nearly yelled, but the all-too familiar 'DISCONNECTED' text made it clear that she was gone. "Yours quit, too?", the janitor grinned. "No, she just...", Owen noticed the old man flipping the cover closed on his sleek new Motorola, "Who were you calling?"
The old man replied in a firm, smooth voice that chilled Owen to the bone, "Dr. Farrows, of course. He'll want to... he'll need to talk to you."
Gradually, Owen's heart made its descent from his throat back to his chest. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation. He'd experienced a few months ago when he first saw Shauna, the drop-dead TA from his ComSci class. "Boy, I'd like to instantiate a few of HER objects!", he mused to himself.
"Hey, punk! I asked what the hell you're doing here! What IS all this crap? Is this BLOOD?", the old man demanded.
Owen's shock was amplified by the sudden realization that his feelings for Shauna were somehow significant enough to remove him mentally from the particularly gruesome moment. "No! What!? I don't know!", he replied. He managed to recover the precious shreds of his caffeine-scarred composure. "Look, I was just down in the lab when..."
"You hurt? Are you bleeding?", the janitor interrupted. "No, I'm fine. Listen, I don't know what this is, but I...", Owen suffered another bolt of shock when he heard Shauna's faint voice buzzing through his antiquated cell phone, "Wait! Hang on!"
"Are you there? Are you okay?", Shauna demanded. "Yeah, I... ummm... look, can I call you back? It's just... well, there's something strange going on down at the lab. Can I call you later?", he replied. "The lab? What's wrong? Oh, crap... they forgot to latch the tapes, didn't they?", she answered, "Damn those monkeys! Stay put and I'll be right there! Don't touch anything!"
"Wait! NO!", Owen nearly yelled, but the all-too familiar 'DISCONNECTED' text made it clear that she was gone. "Yours quit, too?", the janitor grinned. "No, she just...", Owen noticed the old man flipping the cover closed on his sleek new Motorola, "Who were you calling?"
The old man replied in a firm, smooth voice that chilled Owen to the bone, "Dr. Farrows, of course. He'll want to... he'll need to talk to you."
Grading papers had to be the most underappreciated job a teaching assistant could perform. First of all the pay was crap, if there was any pay at all. Plus, every complaint that a student voiced was given right over to the TA, regardless of whether or not it was their fault. And any kudos given, the "actual" instructors kept for themselves. Heh. "Actual" instructor. As if the TA didn't perform most of the instruction anyway. But, then again, who said that college was about learning?
What a joke.
Leafing through another half-dozen pages of printout, Shauna realized that this student, too, had must have missed class on Thursday. You'd think they'd learn to show up when the class planned on reviewing helpful tips for making the assignment easier. Whose paper was this, anyway?
Owen's. Heh--that made her smile.
Yeah, he wasn't in class on Thursday because she had kept him out until the wee hours of the morning, having him walk her back to her apartment after the basketball game Wednesday night. Of course, four pitchers of beer at Jake's Hickory Bar-B-Que Pit wouldn't exactly motivate a person to be up at the crack of dawn, either, now would it? Thankfully, the rain hadn't started until she was safely inside her two-bedroom apartment and he had made it at least half-way back to the residence halls.
It was against school policy to date a student, of course, and it had taken every ounce of her will power to NOT kiss him good night. But the semester was very nearly finished and she fully expected him to ask her out properly once the instructor evaluations were completed. And finals were finished. And graded. And the grades turned in. Besides, it wasn't a real first date any way. They'd just run into each other at the game and decided to grab a bite to eat at the same table.
She leafed through the student roster and found his phone number, then picked up her cell phone and dialed it.
One ring.
Her eyes were back on the computer code printout. Why did he use that syntax here--was he not paying attention at all last week? Sheesh, sometimes it seemed--
Two rings.
--his mind was elsewhere altogether. He was a pretty sharp cat. Some might say brilliant, even. Not nearly as athletic as she was, but smart enough both in a bookish kind of way and in a street-smart kind of way. Challenge him to a 50-yard dash, though, and--
Three rings, now. Or was that four?
--he'd end up breathing like a fifty-year-old smoker. Jeez, was he going to answer or not?
"Hello?"
"Hey, Owen, it's me, Shauna."
"Hello, is anyone there?"
"Hey, Owen. Can you hear me? It's me, Shauna."
Stupid cell phone. More and more often the thing would flake out, acting like it was on mute and forcing her to just listen to the other party slowly become frustrated while she was helpless to do anything but hang up, call back, and hope that it worked the second time.
She was about to End Call, but heard a noise that was unmistakable: the opening of the dilapidated elevator doors outside of the undergrad computer lab. And an eerie, scratchy voice that she vaguely recognized, telling Owen to stop where he was if he valued his life.
What a joke.
Leafing through another half-dozen pages of printout, Shauna realized that this student, too, had must have missed class on Thursday. You'd think they'd learn to show up when the class planned on reviewing helpful tips for making the assignment easier. Whose paper was this, anyway?
Owen's. Heh--that made her smile.
Yeah, he wasn't in class on Thursday because she had kept him out until the wee hours of the morning, having him walk her back to her apartment after the basketball game Wednesday night. Of course, four pitchers of beer at Jake's Hickory Bar-B-Que Pit wouldn't exactly motivate a person to be up at the crack of dawn, either, now would it? Thankfully, the rain hadn't started until she was safely inside her two-bedroom apartment and he had made it at least half-way back to the residence halls.
It was against school policy to date a student, of course, and it had taken every ounce of her will power to NOT kiss him good night. But the semester was very nearly finished and she fully expected him to ask her out properly once the instructor evaluations were completed. And finals were finished. And graded. And the grades turned in. Besides, it wasn't a real first date any way. They'd just run into each other at the game and decided to grab a bite to eat at the same table.
She leafed through the student roster and found his phone number, then picked up her cell phone and dialed it.
One ring.
Her eyes were back on the computer code printout. Why did he use that syntax here--was he not paying attention at all last week? Sheesh, sometimes it seemed--
Two rings.
--his mind was elsewhere altogether. He was a pretty sharp cat. Some might say brilliant, even. Not nearly as athletic as she was, but smart enough both in a bookish kind of way and in a street-smart kind of way. Challenge him to a 50-yard dash, though, and--
Three rings, now. Or was that four?
--he'd end up breathing like a fifty-year-old smoker. Jeez, was he going to answer or not?
"Hello?"
"Hey, Owen, it's me, Shauna."
"Hello, is anyone there?"
"Hey, Owen. Can you hear me? It's me, Shauna."
Stupid cell phone. More and more often the thing would flake out, acting like it was on mute and forcing her to just listen to the other party slowly become frustrated while she was helpless to do anything but hang up, call back, and hope that it worked the second time.
She was about to End Call, but heard a noise that was unmistakable: the opening of the dilapidated elevator doors outside of the undergrad computer lab. And an eerie, scratchy voice that she vaguely recognized, telling Owen to stop where he was if he valued his life.
Owen grimaced and stepped away from the overpowering smell of urine. His nostrils were under such assault that his eyes began to water, and his mind was flooded with memories of Paris.
Ah Paris. He had gone with an overseas work-study group the summer after his freshman year in college. The group of six had arrived in the pre-dawn hours, met their program representative, and taken public transportation to the hotel. As they entered the subway terminal, the distinct smell of stagnant urine greeted them, and only intensified as they maneuvered the maze of terminals. The stench became so strong it seemed to infiltrate the threads of their clothing and seep into their pores. Once at their stop, they bounded to street level and took in heavy gulps of air to cleanse their lungs and calm the nauseating feeling in their stomachs. Over the summer, they became accustomed to the smell, but it never became pleasant.
The noisy and jerking motion of the elevator doors closing brought Owen back to his present circumstance. He thrust forward between the two closing doors and physically demanded they reverse their course. The doors complied hesitantly, and Owen scanned the elevator compartment. A partially eaten protein bar. A broken vase. A bouquet of flowers scattered and crushed. A large streak of blood on the left side wall. A bloody handprint on the back wall. Owen’s eyes widened and he instinctively began to back away from the scene before him.
The silence was shattered by his quick intake of breath as he backed in to something very solid.
Ah Paris. He had gone with an overseas work-study group the summer after his freshman year in college. The group of six had arrived in the pre-dawn hours, met their program representative, and taken public transportation to the hotel. As they entered the subway terminal, the distinct smell of stagnant urine greeted them, and only intensified as they maneuvered the maze of terminals. The stench became so strong it seemed to infiltrate the threads of their clothing and seep into their pores. Once at their stop, they bounded to street level and took in heavy gulps of air to cleanse their lungs and calm the nauseating feeling in their stomachs. Over the summer, they became accustomed to the smell, but it never became pleasant.
The noisy and jerking motion of the elevator doors closing brought Owen back to his present circumstance. He thrust forward between the two closing doors and physically demanded they reverse their course. The doors complied hesitantly, and Owen scanned the elevator compartment. A partially eaten protein bar. A broken vase. A bouquet of flowers scattered and crushed. A large streak of blood on the left side wall. A bloody handprint on the back wall. Owen’s eyes widened and he instinctively began to back away from the scene before him.
The silence was shattered by his quick intake of breath as he backed in to something very solid.
1/30/2006
Pushing the elevator call butto--AAAAHHH!! HE WAS BEING ELECtrocu--... wait.
Still alive.
Not electrocuteD!!! AAAHHH!! FOR THE LOVE OF Goh--oh...
Oh.
Maybe he was a little on edge, after all.
The cell phone vibrating in the front pocket of Owen's five-day old jeans had really given him a start. Speaking of which, they seriously needed to fix the washing machine at his apartment complex. The entire laundry room had been "under renovation" for three months now as the landlord was very likely taking a reprieve from his neverending barrage of verbal harrassment on helpless early-twentysomethings to enjoy a month or three on a secluded beachfront. Must be nice.
Though Owen really couldn't blame him. If he were a landlord he'd probably--oh, right. The phone.
"Ding!" chimed the elevator bell.
"Hello?"
Jeez. Why does the elevator always arrive just when you've started a phone conversation? They need to either make the elevators faster or they need to make them slower. Either way would be fine. But as it is, it's gotta be a conspiracy.
"Hello, is anyone there?"
Apparently, in his state of shock, Owen watched--but hadn't registered--a dark figure pass into the open stairwell and begin its rapid ascent, two steps at a time. Presently, and simultaneously, the cell phone went dead, the stairwell door closed, and the elevator doors slid noisily and jerkily open, offering the unmistakable stench of urine and revealing the contents therein.
Still alive.
Not electrocuteD!!! AAAHHH!! FOR THE LOVE OF Goh--oh...
Oh.
Maybe he was a little on edge, after all.
The cell phone vibrating in the front pocket of Owen's five-day old jeans had really given him a start. Speaking of which, they seriously needed to fix the washing machine at his apartment complex. The entire laundry room had been "under renovation" for three months now as the landlord was very likely taking a reprieve from his neverending barrage of verbal harrassment on helpless early-twentysomethings to enjoy a month or three on a secluded beachfront. Must be nice.
Though Owen really couldn't blame him. If he were a landlord he'd probably--oh, right. The phone.
"Ding!" chimed the elevator bell.
"Hello?"
Jeez. Why does the elevator always arrive just when you've started a phone conversation? They need to either make the elevators faster or they need to make them slower. Either way would be fine. But as it is, it's gotta be a conspiracy.
"Hello, is anyone there?"
Apparently, in his state of shock, Owen watched--but hadn't registered--a dark figure pass into the open stairwell and begin its rapid ascent, two steps at a time. Presently, and simultaneously, the cell phone went dead, the stairwell door closed, and the elevator doors slid noisily and jerkily open, offering the unmistakable stench of urine and revealing the contents therein.
His heartbeat shifted from the usual steady drum to a slower, heavier thudding. He could hear and feel the thuds in his ears. He froze, standing in the landing, listening intently.
He strained to hear any sound, any person at all. Half of him wished that a competent adult would show up and explain everything. The other, more imaginative half desperately hoped that he would hear no sound of any person or thing.
All was silent.
By and by, his heart and mind relaxed a bit. The rational part of his brain reactivated, recalling that one of its more important jobs is to explain the puzzling and alarming bits of the world. Within moments, it produced a few possibilities:
"Maybe it's paint."
"Maybe it's a prank."
"Maybe I'm hallucinating."
Then he noticed a faint maroon streak on one of the elevator doors.
Whatever the handprint was, so was the streak.
Whoever had left the handprint, had surely also left the streak.
Whoever it was, had probably entered the elevator.
"Or been dragged into it," his rational mind added helpfully, probably wishing that somebody would get it drunk so that it wouldn't have to explain any more blood.
Despite the renewed thudding, he saw his hand reach out and press the elevator call button.
He strained to hear any sound, any person at all. Half of him wished that a competent adult would show up and explain everything. The other, more imaginative half desperately hoped that he would hear no sound of any person or thing.
All was silent.
By and by, his heart and mind relaxed a bit. The rational part of his brain reactivated, recalling that one of its more important jobs is to explain the puzzling and alarming bits of the world. Within moments, it produced a few possibilities:
"Maybe it's paint."
"Maybe it's a prank."
"Maybe I'm hallucinating."
Then he noticed a faint maroon streak on one of the elevator doors.
Whatever the handprint was, so was the streak.
Whoever had left the handprint, had surely also left the streak.
Whoever it was, had probably entered the elevator.
"Or been dragged into it," his rational mind added helpfully, probably wishing that somebody would get it drunk so that it wouldn't have to explain any more blood.
Despite the renewed thudding, he saw his hand reach out and press the elevator call button.
1/27/2006
Owen slumped in his chair and stared blankly at the computer terminal, glassy eyes half-hidden by drooping eyelids, courtesy of fourteen straight stinking hours in the stinking math department basement's stinking old-ass stinking computer lab.
He was surprised that he could even be glassy eyed, considering how much caffeine he'd had since "oh dark thirty" this morning. Frigging homework.
The lab was an embarrassment. Set beneath one of the most impressive buildings on one of the most impressive campuses in the United States, this building boasted two of the world's top five most powerful mainframe computers. Computers that required special government clearance just to look at. Computers that required access card, fingerprint, and voice analysis verification before you even got into the room. Access that required passing through a bullet-proof double-entry door that could seal you inside if you entered the wrong password, easily trapping you while men in black suits and dark sunglasses came to "investigate". And if you didn't have a damned good reason to be there... well, let's just say that your transcript records might not be only thing they would erase. Computers that held... who knew what? Wicked shit, that's for sure.
Yet here Owen sat in front of a green-screen terminal working on a system that had its last major code change three years ago when a now-defunct software company breathed its final, diseased, wheezing breath and collapsed weakly under the straining weight of its own bureaucracy--thus leaving the univerisity with millions of dollars in unsupportable software and Owen with a piece of shit on which to base his ComSci 3155 final project. You'd think they could afford a new system considering all the grant money pouring in. And they probably could. They just didn't spend it on undergrad facilities.
The lab itself reeked of depression. The fluorescent lights overhead shone depondently on rows of antiquated terminals, arranged in parallel rows on cheap, plywood desks scrawled with names of people who attended here years ago, graduated (or, more likely, dropped out), went out into the real world, married young, gave birth to spoiled children, divorced, bought overpriced sports cars, hooked up with twenty-year-old girlfriends, and died in violent, fiery car crashes while getting blown from hookers on the I-95. "Well," Owen thought to himself, "I digress. The point was that they led pitiful, wasted lives."
Man, what a bummer. He was bringing himself down. Probably due to caffeine withdrawal.
He stood and looked around. The lab was empty, save for himself. As it damned well should be at midnight on a Saturday. On a college campus. "Somewhere there's a panty raid going on," he continued, "and I'm living my life in a computer lab."
Turning from the monitor and leaving his belongings where they lay (as if someone's going to drop in to steal them at this hour) Owen walked up the aisle and pushed through the dual swinging doors into the quiet, late-night hallway. He stopped in front of the vending machine for his hourly ritual. He'd already cleared the last of the Mountain Dew from the damned thing, so he'd have to demote himself to a Coca-Cola drinker. Of course, any soda that can melt a steel nail should be able to provide the necessary energy for another sixty minutes of mind-numbing programming.
Popping the top, he turned around and glanced at the elevator across the landing. 'Is that a handprint?' He walked closer to get a better look, stopping just in front of the doors. Wiping a finger across the print, Owen smudged it easily. Taken aback, he looked more closely at his now greasy index finger and realized, to some surprise, the print was very obviously made in blood.
He was surprised that he could even be glassy eyed, considering how much caffeine he'd had since "oh dark thirty" this morning. Frigging homework.
The lab was an embarrassment. Set beneath one of the most impressive buildings on one of the most impressive campuses in the United States, this building boasted two of the world's top five most powerful mainframe computers. Computers that required special government clearance just to look at. Computers that required access card, fingerprint, and voice analysis verification before you even got into the room. Access that required passing through a bullet-proof double-entry door that could seal you inside if you entered the wrong password, easily trapping you while men in black suits and dark sunglasses came to "investigate". And if you didn't have a damned good reason to be there... well, let's just say that your transcript records might not be only thing they would erase. Computers that held... who knew what? Wicked shit, that's for sure.
Yet here Owen sat in front of a green-screen terminal working on a system that had its last major code change three years ago when a now-defunct software company breathed its final, diseased, wheezing breath and collapsed weakly under the straining weight of its own bureaucracy--thus leaving the univerisity with millions of dollars in unsupportable software and Owen with a piece of shit on which to base his ComSci 3155 final project. You'd think they could afford a new system considering all the grant money pouring in. And they probably could. They just didn't spend it on undergrad facilities.
The lab itself reeked of depression. The fluorescent lights overhead shone depondently on rows of antiquated terminals, arranged in parallel rows on cheap, plywood desks scrawled with names of people who attended here years ago, graduated (or, more likely, dropped out), went out into the real world, married young, gave birth to spoiled children, divorced, bought overpriced sports cars, hooked up with twenty-year-old girlfriends, and died in violent, fiery car crashes while getting blown from hookers on the I-95. "Well," Owen thought to himself, "I digress. The point was that they led pitiful, wasted lives."
Man, what a bummer. He was bringing himself down. Probably due to caffeine withdrawal.
He stood and looked around. The lab was empty, save for himself. As it damned well should be at midnight on a Saturday. On a college campus. "Somewhere there's a panty raid going on," he continued, "and I'm living my life in a computer lab."
Turning from the monitor and leaving his belongings where they lay (as if someone's going to drop in to steal them at this hour) Owen walked up the aisle and pushed through the dual swinging doors into the quiet, late-night hallway. He stopped in front of the vending machine for his hourly ritual. He'd already cleared the last of the Mountain Dew from the damned thing, so he'd have to demote himself to a Coca-Cola drinker. Of course, any soda that can melt a steel nail should be able to provide the necessary energy for another sixty minutes of mind-numbing programming.
Popping the top, he turned around and glanced at the elevator across the landing. 'Is that a handprint?' He walked closer to get a better look, stopping just in front of the doors. Wiping a finger across the print, Owen smudged it easily. Taken aback, he looked more closely at his now greasy index finger and realized, to some surprise, the print was very obviously made in blood.
============= NEW STORY =============
11/11/2003
As I neared the corner of Highland Avenue, just two houses away from where I knew lay the most terrifying of destinations in my short 23 year life, a thought occured to me. There was no way I was going to be able to go there alone and be effective in any way to help this woman. Most likely the end result would be two deaths, not one. I looked around at the scuddy neighborhood, thinking to myself that I must be crazy to be in a neighborhood like this alone at this hour.
Who can help me?
Racking my brain with all the people I knew, which was a whole two since I had been in LA for only a few months, I decided to go to the one place where everyone goes for help. The police. I would probably get laughed out of the place, but I knew there were a few cops who believed in powers that couldn't be explained. I'd seen stories on TV about it. Hopefully I would be able to find one.
For Christssake, Laney, this isn't the fucking movies. But I knew I had to try.
A couple bus stops later I found myself standing outside the first precinct I could find. With a deep breath I entered the building, trying to contain the adrenaline that was flooding my veins. I knew I had to be level-headed and calm if I had any hope of getting anyone to listen to me. As I turned the corner bright flashes of light in my head stopped me in my tracks. A gun....no a knife waving in front of my eyes. The light bouncing off the blade as it lowered to my chest. A thin cut, droplets of blood trickling down my breast. The hand rearing back, snapping my head back with a blow from the back of his tattooed hand. Pain searing through my cheek made me stagger, grasping the arm of a chair to steady myself. Uncontrollable tears filled my eyes and my chest heaved.
"Ma'am, are you OK?"
I looked up into kind eyes. The young dark-haired officer gently grasped my arm and motioned me to his desk. He sat down opposite me and urged me to tell him what was wrong. I spilled everything uncontrollably, the old black woman, the visions, Stop Mart, the pole, the street address, the knife, the pain, the blood, the danger. So much for being calm and collected, I though wryly to myself.
The young officer sat back in his chair, took a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his short, spiky hair.
"You realize this story you're telling me is a little unbelieveable, don't you?"
"Yes, I-I know, but this is the only place I knew to come for help. You have to believe me. I would never make something like this up." My hands were uncontrollably shaking, and suddenly I felt as if I hadn't slept for days.
With a sigh, he stood up and opened his desk drawer, grabbed his sidearm and strapped it into his shoulder harness. "I guess it can't hurt to at least check it out. Come on. Lets go."
Who can help me?
Racking my brain with all the people I knew, which was a whole two since I had been in LA for only a few months, I decided to go to the one place where everyone goes for help. The police. I would probably get laughed out of the place, but I knew there were a few cops who believed in powers that couldn't be explained. I'd seen stories on TV about it. Hopefully I would be able to find one.
For Christssake, Laney, this isn't the fucking movies. But I knew I had to try.
A couple bus stops later I found myself standing outside the first precinct I could find. With a deep breath I entered the building, trying to contain the adrenaline that was flooding my veins. I knew I had to be level-headed and calm if I had any hope of getting anyone to listen to me. As I turned the corner bright flashes of light in my head stopped me in my tracks. A gun....no a knife waving in front of my eyes. The light bouncing off the blade as it lowered to my chest. A thin cut, droplets of blood trickling down my breast. The hand rearing back, snapping my head back with a blow from the back of his tattooed hand. Pain searing through my cheek made me stagger, grasping the arm of a chair to steady myself. Uncontrollable tears filled my eyes and my chest heaved.
"Ma'am, are you OK?"
I looked up into kind eyes. The young dark-haired officer gently grasped my arm and motioned me to his desk. He sat down opposite me and urged me to tell him what was wrong. I spilled everything uncontrollably, the old black woman, the visions, Stop Mart, the pole, the street address, the knife, the pain, the blood, the danger. So much for being calm and collected, I though wryly to myself.
The young officer sat back in his chair, took a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his short, spiky hair.
"You realize this story you're telling me is a little unbelieveable, don't you?"
"Yes, I-I know, but this is the only place I knew to come for help. You have to believe me. I would never make something like this up." My hands were uncontrollably shaking, and suddenly I felt as if I hadn't slept for days.
With a sigh, he stood up and opened his desk drawer, grabbed his sidearm and strapped it into his shoulder harness. "I guess it can't hurt to at least check it out. Come on. Lets go."
I stood on the sidewalk outside my house and looked around, waiting, as if the sign of what I was meant to do, where I was meant to go, would simply materialize in front of my face.
At least Moses got a burning bush. I smiled bitterly at the weak jest.
There was no sign from the heavens. For all I could tell, it was just another dead of night in the suburbs, another hour in a succession of hours marching relentlessly toward sunrise and another day. For me, and for everyone in this town.
Except one.
I felt the panic welling up inside, and stamped it down as best I could. I needed a clear head. No going weak right now. A life depended on it.
The thought of it angered me. Why me? What fucking business was it of mine, that I had to stand out here at three in the morning, freezing my ass off, trying to find some anonymous woman I'd seen in a vision? And couldn't whoever or whatever was sending me these visions be a little more helpful?
Then I remembered the blood trickling down her face. This isn't about you, I reminded myself.
Right.
Where the hell is she? Think!
That Stop Mart sign. Where had I seen it before? Not that there weren't a million of those things all over town, but there was something about the way it had looked. The angle. The buildings behind it. So familiar.
Then it hit me. The bus. The fucking bus. I'd seen that sign from the window of the bus every day on my way to work, just one of a long list of things I saw every day outside that window without really seeing them. God, and it wasn't even half a mile from here.
I ran, following a trail of bus stops, my breath streaming clouds in the chilly autumn air. Turned right at the corner. A left at the next. And there it was, unlit, just a thin black silhouette against the moonlit sky. The Stop Mart sign.
I placed a hand on the cold iron pole for support as I bent over, panting, and that's when the pain hit me again, hard. I staggered and nearly fell. There was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. Blood.
He had been here. The asshole who had taken the woman. He had leaned right here, where my hand was clutching the pole. Waiting for her. Realizing this, I snatched my hand away as if the pole had been electrified.
My head was pounding, and the metallic taste was so strong, it was all I could do to keep from gagging.
But I'd seen something. A scrap of an image torn from his mind, left behind like a discarded cigarette butt.
A street address.
I wish I could say that I immediately headed for the scene of the crime, Wonder Woman in sweatpants, racing off to save the day. But I didn't. I just stood there, frozen, staring in the direction of the house, biting my lip. What did I think I was doing, anyway, playing the heroine? What did I have planned, once I got there? Beat the shit out of some hulking rapist with my three self-defense lessons?
Just go home, I told myself. I don't even know this woman. What am I supposed to do, save every rape victim in the city? Me? I'm too chickenshit to ask my boss for a raise, and I'm going to beat up bad guys?
I shook my head. To hell with this.
I had just turned back towards home when the voice of the old woman sounded in my head.
You must decide which voice you are going to listen to, Child, the one in your head or the one in your heart.
The words spoken gently, but with infuriating, unwavering certainty.
I stopped, my hands balled up into fists so tight they hurt. I turned around, sighed deeply and started walking toward the house, and the bleeding woman, and God knew what else.
When my feet hit asphalt, I began to run.
At least Moses got a burning bush. I smiled bitterly at the weak jest.
There was no sign from the heavens. For all I could tell, it was just another dead of night in the suburbs, another hour in a succession of hours marching relentlessly toward sunrise and another day. For me, and for everyone in this town.
Except one.
I felt the panic welling up inside, and stamped it down as best I could. I needed a clear head. No going weak right now. A life depended on it.
The thought of it angered me. Why me? What fucking business was it of mine, that I had to stand out here at three in the morning, freezing my ass off, trying to find some anonymous woman I'd seen in a vision? And couldn't whoever or whatever was sending me these visions be a little more helpful?
Then I remembered the blood trickling down her face. This isn't about you, I reminded myself.
Right.
Where the hell is she? Think!
That Stop Mart sign. Where had I seen it before? Not that there weren't a million of those things all over town, but there was something about the way it had looked. The angle. The buildings behind it. So familiar.
Then it hit me. The bus. The fucking bus. I'd seen that sign from the window of the bus every day on my way to work, just one of a long list of things I saw every day outside that window without really seeing them. God, and it wasn't even half a mile from here.
I ran, following a trail of bus stops, my breath streaming clouds in the chilly autumn air. Turned right at the corner. A left at the next. And there it was, unlit, just a thin black silhouette against the moonlit sky. The Stop Mart sign.
I placed a hand on the cold iron pole for support as I bent over, panting, and that's when the pain hit me again, hard. I staggered and nearly fell. There was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. Blood.
He had been here. The asshole who had taken the woman. He had leaned right here, where my hand was clutching the pole. Waiting for her. Realizing this, I snatched my hand away as if the pole had been electrified.
My head was pounding, and the metallic taste was so strong, it was all I could do to keep from gagging.
But I'd seen something. A scrap of an image torn from his mind, left behind like a discarded cigarette butt.
A street address.
I wish I could say that I immediately headed for the scene of the crime, Wonder Woman in sweatpants, racing off to save the day. But I didn't. I just stood there, frozen, staring in the direction of the house, biting my lip. What did I think I was doing, anyway, playing the heroine? What did I have planned, once I got there? Beat the shit out of some hulking rapist with my three self-defense lessons?
Just go home, I told myself. I don't even know this woman. What am I supposed to do, save every rape victim in the city? Me? I'm too chickenshit to ask my boss for a raise, and I'm going to beat up bad guys?
I shook my head. To hell with this.
I had just turned back towards home when the voice of the old woman sounded in my head.
You must decide which voice you are going to listen to, Child, the one in your head or the one in your heart.
The words spoken gently, but with infuriating, unwavering certainty.
I stopped, my hands balled up into fists so tight they hurt. I turned around, sighed deeply and started walking toward the house, and the bleeding woman, and God knew what else.
When my feet hit asphalt, I began to run.
11/09/2003
The woman next to him gasped and started awake. He watched her through lowered eyelids as she scanned the room. He knew she was tracking, trying to figure out where she was. It amused him to watch the pieces fall into place and the recognition dawn. He breathed in deeply through his nose and moved his legs, pretending to wake up.
"Good morning, darling," he said.
He could feel her trembling. It had started the moment she recalled where she was and who he was.
"Good thing you don't have a cold," he said cheerfully. "I was worried that you wouldn't be able to breathe through your nose all night long."
Her eyes filled with tears and she moaned a little through the rough sock gag he had fashioned. The blood that had dripped from her head had soaked into her sock. It looked particulary gruesome and even phony to him.
"Shall I change that for you? Or, I could remove it, if you promise to be good and not scream. Do you think you can do that?"
She nodded vigorously. He cut the bloody fabric with the large bowie-type knife on the nightstand. She breathed deeply through her mouth. She brought her right hand up to her face and winced. Her hand was a swollen and bloody mass of flesh, complete with the small bones piercing the skin from all the compound fractures he had caused. She tucked her right hand carefully into the crook of her left arm. With her left hand she rubbed her lips and face as if trying to get the feeling back. He watched, mesmerized, as the hand with the simple gold band moved back and forth over her lips.
"You should take that off," he said. "It doesn't apply anymore."
"Good morning, darling," he said.
He could feel her trembling. It had started the moment she recalled where she was and who he was.
"Good thing you don't have a cold," he said cheerfully. "I was worried that you wouldn't be able to breathe through your nose all night long."
Her eyes filled with tears and she moaned a little through the rough sock gag he had fashioned. The blood that had dripped from her head had soaked into her sock. It looked particulary gruesome and even phony to him.
"Shall I change that for you? Or, I could remove it, if you promise to be good and not scream. Do you think you can do that?"
She nodded vigorously. He cut the bloody fabric with the large bowie-type knife on the nightstand. She breathed deeply through her mouth. She brought her right hand up to her face and winced. Her hand was a swollen and bloody mass of flesh, complete with the small bones piercing the skin from all the compound fractures he had caused. She tucked her right hand carefully into the crook of her left arm. With her left hand she rubbed her lips and face as if trying to get the feeling back. He watched, mesmerized, as the hand with the simple gold band moved back and forth over her lips.
"You should take that off," he said. "It doesn't apply anymore."
11/05/2003
As I got off at my stop, it was as though I was in a daze. This woman, a stranger, told me what I had waited my whole life for someone to validate. I thought back on my days as a child, those moments when I knew what was going to happen before it did, to those moments when others whispered behind my back that, "There isn't something quite right about that child." I finally felt as though I could face up to what I knew was going to be my reality-what had always been my reality.
Now I had to decide what to do with it.
I moved through the rest of my day scarcely paying attention to what was going on around me. The telltale twinge of a headache pulsed at my temples, alerting me to what would come later. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning, on the edge of a dreamlike state, for it is at the point of not quite asleep and not quite awake that the vision will come to me.
I saw her, the tears streaming down her face as she begged her captor to please let her go, bargaining that she wouldn't tell anyone as long as he would let her go home to her husband and baby. I felt the throbbing of her head, felt the blood as it trickled down her face. I felt her fear. I saw her thoughts as she tortured herself with the choice she had made to stop to get gas on the way home from work rather than go straight home to her family. I saw the Stop Mart sign glowing in the background as the man hit the side of her head, dazing her enough to jump in her car and speed away.
I bolted upright in bed and it was then that I knew what I must do. It was time to stop blocking out the images of the future that plagued me, and time to do something to help these people. I had to find her. I had to warn her.
Now I had to decide what to do with it.
I moved through the rest of my day scarcely paying attention to what was going on around me. The telltale twinge of a headache pulsed at my temples, alerting me to what would come later. I slept fitfully, tossing and turning, on the edge of a dreamlike state, for it is at the point of not quite asleep and not quite awake that the vision will come to me.
I saw her, the tears streaming down her face as she begged her captor to please let her go, bargaining that she wouldn't tell anyone as long as he would let her go home to her husband and baby. I felt the throbbing of her head, felt the blood as it trickled down her face. I felt her fear. I saw her thoughts as she tortured herself with the choice she had made to stop to get gas on the way home from work rather than go straight home to her family. I saw the Stop Mart sign glowing in the background as the man hit the side of her head, dazing her enough to jump in her car and speed away.
I bolted upright in bed and it was then that I knew what I must do. It was time to stop blocking out the images of the future that plagued me, and time to do something to help these people. I had to find her. I had to warn her.
10/31/2003
I was on the bus headed to work. It was a warm morning, the humidity already blanketing the air. Across from me sat an elderly black woman. I found myself studying her. Her gauzy dress frayed at the bottom, probably from too many scrubbings, or perhaps it drug on her earthquake-cracked steps as climbed to the door of her home. I studied her plump ankles and wondered how many miles her feet had carried her. Her hands were surprisingly youthful, with clean nails cut short; they only betrayed their age by the slight tremble as she lifted her water bottle to her lips. Those lips curved into a smile and I knew she had seen me watching her. I looked into eyes that were full of wisdom, love, life, and sadness, almost as if she had seen too much.
As she spoke to me it was as if everything around me came to a halt, "Child, you have seen it," her warm, rich voice said.
"Ma'am? I'm sorry? What have I seen?"
"It doesn't happen to everyone. You have been given an important gift. Now, it is up to you how you will use it."
"How will I know if I use it right? I don't understand what you're trying to tell me."
"You must decide which voice you are going to listen to, Child, the one in your head or the one in your heart. One is easy. One is hard. The voice in your heart will allow you to see many things, help many people, but you must learn to let it speak to you and not block it out."
Tears unexpectedly filled my eyes as I asked, "But what if I pick the wrong one?"
She leaned forward and smiled, the wisdom and love shining through her eyes and her wide toothy grin beaming as she nodded and patted my hand. "I have a good feeling about you, Child. You're one of the lucky ones. You, like me, have the vision."
She stood with her cane and made her way to the exit of the bus, turned with a wink and she was gone. I looked for her outside the windows and it was as though she had vanished, with only the scent of her musk left behind. I wanted to call after her, convinced she had answers to the deepest truths, the answers to the questions I had sought my whole life. I had always known I was different. Maybe it took this woman to show me that I was in fact different, and special for me to accept it.
As she spoke to me it was as if everything around me came to a halt, "Child, you have seen it," her warm, rich voice said.
"Ma'am? I'm sorry? What have I seen?"
"It doesn't happen to everyone. You have been given an important gift. Now, it is up to you how you will use it."
"How will I know if I use it right? I don't understand what you're trying to tell me."
"You must decide which voice you are going to listen to, Child, the one in your head or the one in your heart. One is easy. One is hard. The voice in your heart will allow you to see many things, help many people, but you must learn to let it speak to you and not block it out."
Tears unexpectedly filled my eyes as I asked, "But what if I pick the wrong one?"
She leaned forward and smiled, the wisdom and love shining through her eyes and her wide toothy grin beaming as she nodded and patted my hand. "I have a good feeling about you, Child. You're one of the lucky ones. You, like me, have the vision."
She stood with her cane and made her way to the exit of the bus, turned with a wink and she was gone. I looked for her outside the windows and it was as though she had vanished, with only the scent of her musk left behind. I wanted to call after her, convinced she had answers to the deepest truths, the answers to the questions I had sought my whole life. I had always known I was different. Maybe it took this woman to show me that I was in fact different, and special for me to accept it.
10/30/2003
A strange rumble started to erupt from the Pain room. The group paused for a moment, looked at each other, and at the same time erupted into, "RUUUNNNN!!!!!!!!!! They sprinted toward the end of the corridor towards freedom and safety. The rumble grew to an ear shattering roar, the corridor started to quake, dust and debris falling on them as they ran. Flashbacks of Indiana Jones and the giant rolling stone flashed through Jerry's mind. Mom stumbled over Salty Pete and they both careened to the cold, stone floor. Jerry and Josie hurredly picked them up and dragged them to the iron door. After what seemed like miles, they reached the door and flew through it, slamming it shut with a loud 'CLANG.' Seconds later the door shook from the force of the explosion on the other end, a cloud of dust erupting from under the cracks.
At that moment the police finally pulled up to the curb - too little too late apparently. From behind her Josie heard a faint scratching on the door. She slowly opened in and saw Piers and Timothy laying on the threshold, Timothy face down laying on the floor with Piers laying on top of him, leather g-string and all. A photographer from the Times popped a picture, inwardly cackling at the money he was going to make of the billionaire queer boy. The police quickly cuffed them, dragging them to separate cars, a desperate Piers wailing about his queen, pre-mature ejaculation, and the downfall of the upcoming communist regime in the US. Timothy, head held low, was being led to the car, inwardly cursing his inability to find reliable help. Fuck for 250K a year, you would think they could at least get one thing right!
Mom and Gert walked away hand in hand, devising plans on rebuilding their small arsenal.
Chuck put his arm around Salty Pete's shoulders and asked him if he wanted to buy some weed, "Ack sonny, I'd like ta imbibe on yer offer, but ifn I get a lil funny in tha head it twerent be long afore I'd be gettin' me some hungry eyes for ettin me some ass. Dad burn cravins."
"Um, yeah OK, Old Timer, whatever man."
Josie and Jerry turned to each other. Jerry looked at Josie with a mischevious grin, "So, Mistress, I think we have some unfinished business."
"Relax, cowboy, we have the rest of our lives to play. Take me to bed or lose me forever."
Jerry swept Josie into his arms and carried her down the street, away from idiocy and evil, and towards the rest of their days together.
At that moment the police finally pulled up to the curb - too little too late apparently. From behind her Josie heard a faint scratching on the door. She slowly opened in and saw Piers and Timothy laying on the threshold, Timothy face down laying on the floor with Piers laying on top of him, leather g-string and all. A photographer from the Times popped a picture, inwardly cackling at the money he was going to make of the billionaire queer boy. The police quickly cuffed them, dragging them to separate cars, a desperate Piers wailing about his queen, pre-mature ejaculation, and the downfall of the upcoming communist regime in the US. Timothy, head held low, was being led to the car, inwardly cursing his inability to find reliable help. Fuck for 250K a year, you would think they could at least get one thing right!
Mom and Gert walked away hand in hand, devising plans on rebuilding their small arsenal.
Chuck put his arm around Salty Pete's shoulders and asked him if he wanted to buy some weed, "Ack sonny, I'd like ta imbibe on yer offer, but ifn I get a lil funny in tha head it twerent be long afore I'd be gettin' me some hungry eyes for ettin me some ass. Dad burn cravins."
"Um, yeah OK, Old Timer, whatever man."
Josie and Jerry turned to each other. Jerry looked at Josie with a mischevious grin, "So, Mistress, I think we have some unfinished business."
"Relax, cowboy, we have the rest of our lives to play. Take me to bed or lose me forever."
Jerry swept Josie into his arms and carried her down the street, away from idiocy and evil, and towards the rest of their days together.
10/29/2003
Josie knew exactly what she had to do.
"Hoolaballoo! Izzle kizzle, fo' schizzle. My nizzle, what you sizzle? Fo' schizzle bizzle, ha ha!"
She shouted out loud. Stoop Guy a.k.a. Timothy blinked.
"What the....?"
At the ancient Es En Double O Pee chant, Piers jumped up from his submissive position into Hong Kong Phooey mode, his leather G-string and corset shining with a mixture of sweat and tears. It was a truly scary sight to watch him tear across the corridor towards Timothy.
Jerry squeezed Josie's hand. He was wincing.
"Uh oh, he's got a studded dog collar on....This is gonna hurt," Jerry said.
Sure enough, Piers grabbed hold of Timothy's cheeks with both of his hands and started kissing the man violently, passionately, wildly......
"Help! Christ! What the fuck are you doing? Gerrimoffme! Gerrimoff! Gerroff!"
Timothy's arms were flailing around as he desperately tried to disentangle himself from the embrace. As he did so, he dropped the .22 to the floor. But he held on to the diamond choker (Damn!).
In a trice, Josie had it in her hands. She knew she had to act quickly before everyone went nuts. Or were they already? Mom's eyes were taking on that glazed, crazed look she got when she saw a firearm. Josie turned her gun on the rest of the group.
"Hurry, get out now!" she yelled over Timothy's shouting and Piers's grunting.
"But he's about to take off his G-string!" Jerry and Salty Pete protested.
"Shuddup! Get going! Now!"
Everyone started moving towards the door at the end of the corridor. Just 100 metres to go, and there would be freedom, sanity and free love. Flower power. Acid. E. More firearms. Chicken. The works. And maybe body shots.
They heard a loud clang from the other side of the corridor, but no one looked behind. All they wanted was right outside. They could see the bright light of the afternoon (was it already afternoon? But no one had had any lunch!) peeking underneath the door.
"Hoolaballoo! Izzle kizzle, fo' schizzle. My nizzle, what you sizzle? Fo' schizzle bizzle, ha ha!"
She shouted out loud. Stoop Guy a.k.a. Timothy blinked.
"What the....?"
At the ancient Es En Double O Pee chant, Piers jumped up from his submissive position into Hong Kong Phooey mode, his leather G-string and corset shining with a mixture of sweat and tears. It was a truly scary sight to watch him tear across the corridor towards Timothy.
Jerry squeezed Josie's hand. He was wincing.
"Uh oh, he's got a studded dog collar on....This is gonna hurt," Jerry said.
Sure enough, Piers grabbed hold of Timothy's cheeks with both of his hands and started kissing the man violently, passionately, wildly......
"Help! Christ! What the fuck are you doing? Gerrimoffme! Gerrimoff! Gerroff!"
Timothy's arms were flailing around as he desperately tried to disentangle himself from the embrace. As he did so, he dropped the .22 to the floor. But he held on to the diamond choker (Damn!).
In a trice, Josie had it in her hands. She knew she had to act quickly before everyone went nuts. Or were they already? Mom's eyes were taking on that glazed, crazed look she got when she saw a firearm. Josie turned her gun on the rest of the group.
"Hurry, get out now!" she yelled over Timothy's shouting and Piers's grunting.
"But he's about to take off his G-string!" Jerry and Salty Pete protested.
"Shuddup! Get going! Now!"
Everyone started moving towards the door at the end of the corridor. Just 100 metres to go, and there would be freedom, sanity and free love. Flower power. Acid. E. More firearms. Chicken. The works. And maybe body shots.
They heard a loud clang from the other side of the corridor, but no one looked behind. All they wanted was right outside. They could see the bright light of the afternoon (was it already afternoon? But no one had had any lunch!) peeking underneath the door.
