N

1.1.0: Attitude

2010-11-06T22:26:00.000-07:00

"I have discovered that all human evil comes from this, man's being unable to sit still in a room."

--Blaise Pascal

1.0: The Captive Heart

2010-11-06T22:24:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, things go wrong. When that happens, the only one who can help put things right is a man who should not exist.

N 1.2.?: "Sometimes my soul desires to take leave of this old world..."

2005-10-08T22:05:00.000-07:00

Jess opens her eyes, and wonders where the carpet came from. She props herself up and looks around. She's in a very small room, poorly lit. The man in black is on the other side of the room, facing the corner and looking at the ceiling. He is as still as a statue.

Jess sits up and presses her back against the opposite corner. "You're not going to go 'Blair Witch' on me, are you?" she says.

He turns around and smiles. "'Gone are the days I stopped to decide,'" he says.

"Huh?"

"It's written on the ceiling over here." He points at the part of the ceiling by his corner; something is scrawled there. "Looks like my handwriting," he says, looking at the carpeted floor, "but I don't remember writing it. Maybe I haven't done it yet. Hmmm...oh well, less said the better. How's your head?"

"Uhh...fine," Jess says. "Why wouldn't it be?"

This seems to satisfy the man in black to a great extent. "You hit your head on one of the lockers," he says. "Good to know you're not concussed."

Jess stands, staying in her corner. "Why do I feel like I'm falling?" she says.

"Because we're going down," the man says.

"Down?"

The man moves, and Jess sees he was standing in front of what appears to be the control panel to an elevator. Jess looks at the only door out of the room: it appears to be a wooden door with a silver door handle. There are no lights above the door, no way of indicating what floor they're passing.

"That doesn't look like an elevator door," Jess says.

"I hope not," the man says. "That would indicate we were in an elevator."

"Then what are we in that's going DOWN?" Jess says.

The man smiles again. "What if you could stretch out a fraction of a milisecond to encompass what appeared to be an hour...or even more?"

Jess starts to worry...not so much about the man in black's state of mind, but her own. "Is this a hypothetical question?" she says.

"Nope," he says. "It's nothing more than a blink of an eye." And with that, the elevator stops.

The man opens the door, and waves her through. Jess pokes her head through the door to see what she's getting herself into. It's a hallway lit in blue with what appear to be display windows along the walls. She steps out of the elevator, and the man in black follows, closing the door behind him. She turns to see the door is the same wooden door with silver doorknob in the hallway as it was in the elevator.

She and the man walk down the hallway. The windows on the wall peer into different lives, different moments. One window shows a family of six sitting down for dinner. Another window shows a knight in armor resting against a tree on a sunny day. Another window shows a black room with a red couch. On the couch sits a man who looks just like the man she's walking with--same black clothing, same black leather trenchcoat, except his eyes--

The man in black hurries her along. "Don't look at him," he says as they rush past the window. "You'll only encourage him, and I have enough on my plate as it is."

"Was that you?" Jess says as she is rushed along.

"Yes...and no," he says. "Long story. You wouldn't be interested, and I always forget how it goes anyway. What we're looking for is just a few more down."

"Where the hell are we anyway?" she says.

"I told you," he says. "We're in mid-blink, and we're running out of time. I wouldn't have brought you at all, but I didn't want to leave you with Edward. I don't think he was quite out of the woods as far as the hypnotism went."

The man stops in front of a window and frowns. Jess looks at the window. Inside is a man--short in stature, hair parted down the middle, wearing glasses. His lips are moving, but there is no sound. The man in black takes off a glove and presses his hand against the glass. He twitches, but his eyes remain fixed on the little man beyond the glass.

"What's he saying?" Jess says.

"Too much noise," the man in black says. He takes his hand off the glass. "But no doubt about it, this is our man."

"What?" Jess says as she looks closer at the little man. "This is the evil mastermind?"

"It's dismissive to refer to him as evil," the man in black says. "Highly intelligent, a certainty. Motivated, no doubt. Evil...I don't think so. Misguided, probably. He's on an agenda, and he doesn't care who gets hurt so long as the end product remains the same. We need to find out two things: what he's after, and how he's making it happen."

"Is that why we're here?" Jess says. "Why didn't you didn't do this earlier?"

"Because I didn't have to blink earlier," the man says. He takes Jess by the hand. "And that blink," the man in black says, "is all but spent."

...Somewhere a two-year-old girl sneezes on her birthday cake...

...a janitor slowly turns a gun on himself...

...and about fifty robed teenagers surround two individuals in the school gym. One is a woman wearing jeans and a pink blouse; the man with her is dressed all in black. Every robed teenager is carrying a firearm of some sort. All have orders to kill on sight. All are under the influence of some powerful form of hypnotism.

In one minute and fifty-eight seconds, they are all going to have a rude awakening....

N 1.2.4: Until It Sleeps, or Columbine Can't Hold a Candle To This

2005-10-04T20:34:00.000-07:00

I walk into the dark hallway, with Jess following closely behind me. I pull a flashlight out of my coat and turn it on to guide the way. Once we leave the modified "classroom," everything appears normal. Standard lockers, posters on the wall celebrating school spirit...typical high school. I turn and look at the door Jess has closed behind her, and from the outside the door looks just like the others. I wonder....

I walk up to the nearest classroom door, take off my gloves, and touch the doorknob

OH MY GOD DID YOU HEAR WHAT NATHAN CALLED YOU OH HE DID NOT IF HE THINKS I'M PUTTING OUT NOW HE CAN GO KISS MY ASS BESIDES I'D RATHER DO IT IN THE CLOSET WITH MR. DOORENBOS AGAIN OH MY GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE HOW MANY TIME HE MADE ME

I take my hand off the doorknob and put my gloves back on. I think they'll stay on from here on out.

"What's with the gloves, anyway?" Jess says.

"Protection," I say.

"From what?"

"Ci è parte interna di cose che grida e grida," I say, and turn the corner to see what appears to be a janitor pointing a gun at me.

I shove Jess away from me just as the janitor fires his pistol. I can choose to not be struck by the jagged little pill, but Jess is another matter. I shine my flashlight in his eyes; they're glazed over, just like the teenagers before. I throw the flashlight at him and knock the gun out of his hand. He barely has time to shake his hand in pain before I kick his legs out from under him and, with one hand, slam him down on the floor. He struggles for a moment, and is then still.

"You didn't have to push me so hard," Jess says as she stumbles over to me.

I pick up the gun and toss it over my shoulder to Jess. She jumps at the sight of it coming over my shoulder, juggles the gun for a moment before she steadies herself with the gun in her hand. "Are you crazy?" she says. "I could have shot myself!"

"Not with an unloaded gun, you couldn't," I say. Jess looks at the gun and probably notices I took the clip out of it and emptied the chamber when she wasn't looking.

The janitor is blinking his eyes and looking around as if just waking up. "Wha...where am I?" the janitor says.

I help him up and brush him off. "Given your garb," I say, "I'm assuming you're at work."

The janitor looks around. "Yeah...yeah I am," he says, "but I was sweeping the gym floor. I don't remember leaving there. How did I get here?"

"Not sure, Edward," I say, clapping him on the shoulder, "but I'm sure we can find out. Safety in numbers, and all that. Oh," I say as I point to Jess behind me--still holding the empty gun and looking at me with more fear in her eyes than she had bound and gagged and about to be liquified--"Edward, meet Jess. Jess, Edward." I pick up my flashlight and continue down the hall.

Edward hangs back with Jess. "How did he know my name?" he asks her.

Jess shrugs, "The same way he knew mine," she says, "and I didn't tell him either. In fact," she says as she catches up to me, "this isn't fair at all. You know our names. What about yours?"

"What about mine?" I say as I stop at one of the lockers and inspect it closer.

"What's your--holy FUCK!" Jess screams as I open the locker and about fifteen bleached-white skulls pour out of it.

Edward is slack-jawed for a moment at the pile of skulls on the floor before he composes him enough to say: "I'm not cleaning that up."

I take off my glove and touch the locker door

THA-THUMP...THA-THUMP...THA-THUMP...THA-THUMP...THA-THUMP...THA-THUMP...THA-THUMP...THA-THUMP...THA-THUMP...THA-THUMP...WHY CAN'T I STOP MYSELF SOMEBODY HELP ME

The cry for help is so intense, I'm thrown backward and hit the wall behind me. Jess runs over to help me up. "No!" I shout, but she grabs my hand

DON'T KNOW WHAT HIS DEAL IS BUT HE'S MY TICKET OUT OF HERE WHAT IS THIS IT'S TOO BIG TO SEE HALF A POUND OF TUPPANY RICE HALF A POUND OF TREACLE GET IT OUT OF MY HEAD

and flies away from me as if bitten by a snake. She slips on the skulls, falls backward, and hits her head on one of the locker doors. She crumples to the floor, unconscious.

I scramble over to her body and put my hand on her head

ROBES SKULLS GUNS HYPNOTISM IT'S RINGING IN MY EAR AND I CAN'T REALLY HEAR YOU

and set things right inside her head before slipping my glove back on and sitting on the floor next to her.

Edward is just standing there. "What just happened?" he says.

I look at him for a moment, then look at the ground and shake my head. "Got a couple hundred years to spare?" I say. "If so, I'd be glad to fill you in." With that, I slump over and blink my eyes

...

Edward rubs his eyes, still shaking off the sleepy feeling. When he can see again, both Jess and the other man have vanished.

"Now what's going on?" he says. He looks around for them, but all he can hear is his own heartbeat.

...his own heartbeat...

...his own heartbeat...

...THA-THUMP...

...THA-THUMP...

...THA-THUMP...

...and then Edward knows nothing else.

N 1.2.3: All I Need Is Everything, or the Bastardized Version of "The Taming of the Shrew"

2005-10-03T19:11:00.000-07:00

I shut the door to the hallway as I enter the main room, where Jess waits for me with my coat wrapped around her. I pace around the room, looking for a clue of some sort, something to point my in a direction. Any direction.

Jess looks at the doorway to the hall. "What's back there anyway?" she says.

"Psychotic health bar," I mutter as I pick up one of the submachine guns

THATHUMP...THATHUMP...THATHUMP...THATHUMP...
THATHUMP...THATHUMP...THATHUMP...THATHUMP...
THATHUMP...THATHUMP...THATHUMP...THATHUMP...
THATHUMP

and feel nothing but a strong and steady heartbeat. Odd.

"A what?" Jess says.

"Don't worry about it," I say. I open what looks like a closet and see a pile of women's clothes on the floor of the closet. "Any of these yours?" I say to Jess.

Jess looks in my direction, and jumps to her feet. "Yes," she says, "and if they wrinkled my blouse, I'll kill those little freaks!" She knocks me out of the way as she scoops up her clothes and closes the closet door behind her. "No peeking!" I hear her yell, and then I hear my coat hit the floor.

Slightly ungrateful to be alive, I think, but then again it could just be a defense mechanism. Either way, I choose to ignore it as I examine the rest of the room. What is the rhyme and reason for these sacrifices? It's hard to dismiss this as pure insanity on somebody's part, because this same somebody has the power of hypnosis--mass hypnosis, it appears to be--and therefore is intelligent enough to not be taken lightly. I check the other guns to confirm my suspicions, and feel the same strong heartbeat with every weapon.

I open the front door to peak outside. "This can't be right," I think. "Hey, Jess?" I say to the closet.

The door opens a crack and my coat comes flying out of the closet. I catch it before it hits me in the face. "Yeah, thanks," I say as I put my coat back on, "but what I really wanted to know was do you know where they brought you?"

"Hell if I know," Jess says on the other side of the door. "I just woke up here. Why are you asking me, anyway? Did they knock you out too or something?"

I look back out at the hallway beyond the front door, look at the darkened hall with the rows of lockers on both sides of the hallway, various other doors scattered along the walls, the shiny linoleum floor illuminated by the green "Exit" sign above the door at the end of the hall.

"We're in a school," I say.

Jess walks out of the closet. She's wearing blue jeans and a pink blouse. "We're where?" she says.

I open the door and point out at the lockers. Jess looks out...then has to sit down. "What the fuck?" she says.

"It seems this particular classroom has been modified a bit," I say. "I imagine this used to be the chemistry classroom; the room in the back looks like it used to be a chemical shower before it was...converted."

"A what shower?" Jess says.

"You know," I say, "in case you're screwing around with acid or something and spill it on yourself, they rush you back to that shower and hose you down."

Jess is frowning. "Yeah, but...but...what the fuck is THIS doing in a fucking SCHOOL?" she says.

I shrug. "Give me a few minutes," I say, "and I'll think of a reason for everything that goes on in this day and age."

Jess sighs. "Screw this," she says, and gets up to leave. "Thanks for saving me, and all that crap, but I'm not sticking around to make this my personal problem. Goodbye."

Before she passes through the door, I say: "You've been marked."

That stops her in mid-step. Jess looks back at me. "What did you say?" she says.

"I said you've been marked. They don't just drag people off the street and sacrifice them. They usually do their research about these sort of things. I'd say they picked you for a very specific reason...and that makes all this a VERY personal problem for you."

With a few choice words, it seems I finally cracked Jess's armor, because now she's shaking. "They're going to keep coming for me?" she says. "What do I do? What the fuck do I do? You've seen them! And if they're hypnotized like you say they are...shit, they could be ANYBODY!" Jess is on the verge of tears.

I rest a gloved hand on her shoulder. "Calme vers le bas, sea inmóvil, and you may just make it through this night."

N 1.2.2: Mad World, or Whatever You Do, Don't Ask For the Special at Your Local Smoothie Shop

2005-10-03T19:03:00.000-07:00

Now I could just stand here and let them empty their clips like I did with Jack and his gang, but the innocent girl in the crossfire concerns me. With that thought comes the sensation of cold steel by my wrists. I raise my arms, and two pistols spring out from under my coatsleeves into my waiting hands. Time slows down for me, and I aim with precision at every submachine gun pointed at me. I fire thirteen bullets from two guns and knock every single gun out of their hands...like "Blazing Saddles," only cooler.

All the robed figures are grasping their hands in pain. One man whose hood fell back in the gunfight looks to be in his teens. A quick scan of the collective shows the rest of the group to be in the same age bracket. Ah, youth. But what confuses me is that they are all looking at me as if they have just awakened from a dream.

"Riddle me this," I say. "What kind of ass-backwards, weekend-Satanist cult uses FIREARMS in their rituals? Seriously. And another thing...don't you have SCHOOL tomorrow?"

They are all looking down at their robes as if having never seen them before. One teenage girl looks up at me and says, "Where are we?"

I look at them all, and they all look lost and confused. I have an idea what's going on now. "Why don't you all just go home and get some sleep," I say. The woman who is bound and gagged looks at me like I've lost my mind.

All the teenagers nod in agreement and file out of the room. They all look exhausted. I walk over to the woman and undo her bindings, noticing she is completely naked under the ropes. I take off my coat and throw it around her and I realize I'm wearing a black t-shirt in place of the black collared shirt I stole from the old woman's house (where did the guns go...just let it drop, already).

I take the gag out of the woman's mouth and she starts yelling at me. "Why did you let them go?" she says. "Didn't you see what they were going to do to me. How can you just--"

"Hypnosis," I say.

"What?"

"They were all under group hypnosis," I say. "Didn't you see their eyes? The shock of the guns getting shot out of their hands snapped them all out of it."

"How can you tell all that from just--"

"Body language," I say, "coupled with the fact that none of them seemed to have a clue as to where they were or why they were dressed like "Rosemary's Baby" rejects...usually denotes hypnotism."

"Oh," the woman says, and wraps my coat around her.

"Would you mind waiting here for a moment, Jess?" I say, and I walk back through the door and down the hall again.

I get to the end of the hall when I hear Jess say, "How did you know my name? I didn't tell you."

"I'd worry more about finding some clothes, if I were you," I say as I examine the switch by the room filled with blood, and that shuts Jess up. I look in the room and flip the switch.

What felt like a chopping blade on the floor of the room was actually one of several, it appears...and powered by a motor. The blood starts churning and splattering on the walls. I shut the door to avoid getting hit by the bloodspray and turn the oversized blender off.

"Who in HELL would take the time and imagination to design and implement a human-smoothie machine?" I think. And according to the vibes I got from touching the door without gloves on, the victims are thrown in here alive. "De dromen waarin ik sterf zijn het groost ik ooit hebben gehad," I mutter to myself, and walk back to tend to Jess before she comes back to see what her fate would (should) have been.

N 1.2.1: Digging In the Dirt, or What the Hell Was In that Brownie?

2005-10-03T19:00:00.000-07:00

I open my eyes, and I am knee-deep in blood.

The room is small and dark, almost like a cellar. Stone walls surround me, illuminated by a single, dying lightbulp hanging from the ceiling. There are stairs leading a few steps up to a metal door where the blood doesn't reach. I wade across the room to the stairway, stumbling over what feels like a very long chopping blade underneath the literal pool of blood, and climb up to the door. I check the handle

LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON'T LET THEM DO THIS TO ME

and just barely stop myself from falling backwards into the blood. Strong, strong emotions in this room. I pull a pair of black leather gloves out of my coat pocket (they weren't here before...never mind) and slip them on my hands. I touch the door handle again. Nothing. I should have thought of this earlier.

I turn the handle, and the door opens. It wasn't locked, which suggests the same theory as when I was strapped to the hospital bed in the library of that house...I wasn't brought into the room--one moment I wasn't there...and the next moment I was. That's as close to the truth as the smoke will allow me to grasp thus far. I opt not to push my luck and open the door.

A hallway. Stone walls, and another metal door on the end. The door is slighly ajar. I hear chanting coming from the room beyond. I quietly close the door I just passed through--several different locks and a metal bar (didn't want anybody getting out) adorn the other side of the door, and an odd-looking switch on the side of the door which I refrain from touching just now. I slowly walk down the hall, careful not to let my footsteps make any discernable sound. I slowly open the door at the end of the hall and peek into the next room.

If this isn't an episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," it damn well ought to be.

A circle of figures in red robes. A girl bound and gagged in the center. Candles everywhere. I don't see a pentacle drawn on the ground, though; guess somebody forgot to bring chalk. And I'm pretty fluent in several different languages...but what they're chanting sounds suspicously like a Type O Negative album being played every which way but forwards.

Am I in a B movie? I look for Bruce Campbell. Nope; no prominent chins in this clusterfuck. This is for real.

"Dieses Mal sind Sie zu weit gegangen," I say, and thirteen heads snap in my direction. The girl in the center stares at me like salvation.

I look at the candles all over the room and say, "Sorry...forgot my hickory stick. Where are the marshmellows?"

Thirteen figures rise to face me. They all reach into their robes. Great, I think, here come the sacrificial knives...but they all pull out semi-automatic machine guns instead.

"Well," I say, "that was a surprise." And then they all open fire on me.

N 1.2.0: Blood Makes Noise

2005-10-03T18:53:00.000-07:00

"Cleave to no faith when faith brings blood."

--Arthur Miller

N 1.1.8: In a Little While, or We Don't Say 'Goodbye' Around Here...We Say 'Adios'

2005-03-15T22:40:00.000-08:00

I rise, and walk around the coffee shop, collecting tainted beverages, touching each person in turn, taking their collective poisons into myself. I touch the girl at the counter

if he wants to fuck me he'd better buy me chocolate what does he think I am easy or something

and notice, by the cash register, a small flower pot. It contains soil, but no sign of vegetation. I take it with me back to the old woman's table. I touch Glen

Cain said to the LORD My punishment is greater than I can bear Behold, thou hast driven me this day away from the ground and from thy face I shall be hidden and I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth and whoever finds me will slay me Then the LORD said to him Not so If any one slays Cain vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold And the LORD put a mark on Cain lest any who came upon him should kill him

as I sit down. She stirs slightly. The girl at the counter rises her head. I yell at her, "Call 911! I think this old woman is having a heart attack or something!" The girl does as she's told as the other patrons wake up from my shouting.

Glen lifts her head, blinks a few times, then stares at the space her beverage used to be. She looks at me, and recognition fills her features. "You just saved my life again," she says, "didn't you?"

I nod. "Guilty," I say.

Glen looks at the old woman. "Oh shit," Glen says, "that's where I've seen her before."

"Beg pardon?" I say.

"She's the one who lives in that house where you had me steal the Bible," Glen says. She points at the old woman.

I look at the old woman, her secrets and murderous designs forever lost with her life. "Really?" I say. "Who'd have thunk it?"

Glen and I leave the coffee shop as the paramedics rush in. They disregard us as we stroll away...which is a good trait to have, in situations such as these, I must admit. We walk a few blocks, and sit on a bench in the park. The flower pot is still in my hands, and I set it down on the pavement next to the bench. I reach into my coat, pull out my pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter with a Yin-Yang symbol engraved on the side of it.

Glen sees the cigarettes. "Those things will kill you, you know," she says.

"No," I say, "only Marlboros and Camels and such. They have warnings on the sides of the packs that say so." I flip the pack of Djarum Blacks over, no trace of a warning on the smooth, black box. "These must be okay," I say as I light one up.

Glen smiles. "Yeah, right," she says. "Hell, your system probably turns the carbon monoxide into cotton candy or some shit like that."

"Hey," I say, "'A spoonful of sugar', and all that jazz." I take a drag off my cigarette. "Seriously," I say, "tell the truth. Be honest. It doesn't leave this bench. What, really, is your name?"

"Don't I look like a Glen?" she says.

"You could pass for a Glen," I say, "if I didn't know any better. I'd say you're more of an...April."

She laughs. "How the fuck do you do that?" April says.

I take another drag off my cigarette and smile. "Algo é errado aqui. Je n'appartiens pas ici," I say.

April shakes her head. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that, in a universe that always obeys the Rules," I say, "I'm a man who shouldn't exist...but does." I look at April. "What does that tell you about the universe?"

"A bunch of shit I already knew," she says, "but still don't get."

I ruffle her hair, bracing for a torrent of conflicting thoughts...but feeling nothing but a quiet calm eminating from her. I smile and say, "You will." Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Her standing across the street, Her black cloak and blonde hair, Her secret smile...but as I turn my head to look, I see an old woman with white hair and dark rags for clothes digging through the trash. Oh well.

I flick the cigarette into the street and rise from my seat. "I'll see you around," I say. I take a few steps away from the bench and close my eyes.

.....

"See you," April says offhandedly. Then she shakes herself out of her daze. "Wait!" she says, turning her head to look at the man, "you never told me your...."

The man is no longer there.

"...name," she finishes, and hangs her head. As she looks down at the ground, April notices the flower pot the man had been carrying...but she didn't remember seeing the blood-red rose growing from the soil of the pot.

April picks up the flower pot and breathes in the scent of the rose...which she swears smells like cotton candy. So much for that theory, she thinks, and rises from the bench to begin her journey home.

(End of N 1.1.0: Attitude)

N 1.1.7: Lonely People, or the Real Reason We Should Respect Our Elders

2005-03-12T00:09:00.000-08:00

I think I almost have it, and now I run to make sure I'm in time for the finale. I know Glen's in trouble; I didn't mean to send her into danger, but it seems I knew about the coffee shop before I knew.

As I near the coffee shop, I slow my pace. Take your time. Be casual. This can not be allowed to escalate. I open the door to the coffee shop. A quick glance tells me I'm just in time. Glen sits at a table next to an old lady. Glen's head is slumped on the table. The old lady nibbles at her biscotti with her one good hand. I walk up to Glen's table, pull out the chair...set it across from the old woman, and sit.

The old woman looks surprised by my actions, so I break the ice. "Forgive me if I do not shake hands," I say.

As understanding floods her face, she allows herself a small smile. "Jack tattled on me," she says.

I nod. "He did."

She sighs. "Such a naughty boy," she says. "I would punish him, but I saved this coffee especially for you." She pushed the cup of coffee toward me.

I look at it, then back at her. "You knew I would be here?" I say.

"I know somebody would," she says. She looks at Glen. "That poor child was waiting for somebody. For you, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," I say, and pick up the cup of coffee. "I'll drink if you do. Nobody likes to drink alone, isn't that true?"

She picks up her own cup of coffee. "Spoken like a true gentleman," she says. We clink cups, and both drink together.

We set our cups down, and I begin to speak: "The first time was at your prom when you were eighteen. You were raped by the captain of the football team. The last time was in a bar in your late twenties; two men both had their way with you--a drunk, followed by one of the bouncers. There were three who watched your torment purely for the thrill of it, and there were four others who could have prevented all these atrocities from happening...a lifetime of pain...but they didn't. Is that about right?"

The old woman's eyes are wide. "How did you know?" she says.

"Your first victim wore a letterman's jacket--football is commonly associated with that...and only the star quarterback would have been found not guilty. The next two victims--a drunk and a bouncer--were both in the same bar, which suggests the setting had significance. As for the remaining seven," I look around the room at all the closed eyes and shallow breaths, "we are all to be witnesses to our own demise, just as there were seven witnesses to your ruination."

The old woman is silent for a bit. Her eyelids are drooping slightly. "You're a very clever young man," she says finally.

"But why now," I say, almost to myself. "Why wait so long for your vengence...ah yes." I look at her again. "You're dying anyway, aren't you?"

"Cancer," she says. She raises her prosthetic hand. "Doctors had to take part of my arm to get it, but it was too late." She looks around as if in a daze. "This was to be the way it ended," she says. "It ends now."

"One last question," I say. "Why was I strapped to a table in your library?"

The old woman furrows her brow. "I'm sorry, child," she says, "but I don't know what you're talking about. I've never seen you before in my life."

I look into her eyes for deceit, but find none. I touch her gently on her real hand

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threeforthethrillfourforthelifetime....

and find nothing but her plans, no treachery, no lies...only the truth of a life stretched too thin and running out of time. I wonder briefly how I did get strapped to that table in the library, but know the answers already exist in me...clouded, though they may be.

"You're a brave young man," the old woman says, almost a slur.

"Why do you say that?" I say.

"You drank the poison of your own free will," she says. Her head begins to nod.

"Oh, that," I say. I shrug. "That's not so much bravery as it is conditioning."

"How's that?"

"Because I happen to have an immunity to this particular poison," I say.

She sighs, and her sigh is almost a slur. "This won't do," she says. "This won't do at all. I'll only have six. It doesn't do to just have six."

"One," I say.

"What?"

"You'll only have one when this is over," I say. "I'll let you guess which one."

"Oh...dear...." she slurs as she rests her head on the table. "That...was...very...naughty...of...youuuuuuuuuuu...." She closes her eyes, and is--for the first time in decades--at peace.

I look at her for a moment. "Eleanor Rigby gestorben in der Kirche und wurde zusammen mit ihrem Namen begraben. Nessuno è venuto."

N 1.1.6: We Are All Made of Stars, or How Bullets Don't Kill People--Newton's First Law Kills People

2005-02-08T15:41:00.000-08:00

Jack's apartment is a shell of an apartment, no life to it at all. It has all the essentials for an apartment--a table in the kitchen, a couch in the living room, a bed in the bedroom--but no art on the walls, no pictures, nothing to make it his own. I forget my past when I try to remember it; Jack doesn't let his through the front door.

"One thing I've been wanting to ask you," Jack says as I sit at his kitchen table. He opens a cabinet door and pulls out a coffee can.

"Just one thing?" I say.

Jack pours a few spoonfuls of coffee into his coffee maker. "Back at the alley," he says, "we unloaded entire clips at you. Not a single one hit." He pours water into the coffee maker and turns it on. "My men are nimrods, but they can all still aim a gun."

"Their aim was just fine," I say.

Jack pulls two coffee cups out of another cabinet. "Then," he says, "how--"

"I didn't dodge the bullets," I say, "if that's what you're trying to rationalize yourself into believing. You didn't see me move, did you?"

Silence.

I pull a notepad and a pen from my inside coat pocket (didn't I check that pocket earlier? I think to myself, but the cobwebs in my head thicken at the mere thought) and draw a stick figure on one side of the page and a hail of small dashes on the other side. I circle one of the dashes. "An object in motion," I say, "stays in motion, until acted upon by another force. When we jump, we fall back to the ground--but 'fall' isn't the proper word to use. We are pulled back by gravitational forces, otherwise we would keep going up. Are you with me so far?"

Jack nods. I can hear the hissing of the coffee maker in the background. "That's a law of physics," he says.

"Very good. A bullet," I say as I point to the circled dash, "once fired, will continue on its course until either a combination of friction and gravity wear it down into the ground...or it meets a force with enough matter to stop it."

Jack frowns. He motions poking me in the arm--very careful, I notice, not to actually touch me. "That's where logic falls apart," he says, "as you look like you have more than enough matter to stop a bullet."

"That's because you're only using five senses," I say.

"There's more?"

"Thousands more, at least," I say, "but they're hard to explain in words. Suffice to say, they implement a combination of philosophy, existentialism and metaphysics. In short," I say, "I use just enough of my brain and just enough belief in free will to choose not to be struck by a bullet. Make sense?"

Jack begins to nod, but it gradually turns into a head shake. He looks like a deer trapped in headlights.

I pat him on the shoulder. "Don't worry too much about it," I say. "Being human, having your health, that's the most important thing. Now how about some of that coffee?"

Jack shows me a Poloroid of the device he built while I sip my coffee.

"Okay," I say, "how did you build it and...for God's sake, why?"

"It runs along the same mechanics as one of those dog collars you use to set up an invisible fence with," Jack says, "only with this prosthesis, it's designed so the electric current runs outward instead of in."

"Like a stun gun?" I say.

"That was the original intent," Jack says. "She said she needed a prosthetic and a self-defense device. I saw she only had one hand, so I didn't argue. I just combined the two...but she messed with it." Jack sips his coffee; there is a slight tremble in his hand. "I'm in a business where I could kill somebody and get away with it, no problem," he says, "but I don't. She came to me because licensed professionals wouldn't build something like this, even if it was just a stun weapon--but I would, no questions asked. I did NOT design that thing so it could kill somebody!" Jack rises from his seat and walks to the other side of the kitchen, as if I was planning to strike him down where he sat.

"I know," I say. I sip my coffee. "I'm familiar with these types of devices--equally familiar with how to 'adjust' the settings, if you will. I saw the body of the teenage boy--he was clearly electrocuted. A stun gun overrides the nervous system, resulting in a temporary paralysis...nothing more. She found a way to increase the amps in the current--THAT'S what electrocutes a human being...amps."

"How could she get that kind of current to go through that thing?" Jack says. "I set it up with a recharagable battery pack that she couldn't have removed--"

"But she could plug it into the wall to recharge it," I say. "The kid was found dead on her doorstep. I'll wager she found a way to bypass the surge protector in the unit, and she had it plugged in when she shook the poor kid's hand."

Jack sits back down. He is getting paler by the minute. "I...I..." he stammers.

"You trusted her," I say. "You knew she was angry about something...but only now do you realize she was angry enough to kill. You thought she was amassing all these little toys and pills for small vengances, but only now do you understand the truth...and I am here to tell you that she is very FUCKING far from being done."

"You saw all this in my head," Jack says. He's shaking hard now. "Why are you rehashing it like this? I know how it started, so you know how it started. Why are you wasting time with me when you know everything I know already?"

I place a hand on Jack's shoulder

is this my penance is he torturing me I swear to God I'm out of this business I won't look back I don't want to die oh my God am I next is she going to kill me next is he going to kill me before she gets a chance I'm losing my fucking mind

and I say, "I am here because I wanted to have a cup of coffee with you--but you seriously need to lay off the caffeine, as it's going to kill you before she and I have the chance." I smile and pat him on the shoulder. "Your part in this is done, my friend. You're going to leave town and start over somewhere else--a legitimate job, for a change. And you're going to be successful at it, marry a beautiful wife, sire a few children, and write this whole experience off as a bad drug trip." I stand and put on my coat. "My only regret," I say, "is that I opened my eyes too late to stop this from starting...but she will not finish it." I nod to Jack, and he is, at last, calm.

"Nessuno possono ora arrestarli," I say, and I leave Jack to his private demons.

N 1.1.5: I Radio Heaven, or Prelude to the Last Worthless Evening

2005-02-04T23:49:00.000-08:00

The big guy--Jack Ruehling, his name turns out to be--lets me into the passenger side of the last car in the alley. As he backs us out of the alley, I break out another cigarette. I offer him one, but he shakes his head. He's being far more compliant now, but I imagine there still exists an echo of what he's seen in my mind, so he should know how serious the situation is.

"We fucked up," Jack says as we drive down the road. "Gabe, my brother...the bouncer gig was just a cover so he could target this one guy who went there frequently. Christ...she didn't even give us his name."

"The drunk guy Gabe threw out of the bar as I was walking past, right?"

"Yeah, that's the one. She gave us this vial--sorry, Gabe had it and I think he tossed it after he poured it into the guy's drink--she said it was non-lethal, just a date-rape drug...." He trails off, so I fill in the rest for him.

"But," I say, "he had an allergic reaction to one or more of the ingredients, which caused him to have a seizure and die."

"How did you know he died?"

"I saw it when the balloon popped," I say. I realize that must not make much sense to him, but he doesn't pursue the matter. I need to know more; I just hope Jack can handle it. "When I left your brother," I say, "he was unconscious, but alive. What happened after I left?"

Jack blinks away tears as he drives. "He bled to death."

I frown. "I hit him," I say, "but I didn't break any blood vessels." I think about what I felt when my fist made contact with him. "He was on blood-thinner medication, yes?"

Jack stares at me, probably shocked that I know so much. "Yeah."

"That would make the blood harder to clot," I say, "especially if you're unconscious at the time."

"You're saying someone at the bar--"

"'Someone'?" I repeat. "You know of whom I speak."

Jack looks straight ahead. His teeth are clenched. "I'll kill the bitch," he mutters.

"The part of her you want to hurt is dead already," I say. I'm thinking of the song: "One for the first time, two for the last time...." The kid on the porch represents the first time. The two at the bar--Gabe and the drunk--represent the last time. There are to be seven more for the thrill and the lifetime...and it is my hunch that this woman intends to include herself in the last stanza.

I take a drag on my cigarette as we drive. We pass a nightclub heading toward Jack's apartment. "Stop here," I say.

"Why?"

"There's something I need to do," I say as he pulls over. "It shouldn't take long."

Jack stays in the car as I enter the nightclub. The bouncer doesn't see me enter, though I make no attempt to hide from him. I knew he would disregard me--at times I am just another face in a crowd of faceless faces. This is one of those times, and I know that what I must do inside must be done. Such is the nature of things.

I walk to the bar and order an Arrogant Bastard. As the bartender pours it for me, I scan the blacklit room--the neon lights overhead illuminating the masses in an eerie glow of energy. Bodies sway to the music--some techno mix...any techno mix, in my experience--eyes locked together in the throes of stereoscopic passion. I sip my beer, almost homesick from the sight of it--though my home is still invisible in the mist that is my mind, the feeling of loss remains.

A girl in the far corner of the room catches my attention. Nylon stockings, a black leather miniskirt and what appears to be a black leather corset. Her short red hair is mussed, and her mascara is running. She is alone, her head down. After a moment, she seems to decide something and walks a straight line to the ladies' bathroom. I down the rest of my ale in one gulp as the bathroom door swings shut behind her, and I walk the same direction.

People are still disregarding me; even the bartender forgot to charge me for the drink. I place a hand on the door

empty, ablaze with the glow of the overhead flouescent lights, one stall door closed, sobbing from within

and enter once I know it is safe. It is how I saw it in my mind. The sobs are muffled--she heard me enter, I assume. I say nothing as I enter the stall next to hers, locking the door as I sit on the edge of the toilet seat. I place my hand on the side of the stall

head down, one hand covering her mouth, muffling her sobs, another hand pressing a pocketknife to her wrist shaking terribly

the wall that seperates us, and I finally speak. "De liefde is op de manier...Eu posso vê-lo em seus olhos. Donnons-davantage lui un essai ce soir."

The muffled sobbing stops. She is not disregarding me. I have her undivided attention.

"This night is rich with causality," I continue in a language she can understand. "At this junction, you have a path that leads outside this bathroom door...the other path leads nowhere. Let me tell you what I know about the first path I mentioned. You walk out this bathroom door, and you bump into a man--about your age, perhaps a year or so older...I've never been terribly good with guessing people's ages. He will notice the smeared mascara, and he will ask you if you've been crying. I'm not sure what happens if you lie and say no, but I do know if you tell the truth and say yes, he will ask you why. Again, should you lie...I don't know what happens. But should you tell him the truth...and the whole truth, so help you God...I know he will give you everything you've ever wanted...everything you've ever needed...and then some. And you, in turn, will complete him. This is an extremely rare occasion--such instances of true love rarely enter people's lives--but when they do, I like to give these chances the benefit of the doubt and nurture them to fruition. Now, I know what you're thinking. 'How does he know all this?' But then you'd also have to ask yourself how do I know that you were crying just before I entered...and how do I know about the pocketknife you're holding against your wrist?"

When I say this, she lets out a small gasp. I don't give her a chance to respond. "You have the greatest gift humanity was ever granted. Free will. Free will creates paths...and also destroys them. Once you hit a dead end, there is no going back. Trust me on that. And who knows? Maybe I'm the one who's lying to you, just to keep you from doing what you came in here to do. But the only way you're ever going to know for certain is if you walk out there and find out for yourself." I exit the stall and walk toward the door. Just before I open it, I turn and say, "Causality," and I leave the bathroom.

I return to my seat and light a cigarette. I watch a man wearing black jeans and a black collared shirt try to figure out which is the men's room and which is the women's room. I watch the girl walk out and bump into him. They steady each other, and their eyes lock. He says something to her. She nods her head and says something. He says something else. She looks at her feet for a moment, then looks back at him and begins to speak.

How did I know? I think to myself, but the answers get swallowed up in the fog inside my head once more. Before they are swallowed whole, one word touches the surface: axis. Perhaps once my internal mixed signals are adjusted properly, I will find my own path to walk. Until then...no harm in a good deed every so often. I head for the exit, and I pass the couple--now smiling and talking excitedly to each other. Both of them disregard me, and that is the way it should be.

I get back into Jack's car. "Okay," I say, "I'm ready."

N 1.1.4: The First Origin Theory, and Bullet-Time Theory Gone to Hell

2004-09-19T20:24:00.000-07:00

What Glen remembers of her father are only bits and pieces, and all fragments are associated with God. He was a churchgoer, that much is certain; if he was a man of the cloth or not, Glen cannot remember, though it would explain why he abandoned her and her mother--certain men of God aren't allowed wives and families. But that's a place she doesn't want to go right now.

Right now she's thinking of an old Bible story her father would tell her at night, the story of Cain--the son of Adam who murdered his brother out of jealousy. She's thinking of how God punished him for the act--not with death, but the suffering of life...how anyone who dealt him a blow would have it dealt back a hundredfold. Punished to forever walk the earth where he could not make anything grow.

As Glen sits at the coffee shop and watches an old woman purchase a biscotti and a cup of coffee, she thinks of the mark God placed upon Cain...which the odd tattoos on the man in black reminded her of (she caught a glimpse of the odd symbols snaking up his arm when they first met in the alleyway).

Actually...there's a lot about the man in black that reminds her of Cain.

Glan shakes her head and sips her coffee. "Get a grip," she thinks to herself. "Things like that just aren't possible."

But the doubt in her mind remains.

...

I open my eyes to a red brick wall. I know it's red because of the bright light illuminating me from behind. I turn to face the light and find it's from a car. There are other cars behind it, all with men standing outside the cars. Most of these men have guns; some have baseball bats and knives, but mostly it's guns. One of the bigger men is standing in front of the car with the headlights on. He's pointing a 9mm at me. His features are somewhat familiar.

At least this time I still have my clothes on.

"I'm sorry," I say, "did you say something?"

"I said," the man with the 9mm says like his voice is made of gravel, "that you fucked up big time."

There is something in his face that's familiar; reminds me of Liberace for some damn reason. "And how is that?" I say.

His eyes narrow. "You know what I'm talking about."

"Refresh my memory."

"My brother, you asshole!" A couple of the guys behind him flinch at the sharp tone of his voice. "You've got big balls if you think you can get away with that shit."

"Ah yes," I say, "the bouncer. Tell him I'm sorry for all that, but that it was a means to an end."

"What the fuck are you babbling about?"

"Well," I say, "it's just a lot easier to find people if you can get them to look for you instead."

His gun wavers slightly. "You did that just to find me?"

"Well, that," I say, "and he was picking on a poor drunk who's probably dead anyway...but yeah, you get the idea."

If his eyes could have turned red, they'd be glowing right about now. "Fuck this shit," he mutters and points the gun at me with renewed enthusiasm.

I raise a hand. "I wouldn't do that," I say. "I really wouldn't."

"Kill him!" he shouts, and next comes the barrage of gunfire, several guns blazing in my field of vision, the continual thunderclaps of gunpowder, the smell of smoke...and then silence.

Well, silent except for the dry-clicking of empty guns...and then even that fades away. The big guy's looking at me. I'm looking at the big guy. I turn and look at the brick wall behind me, riddled with bulletholes. I remain untouched...a little deaf in the ears, but unscathed by bullets.

"What the fuck..." he starts, then falls silent also.

I stare into a sea of dumfounded faces. I sigh. "Why doesn't anyone ever listen to me?" I say, and I proceed to walk toward them.

It has been said by some that mathematics is the universal language, but I'm not sure that's entirely accurate. It has been my opinion that language equals communication, and communication equals understanding...and though mathematics is, technically, a language of its own, it is not an easily understood one. Furthermore, its only function as a language, as far as I've ever been able to tell, is simply to promote the concept of intelligence--the primary reason it is used by the space program to search for intelligent life in outer space.

I, however, have no grand schemes such as that at this particular moment. All I want is to communicate with all these men who are all putting their guns back in their holsters and approaching me with the obvious intent to do bodily harm. I want to tell them that what they're about to do is not a good idea. I've already tried words, and words have failed. I'm fairly sure mathematics will fail also. There is, however, one other form of communication that I am fluent in, and can speak that language in several different dialects. It also seems to be the only language that these men choose to understand.

The big guy swings a fist toward my face. I backflip to dodge it, and my foot catches him square in the chin. He flies backward and lands on top of the car he was, seconds before, standing in front of with a gun pointed at me. With a glance, I can tell he's unconscious; I have questions for him, but first....

The rest of the men attack me in what could best be described from my experience as a clusterfuck. Though fighting has always been my last resort (odd that I should remember something like that now; must be distracted), I have considered it an artform equal to all my other hobbies. It's sad to watch these men flail around like headless chickens in what, to me, appears to be slow motion--I have no difficulty dodging their attempted blows and landing some choice ones of my own--and it is sad to think that this technique has served them well in the past. But then, I guess they're not normally used to having to resort to this after trying to shoot someone. That's the problem with people of this day and age; none of them have a backup plan to fall back on.

Some collapse by the sides of the alley; a select few run. Somewhere in the fray I have secured a baseball bat, and I'm no less effective with it than I was with my bare hands. It would be easy to crack all their skulls open and be done with it...but I've never been comfortable in positions where I decide who lives or dies, so I keep my aim fixed on parts of the body that won't permanently damage or kill...just places that hurt.

In the end, most have fled. A few have been knocked cold, but they'll recover...and perhaps be a little wiser for the wear. I walk over to the car where the big guy is stirring. I grab his hand to pull him off of the car

eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched, cold, so fucking cold...WAKE UP, YOU FUCKING BASTARD, WAKE UP!!!

and the shock of what I see in his mind knocks me backward. I land on my ass, my hands clutching my head. I push it back, push it back into the smoke and mirrors that is my memory. I take a few deep breaths and rise again.

The big guy is off the car and on his own two feet. He backs into the brick wall, his eyes wide and staring at me. "Don't hurt me, man," he's babbling, "take what you want, but don't hurt me, please don't hurt me...."

"What did you see?" I ask him.

He shakes his head, over and over, hard enough to give himself whiplash.

"What did you see in my head?" I say, as I realize exactly what happened during our contact.

He's babbling again, only this time it's in a mixture of Mandarin, Dutch and Latin, the same words over and over again: "Half a pound of tuppany rice, half a pound of treacle, that's the way the story goes, pop goes the weasel, half a pound of tuppany rice...."

I corner him. "Close your eyes," I say.

For once, he actually does what he's asked.

I touch his forehead with one finger and brace myself

who the fuck did this to him...I saw this man in black beat the hell out of him, but he didn't...HE'S DEAD HE'S SO DEAD I'LL FIND HIM and I'll

"There," I say as I drop my hand to my side. "All better. Die Schweine haben heute abend gewonnen."

He's calmed down. "What was..." he starts. "I saw...I saw...I don't remember, but it was bad...wasn't it?"

I shrug. "Not so much 'bad' as it's just too big for most people to see." I brush off his clothes. "Now," I say, "let's figure out who killed your brother...because it sure as hell wasn't me."

"The old clock is ticking now..."

2004-08-31T00:45:00.000-07:00

He enters the bar, and the black bouncer is about to rise from his seat until he recognizes who just came in. "My man!" he says and slaps the man's hand.

"What's up?"

"Aw, you know. Same shit. Where've you been?"

"Traveling."

"Over there?"

"Yep."

"Right on, right on," the bouncer says. "I'll catch up with you," he says as others enter the bar.

The man walks to the bar and sits himself down. The plasma screen radiates different colors as his song comes on. He smiles; there's only one bartender who knows that song even exists….

"Hey baby," the bartender says as she sees him. Her hair is short and black. "Where have you been hidin'?"

"Between nowhere and forever," he says. "Has she been in tonight?"

"Aw, you just missed her," the bartender says.

"Yeah, I usually do," he says. "Arrogant Bastard, please," he says.

"Started pouring it the moment I saw you come in," the bartender says. She smiles and puts the glass of amber liquid in front of him. He lays down a five and sips his beer. He remembers this is how it used to be. This is where it all began. He thinks harder, but the memories become smoke and mirrors as he concentrates. He gives up and just enjoys his beer.

A group of people walk past him. One recognizes him and shakes his hand before they migrate to the next room. The bartender comes back and collects his empty glass. "So how was that for you?" she says.

"Just like old times," he says.

"You know you're always welcome to come back whenever you want," she says.

"I know," he says, "but I'm being followed." He fingers the emerald ring on his right hand.

"You still have that thing?" she says. "I would have got rid of that the moment I knew what it was."

"Well that's the problem," he says. "The way it's designed, it's not an option. Rotten curses." He stretches and rises off his stool. He hugs the bartender and says, "If you see her before I do--"

"I'll tell her you're looking," she says. "She's just like you. She won't give up that easily."

He smiles as he turns and walks out of the bar. And somewhere very familiar, he knows he's about to finish his blink.

...

Somewhere, a balloon pops....

The lights flicker....

A man drops to the floor, dead....

And a gang of killers and thieves stumble upon a man in an alley. He faces the brick wall that signifies the dead end. His back is to them. This is the man they have been looking for.

In precisely four minutes and eighteen seconds, they will wish they hadn't found him....

N 1.1.3: Want, or This is the Part Where David Lynch Should Show Up and Set Things Right...but Doesn't

2004-08-22T22:40:00.000-07:00

"Why are you still here?" I ask Glen as she trudges behind me down the alley. "You've paid your debt to society. Go do what street urchins do, or something."

"Because you're not making sense," Glen says. She drags her feet for emphasis. "Why do you want that book? You're not really a cop, are you? What are you afraid of?"

I stop and face her. She reminds me of somebody...somebody important. "The questions are simple enough," I say, "but the answers could be more than you can bear."

She stares me down. "Try me."

I smile and open the Bible to show her the insides.

She frowns. "What the fuck is up with that?" she says.

"That," I say, "is a question I want to ask the owner of the house it came from."

The alley empties out into a not-so-busy street, and I walk along the sidewalk, my hands in my pockets. I let Glen carry the book; if she was going to run, she would have by now. "So...um...what's your name?" she says.

Before I can answer her, a man is flung out of the nightclub we're about to pass. He falls onto the slushy gutter in the street, where he stays. He stinks of vodka. The man who threw him out stands in the doorway of the bar, admiring his handiwork. He wears blue jeans and a black t-shirt; a bouncer, I conclude. Not the best of bouncers: more of a "chokehold" bouncer than a "keeping the peace" bouncer, if that clears anything up.

I hear Glen behind me mutter, "Merry fucking Christmas to you too."

The bouncer glares at her. He looks at me and says, "Shut your brat up before I give her something to bitch about."

I stop and face the bouncer. I look into his eyes. I say, "...you ever golf?"

He seems caught off guard by this. He sniffs, as if he's checking to see if I've been drinking or not, and says, "No...why?"

I shrug. "Something about 'hitting some balls' just sprang to mind." With that, I swing up with one leg and connect my foot to his crotch.

The impact flings him backward into the bar and he crashes into a couple of empty barstools. He sits on the floor, cradling the center of his legs. I felt my foot break the man's cup...and then some. I begin to think perhaps that leather restraint in the library wasn't faulty after all.

"You're underage," I say to Glen, "so wait out here." I point at the man in the gutter. "Make sure he's still alive."

Glen nods, slack-jawed again, as I enter the bar.

The customers give me space as I enter. The hired help look at me like I'm a bomb about to go off. The bouncer on the floor is glaring at me, his teeth clenched tight, as he continues to cradle his crotch. I look at him and say, "Please don't get up." I know he won't listen. The smoke in my head clears just long enough for me to remember that nobody ever listens to me--people often disregard people who are always right.
I sit at the bar and the bartender comes up to me. "You can do better than him, can't you?" I say.

The bartender--a man in his fifties--nods. "We could," he says, "if his brother wasn't a gang leader in this town."

"Is that so?" I say, and kick the bouncer in the solar plexus as he's beginning to take a swing at me. He flies backward again and hits the wall, gasping for air. I glance at him. "I warned you," I say, and turn back to the bartender. "As I don't want you to get hurt by any means," I say, "tell his brother that a customer fitting my description came in and beat the hell out of him. Shouldn't be hard to do, what with all the witness in here willing to testify, yes? And since his brother is a gang leader, he should have enough stolen money to repair what damage should befall your establishment tonight."

The wide-eyed bartender just nods. "What about you?" he says.

I shrug. "I'll manage," I say. I swing my arm and backhand the bouncer
damn this motherfucker I'll sick my brother on him he'll be shitting bricks before Christmas good God I hurt everywhere I won't let this son of a bitch get away with this I'LL KILL THE MOTHERFUCKER AND I'LL

as he tries to swing at me again. He goes crashing into a table this time, which finally knocks him out. I look at my hand as I flex it; no pain whatsoever...and the thoughts of all those I touch are becoming much clearer. "Trippy," I say. "Anyway, when he comes in, point him my direction...and get yourself some decent help." I clap the bartender on the arm and walk out of the bar...to the sound of applause from the customers. And the bartender.

SMACK!

with my eyes shut, and see what I hit...the boat feels like it's sinking...this life preserver is the wrong shade of puce

His eyes snap open after I slap him. I caught a few of his drunken thoughts as my hand made contact with the side of his face; that's been known to happen--precisely when, though, I can't say. Just something I know. On a more subconscious level, the bouncer was thinking of Liberace when I hit him.

"Wha...wha...wha..." he stammers, and I place a finger to my lips. Glen sits on the curb, watching me--I reckon any thoughts of her running off and doing her own thing are completely abandoned at this point.

"Do you understand me?" I say with a calm voice. He nods. "Good. I'm going to put you in this cab which Glen called for you. You're going to go home. You're going to lock your door and keep it locked no matter who comes knocking. Do you understand?" He nods again (that damn perfume is all over him am I too late has he already been marked am I prolonging the inevitable that horrible stench of roses and death), and I put him in the cab and slam the door. The cab pulls away.

I've stayed too long. Too many voices...too many voices...but it's just Glen saying, "Are you okay? Dude, you look about ready to pop."

I take a slow breath into my lungs, hold it for a few seconds before slowly releasing it. "I'll not be rid of you this evening, shall I?" I say. She looks at me quizzically, and then I realize I just spoke to her in a Japanese/Portuguese/Russian combination of languages. I bite the insides of my cheeks and repeat myself in English.

"Are you kidding?" she says. "This is too fucking weird to pass up."

"That's what I thought you'd say," I say. I feel a blink coming on. "If we get seperated, meet me at the coffee shop on the corner of A street and 26th avenue. All will be revealed. Now...make the cheese really hot and drop the pizzas," I say in Esperanto as I close my eyes.

.....

"What was that last part again?" Glen says as she turns to look at him, but he is no longer there.

N 1.1.2: Dear Johnny, or Scenes from the Cutting Room Floor of the Twilight Zone

2004-08-21T20:42:00.000-07:00

I dream of a girl in black—a girl with blonde hair and a black cloak. She smells of lavendar and roses. On one hand, there is a tattoo of a black cross. On the other, a black pentacle. On her chest, the hint of a much larger tattoo underneath her black velvet dress—one involving teeth and claws, composed of the same writing as my dragon. She knows me, as I know her—her name escapes me, as mine escapes hers—but it doesn't stop her from kissing the palm of my hand and bringing her lips to my ear. She whispers, “Svartur Litur, vœni minn, nao tenha medo. Mantendré su caja fuerte secreto.” I reach for her...but my hand passes through nothing but smoke.

I wake to a scream. A teenage girl has tripped over my makeshift house of cardboard and newspapers, and I have grabbed her ankle in my sleep

pain pain go away play again another day one little fix and those bitches won't even let me destroy myself am I too fucking young to even do that did this fucker just grab me

I let go, and she jumps to the other side of the alley. “Fuck off!” she yells. “I have mace!”

I sit up and raise my hands. “I’m sure you do,” I say. I know she doesn't; I'm not sure how I know. “I didn’t mean to grab you. I thought you were somebody else.”

“Whatever,” the girl growls, “just stay over there.” She watches me closely as I situate myself on my side of the alley. I'm somehow holding her ID in my hand; perhaps she dropped it when I grabbed her, but she doesn't seem to notice it missing. I cup it in my hand to hide it from her, and I look at it. Fake. I glance down the alley and see a liquor store at the end, the clerk looking through the window into the darkness of the alley.

“Why do you want booze so badly, Glennette?” I say.

She stops glancing at the liquor store and stares at me, her eyes narrowing into slits. “How do you know my name?” she whispers.

“Your name,” I continue, “is Glennette Christiansen. You claim to be twenty-four, when you are actually fifteen. You have a friend at the DMV who makes you fake IDs for...favors. But your main mistake is that you’ve made too many under one name—it shows how many duplicates you’ve got on your license. That’s what tips them off to your lies.”

Glennette slumps to the ground. “How the fuck do you know all of this?” she says.

I pull out the police badge and show it to her. “Inspired guess,” I say. “But I don’t want to bust you,” I add as she rises to bolt, “I want to know what you know about the white house on the corner of Michigan and Swayne.”

She eyes me closely, then sits back down. “An old lady lives there,” she says. “Never met her; only seen her. Keeps to herself mostly. Why?”

“You haven’t noticed anything unusual over there today?”

“No. You gonna tell me why?”

“Maybe,” I say. I remember something...something that caught my eye when I first woke up in that house. “I need you to do something for me...and I’ll let you off with a warning. Deal?”
Glennette looks almost disgusted. “What do you want?” she slowly asks.

“Relax,” I say. “I just want you to go in the house and get a book for me.”

“Oh.” She looks calm again. “Okay...but keep your fucking distance. I still don’t know about you.”

We both rise and slowly make our way down the alley toward Michigan and Swayne. “Fair enough,” I say.

From the time I had left the crime scene to my return, the police had come and went. A few linger in front of the house. The only thing remaining of the dead body is a chalk outline on the porch. The door is as I left it--wide open...but the cops are in front of the door. I see all this from the bushes along the side of the house.

"Okay," I say to Glen--as she says she prefers to be called. "I'll distract the cops, and you go in and get the Bible. You remember where I said it was?"

"Yeah, yeah...the room upstairs with the books and the bed," Glen mumbles, "but if you're a cop, why do you have to 'distract' them?"

There was an answer for this, but it was not one she was going to hear. "You want a clean record or don't you?" I say.

"Jeez, okay," Glen says, "don't pull that mystical bullshit on me. I was just asking."

Glen waits in the bushes while I work my way back out to the street; I want the cops to see me coming from a mile away...hoping they don't think it odd that I'm on foot, and hoping they know who I am so I don't have to. I saunter up to them on the porch and flash my badge. "Any news on the cause of death?" I say.

"Who the hell are you?" one of the cops says. He's got his hand on the butt of his revolver.

The other cop thumps him on the chest with the back of his hand. "Relax, Pete," he says. He turns to me. "You're the Fed, aren't you?"

I nod. "That's me," I say. "So, what's the news?"

Pete takes his hand off of his gun. "Well," he says, "the victim was clean--no trace of what killed him. I say poison, but Jake thinks otherwise." He cocks his head toward the other cop.

"What do you think, Jake?" I say. I see Glen sneak out of the bushes behind the cops and creep into the house. I hope there aren't any more cops around here.

"Well, I was first on the scene," Jake says, "And I've seen some weird shit in my time, but this kid...his hands were balled into fists, his teeth clenched, his eyes squeezed shut...even his toes were curled. It looked like he had been electrocuted."

Odd that I had missed all of that...or perhaps I didn't--the smell of the perfume could have been mixed with the smell of burning flesh--but I had not been trying to solve a mystery at the time. "Interesting theory," I say. "We'll see what forensics comes up with. Anything else unusual?"

"One other thing, if you don't count that crazy-ass room in the house with all the books," Pete says. "The victim's shoes were missing."

"Missing?"

"Yeah. I don't see where that fits."

"Neither do I," I say. I see Glen in the doorway, the Bible in her hand. I nod, and she creeps back into the bushes.

"What?" Pete says.

Time to put on the "mystical bullshit" as Glen put it. "This isn't over," I say. "There will be others."

"Whoa," Jake says, "where are you getting that?"

I point to the chalk outline on the porch. "You tell me why this boy was killed," I say. "The death has meaning, but the meaning is unfulfilled. There will be others." I look these two cops dead in the eyes until I see a nervousness come over both of them, then I pat them both on their shoulders

hate working this night Clara's going to be mad as hell if I don't get home in time for Sam to wake up in the morning god damn this is some freaky shit/it could be electrocution but where did the lightning come from can it strike lightning in a snowstorm wait did this guy flash an FBI badge or was it

"You two have a Merry Christmas," I say, and head down the sidewalk, leaving them to recheck their list of New Year's resolutions.

I meet up with Glen in the bushes again. She hands me the book. "Did you open it?" I say.

She shakes her head. "I'm not into scripture," she says.

I open the book and look inside. It had been hollowed out, like I thought it would be--it stood out on the shelf because it looked like the only book that had been touched in a long while; the others had been left to rot. It's hollowed out in the shape of a hand--four fingers, a thumb and everything. I close the book. I say, "Me ha condertu a dem blinden mann quien le perdi dans sa Maison de Bleus."

Glen stares at me. "What the hell did you just say?"

I look at her. "If you have to ask," I say, "you should hope you never know."

N 1.1.1: Humming, or How to Think with a Mind Made of Smoke

2004-08-20T17:57:00.000-07:00

"One for the first time...
...two for the last time...
...three for the thrill...
...four for the lifetime...."

I open my eyes, and all I see is the Book. Everything else are blurs: dark and light blurs surrounding the solid red book with the words "Holy Bible" inscribed on the spine. I tear my gaze from it and look at the countless books surrounding me. I'm on a bed. It feels foreign; it's too high off the ground. I consider my elevated state and conclude it must be an adjustable bed and whoever has placed me here must be concerned for my well being, as there are leather straps binding me down.

Of course, I've been wrong before.

I could call out, but I decide against it--on the off-chance I'm NOT tied down for my own protection. I wrestle with one of the straps and hear a "snap." My arm comes free. "Demasiado tarde, la demostración ha comenzado," I mumble. I undo the binding on my other arm, and unbind my feet. I sit up, planting my bare feet onto the cold linoleum floor. My legs give out; I fall from the bed onto my knees. How long has it been since I stood? Nothing but smoke where the answers are.

I look down at my own body and almost mistake the black markings for dirt. But no...the black streaks on my skin are tattooed there, part of a larger picture I can't see. I look down one arm and see hundreds upon hundreds of symbols, changing from one style to another as they flow down my arm. One moment they all make sense, the next...swallowed in the smoke.

I would call this a library if not for the bed--check that; it's more of an operating table by the looks of it. I examine the binding I tore myself free from; it's snapped in two. Faulty, I think, and I look for the door. It's disguised as a bookcase--the small brass handle gives it away--and I swing it open and walk into a hallway of white marble. The floor is cold brown tile; I'm at the end of a hallway. I enter the next room I pass--a bedroom with an adjoining bathroom--and I search the closet for clothes. One side is filled with old dresses--some look like they date back to the nineteen-fifties, the smell of them rich with various perfumes gone stale--and the other side has men's clothes. I grab a collared shirt and a pair of slacks and take them into the bathroom to try them on.

My reflection in the mirror is an enigma, even to me. My physical appearance seems normal enough--short black hair, medium build and height--average in all appearances. It's the tattoo covering my body that's the eyecatcher. From a distance, it appears as nothing more than a large black dragon snaking around ninety percent of my torso, only my hands and the flesh above my shoulders off-limits to the ink. But up close, the dragon is composed solely of writing--what looks like a combination of Asian, Russian, Aramaic and probably several other languages--outlining the picture of the beast, filling in the lines with its black substance. Even the fire erupting from the dragon's mouth on my chest is nothing but scripture of some sort--and the eye of the dragon is composed of what looks like crop circles. What it says...smoke again--it fades in and out of my mind like clouds passing across the light of the moon. I abandon the tattoo and get dressed--noting in the process how the shirt and slacks match the color of the black ink on my body perfectly.

The clothes are a bit baggy, but fit well enough without fear of falling off my bones. I find a black belt with a simple silver buckle and cinch the slacks around my waist. I leave the bedroom and walk down the stairs--I seem to know my way around the house, though I don't remember entering it--and pause at the entranceway only long enough to to grab the black leather trenchcoat resting on a nearby chair before walking out of the house. I nearly trip over the dead body on the front porch.

Perhaps my head is still swimming, but I can't decide what is more odd: the body or the fact that I completely forgot about finding shoes. I lean over the body. It's a young man—in his late teens—with red hair and freckles. He has on a navy-blue letterman’s jacket with a big “W” on the front of it, gray jeans and black dress shoes. The dead man’s eyes are wide open, and he looks terrified—must have seen it coming, whatever it was. I give the poor soul a moment of silence, and then pull off his shoes. They’re going to blame this on me anyway; might as well go for the glory. The shoes are a bit tight, but they fit. They fit well enough for me to run.

Christmas lights adorn the surrounding houses, and I nearly slip twice on the icy sidewalk. People rush past me--anxious to get on with their last-minute shopping, I guess. How I can know that and not know where I am...don’t think about it, just run. Get somewhere relatively safe and then think. I didn't see a mark on the dead body, didn’t know what had killed him...but I do know who. There was a scent on those old dresses in that closet...that old, decrepit perfume that the dead body held a lingering trace of. I take shelter in a nearby alley to collect my thoughts.

I have the aftertaste of alcohol in my mouth. I don't remember being a drinking man, but perhaps it's the booze that clouds my memories. One moment, I can easily decipher the markings on my skin, and the next is a blur—can't even remember what I've deciphered. Most of the time I know who I am...except for when I think about it too much. One thing I suspect: I was intended for that dead man’s fate. But I escaped, and I imagine it won't take long for the wearer of that perfume to find out. I hold out a hand, palm facing up, and check my pulse. If I'm dead, this will all make more sense. But no, there's a pulse—strong and beating a normal rhythm...which surprises me, what with all the running I've done.

A passerby drops a dollar bill into my open hand. “Bless you,” I mumble, surprised at the deepness of my own voice. I look at the dollar in my hand, then check my pockets. I find a wallet with no ID and fifty bucks in it. I find a pack of Djarum Black cigarettes and a box of Ohio Blue Tip matches. I also find a pack of strawberry-flavored bubble gum. I check the other pocket and pull out a 9mm handgun. I check the cartridge to find it fully loaded, with one in the chamber. There's something else in the pocket. I pull it out to find a police badge. Is this mine? I pocket the badge and gun again.

I light a cigarette and take a drag. I breath the smoke into my lungs. I wonder if I will cough or accept it as normal. I feel the mellow taste of the clove, and a bit of a head rush, but nothing else. I blow out the smoke and claim the coat in its entirety as my own. If it does belong to somebody else--in that house--they won't be needing them anymore.

I hear police sirens in the distance. Somebody probably found the body. I lower my gaze back to the sidewalk. There's a thought repeating itself over and over in his head: One for the first time...one for the first time....

It sounds damn familiar, like a song lyric that’s on the tip of my tongue. It is a song lyric; I heard it in my head, along with others, before I opened my eyes to the Good Book in that uber-torture chamber. The boy in the letterman’s jacket was the first one...for the first time, I conjecture. But the first time what? And who will the two for the last time be? And God help those three for the thrill, and the four for the lifetime...aw shit, I’m making my own head hurt. I smoke the Djarum Black down to the filter before tossing it to the wet ground and stubbing it out with the heel of my new shoe.

And meanwhile, I think, somebody else is dying....