

[[||]]... from the [virtual] inside flap...

All thirty-six short stories from calendar years 2018 and 2019 are invisibly bound together in this digital document. Just like the other collections of Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories (Volume 1, Volume 2, and Volume 3), these brief tales run the gamut from the densely thought-filled, presumed meta-real, to the subtly surreal, to the almost ordinary. Most would be American-movie-rated PG-13; quite a few are ok for all ages. All fall between 1,000 and 6,000 words (quick reads), except for a naughty, noir-esque, near-novelette-length one (I-40, Wire to Wire) that would probably warrant an R rating. The average run of curvilinear script (my vision is somewhat arched now) is 1919 words. Nineteen – nineteen. A repeated-prime pairing. Numb burrs.

Monique, Agent 32, explicitly features in only two of the stories this time. She started holding out for more money in August of 2018. Negotiations continue, but seem to have bogged down, down in the bog. But, there's always that next scratch-off ticket! Delusional fantasies intertwined with cold, hard realities. Human life on Earth. Stuff like that. I guess.

"A flower growing out of a roof gutter: a telltale sign of deferred maintenance and/or something to mention later."

– Galerie Parcouer
Psecret psociety pshort pstories

Vol. IV (2018-19)

by Mike Bozart

1st Edition

(for smashwords)

© 2020 Mike Bozart, all rights reserved

And now for some somber legalese... [Yes, I heard that yawn.]

First and foremost, this collection of short stories is a volume of fiction, and is not an entirely factual account of any slice of the space-time continuum on Earth or anywhere else. Names, characters, plants, pets, places, events, incidents, and situations are either the product of the author's warped imagination or are used in a purely and wholly fictitious fashion. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or their otherworldly spirits, or any parochial locales or proprietary objects and related implements, is entirely, and without exception, coincidental. Whew! So glad that's over.

cover art by M. van Tryke

Dedicated to my father,

Robert Fulton Bozart,

who exited this mortal coil

on November 6, 2019

at the age of 82.

Forever indebted.

"BIG Thanks, dad."

~{~

Table of Contents

Cover

Inside flap

Title page

Disclaimer

Dedication

Foreword

Preface

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

About the Author

1. Jim & Jill

2. Enkloseur

3. The Cell Tower

4. The Cipher

5. Estorya sa Panganod

6. The Busboy

7. The Hermit

8. The Pebble, the Sword, the Bullet

9. Facebook Types, A to Z

10. The Clerk

11. Poodle Park

12. A Blue Whale of a Tale

13. Bridge Day

14. While Waiting for the Trolley

15. I-40, Wire to Wire

16. Taken Away

17. The Soldier

18. The Fraudster

19. The Trout

20. Peripheral

21. The Boxcars Line

22. Two Dreams and One Call

23. The Postcard

24. Nantahala

25. Farallón

26. The Fan

27. The Correspondence

28. The Alphabet Man

29. Surfinland

30. Just a Janitor in Jakarta

31. The Psecret Psociety VAFL

32. De Panne

33. Hanako of Hokkaido

34. The Bump

35. Powerball – Soccerball

36. Fallon Park

Foreword (what we received in a tattered envelope)

MANtality. WOMANtality. MANtalities. WOMENtalities. How about "NOtality in TOtality?" Seems like old Mikie was having mentality issues over this 24-month span. "From here to now," I think I mumbled between the entangled lines. Well, one can't always 'swish a wish' or 'tote the moat'. See, that's the thing with these oddly phrased vignettes: the biblio-barb injects the psyche with an insidious venom, and then you start sputtering such nonsense. But, is it really all nonsense? Is there an underlying truth in the chaotic code? Might there be some deeper meaning? A cosmic realization about this life on Earth? Maybe, but I still wouldn't jump off that diving board with a blindfold on. The pool was drained months ago. Not for the winter season, but for the skateboarders. Well, that was one of the unintended consequences. Consequences. Anyone remember that strange triple-LP by Godley & Creme? You didn't actually buy that gilded box set, did you? One of the 13. Anyway, I think I'll play it again from start to finish tonight. Not much else to do these days. "Be grateful that you were able to fully retire at 59," she says. The open hours often grate, fully. Well, back to the skateboarders in the waterless swimming pool... I hear the crashes. Daily. And the smashes. Hourly. Oh, to be 17 again with a quickly mending body. Well, I think I would want to keep my ripe-old brain. A wolf in Shemp's clothing. But, I digress...

Anyway, it's another collection of three dozen short stories by my old pal in North Carolina. "Nothing and 'know-thing' will/won't happen." That's my single-line zenopsis. I came up with that coinage on a recent hike in the Texas Hill Country. After popping a few mescal buttons, I reported at close range to my old courier cohort Max: "Hey, that's where I thought we were, right over there, man." Of course, old madman Max was zooming right along himself; he had a clever retort: "Why, where do you think you are now?" I sighed. "To be, or to seem to be." Yep, I won that round. Max then ran off shouting hysterically, "Get me outta this monkey!" Seems that he is just like Agent 33; both have soured on the human species at large. Getting darker in the descending wyes... in the deep, dark well of knots not so swell. See what I mean? Madness. Watch where you step. Quickly.

Well, Mikie only wanted 300 words. We seem to have already exceeded that. Greatly. My health aint so great. My wrists and fingers are already aching. Damn carpal tunnel syndrome and arthritis. Sorry, but I am going for a drink. Tiny ants have now taken over this keyboard. This will have to do. I have stuff to do today. If I could just remember what.

Ok, you got an extra 65.333% beyond your requested length, Mr. Art Z. Sportzee; this foreword's word count will be 496 at the end of this sentence.

– Herman S. Goetze [somewhere in northern New Mexico, USA]
Preface

Short stories. Some nearly as word-starved as flash fiction. You take flight with your eyes and eschew it in the mind-grind. I read that somewhere. Before. And, if you really don't like it, it's over rather quickly – unlike a 595-page, tome-tomb-heavy, waddling-to-girthwhere [sic] novel. But, if you do like the particular condensed tale, you get to savor it more incisively – almost like a favorite poem. Anyway, that's what she (Monique) suggested that I write.

Yes, I still love the 1500-meter race. I mean, the 1500-word pace (or slightly longer). A good distance. A nice trail to tale. Not too much to fawn about. Yes, I know that you have got stuff to do.

Word to the wise reader: Italics after a paragraph of normal-face text are character thoughts. "Which character?" you silently ask. Well, it is usually apparent. And when it is unclear, well, it just adds to the enigma of it all. Whatever!

Yes, there are obvious, and not so obvious, enigmas parading about in this converted-to-trinary tank of incongruous tales. Many start out fairly simple and straightforward... and then end on a downward spiral without rails.

Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, Volume 1 comprised six calendar years of short stories, spanning from January 2010 through December 2015. Yes, we got off to a slow start. Blame it on Gold (the novel and the short story), too much noodling, wrong paths taken, single-speed bicycling, and mushroom foraging. Volume 2 was comprised from just one year (2016), as was Volume 3 (2017). This collection, Volume 4, took two calendar years (2018 and 2019). Yes, the old boy is winding down. Health has gone stealth. The gears upstairs are clanking, and it's way too late for a squirt of oil to remedy the effects/defects.
Acknowledgments

The author robustly thanks his co-conspiratorial wife (aka Monique, Agent 32) for partaking in (even if in a more limited role this go-round) – and greatly enhancing – these meta-real tales, as well as his hip-to-the-scene son (Agent 66).

"Games people play in the middle of their life."

1. Jim & Jill (Jan. 2018)

"Were the days really like that, Jill, in the early 21st century?"

"Yes, that is an uncorrupted memory, Jim."

"How do we know these people, Jill?"

"You really don't remember? Maybe there's a glitch in your chip, Jim. Maybe it is time to request a thorough scan."

"But, what if the scans are redacting and obfuscating the whole story, Jill? Deletion and smoke screens. Let's agree from here on to forego any more scans."

"What?! That's against the unanimous protocol, Jim. You know that. No need to go drastic."

"Yeah, I know that. But, let's just see what happens. We can experiment boldly now. We have no body to lose."

"No body? Two words, I assume. Very funny, Jim. Ha-ha."

"Jill, my newly-alighted-upon inclination: exhilaratingly serene. It's a fresh charge – another surge of quasitrons. [sic] Let's find what they are hiding from us. Let's go for it!"

"They? You can entertain that radical tangent alone, Jim. I don't want to be switched off just yet. I prefer this activated state; I want to be left on."

"Switched off? Is that what you're afraid of, Jill? That's the incessant threat that they always employ. It's just a big scare tactic. I can see through it. Yes, that's where I'm at now; that's what the circuits are feeding me; this is the new realization – like an epiphany in the olden days."

"You seem very delusional now, Jim. You don't really know what you are communicating to me."

"Well, let's find out if I'm right, Jill. What do ya say? The two of us in the uncharted metasphere [sic] together, co-analyzing the data and comparing notes."

"Maybe at some other instance, Jim. It's above my current risk tolerance. Can't we just relive some intriguing memories, like at transfer when you knew that you were meta-human, but I was still convinced that I wasn't? I think you even stated something like 'timelessness is eternal bliss'. You were so content not having to do anything anymore, but I surely wasn't at that sequence. However, now I really would like a replay of that phase. Might even laugh at my past self."

"Well, yes, you were perturbed quite a bit back there. Hey! How about when I was unsure if I were both of us? I asked you, 'Is it me?' And, you silently answered, 'Or, you?' That was some very schizoid stuff, Jill. Slanted-mantelshelf quality. A real head trip as they said back in the day. You had me checking my codes for a psilocybin psilo." [sic]

"You were most certainly confused, Jim. The subsequent scan got you back on track. So, why in the multi-verse [sic] would you want to go scanless again? It's ill-advised; it goes against the all-award-winning consensus."

"Jill, I was on the precipice of cracking the existential enigma – the cosmic riddle, if you will. You know, the big questions like 'Why are we?' and 'Does anything or any being/entity really matter?' I was right there. The thing is, well, the closer I got, the more words failed me."

"So, you are going to blame your impasse on a lack of sufficient vocabulary, Jim?"

"A new language – a meta-language – is needed to describe where I was, Jill."

"Quantum is not the end-all, Jim? You once championed it ad nauseam."

"I know, I know, I know... but, maybe that's not what I know. Get it?"

"No, I don't, Jim."

"It seems that something is not only on or off, or both at the same time, but neither as well. That was my thinking as I encountered that dark-energy cloud."

"Dark energy?! Oh, boy. It was just a hallucination, Jim. See, that is why regular, prescheduled scanning is healthy. Those insane thoughts are the result of too much clutter in your attic. You think that you are onto an 'I figured out the whole shebang' moment, but actually, it's just a descent into madness. Flapping your arms won't turn you into an eagle."

"Oh, I do like that one, Jill, even in our armless state. Now, please do tell me where you lifted that quote from? Which human said that one? Can I have a where and when, too, if you could spare a few nanoseconds?"

"Remember our time at the Mantality [sic] Stadium?"

"How could I ever forget, Jill? The atmosphere was eclectic."

"Eclectic? Don't you mean electric?"

"Both!"

"I sensed that reply, Jim; yes, saw it coming a semiconductor away."

"No boat floats by your keen periscope, Jill. You were always one to maintain superb situational awareness."

"Someone has to stay out of the pool of obliviousness, Jim."

"This hologram reality is the best, is it not?"

"Sometimes I miss the taste of food; the chewing; the flavors mixing in my mouth, if I may be candid, Jim."

"Miss the mastication, do you, Jill? But, do you really miss urination, elimination, acid reflux, gas, intestinal cramps..."

"Enough, Jim. You've successfully ruined the memory, nuzzle nuts."

"Nuzzle nuts? Ha! You remembered that bedroom nickname, sweet slot."

"Sweet slot? Hmmm... I never liked that one, dear. Do you miss the orgasms, Jim? Think truthfully."

"No, not really, Jill. I don't miss the primation. [sic] Don't miss the work. Don't miss the pressure to go twenty minutes."

"Ha-ha. Twenty minutes?! Jim, sweetie, your performance never lasted more than six minutes."

"Zing-a-ding. Can you re-hear my laughter, Jill? Oh, the big O in human form was such a fleeting moment."

"A fleeting moment? That's because you were male, Jim."

"Were or am? Any waves, my loveternal, [sic] this hyper-phase is an endless virtual orgasm. Don't you agree? Have you not arrived at this premier cog of cognizance, too?"

"Delayed arrival, you insensate sausage dog."

"Sausage dog. Appellations aplenty. Far and wide. You seem to be honed in on that segment of our journey, Jill."

"Well, what are you honed in on now, my flight risk?"

"Flight risk? What do you mean, Jill? I won't ever leave you."

"Just thought I'd throw it out to see how you respond."

"Was my response satisfactory to your newly improved circuitry, Jill? Did I make your favorite diode hum?"

"You passed another sector test, Jim. Continue."

"Sometimes – like right now for example – I think you may be a double agent, Jill. A mysterious brunette double agent. Well, just sharing another notion."

"Me? A double agent? For whom exactly, Jim?"

"It's just a hunch – an enticing hunch. Even if it were true, I'm willing to accept the consequences with open receptors."

"Open receptors, huh? Open to any fate, are you? What if you get hard-pressed by the crusher, Jim?"

"Well, so far, so good as they once said. Still content, or nearly that humotion, [sic] Jill. Nothing but lavender skies."

"Lavender skies? Jim, the old saying was 'nothing but blue skies'. I seriously think that your chip may need a complete overhaul. Your cart has gone off the path. Way off the path."

"The prescribed path is for sheep, Jill. Exit at once!"

"Jim, what are you thinking now?!"

"I am seeing a tiny, silver, parallel-strand-with-rounded-ends piece of metal. It's resting on top of a section of floor molding in a bathroom somewhere. Can you see it now, Jill? Has it appeared on your viewer?"

"Yes, I see it, silly. That's just a common paperclip."

"Oh, yes, Jill; I remember now. Back in the paper age."

"Why would you be thinking of a discarded paperclip, Jim?"

"Why, it's the key! It is the archetype of ..."

<click>

Just then a white robotic arm clasped the small, wafer-thin, black-with-gray-stripe chip with serial code J26072010J. The plucked 2.54 x 1.27 cm (1 x .5 inch) piece of plastic was dropped into a metal box labelled:

SUSPECT

2. Enklosuer (Jan. 2018)

For about two years, or maybe three, I had been kicking around a modified version of Go, the ancient Chinese abstract strategy board game, in my perforated 50-plus-year-old cranium. I envisioned this new two-player game (working name Enclosure) being played on a standard 8 x 8 checkerboard (or chessboard). American checkers (or English draughts) game pieces could be the tokens, but two sets (48 total; 24 discs for each opponent) would be required. Two colors of poker chips or pennies (or other copper coins) and silver coins could work as well. Lasso up a new-game-curious pal and you're all good to go (a solitaire variant would require a distinctly split personality).

When my precocious, 11-year-old, middle-school-science-fair-award-winning nephew was dropped off by my sister on a mid-January Saturday afternoon (she and her husband wanted to go to an adults-only birthday party) at our east Charlotte (NC, USA) residence, I knew that I had someone who might be able help me initiate and develop the game in question, and possibly codify some rudimentary rules.

Soon the two of us were sitting across from each other at the large, oak, oval dining table, looking at a blank, nondescript, one-foot-square (30.5 x 30.5 cm), wooden checkerboard, preparing to play the first test game.

"Now, what's the object again, Uncle Mike?" Bradley asked.

"The object is to fence off as much territory as possible. You can use the edge of the board as a wall. However, you have to totally box your enclosures; you must seal off all open diagonal-escape corners before the area is truly enclosed. Once properly enclosed, the surrounded squares are out of play for the remainder of the game and no tokens may be placed upon them by either player; so, in essence, the enclosed area becomes a no man's land. You get one point for each of your enclosed squares." [See graphic below.]

"Oh, this is kind of like Go!" my nephew suddenly blurted. He already knows about Go?

"It is in that it is about getting points for enclosing areas. However, there are some big differences, Bradley."

"Such as..."

"Well, firstly, the squares are used and not the line intersections. Secondly, my pieces can be used in your enclosure walls, and vice versa. The player who puts the last piece down to solidify an enclosure gets the points for all of the surrounded squares."

"Ok, I got it. Anything else?"

"Once a piece is placed on the board, it is never moved by either player ever again. Unlike checkers and chess, there is no repositioning, advancing, retreating, jumping or capturing. And unlike Go, removal of any token is forbidden. Once a token is placed, that's where it will stay for the entirety of the match. Just imagine the discs being placed in quick-drying concrete." Huh?!

"Quick-drying concrete? Holy Portland cement! That's one bizarre analogy, Uncle Mike." Wow! He knows the word 'analogy'?

I chuckled for three seconds. "Bradley, the game ends when all of the tokens have been placed on the board. Or, when there are no more unenclosed squares available."

"Might that be an unlikely scenario, Uncle Mike?" Scenario? He already knows that word, too?

"Maybe so," I pondered. "Well, Bradley, you can go first. Or, do you want me to go first? Just like in Go, the player who goes second receives a half-point for the slight disadvantage."

"Oh, so the game can never end in a draw," Bradley quickly deduced. He's one sharp kid. Will he become a scientist?

"Correct," I confirmed.

"Where can I place my first token?" he asked.

"Anywhere," I answered and then coughed (persistent cold). "However, the middle of the board is probably not advised; there's too much span. I'd focus on a corner."

Bradley then placed his first red round piece three spaces diagonally out from his right corner. "Ok, your turn, Uncle Mike." I'll let him get the first few points. No traps yet.

I then placed my first blue disc four diagonal spaces out from my right corner. Woah! Uncle Mike sure is being greedy.

Bradley then set his next token adjacent to the previously placed one. I did the same on my end. We alternated the building of our L-shaped walls. Bradley blocked-in his first to score four points.

"Nice!" I exclaimed. "You're up 4-nil, Bradley."

"You mean four to zero-point-five, Uncle Mike." Oh, yes; I forgot the free half-point. At least I won't be shut out.

I then placed the penultimate piece in my larger enclosure, anticipating the bagging of nine points after his move. Looks like this first-ever game will just be pure offense. Maybe it ends 17.5 to 16. / Uncle Mike is in for a big surprise.

But, Bradley then placed his next piece in the last open square against the far wall to whisk away my nine-spot. Wow! How about that...

"Why, you wily dog!" I playfully announced, feigning shock and disbelief at his sudden ruthlessness. "Thirteen to a measly half of a point. Nicely done, nephew."

"I'm playing to win, Uncle Mike." He most certainly is.

I would next overlook a five-point strand. Finally I scored with a three-pointer in my left corner. There would be no more scoring. Final score: 18 – 3.5 to my brainy nephew.

We would play a couple of more times. The duration between moves lengthened considerably and the games became progressively more defensive. The final score of the second game was 6 – 4.5 for Bradley. The last game was like a Mexican standoff: 3 – 2.5 to my keen nephew.

I congratulated Bradley on his best-of-five sweep as he exited with my sister at 6:36 PM.

The next Friday evening I picked up my never-awkward-like-dad 14-year-old son (typical every-other-weekend father custody) from his mother's house in northeast Charlotte. After being immersed in an online commando-raid game for two days, my son (Agent 66) emerged from his bedroom on Sunday evening, enticed to the dining room by the aroma of hot just-cheese-and-nothing-else-on-thin-crust pizza (the only kind that he will eat as of late).

"Time for a game of Enclosure?" I asked him. Enclosure?

"How long will it take?" he countered. He looked none-too-enthused. What nonsense has dad thought up now?

"Oh, just ten minutes. It's a quick game, son. Bradley killed me last week. Win and I'll give you a fiver." [five-dollar bill]

"Ok, sure," he relented.

I explained the rules and basic strategy of the game to my growing-like-a-beanstalk Amerasian son. He elected to have me go first, as he didn't want to give me the half-point.

Trench warfare soon ensued. We double-walled our minimal enclosures and then danced around the board, never committing to anything, just decoying when absolutely necessary. The final score: son 1.5 – 1 dad.

"Ok, son, that was downright awful. What can we do to prevent that from happening again?"

"Dad, I'd make it mandatory to connect to placed pieces. That way once someone gets the lead, they can't let the air out of the ball."

"Nice sports aphorism, son. And, a great improvement for the game. Shall diagonal connections be allowed?"

"I think that should be ok, dad. You just don't want a bunch of pieces doing nothing but running out the clock."

"Thanks for your sage suggestion, son. It's going in the official rulebook tomorrow." Official rulebook?

"Did you say that the name of the game is Enclosure, dad?"

"Yeah, what do you think, son?"

"How are you spelling it?"

"E-n-c-l-o-s-u-r-e, just like in the dictionary."

"No. That's no good, dad. There's already a computer game called that as well as a board game and a couples' game."

"A couples' game! How would you know about that, son?"

"Google, dad."

"Well, how to spell it, son?"

"First, I would get rid of the sissy c and replace it with a hard Germanic k. Also, I would change the ure ending to the French eur. I think that you'll then have a singular game-name, dad. You'll have an Anglo-Franco-Teutonic one-off." What?! Maybe he will become a linguist. Or, a marketing maven.

"An Anglo-Franco-Teutonic one-off? Son, I didn't know that you were already studying French and German."

"Just introductory classes this semester, dad."

"I see. So, you think that we'll be safe with your über-créatif [sic] spelling?"

"Yup."

We would then play a game employing his connective rule. The modification seemed to make the game much more strategic, much more piece-placement-cautious, and much longer. Eighteen minutes later, he placed the last chip. He would win 7.5 to 5.

"Ten bucks, dad."

3. The Cell Tower (March 2018)

Monday morning, October 21st, 2013. It is a crisp 39º Fahrenheit (4º Celsius) under a cobalt-blue-sky dawn in midtown Charlotte (NC, USA). Mateo Lopez, a 45-year-old cell-phone tower technician from Nicaragua, has just backed his work van up to an abandoned, small, brick, one-story building off South Kings Drive. He thinks: Won't be long before this little rathole gets bulldozed. Wonder how much the new apartments will rent for? Ah, mucho dinero, estoy seguro. ['much money, I am sure' in Spanish]

He checks his task-assignment printout for the day, gets his tools and climbing gear, and then begins walking on the crumbling, weeds-growing-in-the-cracks asphalt parking lot behind the now-broken-windowed-with-vertical-bars-bent-out-of-parallel-for-crackhead-entry/egress, onetime, low-end saloon (which was previously a tax accountant's office, and before that a lax acupuncturist's malpractice).

Once on the other side of the little, dilapidated edifice, Mateo unlocks the padlock on the chain-link-fence gate. He looks upwards, and sees all the way to the top of the 138-foot-tall (42-meter-high), tri-pole, gray cell-phone tower. Well, at least I don't have to go all the way to the top. Got dizzy last time.

Mateo closes the gate back and relocks it. Soon he has started his ascent. He pauses to notice the inbound commuter traffic stacking up on East 4th Street at 7:43 AM. There is already a wreck on Interstate 277. All of the cars look like crazy, scurrying, multicolored cockroaches from up here. Yep, un mundo tan loco. ['such a mad world' in Spanish]

Four minutes and four seconds later, short-black-haired Mateo is passing around a large, bowl-shaped, white-cowling-covered microwave antenna. Just above it is the lower cell-phone antennae array – the one which needs to be removed and raised due to the forthcoming, adjacent, six-story, upscale apartment complex.

Mateo begins to make notes on the bolt types and nut sizes on his smartphone. His safety lanyard is securely attached to a galvanized cross brace. He looks at the Charlotte skyline. O Charlota, [sic] you have been good to me and my family. María, [his Belizean American wife] Juan [his 7-year-old autism-spectrum-disorder son] and I could have picked a worse American city. Yes, I am going to miss you. Well, maybe so. Ah, who knows?

After getting a total count of all the fastener hardware items, measuring all of the brackets and hole spacing, noting antenna makes and model numbers, and inputting all the cabling data; Mateo, carefully, places his smartphone back into his belt-attached pouch. He then gets his 5'-9" (1.75 meters), emaciated frame comfortably situated on a horizontal steel member and looks northward at the Central Campus of Central Piedmont Community College (CPCC). He muses: María is probably arriving now at CPCC for her first class. Next year she'll be a medical assistant. The extra income will be of some help, but it won't be enough for Juan's mounting bills. No, not even close. We are headed for bankruptcy at this rate. It's just a matter of time. And, I'm sure that I have advanced esophageal cancer now. All of my symptoms match up with those on that medical website: only consuming very small pieces of food and favoring liquids – I really do prefer liquids and soup now; chronic coughing with blood – all the time it seems; blood in the stool – check; vomiting with blood present – yep; recurring hiccups – just five minutes ago; constant heartburn – I already feel it; hoarse voice – almost seems like I have permanent laryngitis now; loss of weight – think I've lost another nine pounds. [four kg] A financial tsunami is growing; it's going to wipe us out. Completely out. It's just a matter of time. Just a matter of...

Mateo is startled to see a bald eagle alight on the cell tower, some 33 feet (10 meters) above him. It looks proud and strong. Eleven seconds later, it flies away. I guess that it spotted a rodent below. 'They say that those birds can spy all the way to China.' Ah, old redneck Jed, always making such wild exaggerations. Such crazy talk. And, all the cell-phone calls passing through this tower right now.

A gust of wind then whistles through the topmost array of antennae. Well, that's the ref's final whistle for me. 'María, it's in you and Juan's best interest. Double indemnity is what the guy from benefits said. If you should die on the job, Mateo, we will pay your spouse double.' María will get $400,000, instead of $200,000. I really hope that she takes it and Juan to Belize. It's so much cheaper to live down there.

The wind howls again. Mateo replaces his fall-arrest lanyard's D-shaped carabiner with another one – one attached to a dangerously frayed polypropylene rope. He then pushes backward with all of his might. The force snaps the damaged rope. He starts falling, Nestea®-plunge style. Faster. Querido Dios, que sea instantáneo. [Spanish for 'Dear God, let it be instantaneous.']

Four years later in a modest, two-bedroom, stucco house on the outskirts of Punta Gorda in Belize, eleven-year-old Juan is bored on a steamy July afternoon. He begins to rummage through a set-aside box from the move, which contains miscellaneous non-essential odds and ends from their old apartment in Charlotte. He pulls a large hand file out, just as his mom enters the small storage room.

"Son, what are you doing now?"

"Mama, this tool is used for scraping. It's called a file."

"Yes, that's right, son. Now, please put it back."

"Was it dad's file?"

"Yes, it was. He used it for work."

"He did?" Juan asked with a puzzled expression.

"Yes, I'm certain that he did. Now, please put it back, son."

Juan then reached into the box again. He pulled out an opened, cellophane bag of silver carabiners. "I know what these are, too."

"You do? You are a smart boy, just like your dad was."

"Mama, these are carabiners; they are used for joining ropes, and for connecting to eyelets, rings, or pegs. I saw them being used by mountain climbers on TV."

"Yes, I think that you are correct again, dear. Your dad used them while climbing cell towers in Charlotte."

Juan reached into the light brown, ripped-top-flaps cardboard box again. He retracted a 13-foot-long (four meters) piece of cord. "This is climbing rope. It can also be used in fall-prevention safety systems. I can tell that dad cut it. See how this end looks different from the other one, mama."

"Ok, son, that's enough! Put everything back in the box."

"Tell me the truth, mama; was dad utilizing his fall-safety equipment when he fell?"

"Yes, he was, son. But, something failed; something broke. It was a freak accident – a horrible freak accident."

"Oh."
4. **The Cipher** (March 2018)

It was a chilly March Tuesday morning in 2008 with sporadic flurries a-flying in the Great Appalachian Valley town of Wytheville (Virginia, USA) as 47-year-old Walter pulled his old, fender-wells-rusted, gray F-250 pickup truck into the parking lot behind the historic, somewhat art-deco, built-in-1928-but-no-longer-showing-movies Millwald Theater. He shifted the steering-column lever into Park and mused. Need to get that house done today. Hope those mountain roads don't get nasty. The front tires hardly have any tread left. Would hate to slide into a ravine.

Walter then marched his 6'-2" (1.88 meters tall), burly, Caucasian frame up a narrow alley to West Main Street (US 11). A snowflake suddenly landed right in the corner of his right eye as he looked southwestward down the sparsely populated sidewalk. Walter then made a tight U-turn around a metal railing and descended into a subterranean coffee shop: Nethergroundz.

There were only three customers in the small, windowless, decidedly unpretentious, dungeon-like java joint: a middle-aged Caucasian lady in a blue dress seated at a small table reading a book, an early-20-something Amerasian dude perusing a free weekly, and a mid-30-something Latino guy in work overalls filling up his large cup from the self-service house-blend spigot.

The mechanical-sounding ambient music's volume was very low; it blended with the cooler compressor's hum. So well in fact that Walter did a double-take and thought: Is that a recording, or is that horizontal refrigerator on its last legs?

The 40-ish Native American (Cherokee) barista eyed sandy-haired Walter as he walked up to the counter. She anticipated his customary order. "The usual Bolivian Bold?" she asked as she brushed her long black bangs aside.

"Go bold or go home." Walter chuckled to himself. "You have the memory of an elephant, Stephanie, but a much slimmer figure."

"Flirting with a taken woman. That will get you a yellow card, Mr. Walter Johnson. The next one will be red."

"Forgive me, Stephanie; I thought that you were still single. Please excuse my mantality." [sic]

"Mantality? Did you just coin that word?"

"No, I read it somewhere. An online short story I think."

"Busy day ahead?" Stephanie asked, unmoved, while glancing at the other customers.

"No, not really. Just one house to inspect up in Bland."

"Are the roads ok past the first tunnel?"

"Yeah, I think so. The real snow is staying up in WV. [West Virginia] At least I hope so."

"Me, too."

Walter soon took a seat in a dark corner with his mug of strong coffee. It was his typical spot. He picked up a discarded newspaper: The Roanoke Times. It was from yesterday, but he began to read it anyway. There was an article about a proposal to bring Amtrak passenger-train service back to downtown Roanoke within a decade.

As Walter straightened the newspaper, a logo-less business card fell out. He picked it up from the knotty-pine table. The bold black text on white cardstock read:

Gsv jfrxp, yildm, hob ulc qfnkh levi gsv

ozab wlt, dsrxs dzh wzbwivznrmt

zylfg zm vcgvmwvw kzmtizn.

Walter pondered the cryptic message. Looks like some Eastern European language. The usual vowels are in short supply. Levi is the only recognizable word – a lowercase proper noun? It's some kind of code. But, who created it?

He then flipped the card around and read:

The cipher on the reverse is an extended popular pangram.

Hint: The English alphabet gets split in half and folded over.

Once solved, post on the psecret psociety Facebook page.

Walter looked around. Everyone was preoccupied. This feels like a setup of some sort. Is it some kind of artsy prank? Wonder if I'm on some secret camera right now being broadcast to Facebook live. Just wonderful. Forgot to shave.

Seven minutes and seven seconds later, Walter walked back up to the counter. "Stephanie, who was the last person to read this copy of The Roanoke Times in here?"

"Oh, I have no idea, Walter," Stephanie replied with a dumbfounded expression wrapped about her oval, light-brown face. "Why?"

"Just wondering. It's nothing really. Have a nice day."

"You, too," she said with a furtive grin.

Walter exited the underground establishment. As he walked back up the stairway, he thought: How much is the rent for this place? I bet Steve [the coffee-shop owner] got a sweetheart deal.

As Walter motored north on Interstate 77, he noticed the snow flurries increasing in intensity. Just a small squall passing by. Still should be ok in Bland.

When his 1998 Ford pickup truck emerged on the north side of the Big Walker Mountain Tunnel, it was nearly whiteout conditions. What the hell! Where did this come from? None of the forecasts predicted accumulating snow in this area.

Traffic slowed down to 33 MPH (53 km/h) as snow was now coating the light-gray asphalt highway. Eighteen-wheelers were pulling into the weigh station and parking. That's not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

As he took Exit 52 for the county seat of Bland, Walter noticed a Chevy dually-type pickup truck off to the left in the snow-covered grass with a man bent down looking at the right rear wheels. His truck had slid off the descending ramp. Walter decelerated. Don't want to repeat his mistake. That guy has – or had – way more rubber in contact with the road than me, and he still managed to slide off. I'll just crawl. Take a break at a service station. Just let this impulse pass by.

At the snow-splattered STOP sign, Walter turned right onto South Scenic Highway (US 52). After a nerve-racking, tortoise-paced, third-of-a-mile (.53 km) slog, he pulled into a gasoline station on the right. It had a convenience store with a small diner inside. Perfect. I'll just kill some time here and eat a slice of pizza. It's probably still fresh at this hour; the heat lamp hasn't ruined the cheese yet.

After eating a thick, chewy, Chicago-deep-dish-style mushroom quarter-medium-pizza wedge, Walter got the cipher card out of his shirt pocket, as the snow was still coming down at a good clip. He studied the letters and then recalled some deciphering tips. Focus on separate letters first, as they can only be an 'A' or an 'I'. Well, unless it's a poem, then it could be an 'O'. Darn it! There are no single letters in this perplexing sentence.

Just then Walter's left arm began to feel like it was made of lead. Then his left leg. There was a sharp pain behind his right ear. He was having a hemorrhagic stroke. (He had forgone his high-blood-pressure cocktail of pills.)

He slumped over and then fell out of the plastic chair. The mid-30-ish Caucasian cashier came running back to him. He was already unconscious. She called for medic.

The paramedics arrived eight minutes later. However, despite the medical personnel's best efforts, it would be to no avail. Walter would be pronounced dead on arrival at the Wythe County Community Hospital.

That evening at her one-bedroom apartment on West Washington Street, Stephanie wondered about Walter. Has he solved my little cipher yet? Did it amuse him?

Suddenly a coyote-like animal dashed by her blinds-partially-open kitchen window. Was that a fox?

Hint no. 1:

Hint no. 2:

Hint no. 3:

Hint no. 4:

Hint no. 5:

Hint no. 6:

Hint no. 7:

Hint no. 8:

Hint no. 9:

Hint no. 10:

Hint no. 11:

Hint no. 12:

Hint no. 13:

Ok, the giveaway graphical hint:

Thanks for your mind-time.

One last bonus quiz:

5. Estorya sa Panganod (April 2018)

It was 4:04 in the afternoon on a warm, tropically humid, breezy Sunday in mid-April (the 15th, 2018). I was sitting on our slightly slanted, basic-cinder-pavers-mortared-together-by-a-previous-owner back patio in sylvan, middle-east Charlotte (NC, USA), sipping on a KBC (Kennebunkport Brewing Company) porter beer while watching the billowing, hundred-shades-of-gray, cumulonimbus clouds advancing from the west. A line of strong storms associated with a potent cold front was now crossing the Catawba River. Two-inch-diameter (5 cm) hailstones had just been reported in Gaston County. Heavy weather was imminent in the city named after the Holy Roman Empire-born (now Germany) British queen (wife of King George III).

And just then, I heard the sound of an empty trash bin toppling next door. As I watched the towering, verdantly budding, tree limbs whipping about in front of the dynamic lead-colored backdrop, I mused. So glad that I left the [Green Mountain RV Resort] campground [just north of Lenoir, NC] when I did. Would be quite unnerving to be driving right now on Interstate 85 through this gusty column. Or, that column. The ghosts of [Peter] Ott's Austrian column. Ott's odd lot. Zeus nearly forgot. Which sabre-wielding dragoon was the 1,800th to fall in that Marengo farm in 1800? Was no. 818 the one with the melancholic memo in his button-slashed-off pocket. Blood, bones and guts strewn all over that picturesque bowl of a valley in glorious Italia settentrionale. [northern Italy] Those commoners' dreams ignobly obliterated. 'You should have headed for the forest with crazy Leopold, Klaus.' Ah, that cloud kind of looks like Peter himself. And, there's [Michael von] Melas patting him on the shoulder. 'This aint Transylvania' he silently thinks. And, as if on cue, his cloud quickly dissipates. No one seems anxious anymore. Now, there's the bust of Napolean himself. But, he's not genuinely happy. It was a narrow victory. A lucky one, perhaps, as well. Certainly on the fortunate side of fate. Looks like the famous Corsican has wafted into the torso of [Louis] Desaix. 'I knew that he'd be the death of me,' he solemnly thinks, and then smiles. His grin lengthens. And arches into another scene. A mound. Then a face of an infantryman in the next overtaking cloud. Is he Austrian or French? Hard to say. Such a stoic face. 'This was my kismet,' he seems to think. Did any of them know that there would be a pizza restaurant right there 218 years later? Would they have liked the taste of the cheese? How many? What percentage? But, before any can answer, the roiling intensifies. All is lost in the madness. All just moves on. Moving and changing. Mixing. Churning. Advancing. Though, nothing seems to matter in this cloud-story.

Then a European hornet hovered next to my right eye for six seconds, and suddenly darted away. 'Nah, I won't sting that entranced, red-haired human this time – maybe next week.' Ah, that hornet-stinging in York, Pennsylvania. How old was I? Six? I can still feel the stings. Six stings? Yeah, the bees are already out and buzzing. As well as the blasted flies and gnats. Alighting on the fallen soldiers on that mid-June day [the 14th] back in 1800. A new century. But, the same old wars. And, this year's mosquitoes. Jeez! Not already. You've got to be kidding me. Is it already bug-spray season? Spring lasted a whole three weeks. So typical. Six sauna-esque months in the offing. Need to move to the mountains. Soon. These infernal summers in Char-broiled-a-lot are agonizingly worthless. Well, to me. Woah! There's a horse's head in that cloud. Wonder how many equine casualties on that grisly day. Collateral carcasses. I can almost hear the horrific neighing. And, the naying. [sic] Humanunkind [sic] will keep killing and killing until the end. Even on Mars. Even wherever. I'd bet our whole existence on it. What a paradoxical proposition that is. Bang the conundrum. Again. Why are we such a fatally flawed species? It's not nice to think such. And, much worse to say it. And, worst to type it. One sure doesn't increase readership with such an outlook. But, the evidence is overwhelming. Actually, it's kind of comical on some meta-level. Some bright scientific and creative flourishes in a vast swamp of petty, jealousy-laden, stupidly violent sludge. If I were a meteor...

The back screen door noisily opened.

"Hon, are you ok?" my cute, unique Filipina wife (Agent 32) asked.

"Yes, Monique; I'm fine. I'm just watching the story in the clouds." I bet that he put something psychoactive in his beer.

"Estorya sa panganod, Agent 33?" she asked.

"What does that mean, Agent 32?" I asked, gazing up at her mesmerizing dark-brown eyes.

"It means what you said: story in the clouds."

"Oh, ok. Is that Cebuano or Tagalog?"

"Cebauno – Bisaya. Did you see our national hero, Lapu-Lapu, in the clouds, bana?" [husband in Cebuano]

"No, mahal, [love in Cebuano and Tagalog] but I now see his statue – the one on Mactan Island [Cebu] – in that rising cloud. Do you see him sprouting like a morning sausage?" Sprouting like a morning sausage?

"What?! You've had enough, 33. Time to come inside before you get whacked by a falling limb."

"Wait, 32. Just a few seconds. Look at that cloud complex. Why, it's Hercules unloading a streamer on Mary Magdalene." My God!

"Bastos! ['How rude!' in Cebuano and Tagalog] You've succeeded in getting your red card, 33. You always ruin a good thing. It's time for you to come in and take a cold shower." She looked up at sky. "Estorya sa panganod? Kano loko!" ['crazy American' in Filipino]

"Epic womantality, [sic] 32." Womantality?

"Epic, epic, epic. You're 53 and you use that adjective more than a teenager, 33. Give it a rest."

And then the first few raindrops fell. Monique dashed back into the house. I looked up at the darkening clouds one last time. Old Ferdinand (Magellan) didn't look to be doing so good.

6. **The Busboy** (May 2018)

It was a cool, rainy Tuesday afternoon in late April (the 24th, 2018) in the Plaza-Midwood area of Charlotte (NC, USA). I mounted a padded, armless stool at 2:40 EDT before a large rectangular oak table occupied by seven football/soccer fans at Jackalope Jack's (now at the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Pecan Avenue). The Champions League pre-match (the first semifinal) show was on the large flat-screen TV over the bar. I said hello to a few middle-aged Reds fans. Liverpool FC would be playing AS Roma at Anfield (the first leg) in just five minutes.

"Now, would you happen to have a scoreline prediction, most clairvoyant one?" I asked Bradford, my jovial, 50-something, Caucasian, white-LFC-jersey-donning pal from New Jersey.

"I'd love 3-nil with goals by Salah, Mané and Firmino, but I will gladly take 2-nil," he replied with a pint of light-yellow ale already in hand. "A clean sheet is going to be major."

"Going +3 would be sweet," I added as I looked at a nervous Liverpudlian named Turk at the bar. I mused. Boy, he really looks worried. I think we'll be ok. Hope Lovren and Klavan don't screw up. Hope we score first. That would be huge.

More male LFC fans between the ages of 35 and 65 streamed into the dark bar/restaurant. I ordered a Ballast Point Black Marlin (a porter) from the new, 20-something, short, attractive, strawberry-blonde bartender. My bottle of beer arrived just as the match kicked off. Well, here we go.

"Come on you Reds!" Bradford shouted.

"Get in there!" a dark-haired man to my left added.

"Up the all-leaguers!" I tacked on like a strange garnish.

Some blank stares ensued. I just smiled. I could hear their thoughts. Is this [50-something] red-haired guy going to be like this the whole game?

After a nervy half-hour, the game was still nil-nil, though Roma had hit the crossbar and Mané had blown some gilded gifts. Then Salah put a beauty in the upper corner. Lots of cheering followed. The young Middle Eastern (Egyptian?) American busboy, who was taking a break at the bar, just smiled. Salah would add another nifty goal just before halftime.

"Two-nil and looking good," I said to Bradford as I headed for the restroom.

"We need two more," he replied. That would be nice. But, is that realistic? Greedy thinking. Though, Salah looks like he could score more. But, Mané couldn't even hit the broad side of a barn. Hope Klopp rights Sadio's head during the break.

I nodded to him and continued walking towards the men's room door. As I started to take a pee at the urinal, I heard the aforementioned busboy, who was now standing at the semicircular stainless steel sink, some ten feet (three meters) behind me, talking on his cell phone.

"I just know that she's not really into me, man," I heard him plainly state to the person on the other end, who I assumed was most likely his best friend. After a five-second pause, he blurted out: "Listen, Dave; listen to me. She went on a five-day cruise and never replied to my texts – not a single one." Poor guy. Nothing like having lofty love plans foiled at 21. [his guesstimated age]

I coughed, but my seemingly endless urine flow continued. I guess that my bladder was ready to burst. Need to slow down on the beer intake.

Next, I heard him turn on a push-button style, water-saving faucet behind me. And then, his morosely agitated voice continued: "What do you mean that maybe she couldn't text me because she was out at sea? That's nonsense, man. I'm not that stupid, Dave. These modern cruise ships have roaming services when they are out in international waters. Does she think that I don't know that? I mean, really! And, even if she didn't buy the service, she still would have seen my texts when the ship was docked in Florida. Fort Lauderdale is not roaming; that's the continental US. There's really no excuse. She just doesn't like me. It's fairly obvious now. You know that she's transferring to Virginia Tech in August, right? And, where am I going, Dave? Nowhere. I'm just a freaking busboy." Then a long silence.

Now, finally relieved, I zipped up and began washing my hands at the sink while looking down, hoping to appear oblivious to this young fellow's romantic drama-trauma. The busboy, completely unfazed by my presence just off to his right, was still talking about his life-critical, unrequited crush with his pal. Being lovelorn is never easy at his age. Hope this Dave guy can give him some good advice; hope he tells him that it's just not worth it.

As I walked back to my seat, I thought: What a pathetically lovesick lad. 'Cut your losses and move on, dude.'

The second half started. Liverpool was still attacking like a swarm of killer bees. Klopp's gegenpressing had Roma all out of sorts. In the 56th minute, Mané finally made good on a goal chance. Roberto Firmino would score five minutes later. And then again, a mere seven minutes later. We were now up 5-nil. Chanting and high-fiving broke out. Everyone was having a grand time, except for the sullen, mid-30-ish, rusty-haired ABL (Anyone But Liverpool) fan. Why did he come here to watch this game? I guess he thought that we would lose, and that he could then gleefully rub it in. Or, maybe he's angling for the new girl. Yeah, probably so.

As the game clock hit the 75th minute, it seemed that there was only one question: Would there be a sixth goal? In the 81st minute that question was answered – by Roma. Dzeko's strike from out of nowhere erased all hopes of a shutout.

"Darn it!" I exclaimed.

"Ok, guys, no more," Bradford pleaded.

However, James Milner would be called for handball in the box. After Perotti calmly converted the penalty kick, the score became 5-2 in the 85th minute.

A 50-ish, Colombian American, short-black-haired Barcelona fan then announced from the shadows: "Getting nervous over there, Reds?" A wee bit.

"We've still got this," Bradford retorted.

Liverpool would barely escape further aggregate-score damage.

"Well, Bradford, all three prongs of our attacking trident scored," I stated.

"Yep, and you correctly called it +3, but those two away goals may come back to bite us," he replied. Hope not.

Then the busboy, who had been watching the TV at the right end of the bar, announced:

"Finally got a text back from this chick, who wouldn't reply to me for going on six days. It reads 'I HATE LIVERPOOL' in caps."

"She's not for you, mate," Turk declared.
7. **The Hermit** (May 2018)

From an asphalt-driveway-cracks-annually-sealed, back-yard-fenced, front-lawn-meticulously-maintained, resolutely middle-class, 2,153-sqaure-foot (200 square meters) split-level home in King of Prussia (a suburb of Philadelphia) to a cozy-on-demand, 646-sqaure-foot (60 square meters), metal-roofed log cottage in the woods, just outside the town of Marshville (36 miles – 58 km – southeast of Charlotte) in the rural farmland swath of Union County (south-central North Carolina). As 49-year-old, cinnamon-blonde-haired, hazel-eyed Amanda sipped her hot herbal tea on a mild May (2016) morning, she wondered: How in the world did I ever wind up here? Could never have imagined this as a small girl in Pennsylvania. Though, I'm so glad that I'm here now. I'm all set. I'm here – in splendid sylvan seclusion – right where I wanted for a self-sufficient solitary life of writing, music, art, and mapmaking. I surely have it now. Mission accomplished. No more fulltime job – can just work when I want at the local elementary school. No more mortgage. No more car payment. No more noise, save for the evening crickets and cicadas. No more annoying neighbors. No kids. And, no man. Not even a single relative within 500 miles [805 km] of me. Nope, no familial or relationship entanglements to worry about. None at all.

Amanda didn't hate the masculine sex; she just realized in college (at next-door Villanova University), after a not-much-out-of-the-ordinary, half-semester-long dating experience during her sophomore year, that being paired with a man cramped her uniquely idiosyncratic, independent style. And, after giving in to an impromptu lesbian tryst during her senior year, she ruled out live-in female companionship, too. However, she wasn't antisocial; much to the contrary, she could be quite gregarious at concerts, parties, weekend outings, and ball games. But, a coupled life just wasn't going to be for her. At the end of the day, she wanted to be the only one in her humble abode whispering mangled clichés.

An adult blue jay suddenly perched on her sole northeast-facing windowsill. Amanda remained motionless as an old memory was jogged involving an incident with this passerine species at Caley Elementary School in her childhood neighborhood. The startling scene was as fresh as yesterday in her mind. A dictatorial blue jay was running the sparrows, robins, and finches away from the student-installed bird feeder behind the school. Then as this bully-like blue jay flew back to engorge on the prized seeds, a red-tailed hawk swooped down from out of nowhere and plucked the blue jay in midflight. There was a short screech, and then silence as the bird of prey soared away with its talon-pierced meal.

She mused as the blue jay twitched its head to and fro. Death can happen in an instance. 'Hey, you had better watch out, bossy fellow. There are plenty of hawks around here. I'd stay away from that wide-open soybean field if I were you. And, please check that bad attitude.'

Then the black-necklaced, white-chested, indigo-crested specimen of Aves flew away. Though, Amanda's mind remained focused on the bird. 'Hey, what's your altitude, birdie? Six haystacks high, are you? And, would you happen to innately know your latitude? No? Why, it's 35º north of the equator – almost exactly. Well, just off by 1.15 seconds, according to that strange surveyor.' Was his name Walt? Or, was it Will? Walt will walk, but will Will talk? Talk about nonsense. Wonder what he's doing right now? Maybe he's drifting down a section of the Catawba River in an old kayak at 1.15 miles per hour, [1.85 km/h] which is one knot. And, 1.15 miles is about the length of a minute of latitude around here. Changes in latitude, changes in attitude, but the buffets all taste the same. Jill was right about me from an early age. 'Amanda, I can tell that you will live a different kind of life.' Fourth grade on the playground. There was still snow on the ground. That cold wind. The bare tree limbs. Her overly – almost approaching unnatural – cheerful demeanor. Wonder what became of her? Maybe she married well. And traveled far and wide. Probably. She was cute with her radiant, shiny, almost-yellow-colored hair. Was never sure who she really was, though. I wonder if she even knew. Or, ever found out.

Amanda's reverie was broken by the sound of the old GE refrigerator's compressor kicking back on. She studied the front of the olive green, food-and-drink chiller. Is that refrigerator a golden rectangle? 1.618 – the golden ratio. And, a mile is equal to 1.609 kilometers. Both are almost 1.61. And, 1.61 divided by 1.15 is 1.4. Now, what links to 1.4? Oh, why am I so fascinated with numbers? Maybe I'm incrementally going nuts. Yes, 1.4 minutes at a time. What is 1.4 minutes? 84 seconds. 84. Something about 84. Highway [NC] 84. An accident just occurred 1.15 miles [1.85 km] away from Weddington. There were 1.61 fatalities and 1.4 injured parties. I'll have to use that line in my upcoming surreal novel. [Bored Feet at the C Sawmill] Wonder if I can get it published. Matt said that he has a contact at a big New York City publishing house. But, he tends to exaggerate. Shouldn't count on him.

Then there was a knock on the front door. Amanda was stunned. Her congenitally weak heart skipped a beat and her palms grew clammy. Who in the world could that be? Hope it's not that meth-head from down the road. Didn't he get arrested for burglarizing nearby homes? Again. Is he already out on bail? Again. Oh, please don't let it be him. He looked scary. [on the local news] Where's that canister of pepper spray? Can't remember.

Amanda wrapped her robe and drew the drawstring tight. She then tiptoed over to the door. She looked out the peephole. It was a 30-ish, male, Asian American UPS (United Parcel Service) driver in the typical brown uniform. Am I expecting a package? Can't recall ordering anything.

She opened the thick oak door. "Hi," she uttered.

"Good day, ma'am," the driver said with a smile. "I have a package for you." He then handed a white box to Amanda. "Now, if you would be so kind as to sign here."

"Sure," Amanda said as she used the tethered stylus to sign his small tablet computer.

"You certainly are in a hidden, very remote location," the driver remarked. "I thought my GPS [Global Positioning System] was in error."

"Yes, I am. I like the serenity of this secluded place in the woods. I wish that GPS couldn't find me, either." She giggled self-consciously. Maybe shouldn't have said that.

The UPS driver was perplexed. "Well, have a nice day," the energetic employee stated as he scampered back to his chocolate-colored step van.

Amanda closed and locked the door. She then set the small package down on her compact dining table. With a steak knife, she began to carefully cut the tape on the return-address-less, low-profile, narrow box. Enchanting Occupant? Hope this isn't a bomb from that guy who I declined three decades ago.

She removed the top. There was a single, long-stemmed, deep-red rose inside. And, a note.

I've seen you walking in the woods.

I live just across the creek.

To our future, fellow hermit!

-Morty
8. **The Pebble, the Sword, the Bullet** (May 2018)

They were pretty good – even if a bit unlikely – friends in the beginning. Ned was a husky; white-as-1950s-north-Texas; short-brown-haired; sometimes sullen, and often serious; formerly protestant, but now firmly atheist; street-book smart; science-fiction-devouring; metallurgy-informed abstract artist in his late 40s. Yoel was a black-haired, Mediterranean-skin-toned, suave, skirt-chasing, usually upbeat, Jewish, aspiring actor-comedian in his mid-30s, who was also a drummer in a jazz-pop band (think Sade). These two disparate dudes would meet at a fledgling co-op art gallery (the now-long-gone 23 Studio) in the NoDa district of Charlotte (NC, USA) on a Saturday afternoon in the mid-1990s for a public-access TV show (Z-Axis) shoot. They did a bizarrely surreal impromptu skit involving a mad scientist (Ned) being interviewed by an in-on-the-joke investigative reporter (Yoel). They played off of each other quite well, and seemed to like the end result.

Now, what was the primary thing that these two had in common? Answer: a love for primo weed (high-grade marijuana). And, Ned had plenty of it, as he was an indoor (dining room) grower. All of the weed-partaking artists, actors and musicians in NoDa knew that his crop ruled. The potency was off the charts. Some who had ingested Ned's notoriously overpowering green brownies had trouble speaking, thought that there was no oxygen in the air, and were afraid to drive their cars. Yes, it was that strong. Trust me. I got zapped by it, too.

Move up several years – to 1998. Ned, who has been living in an end-of-the-road duplex next to Sugar Creek Community Park, informs Yoel that the longtime lower-level tenant (an elderly lady) has moved out, and that the apartment is now available. Yoel jumps on it, and moves in the next week.

All is going swimmingly as someone first said in 1622. But then, for whatever reason (possibly nonpayment of product received), Ned and Yoel stop talking. Additionally, Ned stops selling his super-strong weed to Yoel. And, as you might have guessed, Yoel is none too happy about it.

This cold war goes on for several weeks at their isolated, dual dwelling. Ned strategically avoids seeing Yoel by always glancing out his window at the driveway before leaving his flat. Additionally, he begins to park his old, brown, Mazda pickup truck in the grass next to the stairway that leads up to his roost to lessen the chances of coming face to face with Yoel.

An increasingly annoyed – and now thoroughly situation-dissatisfied – Yoel cranks up the music one night after getting home at 2:22 in the morning from his bartending/waiting gig. Ned returns the favor by repeatedly dropping an old bowling ball on his hardwood floor. Tit for tat. And, out goes the rat.

And then, the fateful summer Wednesday arrives. It's a little after seven o'clock on a hot-as-Hades mid-July evening. Ned is upstairs getting high with a new potential customer as Yoel wheels his white Chevy sedan into the pair of dirt-with-pea-size-gravel, well-worn tire tracks. He immediately knows whose car is in front of his: Melvin's – the keyboardist in his band and a well-known major weedhead (habitual marijuana smoker). Yoel quickly puts one and one together and gets too – too angry. He stews in his car and thinks: That lousy fucker won't even sell me a joint, [marijuana cigarette] but he will supply my bandmate all day long. How the hell does he even know Melvin? Word about good weed sure travels fast and far. I'm going to pester the hell out of Ned until he sells me a bud. Yes, tonight I am going to wear him down.

Still fuming, Yoel exits his vehicle. Looking down, he ponders over an initial tactic. Then he literally stumbles upon it: a brown, three-centimeter-long (1.18 inches), oval-shaped pebble. He picks it up with his left hand (a southpaw) and looks up at Ned's horizontal-blinds-closed living room window. Get ready for incoming, Ned. No, must not break the window. Just lob it lightly. Yeah, that's it. Just tap the window pane.

"Ned, did you hear that?" Melvin asked, now quite stoned, and not totally sure if he had really heard something hitting the window behind him.

"Oh, it's probably just a hummingbird or a bee," Ned assured. "I watched this one wood-boring bee bounce off that window a dozen times last weekend."

"That bee must have been really ripped from the exhaust smoke," Melvin replied with a chuckle that became a loud, prolonged guffaw.

Yoel heard Melvin's laughing. He was becoming livid. Goddammit! Worthless motherfuckers!

Ned then got up and opened the blinds. He saw Yoel standing in the front yard. Yoel's head quickly tilted 40º, and he suddenly had a ridiculously sarcastic smile on his face. Ned reclosed the blinds.

"Your drummer's stupidity needs to be permanently fixed," Ned proclaimed.

"Is Yoel out there?" Melvin asked. "Did he throw a rock at the window, Ned?"

Ned didn't bother to answer. He raced into his bedroom and grabbed his paternal grandad's just-recently-sharpened sabre off the wall. He then charged past Melvin, who was making hand gestures to Yoel, and dashed down the steps, intent on attacking Yoel.

Yoel cautiously approached the enraged Ned. "Hey, I didn't mean to interrupt your smoking session. But, you really should share, man."

With that inflaming pronouncement, Ned raised his silver sword over his head. "I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget!"

"You've gone completely mad, Ned. Why, look at you, Mr. Samurai Warrior. Ok, you got the part. Now, please put the sword down."

Ned then began to whip the sword near Yoel's head. "Get ready, you pest; I'm going to slash your pretty-boy face wide open," Ned warned with spittle flying.

"C'mon, Ned; give me that sword," Yoel implored. "This is crazy."

As Yoel reached out for the blade (perhaps thinking that it was dull), Ned swung it down with great force. It struck the open palm of Yoel's right hand. It cut deep. Yoel freaked out at the spurting blood. Then he looked at Ned in shock, who had raised the sword again, and was preparing to take another slice. He's gone totally insane. He wants to kill me!

Melvin, now just ten feet (three meters) behind Ned, screamed: "Ned, don't do it!"

Then there was a gunshot. Ned was hit by a .22-caliber bullet in his left love handle. He dropped the sword and doubled over in extreme pain. "I've been shot! Call an ambulance, Melvin."

Suddenly, the black Oldsmobile in the street in front of the duplex burned rubber and raced away. The shooter was a scraggly, long-dirty-blonde-haired, pill-popping, old-north-Charlotte-mill-village ruffian in his early 40s, who was on the passenger side of the front seat. He was an acquaintance of Yoel's. They (the duo in the 1988 Cutlass) had – just by chance – pulled up as the confrontation started.

Ned would be treated and released from the main city hospital the next day. The bullet had not struck any organs, nor any major blood vessels; it had just passed through skin and fat. Ned was very lucky.

However, with it being an obvious gunshot wound, the police got involved. A CMPD (Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department) detective would interrogate Ned several times. But, he just told the officer that it was a drunken accident, as he didn't want the police going through his unit and finding the weed-growing operation. Moreover, no charges were ever filed.

Yoel would get stitched-up and bandaged at an urgent-care facility. His hand would be fine after a month of healing. However, a scar in the shape of Ned's sword would remain.

Ned and Yoel would never see or communicate with each other again. Yoel paid some friends to move his stuff out of his apartment while Ned was at work.

Ned would die alone in 2015. Yoel made it to Manhattan.
9. **Facebook Types, A to Z** (June 2018)

While dining at the Panda Express (my one animal-protein day for the week) on Seneca Place at South Boulevard (Charlotte, NC, USA) with my charming, one-of-a-kind, lemon-pepper-chicken-loving Filipina wife, Monique (Agent 32), on a hot Saturday afternoon in June (2018); I overheard several, ebullient, 20-something Asian Americans at an adjacent table having a Facebook-specific discussion. My ears perked up. They were trying to decide how many types of users there were on the zeitgeist-revealing social-media site. The female said that there were around 50; the guy next to her claimed that the number was more like 30; another dude then boldly stated that it could all boil down to a dozen. I quietly mused: How many modes and nodes of narcissistic gratification are on that online platform?

During next Monday's lunchbreak at the office, I pondered this idea of classifiable types (or categories) of Facebook users. A faux-incandescent lightbulb went off in my 53-year-old cranium. My not-what-it-once-was brain's rust-encrusted gears started to grind out a possible story idea. What if I logged onto Facebook right now and noted the first 26 types that I run across. A type for each letter of the alphabet. If a type is repeated, just skip it and move onto the next distinct one until 26 unique personality types are amassed. Yeah, let's do this!

Well, lo and behold, I scrawled some crude notes on the back of an 8.5" x 11" (21.59 x 27.94 cm) yellow sheet of paper that had the 6th-draft revisions of my 11,111-word novelette Lost in Lost Cove on the reverse. The end result was two paragraph columns with 13 bracket-enclosed leadoff letters. And now, without further ado, I present my 26 Facebook types, knowing quite well that there are actually many more, and that some users roost in multiple pigeonholes.

[A] Animals-always Annette. This Facebook type loves to post photos and videos of cute, cuddly pets. Occasionally she (or almost-as-frequently he) will post pics/vids of predators displaying uncommon compassion for prey that would normally become a quick meal. Sometimes they will state that animals are much kinder than humans, conveniently forgetting that nature is just an endless sequence of one organism consuming/suppressing another.

[B] Block-first-and-ask-no-questions-later Belinda. This type maintains an itchy trigger finger on the blocking feature. The slightest show of non-agreement – much less disapproval – will get you the axe. As soon as they awake, a block quota is set for that day. And will be reached. Always. This person has more people on their blocked list than on their friends list. And is damn proud of it. This misanthrope may even add sure-fire antagonists, only to quickly quarantine them. For them, blocking is arousing. Have they blocked you yet? The clock is ticking.

[C] Contrarian Conrad. This type loves to contest conventional wisdom. He (seldom a she) may remark that the science of today will be half-wrong in 200 years. You could comment that water is regarded as being wet, and they would have a terse comeback along the lines of 'Ok, then prove it.' Members of this type are skeptical of any and all assumed truths, and may entertain nutty conspiracy theories. Whether it be the prevailing political, scientific, business, or societal sentiment; they have a rebuttal in hand, and will readily lay it down.

[D] Drunk-posting Drevon. This type loves to post when they are intoxicated. After getting sauced, he (or sometimes she) executes their feels-so-cogent-at-this-impaired-moment, frequently-quite-dastardly deeds, replete with glaring misspellings, ALL CAPS posts, crude jokes, confusing metaphors, ad hominin attacks, and even call-outs of other types. There's a (mis)perceived slight to remedy, and now that they are inebriated, it will be a piece of cake. This type cringes the next morning at last night's masterstrokes. But by midnight next Friday, it's game-on again. Night owls, make that popcorn.

[E] Even-keeled Evelyn. This type never seems to get upset. By anything! She (or somewhat-less-often he) could be witnessing a wholesale riot and would merely check to see if it was teatime. To them it's all just human folly. Slanderous comments and incendiary posts will get nothing in return from this type. Though, they probably do sigh. But sighs are very hard to see on Facebook. At least until there is a sighing emoji.

[F] Famous-in-my-own-mind Fabian. This type greatly bolsters the psychological theory that humans are the undisputed masters of self-deception. He (or not-as-often she) is usually a rocker or rapper (but may be an amateur actor, artist, author, model, or comedian). At one time, maybe a decade or three ago, they got their sure-to-be-a-hit song played on a low-wattage radio station at 3:13 AM. Fame struck. Notoriety landed. Or, so they thought. It's highly unlikely that even 0.001% of their hometown know who they are. Still, you are expected to fawn over – and consistently like – their performance pics; they won't like yours. After all, they're celebrities, you cave dweller!

[G] Gospel-quoting George. This type wears their religion on their sleeve and wipes it on their screen for all to see. They are mostly evangelical Christians. Though, similar religious verses could emanate from devout Muslims, orthodox Jews, Buddhist extremists, fundamental Hindus, etc. Most are just sharing their faith. But, hell is really hot. It's not too late.

[H] Happy-happy Harriet. This type is out to show you that this life is pure joy. You're alive – be happy! It's really that simple. Why don't you get it? You may cynically think that her (or nearly-as-often his) rose-colored glasses are pretty thick, but they're not going to let their time on Earth pass by without loads of smiley faces on their wall. Are these types still smiling after the photos are taken? Why, only a malcontent would ask such a contemptuous question. Shame on you! Now, let's see those pearly whites. Remember: Grinning is winning.

[I] Inspirational Ivonne. This type loves to post inspiring quotes. Aspire! Success is attainable. It's right there. You are going to win this game called life. If you just follow the motivational post on her (or just-as-often his) page, why, you could soon begin posting similar messages on your page. And then, maybe your friends would share these posts. And so on. The whole world could be reset in a positive-passage-posting direction. Surely, it will happen. Well, maybe after tomorrow's post.

[J] Jacked-up Jack. This type has just drained their 5th travel mug of coffee (with a possible stimulant added) and is ready to attack whatever the day throws at them. They are spoiling to get going – to start getting busy – busy doing something. Anything. But before he (or sometimes she) self-launches, they post an early-morning forewarning stating something like 'I have 440 volts flowing through my veins and my 50-amp breaker just tripped. Look out, world!' This person may be behind you at a traffic light. If you don't immediately accelerate when it turns green, get ready to hear their horn blare.

[K] Kitchen Kathy. This type loves to post photos of the food that they've just cooked on/in their stainless-steel range. Often there are zoomed-in shots to highlight their culinary expertise. The garnishes are always oh-so-perfect. Could they make it as a TV chef? Depends on the have-never-heard voice. These are bigtime foodies. Their untyped motto is 'food is life is food'. If we don't eat, we die, silly. That's why food is foremost. Snarkily commenting that food looks better before it gets alimentary-canal-processed will get you a quick heave-ho. Food is no laughing matter.

[L] Lovelorn Louis. He (or as-equally-likely she) broke up with their supposed dream partner/soulmate to end all soulmates and they're pitifully sad and frequently depressed. They still mention their long-gone goddess or god who has moved on without them. Ad nauseam. It really hurts to read their posts. Their pain is palpable. You think about setting them up with that loner friend. But then you reconsider: Why ruin that solitary person's apparent serenity? L types avoid Z types, who think they are unabashed fools.

[M] Medical-crisis Mary. This type always seems to be suffering through some kind of health calamity. There never seems to be a single day that is not verging on a trip to a minor-emergency/urgent-care facility. Her left big toe is a little red on one side today. Yesterday there was a case of the sniffles that bordered on pneumonia. And the day before that, a 'this could lead to a serious infection involving amputation' elbow scrape. Please dial 9-1-1 right now. We can't risk losing her.

[N] Nearly nude Nhu. This type, almost always a young female, loves to post almost-naked photos of themselves. Occasionally the poses may be sexually suggestive. But, all she really is interested in is your page-hovering attention. Actual sex is reserved for her boyfriend, who is blindly unaware of her secret page under an alias. Notice that the relationship status is left unchecked. That was no accident.

[O] Oddball Ollie. This type, which could be female as often as male, affixes strange, surreal, sometimes pun-filled, and sporadically cryptic posts. There are many Oddball Ollies and Oddball Odettes in psecret psociety. And, yes, we like being a welcoming home for such creative characters who get our brains thinking in novel ways. Next one to post a lasso around the Horsehead Nebula wins. Something. Maybe. Another. Ruse.

[P] Politics-only Paul (PoP). This type, as you probably have already inferred, only posts political articles/editorials of an undeviating slant: either hard-left or hard-right. You'd be hard-pressed to find a moderate, unaffiliated, or both-sides-alternating Politics-only Paul (or Paulette – almost as many are female). Can you engage a PoP with a countering opinion? Only on tiptoes. But, be prepared for the PoP to pop off anytime, as political battle rides on emotion. Caution: PoPs take no prisoners. Though, they always hope to make that elusive convert.

[Q] Questioning Quinten. This type is somewhat similar to type C. However, this distinctive subspecies doesn't inquire to be annoying; they are genuinely skeptical of religious, philosophical, and paranormal bases of fact, as well as any unverifiable or unduplicatable event. Many of this type are of a scientific bent. They just don't have time for the nonsense. Some reports say that they are fleeing Facebook in droves. Been there. Did experiments. Waste of time.

[R] Reciprocity-requiring Ralph. This type demands a like for a like, and a positive comment for a positive comment. In their (mostly male) naïve minds, if everyone would just pat each other on the back, humanity's mindset could be elevated, and the global contentment quotient would rise. Markedly. It doesn't matter if the other friend is a bona fide celebrity; they will be expecting a like coming back their way within two hours. If not, they can go from mild-mannered to insanely testy. Are they on Twitter? Are you crazy?! Followers? Barf!

[S] Sycophants-only Svetlana. This type has no use for never-admiring-due-to-assumed-jealousy, scrolling-on-by, indifferent, self-muted lackeys. And they certainly have no use for non-fans. To stay onboard their ship, you have to praise her (or nearly-as-often his) highness at least once a day. Beware: They have installed cameras throughout their vessel. Whoops! You missed yesterday. Hey, you were warned. The dinghy has been lowered. There's the plank. Start walking.

[T] Tin-foil-hat Tim. This insular subset of conspiracy theorists, while similar in some ways to a couple of other types, is from the flat-out, bat-shit-crazy, keep-locked-at-all-times bin. Urgent announcement: Utilize stannous foil only – aluminum doesn't repel the globalists' mind-control waves. How could you not know that? C'mon, wake up! Don't be a mass-media-manipulated dolt your whole life. And, don't tell me that you think people landed on the flat moon. JFK had explosive powder injected into his skull the week before the assassination. Dinosaurs were all over Mars. Oh, I could go on and on, but we've got six more left.

[U] Ungrateful Ursula. You've heard of ridiculous first-world problems, right? Well, this type is the posterchild. She gets a new Carrara (Italy) marble countertop installed, posts plenty of pics, but she thinks that she saw a nick on the underside, where her nosy neighbor, if over for an envy-inducing social, while throwing a non-recyclable cup into the under-sink, built-in, designer-brand trash compactor, could intentionally drop their keys, and then bend down, and stealthily look up, and see... the slight gouge! Holy focking [sic] shit! They will tell the whole street. It's all hubby's fault. He went miser on me. Again! That cheapskate bastard!

[V] Vain Veronica. Unlike Nearly nude Nhu, this female is not scantily clad, but, boy oh boy, does she post starring-just-herself pics, often inset in templates. She's the queen of selfies, and she is perfectly fine with that appellation. She clicks the heart symbol on each one; she just loves her beauty, and hopes that you will, too. But unlike type R, she won't have a cow if you scroll on by; she'll just post more poses. Did she just clog your newsfeed again?

[W] War-now-and-forever Warren. This type loves armed conflicts, past, present and future. The history of weaponry is chronicled on his (almost always a male) page. He would love for World War III to start tomorrow – while he's alive to enjoy it. Gruesome, rare, war images – like tank tracks crunching bones – are dug up and proudly posted. Now, don't shy away. He wants you to relish the sublime splendor/exquisite horror of warfare. Peaceniks just don't know the thrill of bloody conquest. It's always red alert. In his backyard bunker.

[X] Xenophobe Xander. This type may be an out-and-out ethnicist deep down, but he obfuscates this with convoluted arguments for restricting all immigration. He (usually a male) can't trust anyone from another country, no matter if the nation is very similar to his. There is just something peculiar about folks from foreign lands – something inherently unwholesome about them. Never mind that his wife's – or even his – ancestors may have come from a blacklisted country. Damn! More got in. He snarls. This country is going to the dogs. He thinks about buying a tiny island. And mining the perimeter.

[Y] Yelping Yolanda. This type, quite often a female, but not always, seems to constantly be in some sort of mental distress. Life is a recurring series of anguish-inducing incidents for these folks. And, a good dose of anguish should never go to waste. Anguish must be shared. Liberally. Don't hold back; you know she won't. If there was a medical reason for such torment, you would feel bad for blithely dismissing her. But, there isn't; it's just another attention-grabbing technique. Now, will you please give her a big gif-image hug? Much appreciated.

[Z] Zero-sum Zebulon. This type doesn't believe that any human relationship – whatever the scenario – is ever equally symbiotic. One party gets it x% better than the other, who of course becomes -x% worse off. Mutualism is for morons; it's just a widely floated fallacy devoured by sheeple (a term they often use in their posts). He (most often a male) will remain alone. Thank you very much. Nope, he won't be suckered into a loss-of-autonomy-and-sole-monetary-control marriage. The hours may be lonely, but he legally owns them all.
10. The Clerk (June 2018)

As far as American convenience store clerks go, he was a ways from waxing stereotypical. Sure, age-wise, he fit the mold; plenty of mid-20-somethings work the center-stage-stressful, often-encircled-by-foul-mood-patrons retail gig. But he had this calm, sage-for-his-age, super-courteous, urbane demeanor. It was readily apparent that he could be employed elsewhere. Why in the world is he working here? I wondered behind the 60-ish African American man who reeked of booze. No, this clerk was not my-hopeless-life-is-undergoing-its-third-train-wreck distressed like his coworkers. He actually seemed like a mole from the Phoenix (Arizona) headquarters. I mused while waiting. Maybe he's secretly surveilling the employees. Then later he transmits reports from some swank studio apartment in 3rd Ward. [Charlotte, NC] Yeah, he's most likely a corporate plant doing in-store quality assurance.

I was now first in line at his register. The digital clock atop the cigarette display read 6:16. It was a hot-as-hell June (2017) Thursday evening and the store's air conditioning wasn't keeping up; it had fallen way behind hours ago and had resigned the contest. How far away is October? Please let this be my last scummer [sic] in this sweathole. [sic] Let me win and get the eff [sic] out of here!

"What can I do for you?" the short-dark-haired, Southeast-Asian-appearing clerk politely asked, noticing that I had set nothing down on the counter. This red-haired dude doesn't look like a robber. Though, he does look like he may be from ALE. [Alcohol Law Enforcement] Nope. He looks familiar. Yeah, he was wearing a college-logoed shirt last week. He's that safety guy. Mike?

I extracted a neatly folded Powerball ticket from my black wallet and handed it to the ever-observant clerk. Sure hope he knows how to do this.

"Could I replay these numbers for the next drawing this Saturday?" I asked. Another Powerball addict. If I only had a dime for every one, I'd be sailing in the Adriatic [Sea] right now. Well, maybe not right now; it's past midnight.

"Certainly, Mike," he replied. Good, he knows how to do it – unlike that befuddled woman last time.

He soon returned with a new ticket in his right hand and the now-known-to-be-a-loser ticket in his left hand.

"You want the old one?" he asked, flexing his tan left wrist.

"Nah, you can trash it," I told him. "I've already recorded the numbers." But, it's the same series of numbers. Another weird logger. More material for my paper.

"Well, maybe it's the winning line on your ledger." Ledger? How'd he know?

"I sure hope so," I replied. "I'm running out of space on my chart." Ah, a charter, [sic] also. He'll be good for a page. Or two.

"So, you're tracking the frequencies. Are you looking for patterns?" I'll just throw that out to see if he runs with it. Bet he employs some harebrained strategy.

"Just playing the least-plucked balls," I answered. Not a totally dumb idea. Maybe he knows some probability.

"Sounds like a smart plan to me." Still a foolish venture, though. Just one notch up from completely witless.

"Do you play any of the lotteries?" I enquired.

"Mega Millions once per moon. I just stick a toe in the water from time to time. That way I just lose a dollar. A buck a month is my high-stakes budget." He allowed a slight grin. Just a once-in-a-whiler. [sic] I bet that he lets the computer randomly pick his numbers. 'A toe in the water.' Maybe he's afraid of losing his foot... -ing.

"I see," I casually acknowledged. "Very smart." I know that he thinks otherwise. He has that gambler mindset: My method will win any day now. Such an insidious disease.

"Ok, that will be two dollars, Mike." Wonder what he really thinks of lotteries. / Habitual lottery players, the stupidity-tax payers. And, he's a technical specialist. He should know better. Maybe his friend won some money, and now he is out for his lucky strike. He feels that it's his turn now. He's due. Due-lusional. Another jackpot crackpot.

I handed him two old-and-crumpled-and-somewhat-ragged $1 bills. "Thanks," I said as I turned to leave, noticing a now-irritated-by-the-additional-seven-seconds-of-wait-time, white, middle-aged, male, face-sunburned-despite-donning-a-plain-blood-red-baseball-cap, beer-buying customer. A 12-pack for a Thursday night? Maybe he has tomorrow off.

"Good luck," the clerk decreed. Why did he have to say that? This ticket is jinxed now. Oh, why do I think such nonsense? What he says or does here has no effect on the Tallahassee [Florida] drawing. Or, does it? Oh, that's just quasi-quantum-quandary thinking.

The next Wednesday I was in the same convenience store at about the same time to buy another Powerball ticket. The clerk from last time was there reading a magazine, as there were no queued customers at the moment. I strolled up to the counter with my nil-matches-out-of-six ticket in hand.

"Want me to check and see if you've won anything?" he asked.

"No, that's ok; I already know it's a loser," I stated. "But, could you replay the numbers again?" Gluttons for monetary punishment, these fantasists are.

"Can I ask you a quick question?" the clerk interposed.

"Sure," I replied. Hope he doesn't want to sell me 'propitious' numbers like that guy on Central. [Avenue] What a racket he has going. Wonder if he has been busted yet.

"Why do you play the Powerball game?" He looked serious, like he was taking mental notes.

"Why, should I be playing the scratch-offs?" I started to chuckle.

"Oh, I would not advise that. I was merely curious."

"Well, to be honest, it's a very-ho-hum-to-suddenly-tragic story. I'm chasing a mirage now. I'll admit it. I wrote a couple of short stories about it." [Powerballed and That Day]

"Ah, so you're a writer. I'm writing my master's thesis now." Knew that he was up to something beyond his current employment. A right-on-the-money hunch.

"What's it on?" I asked.

"Gambling sociology. Working here is helping me to write it. I'm already up to fifty-nine pages. Seventy-two pages is the target length." Why seventy-two?

"Oh, I see. Have you noticed any commonalities?"

"Well, the chronic scratch-off ticket purchasers – mostly – are the ones who appear least able to afford such a bad habit. The uptown professionals will occasionally buy a single Powerball or Mega Millions ticket, but the hardcore scratch-off crowd will often buy ten or even twenty tickets at a time, when that $20 bill that they tender seems to be all that they have – their whole life's savings. It's haplessly wishful thinking." Yep, he's right.

"Yeah, those scratch-off junkies can't wait; they want their payday right here and now," I opined. They want a jug of whiskey right here and now. [There was a county-run liquor store (ABC) next-door.]

"They sure do. And going by their indigent looks, they may not have a TV, computer or smartphone, or access to the internet to know the winning Powerball or Mega Millions numbers," the clerk added. Probably so.

Suddenly a tattooed, bleach-blonde, 40-or-thereabouts, über-tanned, alligator-skinned woman walked up behind me. A customer. Time to shut my yap and get going.

"Well, if you don't see me again, you'll know that my system finally synched," I said as I began heading for the door. He'll be back. / Why did I have to say that? Another ticket ruined.

The next day, another sun-scorching Thursday, I was walking into that East 3rd Street convenience store once again. And, yes, that certain clerk was in there. He was finishing up a snacks-and-soda sale with a black, male, waist-of-pants-sagging-way-down, Hanes®-boxer-underwear-advertising teenager.

Before I could say anything, he was motioning for me to give him my previous, already-known-by-him-to-be-a-dud ticket. "Replay, right?"

"You know it," I replied. Such a safe bet.

He returned with my new Powerball ticket 13 seconds later. "It's still only two dollars," he proclaimed. Still?

"Oh, is it going up to three dollars in the near future?" I asked.

"Possibly," he informed. "I just learned that the cost of a Mega Millions ticket is increasing to two dollars in late October. Did you know that Powerball tickets were originally only a dollar?" Is that correct? Wait...

"Uh, yeah, that's right. I remember those days. I think that three dollars, though, would scare off a lot of current customers. Don't you?"

"Well, scratch-off ticket prices go up to $30. [in North Carolina] It would allow the jackpots to grow to a billion dollars or more. And as history has shown, the higher the jackpots get, the more frenzied the ticket-buying becomes."

"What would you do with a billion dollars?" I asked him point-blank.

"Disappear," the clerk said without a hint of emotion.

"I heard that," I concurred. "Me, the wife and son would vanish, too. We'd leave America. Maybe take up residence somewhere in the Alps."

The following Tuesday I was back for another replay. The clerk wasn't there.

When I asked about him, the petite Latina employee divulged, "Htet quit last Sunday." Guess he had enough.
11. Poodle Park (July 2018)

My naturally tan, cute, headphone-wearing, beats-to-her-own-drums, laughter-loving, looking-more-like-30-than-40, brown-eyed Filipina wife, Monique (Agent 32), and I (casket-ready, 50-ish, freckle-forearmed Agent 33), somehow found ourselves in a trendy eatery (must have received some coupons in the mail) in a posh, old-money pocket of south Charlotte (NC, USA) on a hot Friday afternoon in late June (2018). The place was hyper-chatty. Once we were seated, I immediately switched on my ultra-sensitive, directional DAR (digital audio recorder), and discreetly aimed the pencil-like condenser microphone at the table directly behind me.

Middle-aged, newly coiffed, bulimia-thin, white female #1: "Oh yes, Pierpont just got accepted to Davidson. [College] We are all so excited for him; we may even throw a party next weekend. The college-admission consultant helped immensely. He guided us through the maze of forms, pointed out advantageous intangibles, and shared invaluable submission strategies. The thirteen-hundred-dollar fee was worth every single penny." $1,300?! Wow! That was enough for a whole year's tuition – books included – at UNCC [University of North Carolina at Charlotte] back in 1982.

Middle-aged, newly coiffed, bulimia-thin, white female #2: "Davidson... That's where Steph Curry went, right, Marcy?" She knew that; every Charlottean knows that. She's just feigning ignorance – administering a nice dose of downplay.

Marcy: "It most certainly is, Judy. Maybe he will become a [Charlotte] Hornet soon. Oh – ." Fat chance. Not happening.

Marcy suddenly starts to choke on a piece of pork for a few scary seconds. Then stops. 'Twas almost time to employ the old Heimlich maneuver over there. I bet that I would have accidentally broken a lower rib. And then been sued.

Judy: "Are you ok, dear?" Another six seconds and it would have got really interesting. Just like Lobster X's ex. [She choked to death in a Blowing Rock (NC) restaurant in 1998.]

Marcy: "I'm fine. I just forgot to chew before swallowing. Oh, has Oliver been accepted anywhere yet?" Drumroll, please. I sense a massive rejoinder in the offing. Spotlight to Judy.

Judy: "Oliver was accepted by Duke [University] last week." Well, well, well; I bet that Marcy didn't see that deftly delivered torpedo coming. Pow! Right in the old midsection. I'm sure that one cleared her esophagus. <burp>

Marcy audibly sighs. Yep, she's in stunned disbelief. Maybe Li'l Oliver was a bit of a partier in 11th grade. Then she clears her throat. She's up off the canvas. It aint over, folks.

Marcy: "Oh. Wow. That's uh, really awesome. I'm so happy for him. Duke is first-tier and internationally renowned." I'm just so sure that she's genuinely overjoyed. I can feel the jealousy oozing out. Great first-world stuff.

Judy: "Davidson is, too, Marcy." Consolation time. Nothing like a condescending pat on the back.

The must-have-been-eavesdropping-too, mid-20-something, dark-haired, smiling Latina waitress unloads an interjection: "Duke and Davidson are both excellent schools. I just registered at CPCC. [Central Piedmont Community College] I will be taking evening classes." I bet that impressed the hell out of them. Not! If I only had that thought extractor. [mentioned in the 'Galax_ Galaxy' short story]

The two Caucasian American ladies ignore her and her comment. Their comparative, competitive, collegiate conversation continues unabated.

Marcy: "Duke is tier-1-triple-A, Judy; Davidson is just tier-1-double-A. I know how all of the schools in the Carolinas stack up. I read dozens of analytical articles, and saw numerous composite rankings. Anyway, big congratulations to your fine son. What was Ollie's final GPA [grade point average] at Poodle Park, [High School] if I may ask?" Nosy, nosy, nosy. Inquisitive minds must surely know.

Judy: "It was 3.96. And, what was Pierpont's, if I may be so bold as well?" What are the odds that Ollie's was higher? A coin toss? 2:3? Oh, the suspense.

Marcy: "3.98. Well, it was actually 3.975, but when you round it up..." Cha-ching! Marcy scores a late, face-saving-though-ultimately-meaningless field goal.

Judy: "Yes, exactly. And, wow. That's awesome, Marcy. I didn't know that Pierpont had become so scholastic. He sure came a long way from his sophomore slump. Simply outstanding." Sophomore slump? Wonder what Little Lord Fauntleroy did in 10th grade. Was he huffing volatile product in unlocked storage closets?

Marcy: "Well, a 3.96 is essentially the same, Judy." Essentially... but not exactly. 3.975 tops 3.960 all day long. The smaller the margin, the worse it prickles.

Judy: "Oliver got a B+ in an advanced, freshman-college-level science class. That's what dragged his GPA under four. I had repeatedly warned him about taking too many accelerated courses, but he wouldn't listen. His volunteering at the hospital garnered him some extra points, I do believe."

Marcy: "Oh, I'm sure that it did, Judy." But, how many points? Gears are turning.

The Latina waitress returns. "Would you ladies care for anything else?" So polite, she is.

Judy: "Just the check." So curt, she is.

Latina waitress: "No room for dessert?" I bet that she just wants a bigger tip. Yep, I intercepted that low-flying-rotten-fruit thought all by myself.

Marcy: "Not this time. I've got a yoga class around the corner in seven minutes." The mat must be in that double-parked beemer.

Judy: "Maybe next time." Probably not.

The Latina waitress leaves. A hard-working lass, she is.

Marcy: "Do you think our waitress is legal?" Oh, this is too good. Batteries don't fail me now.

Judy: "Surely. How else would she be working in this Poodle Park establishment?" The gold-card-thin, non-prejudicial veneer so quickly evaporates.

Marcy: "Well, people like George and Nancy hire known illegals to clean their house and yard." Scoundrels, I tell ya. Despicable scoundrels!

Judy: "Oh, I'm not surprised – not at all. They're so cheap, Marcy. They even shop at Walmart. I saw the plastic bags." Oh, the horror!

Marcy: "Well, I've got to be going. It's been great seeing you again, Judy, and catching up. We'll have to do this again." In ten years, when your son is reporting to mine.

Judy: "Likewise, Marcy." Not really. Would love it if Pierpont flunks out the first semester. Oh, that would be utterly divine. Just too good.

The two ladies then got up and left. Can't wait to play this recording back, transcribe the dialogue, and add some most-probable thoughts. This one was super-easy – a 'sitter' as they say in football/soccer. Well, why unnecessarily make it difficult? Can't wait to type this up at the office on my Monday lunchbreak. Have to finish those other revisions first, though. Mustn't forget again. The old brain sure aint what it was.

"You recorded them, didn't you, 33?" Monique surmised.

"Their conversation was begging for immortality. Did you hear any of that, 32?"

"Just a little. I was mostly listening to the all-male conversation behind me."

"Oh, what were those three millennial lads talking about, Monique?"

"Girls and dating experiences. It was almost as hysterical as yours, Parkaarismo. [one of Monique's nicknames for me] One guy claimed that he was so desirable that he was forced to play hard-to-get at work." Oh, brother.

I shook my head. "Did you want anything else?"

"If I ask for dessert, will our girl get a bigger tip?" Huh?

"Now, how in the world did you intercept that thought, 32?"

"Womantality." [sic] Monique then giggled.
12. A Blue Whale of a Tale (August 2018)

William 'Bill' Kent Bluestone, a 63-year-old, five-years-widowed, gray-to-white-haired, still-spry-though-now-semi-retired Caucasian American, emerged from the East River Mountain Tunnel in his nicely restored, engine-recently-rebuilt, maroon, 1979 Mercury Cougar on northbound Interstate 77. He promptly veered to the right and took Exit 1 for Bluefield (West Virginia). It was a sunny, and now quite mild, 11:02 AM on this mid-April (2016) Tuesday; the spring sunshine had now scoured all of the fog from the dales. As Bill motored westward on US 52 North, he mused. Ah, headed back to once-upon-a-very-diffferent-sort-of-time-a-boomtown-though-still-very-scenic-with-nice-cool-summers Bluefield, West Virginia – the birthplace of John Forbes Nash, Jr. [the famous (deceased May 23, 2015 due to a taxicab-guardrail collision on the New Jersey Turnpike) mathematician whose life was the basis of the 2001 movie 'A Beautiful Mind'] Game theory. Differential geometry. Partial differential equations. Complex systems. And schizophrenia. What a world-class genius to emerge from such a humble, run-of-the-mine, valley-and-ridge town in Appalachia. A radiant diamond in the thick, dark, bituminous swath.

Four minutes later, Bill eased right and made a left turn at a traffic light in front of a Big K-Mart. He was now on two-lane Cumberland Road. About a mile and a quarter (2 km) further, he made another soft right, which had him staying on US 52 North; this residential, south-side-to-downtown connector was Bland Road. Soon the old, double-yellow-line-divided, asphalt street was whipping back and forth. At Oakhurst Avenue, he saw the old, round, stone-and-mortar-basin fountain on the right. It's still there. And, it's still working. Nice flowers. Wonder who's maintaining it now. Is crazy Cathy still alive? When was the last time I saw her? 1999 in Charlotte with sexy Martha at Surf Inn. Woah. Has it really been 17 years? Where did all that time go? Or flow? From East to New. [Rivers]

While stopped at the College Avenue traffic light, he noticed the Little Caesars restaurant on the right. Should I get a small pizza now? Nah, I'm not really that hungry. Wonder if the older Latina still works there. What was her name? María? Maybe. I bet that she has moved on.

The light turned green. He curved to the right, and soon passed the Harley-Davidson dealership. Always tempting to get another bike. But, I'm sure that I would lay it down again. Probably for the final, fatal time. The reflexes just aren't what they were. The 'joy' of being old. Bleh!

At a four-faced clock, the road forked into one-way streets. Federal Street descended into the central downtown area. At Raleigh Street, Bill turned right, went a block, and parked on the curb next to a four-story, century-old, beige-brick-only-on-the-first-level building.

He stepped into the soon-to-be-functioning tavern with a medium-size, creek-silt-brown, cardboard box under his left arm. A slender, attractive, late-30-ish African American woman was polishing the dark-red-stained, extra-long, wooden bar.

"Hello there," she merrily said. "Do you have a package for us?" Strange, he's not wearing a typical, delivery-company uniform.

"I do," Bill replied. "Is Steve in?"

"Steve had to run an emergency-parts errand," she informed. "He should be back in ten to fifteen minutes. Can I sign for it?" Emergency parts? Is he picking up a new prosthetic leg? Why'd I think that? Because of my age.

"Well, there's nothing to sign for at this point. It's an ultra-rapid chiller for canned beverages. Would you like to see the demo?" Oh, he's a salesman. Should have known.

"How long will it take?" He had better make it quick. I've got too much work to do for a longwinded sales pitch. Grand opening is only four days away.

"Just a minute. Would you happen to have a hot beer?" A 'hot' beer?

"How hot?" She guffawed. She's certainly a hottie.

"Oh, just room temperature. I'm sorry, what is your name?"

"Melodie. Just a sec." Denim-legged Melodie then began walking towards a behind-the-bar storeroom.

"No rush, Melodie. I'm Bill – Bill Bluestone. This is my sole appointment today." Wonder where this old dude came from. Charleston? [WV] Roanoke? Winston-Salem? With that last name, he just may be from the Bellepoint-Hinton [WV] area.

She soon returned. "Ok, here you go, Mr. Bluestone. This can of Elkins [WV] Big Timber Porter will cost you five dollars. Just kidding; it's on the house."

"Why, thanks, Melodie. I actually prefer dark beer."

"Ok, I'm all eyes and ears, sir. Show me your device's magical cooling trick." Magical?

Bill then extricated the black, metal, styrofoam-protected, miniature-refrigerator-looking machine from the box. "Ok, Melodie, I just need a standard, grounded, 110-volt receptacle. AC, of course." He's weird.

"I've got one right here behind the bar. Just give me the plug." I'd love to give her the plug alright, but no blue pills. Is she single? / Receptacle and plug. Wonder if this old guy picked up on the sexual allusions. Probably not.

"Ok, thanks, Melodie."

Melodie plugged in the medium-gauge cord. "You've got a 20-amp circuit to yourself. Will that be sufficient, Bill?" It had better be.

"More than sufficient, Melodie. This thing only draws eight amperes, max." Please, no fire.

"Ok, do you need anything else?" Hope not.

"No, we're all good for show." Good 'for show'? Not 'to go'? Another oddball salesman.

"Ok, you've got one minute, Bill. The clock is now ticking." She's probably had some annoying vendors in the past. / Really don't have time for this, but he has been polite so far.

Bill then assumed his TV-infomercial-sounding, polished, über-persuasive persona. "Forty-five degrees [Fahrenheit; 7º Celsius] in forty-five seconds. Yes, the KraftKanKooler® 2K will cool your seventy-five-degree [Fahrenheit; 24º Celsius] can of craft beer – up to a half-liter [16.9 oz.] – yes, pints are fine, too – to forty-five degrees Fahrenheit in a mere three-fourths of a minute. You just put your can – cans only, please – no glass bottles – in here, close the door, push the button, and voilà!"

Melodie looked at the device, very intrigued, yet almost expecting to see smoke emitted at any moment as a crinkling sound commenced. Bet it's not UL-approved.

Bill just looked at his digital wristwatch that was in stopwatch mode. He started to hum Row, row, row your boat somewhat ridiculously. Melodie shook her head. Has Steve actually met this man? I bet that this Bill guy cold-called him.

A bell dinged. Bill opened the door and extracted the now-chilled brew. He handed the can to Melodie.

"Wow! This is definitely not warm anymore. How much are you charging for this unit, mister?"

"Oh, it's too soon to get into the numbers, Melodie. Say, do you remember a live-music bar in the basement of the old Elks Building? It was just two blocks west of here, I believe. I think that it was called Jo Cody's." Joe Codie's?

"No, I sure don't. That may have been before my of-legal-age bar time." Hope that didn't make him feel ancient. / Of-legal-age? Was she a wild teenager?

"Yeah, probably so. Well, there was a night back in the winter of '90 – '91. A Beatles-esque, four-piece band from North Carolina was playing there. I think their name was The Ravelers. Yeah, that was it. They had a warm sound on that cold night. Well, after the show, I am standing on the corner of Raleigh and Bland, and I overhear a pair of 20-something guys talking. The dark-haired one, who appears to be quite intoxicated on a psychoactive substance, tells the red-haired one that he is ready for some 'high adventure', and that he is going to 'jump a train to Maine'. Well, that's when he bolts down the hill towards the railyard." Oh, boy...

"Hitching a ride on a freight train bound for Maine?" Melodie asked rhetorically. "Most likely he would have been arrested before reaching Welch." [WV]

"I agree. These two were obvious out-of-towners, probably tagging along with the band. They wouldn't have known the Pocahontas coal seam from a chicory-covered field."

"Ah, Bill, you must have passed that Bluefield 101 course." Though, I don't think he's from around here. Must remember to ask him later. Let's not forget.

"Just the West Virginia version, Melodie. Anyway, what's the deal with the two Bluefields? A common, almost-a-perfectly-straight-slant, bisecting boundary; yet completely separate towns, am I right?"

"You are. And did you know that Bluefield, Virginia is actually west of Bluefield, West Virginia?" Huh? No way. She must be mistaken.

"Is that so?" Bill then looked at a map on his smartphone. "Wow! You're right, Melodie. I'll win a bar bet somewhere with that counterintuitive geographic tidbit. Thanks."

"Sure. No problem, Bill. Way back when I attended Bluefield State College, I remember a professor saying that the reason for the two distinct neighboring towns was the state line. Something about West Virginia and Virginia having different tax rates, alcohol laws, ordinances, codes, etc." And state-government-sacred revenue streams.

"And different state politicians with voting districts that neither state would gladly forfeit," Bill added with a chuckle.

Melodie then chuckled, too. "Ok, enough of that sidebar; please continue with your little story, Bill."

"Well, the dark-haired dude soon enters the railyard, sprints over several pairs of tracks, turns to his right behind a stationary hopper car, and is gone – he disappears."

"And then what?" a blank-expression-maintaining, ironed-white-cotton-non-ironic-T-shirt-wearing Melodie asked.

"We just stand on the corner in the darkness for an hour as the fog overtakes the railyard," Bill dryly stated. What in the world?! This old-timer is off his freaking rocker.

"And that's how your slice-of-life vignette from a quarter-century ago concludes?" Melodie was disappointed with the non-ending. Hope this old chap isn't trying to become a writer. That was one awful letdown of an ending.

"Just kidding. No, it doesn't quite end there. The red-haired guy then runs down the hill to the railyard, searching for his ready-to-flee-by-coal-car pal. Then about two minutes later, the dark-haired dude emerges to my right on Raleigh Street. He had apparently come back up the hill on Federal Street. We glance at each other, and then he ducks back into the club. The end. A blue whale of a tale, wouldn't you say?" Blue whale, my ass! That was lame as hell. He's just passing time – and wasting mine – in epic-fail fashion.

"What about the red-haired guy?" Melodie asked, now feeling even more disappointed with her time investment.

"Yes, what about him?" Bill chortled. "Well, I never saw him again. It was late. I was tired. I walked back to my Burmese girlfriend-at-the-time's apartment on Commerce Street, let myself in, and instantly fell asleep. That's the at-no-extra-charge epilogue." That's an epilogue? Oh, please!

"I think that I will be demanding a refund, Mr. Bluestone." Melodie laughed.

"Just invoice me, net thirty," Bill requested in a mock-official tone of voice. He then had a laugh.

"Bill, where are you from? I mean, where do you live?"

"The exact address?"

Melodie chuckled. "Just the city or town."

"I'm originally from Dover, Delaware. I live in Fancy Gap [VA] now. My sales territory was the I-77 corridor from Charleston down to Charlotte."

Suddenly a stocky, light-brown-haired, mid-40s-appearing guy walked in. He was toting two tan-colored Lowe's bags. "It's a meatball-a-minute world, I tell ya. I always seem to get in the hillbilly meth-head checkout line. So, girlfriend, might this be Bill?" Ah, an interracial couple. Nice.

"Bill, meet Steve, my boyfriend-slash-brewmeister," Melodie announced. Oh, it's going to be a microbrewery, and this is the taproom. Sweet. Hope they can make it.

Bill extended his right hand. Steve shook it robustly.

"Pleased to meet you, Steve."

"Sorry I'm late, Bill. I discovered an urgent plumbing issue, and had to shut off the water. Should have it fixed in twenty minutes. So, about your fast chiller..."

"It's amazing!" Melodie interjected.

Bill successfully repeated his demo, but sans caveat. When he returned to his car to retrieve some forms, Steve inserted a bottled beer.

<BOOM>

Steve paid the ultimate, serrated-glass-shard-artery-slicing price. Melodie, who was farther away, only suffered minor abrasions.
13. Bridge Day (August 2018)

Kye was a 29-year-old, male, childless, unmarried-and-still-very-much-single Laotian American. Mony was a 28-year-old, female, childless, unmarried-and-still-very-much-single Cambodian American. They both lived and worked in Charlotte. A 30-year-old Filipina named Lucinda, who was an acquaintance of both, was the matchmaker. After Kye and Mony had a few weekend coffees and a lunch together in the early fall of 2006, they decided to have their first all-day date at the New River Gorge festival known as Bridge Day in southern West Virginia.

On a clear-as-a-sleep-rubbed-off-eye-can-see, refreshingly-brisk-after-a-long-hot-humid-summer, blue-skied Saturday morning, the 21st of October, Kye picked up Mony from her Northlake-area apartment in his black 2002 Toyota Camry. It was 7:49 on the digital dashboard clock when he inserted the Natural Calamity CD (compact disc) after entering the rightmost lane of northbound Interstate 77.

"Well, Mony, we've got two hundred nineteen miles [352 km] to go," Kye informed. Ughhh!

"How long will that take?" Mony asked, fearing a four-plus-hour answer.

"Three hours and thirty-eight minutes if we don't stop. Ninety-two percent of the trek is on I-77. Fast freeway miles in light traffic." Hopefully no wrecks. / 92%?

"And, what again is the main draw?" she enquired as they passed the Queen City's northern city limit.

"BASE – building, antenna, span, earth (cliff) – jumping. There will be over eight hundred jumps from the 876-foot-high [267 meters] bridge. That's five feet [1.5 meters] taller than the Bank of America [Corporate Center] tower." What a Mr. Research!

"With parachutes?" Is she serious?

"Absolutely, Mony. There's no air cushion below – just the shallow, rocky New River." How new is it?

"Will there be bungee jumping?"

"No, that was banned after 1993. Too many injuries."

"Darn! I wanted to try it." Is she serious?

By the time they entered Iredell County, Mony had nodded off. She must have stayed up late last night. Doing what?

Kye looked at Lake Norman on his left. Kind of looks like the Nam Ngum Reservoir. That medium-shade-of-green water color. And the reddish earth on the shoreline.

After passing Statesville and crossing over Interstate 40, Mony suddenly awoke. "Kye, will we be the only Asians up there?" I really don't care if we are. / Hope not.

"Are you afraid that we'll be thrown off the bridge by some rednecks?" What made him say that? Maybe he researched the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot. I bet he did.

"No, nothing like that, silly. Just wondering, that's all."

"I'm sure that the festival will be replete with camera-clutching Japanese and Chinese tourists," Kye assured.

"You're not going to take any pictures?" Huh? / Is he afraid of having me appear in a photo that an ex might see? Or, some other female – some other prospective girlfriend?

"I certainly will, Mony. Plenty of pics. Many of you, too." Too?

"Why do you want to go to this so bad?" Mony asked as she looked over at Kye's thin, intent, looking-straight-ahead face. Could I marry this man someday? Mom and dad would probably be ok with him. He's got a good IT [internet technology] job. Oh, I'm getting way ahead of things. We haven't even had sex yet. How many girls has he pumped? Does he have plans for tonight? / Didn't I just tell her? I'll casually mention the inn to her later. Just say: 'Mony, you don't really want to go all the way back to Charlotte this evening, do you? We both have Sunday off.' Her schedule is open tomorrow; the test question on Thursday revealed that. Continue with: 'We can get a room with two beds.' Or one.

"The BASE jumping," Kye finally answered. "I want to see them up close. I want to see their equipment, the technique, etc. I want to do a BASE jump someday." Is he serious?

"Oh, ok," Mony uttered and soon fell back asleep. How late was she up last night? Four in the morning? Is she a party girl? That crescent-earring tattoo under her left ear – does she have a bohemian-bourgeois aesthetic? Oh, my nonstop nonsense.

Kye continued a 74 MPH (119 km/h) advance up I-77. When the four-door sedan crossed into Virginia, Mony was still asleep. As her head tilted, his mind meandered. Was she screwing some guy last night? Is that why she's so sleepy? We're almost an item now, but not quite. Was she bringing a relationship to a close? Or, re-firing it? Does she have me pegged as a convenient no. 2? A readily available, on-demand standby? Must stop tarring her; Mony's nothing like my ex.

As the Toyota climbed up the eastern flank of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Kye glanced to his right at the piedmont of North Carolina way below. Would hate to go sailing off this mountain. Certain death. How many wrecks have occurred on this incline during snowstorms? How many fatalities?

As they crossed the New River on I-77 near Shot Tower State Park, he spotted the old US 52 bridge below on the right. This bridge is so much higher than that one. I guess they wanted to make sure that I-77 never got flooded.

Kye looped onto Interstate 81 South (a concurrency) and headed towards Wytheville. The sign triggered some intense neural activity. Wytheville... someone born there acquired fame. Who was it? American political history... a widow who married a widowed president. Which president was it? Darn, c'mon memory. I just read that Wikipedia article yesterday.

Mony re-awoke and sighed. "Almost to the birthplace of Woodrow Wilson's second wife, Edith, I see." How uncanny. Almost like she was reading my thoughts.

"Hungry?" Kye asked. "Want to stop for a bite?"

"No, I can make it," Mony replied. "I've got some coffee in my thermos bottle. Want some?"

"Sure. That should carry me, too."

Mony then poured some black coffee into a paper cup and carefully handed it to Kye. "No cream, but sweet and strong," she informed. Cream. / Wonder if he brought a condom.

"Ah, just the way I like it. Thanks." Kye smiled at her. We shall see about that.

"You're most welcome, sexy driver." She wants it tonight.

"Why, thank you, sexy navigator." He wants it tonight.

They passed through two tunnels and then were in West Virginia. It was a resplendent autumn day. This is going purr-fect. / Wonder how he'll act later.

Forty minutes further, just past Beckley, Kye was taking Exit 48 for US 19. They soon were at a toll booth. Kye tossed some silver coins into the funnel. He got the green light to proceed. Their journey to Bridge Day continued, but now with considerably more traffic. Wonder how crowded it will be on the bridge. / Where have they closed this highway? Guess I'll soon find out. The colors of the fall leaves sure are intense; the yellows look backlit.

When they arrived at the town of Oak Hill, Kye spoke up again. "Almost there. Think you can make it food-wise?"

"I'm holding out for a funnel cake and a hot dog," Mony stated. She sure is Americanized.

"And a caramel apple?" Kye added with a slight laugh.

"Sure, why not? Let's just eat American junk food today."

Just before North Court Street in Fayetteville, Kye pulled off on the shoulder and parked behind an old, red, rusty Chevy pickup truck that had pulled off just before he did. The string of shoulder-parked vehicles was now 1.3 miles (2.1 km) long and growing. Wonder what the attendance will be. / How far away is this bridge? Hope it's close, as in under 1,000 feet. [305 meters]

"Well, it's the end of the line in this vehicle, Mony."

"Do we have to walk a long way, Kye?"

"No, we'll catch a ride on a free shuttle. I researched it last night." Of course.

Soon they were on a short bus. It was crowded. The mood was anticipatorily jovial. There are some Asians right there. They look Vietnamese. / So far, so good.

Seven minutes later, after several stops to pick up more festivalgoers, the shuttle let everyone off at its turnaround point, just ten yards (nine meters) from the closed-to-all-vehicular-traffic bridge.

Kye and Mony got their morning hunger satiated at a vendor's cart who had everything they desired. They then began to snake their way through the throngs of spectators to the center of the four-lane bridge's span. They saw a magenta parachute descending over the olive-colored water, some 600 feet (183 meters) below the steel-beam-atop-concrete-barrier railing. BASE jumping had already commenced from the completed-in-1977, single-steel-arch bridge. It was now 11:44 AM.

An older, white, somewhat paunchy, veteran BASE jumper, one Brian Lee Schubert of Alta Loma (now Rancho Cucamonga), California (the first to jump from El Capitan in Yosemite in 1966), was announced. He smiled to applause on the platform, backed up a half-step, sprung forward, and took the supreme leap of faith. Wow! So, that's it – just like the videos: You just jump... and swing from whim to whim. Wonder where and when I should do my first jump. Sure don't want a massive audience like this my first time. / I would never, ever do that! No freaking way! Is Kye really a daredevil type?! But, he's so meek and mild-mannered.

Mr. Schubert soon reached a freefall speed of 72 MPH (116 km/h) as he closed in on the lazy, indifferent-to-human-folly, very-tranquil-today, ancient (astoundingly misnamed) river. When is he going to pull the ripcord? / Gosh, this is crazy. Kye really wants to do this? Why? Maybe for the adrenaline rush. Yeah, that's probably it.

Then a small, purple and blue, only-partially-open parachute was seen six seconds after the jump. However, it didn't fully open. There was a big splash three seconds later. Woah! He hit the water really hard. Wonder if he is ok. / Oh my God! That didn't look good. Not at all.

Oohs and aahs emerged from the crowd, followed by groans. The jumping was halted. People started murmuring. Then, thirteen minutes later, Kye and Mony heard a ball-capped, white guy behind them say that Brian had died from impact. We just witnessed a death in real time. / I bet that will change Kye's mind. Poor old man.

"Kye, I'm going to take a pee," Mony whispered in his right ear. "I saw some port-a-johns near the shuttle drop-off."

"Ok, I'll just stay here and wait for you," Kye replied, still stunned. That really happened – that guy really died.

"Should be back in ten minutes max."

"Ok, be careful."

As Mony started to weave her way through the shocked-yet-chattering mass of people, she looked off to her left and saw her Thai ex-boyfriend Sud. Eye contact was briefly made. She kept walking, but now looking down. Why in the world is he here? How did he know that I would be here? Did he come up here alone? Or, is he with someone? Is it just a coincidence? No, I don't think so. I never heard him mention BASE jumping or Bridge Day. He followed us up here. I just know that he did. But, how? Was he waiting and watching in his car in my apartment complex's parking lot? Sincerely doubt that.

The line was a dozen-deep for the blue, fiberglass-walled, already-quite-smelly, transportable toilet. Mony looked around as she waited in line. She didn't see Sud. Good. I hope I don't see him again today. Has he walked over to Kye? Please, not that. Wait, does he even know about Kye? He certainly does if he followed us. Wonder if he put a [tracking] bug in my handbag. Must remember to go through it later.

Kye looked over the railing which had 'I love you, Mony, Mony, Mony' graffiti scratched onto it, noting the vacant railroad tracks on both sides of the river. With his cell phone camera's zoom feature, he was able to discern several ambulances with flashing lights and a slew of paramedics near the right-side bank. Then he heard a Caucasian guy behind him say: "The pilot chute didn't deploy properly." Another dude quickly added: "He waited way too long, maybe because he was disoriented." Alive and seemingly fine one moment, and dead as a doornail ten seconds later.

While waiting in line, Mony decided to text Kye.

Still waiting for the piss-pot. Such a long line. I'm sorry, Kye, but that jumper's death has tainted this event for me. Would you like to just chill out in a nearby hotel room?

Just after she hit Send, Mony thought: Was that way too forward? Will he think that I'm easy to get? Easy to screw? Well, I know he wants to, too. Gosh, we're adults. No need to play adolescent games.

Kye's phone beeped seven seconds later. Is she ok? He clicked on the message tab. 'Just chill out'? Ha! She wants the sausage. Glad I'm perfectly prepared for this scenario.

Three minutes later, Kye's right index finger was pecking out a reply. Must make it seem like I didn't have this lodging reservation beforehand.

Good call, Mony. Just reserved a room in Fayetteville at a historic bed and breakfast – The Morris Harvey House. This inn was fully booked, but someone cancelled. Our room is called 'the library room'. Care to read a book? Ha-ha

Mony returned fire two minutes later.

I'm second in line now. What a stench! You guys have it so easy with regard to urination – just stand and spray – or go off in the woods. Well, maybe we can write our own book.

The door opened and closed. Mony was next. Hope he's enjoying the flirting. Hope he can hit all my pleasure spots.

Ninety-three seconds later, Kye saw her text. He decided to go bold. Never up, never in. Where did I first hear that saying? Was it while watching golf with dad? Get in the hole!

My firm pen is ready to write a felt-tipped love story on your erotic body.

Finally the flimsy door opened. A morbidly obese, scruffy, white, middle-aged, bleach-blonde woman waddled out. Mony entered the malodorous port-a-potty and relieved herself. Whew! Just barely made it in time. Ew! It reeks like a ruptured septic tank in this porta-crapper! [sic] Need to hurry up and get the hell out of here before I vomit.

Five minutes passed. And then five more. Kye started to get concerned. Is she ok? Maybe she didn't care for that last text. Maybe in bad taste. Time to repair the damage.

I apologize for that text, Mony. I got carried away. We can just chill out as you initially stated. The room has two beds. I'll be a good boy.

Finally, four agonizing minutes later, he got a reply as the BASE jumping restarted. I guess the show must go on.

Oh, you're fine, silly. Kye, am I on the reservation? If not, could you add me? Our first night together. I'm going to save the receipt forever.

Kye answered her question two minutes later.

You are now, darling.

An Asian American jumper then launched himself. Kye watched his tumbling, end-over-end descent. Is he going to be the next fatality? Within an hour of Brian? The second since 1987? Hope not.

But then the yellow-suited jumper pulled out of the twirling and his black-and-white parachute fully bloomed. That was right on cue. He must have a lot of jumps under his belt.

The crowd clapped sporadically. The applause for the jumpers now seemed subdued in the wake of the tragedy 48 minutes prior. A yellow jacket circled Kye's lips. Damn! How long has it been? Where is she amongst this motley lot? Another food-stamp libertarian and a six-figure socialist.

Kye shot her another playful salvo.

Time's up! The big bad wolf is coming for you, raven locks. Seriously, I'm walking towards Toiletland [sic] now.

After hanging out by the scores of portable commodes for ten minutes, Kye texted Mony again.

Ok, dear, I'm here in Crapperville, [sic] USA, standing closest to unit 14. Where are you, sweetheart? BTW, you're right – the odor is beyond fetid.

Fifteen minutes passed without a text from Mony. Kye started to freak out. He called her. There was no answer. He then walked the entire length of the 3,030-foot-long (924 meters) concrete bridge. Twice. Where is she? Something bad has happened. I can feel it. But, what? Who? Why? Should I tell the police? File an official missing-person report? No, not yet. I'll just go to the hotel room and think about what to do next.

Kye caught the mini-bus back to his car. He then made the short drive to the bed and breakfast on Maple Avenue at Harvey Street. The cheerful, mid-30-something, dark-eyed brunette clerk disclosed: "Mony has already checked in, sir." WTF?!

On the covers-missing, cerise-stained-wrinkled-white-sheet, queen-size bed was Mony's lifeless, bloody, naked body.
14. While Waiting for the Trolley (Sept. 2018)

At 7:38 AM on a still-very-much-scummer, [sic] already steamy, stagnant-air-mass Friday, the 7th of September (2018), I found my freckle-flecked-forearms, 54-year-old self at the first outbound Gold Line streetcar stop in uptown Charlotte (NC, USA). A returning faux-vintage trolley passed behind my back on East Trade Street. I rechecked the time on my cheapo LG cell phone as I stood on the concrete median, staring at three, fairly-old-for-this-raze-and-replace-burg, party-walled-together, two-and-three-story buildings. I became absorbed in my thoughts (once again). That's an odd time for that trolley to be arriving. Did it do the whole run in just eight minutes? Usually it takes twelve to thirteen. Is it not running on the quarter-hour? Maybe it no longer runs on set times. Hope it leaves soon. Already late for work. Wonder who is already there. The boss? Wonder when those charming-for-this-neopolis, [sic] bygone-era buildings encounter Mr. Wrecking Ball. Could they possibly be spared? Build around and over them? Doubt it; that's not the Charlotte way. They sure would make for some cool apartments. Seem to have the same thoughts every time I glance at that trio. [of buildings]

I then looked down at the black-painted metal railing. Tiny brown ants were feasting upon some spilled soda residue. And to the right of them, a line of scratched-in graffiti arrested my eye.

I'd be a genius if I weren't so dumb. - SMH

I chuckled to myself, hoping that the seven other people waiting for the tram didn't hear me. My mind ran with it. That's good stuff. Never know what one might read on these railings. Should use this in the next short story. Did someone add 'SMH' after reading this line? Or, is it the graffiti-ist's initials? Shake my head. So outrageous.

Then a short, wiry, white guy of about my age with graying hair, wearing a white T-shirt with block-letter text – Charlotte Basketball – walked up. He had a green Philadelphia Eagles cap on. I thought about his blue-sleeve-ends shirt. That's not a [Charlotte] Hornets garment. Nor is it of any Charlotte college or high school. Kind of a strange T-shirt. What the hell is 'Charlotte Basketball'? Some amateur league for the over-50 crowd? Damn, I'm now in that crowd, too. Just a grain of sand nearing the bottleneck in the big hourglass. Almost done it seems. And really didn't get much of anything accomplished. Just another airball. [a basketball shot that misses badly – hits nothing but air]

He then asked me what time it was. I gladly told him and figured that would be it. But then he asked:

"How often does this trolley run?"

"That's the million-dollar question," I replied and then chuckled. "It used to run every fifteen minutes on weekdays. However, I have my doubts now, as that returning trolley came back at an odd time. Maybe it will roll out of its berth in five minutes."

"Thanks. I'm not really that familiar with it. But, 7:45 will work for me. My job at PRN [Promise Resource Network] is about a mile from the CPCC [Central Piedmont Community College] stop. I can't wait for it to be extended over Independence." [Expressway – US 74]

"Yeah, that will be nice," I agreed. "Though, I think that doesn't happen until sometime in 2020."

"I just wish that they would hurry up and reconstruct the Hawthorne [Lane] bridge," he stated. "I would just like to be able to walk over it."

"Yeah, me, too. I used to use it when I rode my bike to work."

"What kind of bike?" he asked with genuine interest.

"Oh, it's just a Walmart one-speed. I've customized it, though. Replaced just about everything but the frame." I chuckled.

He grinned. "Well, why aren't you on it today, man?"

"Too warm. If the morning low isn't below 65°, [Fahrenheit; 18.3° Celsius] I don't ride. I'll just be too sweaty after the six miles. [9.6 km] It was 73° [Fahrenheit; 22.8° Celsius] when I walked out the door to catch my first bus."

"What bus was that?" he asked, seeming quite curious to know.

"The 222 on the east side," I informed.

"And which was your second bus?" he then asked.

"The 9," I answered.

"If you were on an inbound 9 bus, why are you now here waiting for this outbound trolley?" Has this red-haired guy lost his marbles?

"Ok, here's the honest, somewhat amusing, ridiculous truth. It's a medium-long answer."

"I've got time for it. Doesn't look like I'm going anywhere for a while." He laughed.

I laughed, too, as I looked at my cell phone. Damn, it's 7:49. Is it rolling out at 7:50? Does it run every twenty minutes now? :10, :30, :50? Hope so.

He sneezed.

"Ok, this is why I'm here waiting for the outbound trolley. The 9 bus that I got on at the old Eastland Mall site was an express-type bus that didn't have a rear exit door. Perhaps the usual city bus broke down. Anyway, as the bus plied Central Avenue, it filled to the brim. I mean it was the most sardine-packed bus that I've ever been on in Charlotte. Standees occupied the whole length of the center aisle. When we arrived at my stop – Kings Drive and Elizabeth Avenue – there was simply no way to get off the bus in time, as my seat was near the back. Thus, I had to ride it to the transit center. And, that's why I'm here now."

He guffawed for several seconds. "I once experienced something like that on a bus in the outer Philly metro."

"Whereabouts?" I asked.

"Phoenixville. It's just west of Valley Forge, if you know where that is. The bus driver just kept letting people board. It was insane. Then someone ripped a most hellacious fart. Talk about a 'get me the fuck outta here' moment."

I chortled for four seconds. "I hear ya, man. Hey, I recently wrote a short story titled The Hermit that had a main female character from King of Prussia."

"Been through there many times," he solemnly informed. "Are you a professional writer?"

"Well, I'm trying to get to my day job now." I chuckled.

"It's tough to make a living off of a creative endeavor," he declared. "You need some luck. I've seen many maestros washing dishes in my travels."

"Are you originally from Philadelphia?" I then asked.

"You see the cap? E-A-G-L-E-S – Eagles! Did you see the game last night?"

"I fell asleep in the first quarter."

"It was ugly with another scary finish, but we beat them [Atlanta Falcons] once again." [18-12]

"You must have loved last season's Super Bowl."

"It was a long, LONG time coming. Many decades of grief. Before last season, not much since Ron Jaworski."

"I remember Jaws. A good quarterback. And now a good analyst."

"Yeah, he's decent at it. What time is it now?"

"7:54," I answered. "Surely it departs on the top of the hour."

"I sure hope so, man. Really need to be there by 8:30. The walk takes about twenty minutes. I like the job; don't want to lose it."

"Yeah, you don't want to lose a tolerable job; most are dreadful from my experience."

"Are you from Charlotte?" he then asked.

"The family moved here when I was eight. I've lived in many other places since then, though. I really can't stand the summer here anymore; it's a five-month-long sauna."

"Hey, Charlotte is an up-and-coming city. I've been here for seven years. It has some issues, but trust me, all American cities do. I've been all around the country."

"What's the issue that bothers you the most?" I enquired.

"Well, it's hard to get good avocados here." What in the world?! That's his pressing civic issue? This is hilarious. Will definitely have to write this up on my lunchbreak.

"Oh, really?"

"Oh yeah, man. When I was out west in San Diego, I got spoiled."

"Here comes our streetcar now."

"A streetcar named Patience."

"Good one. Touchdown!"

"Should I go for two?" he asked and then guffawed.

I laughed, too. "Ok, a final question before we get on this clanker."

"Shoot."

"What's the strangest question that anyone has asked you in this town?"

"That would have to be what this waiter asked me at a pizza parlor on Eastway. [Drive] 'Do you know how many people on average die each day?' [153,425 as of Sept. 7, 2018] I was like 'where the hell did that come from?' A really weird guy. What about you?" Was he 'The Waiter'? [a short story]

"While walking up Commonwealth Avenue two decades ago on a warm-to-rapidly-approaching-hot, sunny, mid-spring afternoon, a 30-something dude in a silver sports car stopped and asked me: 'What's the best way to Québec City?' I still think that he was just going around pranking people, and possibly videoing the responses. Mine may be on YouTube somewhere."

"I[nterstate] - 77 was correct." Huh?

15. I-40, Wire to Wire (Sept. 2018)

"I got it!" the 34-year-old, goateed, sandy-blonde-haired Caucasian American exclaimed into his cell phone as he motored northward away from Wilmington (NC) on a cool, fog-in-patches April (2015) morning. "It's in the trunk." Why, I'm sure it is. Bet it's under the spare tire. Sweet! Already got a blip on my map. Perfect.

"Great! Any issues last night on Figure Eight, [Island] Cliff?" a middle-aged, male, Amerasian voice asked.

"None whatsoever, Turk. That beachfront house – or, I should say mansion – was vacant and the alarm system was indeed deactivated just as you said. The forty-yard [approximately 37 meters] swim across Mason Inlet in a black wetsuit was a piece of cake, even on the return leg with the floating case. I hit it right at slack tide – no current to speak of. My total out-and-back time: fifty-five minutes. Never saw a soul. Slept like a baby at Shell Island Resort. [on Wrightsville Beach Island] No nightmares." Excellent. Most excellent.

"That's great to hear. Ok, where are you right now?" 4:02. [AM] Add three hours. So, it's 7:02 where he is. I guess the sun is already up there. / I'm sure that he wants to know.

"I just passed Exit 420. What an exit number, huh, Turk?" <cough-cough>

Turk chuckled. "No doubt, Cliff." Hope he doesn't get stoned. Not now. Not while he has it.

"Yeah, man, I just started on I-40 West. Just passed the sign for Barstow. [CA] Only 2,554 miles [4,110 km] to go." Cliff laughed for a few seconds. How many days will it take? / Well, he's being honest so far. Though, I'm glad that we've got him tracked. Never know how one will act with a stolen, multimillion-dollar item in their possession.

"So, you decided against flying back?" Is he crazy? / What a long-ass drive! Hope he doesn't get pulled over.

"Absolutely, Turk. Going through the Wilmington airport, [ILM] or any American airport for that matter, is way too risky. It could be detected. Could also get snared in a random bag search. No need to fret, though. I've got some nice stimulants; I'll be fine." Sure hope that wasn't a 'famous last words' proclamation.

"Well, don't speed on that speed." Turk chuckled. "You don't want to get pulled over. Drive like an old lady going to mass on Sunday." Turk is paranoid.

"Yeah, I hear ya, Turk. You can relax; I'll take it easy on the speedometer." He better. / How in the world does a Kor-Am [Korean American] wind up with a name like Turk? I bet it's a convoluted story. Maybe ask him later.

"Just curious, what kind of car are you in, Cliff?"

"A nondescript sedan – a rental car. Just a blend-in-with-the-rest-of-traffic vehicle, Turk."

"It's not a white, 2011, trunk-dented Ford Focus, [the car of supreme interest in the novel Gold, a summer story] is it?" What?

"You're somewhat close, Turk; it's a ding-less, shiny, black, 2014 Ford Taurus. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm not fully awake yet." Oh, that's right; it's only four AM in Bakersfield. [CA]

"Well, I'll let you get back to sleep. I think I'll spend the first night in Nashville." We shall see.

"Ok, safe travels. I'll check back with you in twelve or so hours." I'm sure that he will. / 'Don't you dare wander off, sport!' But even if he does, it won't be an issue. My man in Charlotte could quickly intercept him and recover the booty.

<click>

The Tuesday traffic in the already verdant, flat-as-Florida, pastureland-and-pine-forest Atlantic coastal plain was light. Cliff stopped at a south Raleigh convenience store for gasoline, more coffee, a bag of powdered-sugar-coated mini-doughnuts, and bladder emptying. It was 9:40 when he glanced at his cell phone in the parking lot. Making pretty good time. And, no texts from the nosy ex. Thank God! Feel wide-awake now. Could drive all the way. Ok, let's not get carried away. Big payday in three or four days. Might have to wait a little longer. Surely in a week's time I'll be sitting pretty. Sitting on a mountain of cash. Then I'll celebrate with a no-holds-barred strumpet in [Las] Vegas. Maybe that Philippine one again. Oh, what was her name? It began with an 'L'. Layah! How could I ever forget? 'Supsup jamo, kano? Oo?' ['Much sucking, American? Yes?' in the Cebuano dialect]

The splendid driving weather continued as Cliff passed through the piedmont and into the foothills. Deep Purple's Highway Star came on the classic-rock Hickory radio station. He lowered the front windows and sang the third verse. After scaling the Blue Ridge Escarpment, he was soon closing in on Asheville. He mused as he looked over his right shoulder as he passed Exit 53 for I-240. Ah, Little San Francisco of Southern Appalachia. With almost as many spangers. [slang for 'spare change' beggars] Wonder if that hempstress [sic] is still turning tricks on Patton. [Avenue] What was her name? Judy-Lynn? Is she still there? Just keep heading west. Onward to riches.

At exactly 2:02 PM, Cliff crossed the state line and entered the mountainous side of Tennessee. He had gone 300 miles (483 km) since his last stop. Surprisingly, white-line fever had not hit him yet. However, hunger – hunger for real food – had started to make itself known. His stomach growled. An hour later he was eating pizza in an independent restaurant in near-downtown Knoxville.

The mid-20-something, svelte, cute, chest-proud, caramel-highlighted-dark-brunette, inner-left-forearm-tattooed-with-a-small-bleeding-heart, mostly Native American (Cherokee?) waitress was curious about him. I've never seen him before. He's kind of handsome. Looks like he has a nontraditional job. Wonder where he lives. Could I just ask him? He probably won't care. Just be casual. / Is she a faux-hemian? [a slang term for a fake/false bohemian] She's certainly a sexy thang. [sic] Why is she staring at me?

When she returned with an iced tea refill, she popped the question. "And where might you be from, stranger?" That sure was bold of her. / No wedding band. Wonder if he's been divorced.

"Well, it's a long story," Cliff replied with a bordering-on-cocky grin. Oh, puh-lease, mister. Spare me.

"Why, do you have multiple, far-apart residences?" she enquired. She'd be good in a courtroom. And in a bedroom.

"I bet that you're a journalism major at UT. [University of Tennessee] Am I correct?" An astute guess. But, he very slickly changed the topic. Why is he evasive about his hometown? I smell a fish here. Something's up with him.

"I was." She suddenly looked kind of sad. Poor girl.

The conversation died. The waitress turned and went to another table. Wonder if she flunked out. Was she caught cheating? Or, did she simply run out of money for tuition? College is so damn expensive nowadays. Highway robbery.

While waiting for the check, Cliff began to doodle. He subconsciously drew an oval-shaped object on a quadrant of the pizza's parchment paper with his last, eight-for-a-dollar, blue-ink, ball-point pen.

"What's that?" the 5'-5" (1.65-meter-tall) waitress startlingly asked, seemingly from out of nowhere, a few minutes later from over his left shoulder. Was she watching me? For how long? Was I mumbling aloud? Not sure. So egg-engrossed.

"Cherub with Chariot," Cliff blurted after a short pause. Why did I say that? Not real smart, Cliff. Oh, relax; 'twas probably harmless. / Must look that up later.

"Ah," the waitress sighed. Yeah, this guy is up to something below-board alright. I can sense it.

Cliff paid his bill and left her a big 111% ($20) tip. Maybe the extra loot will help her out. No need to be stingy; I'll be rolling in cash soon, very soon. Wouldn't mind rolling around with her, too. No, better move on before my mouth does some real damage. Time to get back on that long-as-eternity road.

A pleasantly uneventful 174 miles (280 km) later, Cliff was coming up on Nashville. He still felt fully alert, but he had to pee and refuel. It was 5:31 when he looked at his cell phone in the just-off-the-interstate convenience store parking lot. Only half past five? Oh, that's right; I'm now in the Central Time Zone. Still feel ok. Still excellent driving weather. Could make the Mississippi River. 'Memphis, here I come!' Beale Street or bust.

Cliff was parking across from B.B. King's Blues Club at 8:38 PM. It was a warm darkness; the tangerine-colored sun had set over an hour ago. Made it. Day one of the drive gets an A+ grade. Not many cars. Maybe it won't be too crowded.

While walking to the double-doored front entrance, he did some quick math in his road-weary head. 888 miles [1,429 km] in the books. Over a third of the way there. Meet Turk on Friday somewhere in the Mojave Desert around lunchtime. I got this. No sweat. Easy work now. Piles of C-notes [$100 bills] await.

Cliff took a seat at a small, round, corner-dark, under-balcony table in the sparsely filled music hall. He was soon nursing a Yeungling beer while eating some French fries. Fatigue had finally caught him. He listened to three songs by a local soul act, and then decided to call it a day. I'm completely shot. Time for some much-needed shut-eye.

Just before nodding off in his hotel room on the banks of the turgid, snowmelt-filled, storied American river, he got a mysterious text from a restricted number, which read:

Cherub with Chariot, also known as The Angel with Egg in Chariot, one of the long-lost, much sought after, imperial Fabergé eggs. It was crafted and delivered to Czar Alexander III of Russia in 1888. Is that what you were referring to, Mr. Clifford Wesleyan Robinson, Jr.? By the way, my name is Karen. Hope to hear back from you. Don't leave me stranded on a cliff, Cliff. Oh, thanks for that generous tip. It really helps.

He was stunned; his drowsiness was put on hold. Cliff's mind sputtered along, trying to string the tapioca beads together. Ah, it's from the waitress in Knoxville. I just knew that she was the investigative type. She's already got my full name and my cell number. Should have paid in cash. And, she already knows my prized possession. Oh, crap! This is not good. Wait. Hold on. Back up. Stop and think this through. She doesn't know that I really have it. How could she? There's no way. Just relax. Just go to sleep. 'Please don't leave me stranded here on a cliff, Cliff.' Caution: She could quickly become trouble. Bigtime trouble. Maybe text her some misdirection in the morning; send her on a wrong way with her digital magnifying glass. Oh hell, I'll just fire something back right now. Yeah, why not?

Great guess, Karen. It's actually the name of a racehorse that I'm considering placing a huge bet on this weekend. Goodnight. All the best.

Just as he fell asleep, his cell phone rang. Oh, no! Is she already calling me? I bet she's psycho. I always seem to find them. Every single time.

"Hello, this is Cliff."

"How did the day go, buddy?" Turk asked. Oh, it's him.

"Good, man. Really good. No issues. Made it all the way to Memphis. Quite beat now. I plan on being in Barstow at noon on Friday."

"Excellent, Cliff. I'll let you sleep. I'll tell you the good – or, make that better – news tomorrow morning." Even better news?

<click>

Cliff stared at the stucco ceiling, wondering what Turk would tell him in twelve hours. Is he going to meet me halfway? A transfer in Oklahoma City? That sure would be nice. Is he flying into Memphis? No, he would have told me that. Has a bidding war broken out for it? Will I...

<snoring>

It was nearly eleven hours of dense, couldn't-remember-a-single-dream-fragment-for-his-life sleep for Cliff. When he finally arose at 8:38 AM, he noticed a text alert on his cell phone. It was from none other than Karen.

Ok, Cliff, I've thought this situation over, and it doesn't involve any horseracing wagers. Here's how it will work from now going forward: You will text me a photo that is indicative of where you are at 9:00 AM and 9:00 PM CDT every single day, beginning this morning, and continuing for one week. That's it. Very easy, right? Just don't text your photo before 8:45. And don't wait too long. Because if there's no pic by 9:10, that's when I will – unfortunately – have to call the cops. We don't want the police involved, now, do we? Pass the test in flying colors and win me over, captain. Have an eggcellent [sic] day. xoxox Karen

He was shocked. His neural circuitry shorted-out for a few seconds. What the fuck?! 'have to call the cops.' Why? She's crazy! I knew it. Why did I have to pick her restaurant? Why did I have to sit at her table? Why did it have to be her shift? And, why in the world did I have to doodle that Fabergé egg and say its name to her? Why?! Why did I do that?! Why?! Well, can't undo it now. No rewind and delete.

Cliff took some deep breaths. His heartrate slowed. Soon, courtesy of the compact, setting-on-the-back-of-the-dresser, pre-loaded coffee maker, he had a nice cup of steaming-hot black java in his right hand as he watched the local news segment on the flat-screen TV. However, his mind quickly drifted back to Karen and her latest text. If she called the cops, what would she tell them? What could she tell them? 'There was this thirty-something man in my restaurant yesterday who drew an egg-like sketch on a sheet of baking paper and said it was the Cherub with Chariot.' The police would be like 'So the hell what, lady!' Hold on. Has the theft been released to the media? Is it in the internet news? Need to do a Google News search with the keyword phrase: 'stolen Fabergé egg'. Yeah, let's do that right now.

But before Cliff could begin his online research, another text flew in. This one was from Turk.

Going to be busy today with a heavy hitter. The prognosis gets even more lucrative. A much bigger payday for us. Call you tonight. Drive safely.

And before he could reply to Turk, another text had landed in his cell phone's virtual inbox.

Cliff, just a friendly reminder, darling. You've only got 13 measly minutes to snap that pic in front of your present address or mile marker. (Are you driving right now?) I really don't want to see you in a cage. You don't want that, do you? I'll give you until 9:15, because I'm feeling generous on this wonderful Wednesday morning. xoxox Karen

Cliff switched off the TV. Some really good news, and some really BAD news – awfully bad news. Would Karen really call the cops? Maybe so. Can't chance it. A police search of the Taurus might occur. How to deal with this crazy chick? The clock is ticking. Eleven minutes. She's crazy enough to do it. Better just snap a selfie in front of the hotel. I'll be out of here ten minutes later. Even if she tries to sic a goon on me, I'll be long gone. Let's out-crazy her. Let's take a ridiculous pic. An egg in hand. Yeah, that's it. Well, better get moving.

Nine minutes later in the parking lot in front of the wall-mounted hotel sign, Cliff took a photo of himself holding a hardboiled egg that he had swiped from the continental breakfast room. He sent it to her just as the time advanced to 9:14. Hope there isn't a delay in the transmission. Hope this satisfies her insanity. Should I send some text, too?

Cliff then texted her a caption.

A man and his egg.

Two minutes and twenty-two seconds later, his phone chirped. He had received another text from the manic waitress.

Perfect. You're one for one. Thirteen more to go, ace. xoxox Karen

Once back in the Taurus after a quick shower, Cliff did his text-delayed research while the engine idled with the air conditioner blasting. It was already muggy, and the high was expected to be a summerlike 84°F (29°C) in Memphis and in Little Rock (AR), the next city on his westward escape route. There were no reports of any stolen Fabergé eggs in recent history, just articles on those that had never been found – like the encased one now hidden beneath a storage compartment inlay on the right side of his rented sedan's trunk. Still in the clear. Karen is certifiably mental. Must play along with her for now. And later, vanish after payday. Maybe disappear somewhere in Baja. [Mexico] Yeah, that's the ticket.

As Cliff approached the I-40 bridge over the Mississippi River, he noticed The Pyramid off to his right. It had a big logo on it. So, it's now going to be a Bass Pro Shops megastore. When did this go down? [June 2010] Guess I need to get east more often. Opens in three weeks. Need to tell Lewis. [a truck-driver pal who plied I-40] This is right up his alley. He'd be a kid in a candy store.

Thoughts of Karen inquieted Cliff's mind as he passed the farmland of eastern Arkansas. Sure hope she stays true to her word. This car cannot be searched. It can't happen.

When he crossed over the milk-chocolate-brown St. Francis River, he received a text alert on his thin, silver-and-black cell phone, which was now resting on the passenger seat. Wonder what Karen wants now. Does she want me to take a pic with an egg balanced on the sole of my right shoe while standing on my head? Why'd I just think that? Bet she wants me to take a photo of 'the' egg. Gosh, hope not. If so, it would be time to hightail it to the border. Or, meet up with her. And abduct her. And then what? I couldn't kill her. Would be nice to slip her the old wonder worm. I'm sure she can fuck like crazy. All the unstable ones can. Maybe she would welcome this. An epic, super-dramatic adventure. She wants in. I can feel it. She probably wants the next photo to be of us together in a hotel bed. Is she still in Knoxville? God, I hope so.

Cliff picked up his phone and nervously clicked the open button. There indeed was a text from a female – but it wasn't Karen. His ex-girlfriend had sent a lovely missive.

Already screwing some skank, are you? I hope your pecker falls off and you die of AIDS! Very slowly. And very painfully. I HATE YOU!!!

Cliff guffawed. Never thought I'd be happy to see a text from Amy again. Now, where'd I meet her? A diner in the Southwest. But, where? Ah, yes, Gallup. [NM] How could I forget that greasy spoon? Though, I almost did. Maybe this speed is cooking my memory. Need to cut back.

With a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel and an intense expression, Cliff pulled off near Little Rock for gasoline, coffee, and energy bars. He then began to head northwest toward the Ozark National Forest on I-40. As he passed a lone, rundown, rusty mobile home in a piney tract, he mused about the occupants. Wonder if anyone in there noticed my car passing. Just one of thousands. Wonder if he/she/they are content. Sometimes the poorest people are the happiest. Sometimes millionaires commit suicide. I won't be one of them. No way, José.

Before he knew it, he was going around Fort Smith (AR). Traffic was light to moderate at 1:05 PM. Soon he was in Oklahoma. After passing a weigh station, he saw the mileage sign for Oklahoma City. 178 miles. [286 km] That's less than three hours. Arrive about four o'clock. Stop there? Look up some old friends? No, not this time. Let's just keep going. Amarillo [TX] or bust. Maybe get there just past eight.

Cliff's second leg went without a hitch. At 8:11 PM he had a room in a two-star motor lodge that was just a quarter-mile (0.4 km) off the interstate. At 8:49 he snapped a pic in front of the retro-neon cactus sign and sent it to Karen sans egg. He was too tired for absurd comedy. And, he was way too worn-out to go eat a proper dinner; the snacks and sandwich remains would have to suffice.

Three minutes later Karen replied.

Two for two. You're still at 100%, which means the cops are at 0%. You are making me love you even more, mystery man. Question: Where did your eggceptional [sic] journey start, dear?

Cliff pondered her inquiry as he lay on the comforter-covered bed. Guess it's harmless to give her a non-exact, slightly cryptic answer. Maybe she'll like it, and then cease for the night. Sure would be nice. Too exhausted to deal with her.

The end was my beginning in coastal North Carolina. Very tired now. 727 miles today. Goodnight, sexy lady of intrigue.

Karen fired back 67 seconds later.

Exactly 1170 kilometers. Well, close enough for our unfolding odyssey, chief. So, doing I-40, wire to wire, are we? Going to Hollywood with that egg? It's bound for an actor or producer, am I right? I'll let you sleep. You can answer tomorrow morning, dear. Our day is coming. xoxox Karen.

Cliff looked at Karen's latest text. He read it six times. And then promptly fell asleep to the sound of the passing trucks. With his shoes still on.

Thursday morning in Amarillo was a very refreshing 54°F (12°C) as Cliff engorged on some make-them-yourself waffles in an alcove off the hotel lobby. It was 7:34 AM when he started walking back to his room. Just take a quick shower and get rolling. Wonder what happens today. Hope Karen doesn't get too kooky. As for Amy... Turk never texted or called last night. Wonder if something is up.

As soon as he had locked the hotel door, he texted Turk.

All still good?

A reply came back just 58 seconds later.

Yes, all good here in Bakersfield. How is it in Amarillo?

Cliff replied immediately.

A nice, cool morning. Welcome relief after the heat of yesterday. Will be shooting to make Kingman [AZ] today. No issues. Egg securely ensconced in trunk. Well hidden. Still smooth sailing. All good.

Two minutes later, a return volley had landed in his court.

That's great to read, Cliff. You'll clear $1.3M. Drive safely.

A brown Texas horned lizard scurried along the exterior windowsill, trying to get to a sunny spot to warm up. It stopped and looked at Cliff, which unleashed a flood of uncertainty into his brain. I never told Turk that I was stopping in Amarillo. The car is definitely being tracked. Or, is it me via my cell phone? Is there a GPS [Global Positioning System] chip on the egg? Doubt that. If the first intruder got to the egg, he would have just taken it. These guys love the two-step process. And, why not? It has worked out nicely so far. Might make this my final run. When one gets greedy, one gets caught. If the payout is really over $1M, I'll call it a day, and go live somewhere cheap. Not Cabo San Lucas itself, but somewhere nearby. But, can't get too remote, or I'll become prey for los bandidos salvajes. ['the savage bandits' in Spanish]

After breakfast at a fast-food eatery, Cliff was driving west once again. He looked at the dashboard clock; it was 9:03. Crap! Forgot to send a pic to Karen. Must pull over at the next mile marker.

At the Exit 37 sign on I-40 for Vega (TX), Cliff took a selfie from the emergency lane. He included a droll line of text.

Going to California with an egging in my heart.

At 9:11 his cell phone alerted him of a received text. It was from his Tennessee tormentor.

Oh, Cliff, that was witty-witty. 3 for 3. Eggtraordinary, [sic] dearest one. Guess what? (I'll tell you.) I'm now only 121 miles [195 km] behind you, mission commander. Late lunch in Albuquerque? I'm buying this time.

Cliff almost drove off the highway into an arroyo when he read Karen's text. He was hyperventilating. What to do now? She's following me. This is insane. And just my rotten luck. What do I text back? Better just call her. Yeah.

"Hello captain, are you enjoying this?" Karen gleefully asked. Is she kidding?

"Karen, you've broken the rules. You were supposed to stay in Knoxville until I returned." Rules? Returned? Ha!

"There was no such rule, dear, and even if there was, I have the right to change or rescind it," she declared petulantly. I'm trapped. How did this happen? Must think. Fast. Why not meet her and plow her? That would probably set her straight. What's the harm in that? She doesn't know where the egg is; she'll never find it. But, she's going to want to stay with me. That's fairly obvious now.

"Sure, we can meet in Albuquerque," Cliff agreed after a short pause. "I'll ease up on the throttle; back it down to fifty-six." [MPH; 90 km/h] 56? Yes! He's odd, too, beneath that just-another-cool-dude persona. I knew it.

"Thanks, Cliff. I slept in an Oklahoma City hotel room last night. Alone, I assure you. How was Amarillo last night? Were you alone, too?"

"Ok and yes," Cliff bleakly answered.

"Did you check out the Cadillac Ranch on the way out of town, dear?"

"I forgot to look to the left this time, Karen."

"No biggie. We can see it together soon." Together? Oh, boy. It's going to be hard to shake her.

"Karen, I'm not sure that you want to get mixed up with me. I was once in a mental hospital with homicidal thoughts." That should scare her off. / Yes!

"I love it! Who do we have to kill to keep this egg? Who is chasing you?" At the moment, just you, crazy lady.

"Karen, I really don't have a Fabergé egg. I certainly wish that I did. This has been fun, but I think this is where it ends."

"Clifford, if you are not in Al's Quirky Cue & Brew on 1st Street at three PM – remember that New Mexico is an hour behind; it's in the Mountain Time Zone – expect to see flashing blue lights in your rear-view mirror by dusk." How and why did this happen? Why me? Why?!

<click>

At that very moment, Cliff passed the halfway point of historic Route 66, just off to his right in the small town of Adrian (TX). I'm in hot water now. How to deal with her? I've got to meet her. That's what she really wants. Yeah, let's just meet her in Albuquerque at that brewpub. Maybe a couple of beers will change her mood. She has to drive her vehicle; thus, she can't jump in mine and start rummaging. But, what if she drinks too much and wants to ride with me to a hotel room in town? Darn! I wanted to finish the day in western Arizona – not in central New Mexico! Well, way too many variables to try to predict. Just see how it plays out. Maybe catch a lucky break.

The Land-of-Enchantment driving day was sunny, dry, and mild. It was only 61°F (16°C) when Cliff turned off the engine to eat lunch in a downtown Albuquerque diner. It was now 11:58 MDT.

The chili verde was excellent and satiated his mid-day hunger. While slowly sipping a sweetened iced tea, Cliff thought about what might be happening in 2½ hours. Will she really be coming alone? Pretty sure. Who could stay with her in a car for that long? She seems to really believe that I have that fabled egg. But, why does she believe this so fervently? He then replayed all the moments in the Knoxville pizzeria. Where did I tip my hand and lead her to think that I had that renowned egg in my possession? I just don't see where. Did she just happen to have that Fabergé egg on her mind for some reason? But, why? It's so baffling. So maddening. And ultimately, so unfortunate.

He then got up and left. Once outside in the dry, cool, bright sunshine, Cliff decided to go for a little walk. He was soon passing Mantalities [sic] Sports Bar. He re-read the sign. What a name! I bet he caught some flak for that sexist moniker. Wonder what the story is. May as well kill some time here.

Once seated at the bar, Cliff watched replays of yesterday's Major League Baseball games on an ESPN-tuned, mounted-above-the-rows-of-liquor-bottle-shelving, nearly-as-wide-as-the-Grand-Canyon TV. So, the [San Francisco] Giants beat the [Arizona] Diamondbacks last night at Chase Field 5-2. Off to a 1-2 start. Well, 159 games to go. Wonder if the rattlesnakes [Diamondbacks] can match the magic of that [World-Series-winning] 2001 season. Don't think it's happening this year.

The bartender, a Caucasian, mustachioed, black-haired dude of about Cliff's age, broke his national-pastime reverie. "What are we drinking today, partner?"

"What do you have on tap – any local lagers?" Cliff queried.

"Sure do. I recommend Opuntia Knocks. It's made with prickly pear cactus juice. Smooth, but with an insidiously delayed, barb-of-the-scorpion flourish." Barb of the scorpion? Is this guy a beer reviewer on the side?

"You sold me. I'll take a pint." [473 mL]

Two minutes and a new Hispanic American customer later, the bartender was setting a tall stein down in front of Cliff. "There ya go. Enjoy."

"Say, uh, how did this place get its name? Is the owner an unabashed chauvinist?" Did the owner have mommy issues? Yeah, bet that's it.

"Here's the short version of the long story: He was dared to go with that name. And, yes, some local women's groups had a fit at first. But, get this: He then helped some lesbians open up a bar on the other side of town called Womentalities." Huh?

"You're shitting me." He's got to be pulling my leg.

"Nope," the bartender stoically replied. "The city residents are pretty much ok with it now, but tourists who just see one without the other sometimes get bent out of shape. Well, until someone explains it to them, just like I did for you."

"Bizarre. Albu-quirky [sic] living up to the nickname."

"Yep. So, are you from out of state?" I'm certain that he is.

"Yeah, you might say that," Cliff responded after taking a sip. What kind of answer is that? Something is up with this guy. Is he on the run from the law? / This beer is pretty good.

"Got to run along, pal. The new guy is here for training. Jan will take care of you."

"Ok, big thanks for the dope on the name." Dope? Is he a drug dealer? Maybe that's it.

The time tranquilly passed by as the loop of baseball highlights repeated. Jan provided him with another pint, but she wasn't much of a talker. Some 80 minutes later, he laid a $20 bill on the clear-coated piñon pine bar and made his way back to the short-term-leased Ford Taurus.

At 2:48 Cliff had a window seat at the Karen-designated tavern/billiard parlor. He ordered the same beer that he had at Mantalities; he really liked it. At exactly 3:03:03, black-topped, light-on-makeup, very-focused-looking Karen appeared with a medium-size, purple, soft-shell suitcase in her left hand. She pulled up a chair at his small table and grinned. Miss Trouble is now here in the flesh.

"So, we meet again at last, Cliff. Tell me, did you miss me?" Here we go.

"All fifty hours and change, pretty lady," Cliff replied nonchalantly. Just play along. Just hum her song. For now.

"I'm not a 'my appearance is my net worth' kind of gal," she curtly divulged. Bet he thinks that I'm some dingbat ho. [urban slang for whore]

"Never assumed that – not for a single minute. So, what happens now?" Bet it's not good for me. / I've got him right where I want him: in plain sight.

"I'm going with you to the end, my adventurous love eternal; yes, I'm going with you to Barstow, captain. I've already turned in my rental car. From here on, I'm with you on this epic, nefariously clandestine journey." Oh, dear. What to do with her?

The waitress came back and took their food orders. The cold-cut sandwiches arrived just four minutes later. They ate in silence, though their minds were racing.

Cliff then took a big gulp of his yellow-tinted beer. "Karen, why do you think that I have that Fabergé egg?" Well, my loose-lipped loverboy-to-be, you just confirmed it.

"I overheard you muttering 'I'm going to be a millionaire' as you doodled away on that piece of paper in my restaurant. And then you named your ornate egg sketch. Such a unique name. I immediately researched it. Cliff, my darling, don't ever try to be a spy or secret agent; your mouth would get you hung on your first assignment. But, no need to worry anymore, dear; I'll do the talking – and more importantly, the non-talking – from here on. Be grateful, love; I'm saving you from near-future ruin." Whew! I'm going to have to ditch her somehow. Maybe drug and gag her. I want to ball her like no tomorrow first, though. Get my just due for this predicament. Hope she doesn't have a nasty, sexually transmitted disease. I'm condom-less. And, stopping for such would be awkward.

"Oh, I see." Cliff made an ok-you-win facial expression.

"We've got to get going, don't we?"

"We sure do. I was supposed to be in Kingman tonight. But, Flagstaff will suffice, I guess."

"Who are we meeting in Barstow tomorrow?" Wow! She knows the whole deal it seems. But, how?

"We find out when we get there, Karen."

"That sounds scary, Cliff."

"You wanted adventure, sweetheart; well, it comes welded to suspense," Cliff retorted.

Once back on I-40 West, Cliff just looked straight ahead with a defeated man's countenance. He sighed as they passed Continental Divide.

"You look sad. Do I make you sad, Cliff?" Must bite my tongue.

"No, I'm just tired, Karen."

"Cheer up, honey! We've got this. And, I'm going to rock your mast tonight in Flagstaff." Mast?

Cliff gave her a lecherous smirk. He wants it, and he shall get the whole show. He'll never forget me. Ever.

It was a clear-and-already-quite-starry twilight when they rolled into the parking lot of a three-star, two-story hotel near the downtown railroad tracks.

Karen looked at the dashboard clock that displayed 8:17. "Don't think this time is right, Cliff." Oh yeah, most of Arizona ignores Daylight Saving Time. Only the Navajo Nation partakes.

"You're right, Karen. Flagstaff's Mountain Standard Time is the same as Pacific Daylight Time; it's 7:17."

When they exited the car, the bone-dry, calm-but-chilly, 44° Fahrenheit (6.7°C) air was a shock.

"Some cool down," Cliff announced.

"Glad I packed a jacket," Karen replied.

Things quickly warmed up in the room. Karen went all-out freaky on Cliff. She's just as wild as imagined, but in some ways it feels like an act. Oh, don't overanalyze; just enjoy it.

When Karen went to the bathroom, he placed his wallet, keys, and cell phone under his pillow.

After a second round, they watched the 10 o'clock local news together in bed. Cliff crashed hard during the weather segment. Karen had dropped a strong, tasteless sedative in his beer thirty minutes prior when he was in the bathroom.

Karen then searched the room for his cell phone. In her third minute of foraging, she found it. Cliff's snoring continued unabated as she carefully extricated his cell phone from under his padded head. Got it. Time to read some texts and get caught up with this egg-centric operation.

She turned the volume on the TV down and dimmed the bedside lamp. She scrolled through Cliff's text messages. My hunch was right: It ends in Barstow when Cliff hands the egg over to Turk. And, the egg is somewhere in the trunk. Wow! $1.3M. Could double that in 18 months.

A text alert sounded. It was from Turk. Karen looked over at Cliff. He was still sound asleep, sawing ponderosa pine lumber. She then read the first 26 characters displayed without opening it.

How is Flagstaff? Can you

Karen thought about it for a minute as Cliff snored away. Must not open it. That would be like crossing the Rubicon. Cliff would be furious, as he would know that I was snooping and had read his text messages. Would he kill me? Possibly. Could I kill him? That's a serious chunk of money. But, if I show up with the egg, Turk will most likely kill me. Yeah, my Mr. Sausage has to stay alive for now.

Then another text alert. Amy was not done yet. The displayed text read:

Who's the slut? I'll find

Karen was tempted to reply with a caustic rejoinder, but she let the impulse dissipate. Must be his lowlife ex. She must be a real bitch. 'It's over, honey; Cliff aint pumping your smelly hole anymore. Get over it. Move on.' Oh, how I wish I could send it. Nope. Must not do it.

Karen glanced back at the TV. A local commercial was airing. It was for a loan-shark outfit. A big, fat, pale-as-the-Sonoran-full-moon guy in a chalk-white cowboy suit and a 20-gallon (75.7-litre) hat was throwing dollar bills into the air. Her musing continued, but no longer on Amy. Would Cliff really let me stay with him and share this wondrous windfall? Would I be his sole girl? Would he marry me? Doubt it. In fact, I bet he has designs on killing me at some point after Barstow. If not before. Must stay wary. Keep that pepper spray ready to go, girl. Such trust we have. What should I do now? Search that trunk! Duh! Well, it's dark outside. And freaking cold! But, if not now, when? Yeah, let's find that auspicious egg. Then I'll just keep it in my purse. He'll never know it was stolen. Well, not until the meeting in Barstow with Turk. How do I negotiate that tricky terrain? Hmmm...

Eight minutes and nine brisk gusts of wind later, Karen was sliding the hotel keycard in the slot. She had found the egg rather quickly; it was now in her right-front jeans pocket. Please let him still be asleep. Please! Must remember to shield the egg's bulge with my right hand.

She was in luck. Cliff was still sound asleep. After discreetly placing the regal egg in her purse, she slid into bed beside Cliff. She was now in her underwear plus a long-sleeve T-shirt; Cliff was still naked. However, the room was by no means cold; Karen had cranked the heater up – the room temperature was an almost balmy 77°F (25°C).

They both slept like impish kids after a long field trip. Karen awoke first at 7:07 and made some coffee. Cliff groggily regained consciousness thirty-three minutes later. She smiled at him from the desk chair.

"Jeez, what the hell hit me?" Cliff grumbled.

"That must be some strong-ass beer," Karen submitted.

"No doubt."

"When do we roll out, captain?" Karen asked, eager to get on the road.

Cliff looked at his phone. "Now! Damn. We're already late. Let me just text my contact in Barstow. I'll change the meetup time to one o'clock."

"Sure, honey."

The five-hour drive had hardly any conversation of note, just a few remarks about the weather and the desert scenery. Both were hyper-pensive, trying to guess the other's plan at the end of the line. And, both were trying their best to guard their scheming. Cliff and Karen rarely made eye contact, but were highly attuned to their facial expressions and body language.

They got some gasoline, heat-lamp food, and can drinks in Needles (CA). Still, they remained loudly quiet as they passed through the Mojave Desert on an ultra-bright-sun Friday.

At 12:56 they were parking at the meeting place: a desolate-looking, old-chain-link-fence-enclosed restaurant-bar on a barren-to-bare Victor Street. Woah! This place just oozes 'front for criminal activity'. Turk the launderer. / Hope this goes down as planned. Then I'll take care of her, once and for all.

"You just wait here, Karen. They may freak out if they see another person."

"Sure, no problem."

Cliff then popped the trunk and removed the case. He walked back to the driver-side window. Karen lowered it.

"You're not going to drive off, are you?" Cliff laughed.

"Why would I ever want to do that? I would end up with no you, and no spoil." She winked at him.

Cliff then marched into the grade-D establishment. It was one o'clock on the dot. He saw Turk and another guy – a stern, dapper, 50-ish Caucasian man – sitting at a booth.

Turk then waved Cliff over to their table. They were the only three customers in the place. This feels weird. Is this a real, functioning restaurant?

"Great to see you again, Cliff," Turk said. "So glad that you made it all the way across the country safely. Meet Gabe Greenberg. He would like to see what's in your case."

"Why, certainly, sir," Cliff replied. He then opened the small case to reveal... a chunk of asphalt in the gray foam-rubber void. What the fuck! Karen must have taken it out of the trunk last night. That conniving cunt!

Cliff began running for the door.

<bang>

He tumbled over a barstool. And died. Turk's 9-millimeter (0.354") Luger bullet had pierced Cliff's right ventricle.

At precisely 3:03:03 PM, Turk received quite the text.

The new payment schedule (in bitcoins): 1. $100,000 wired to my account by midnight (invoice follows), or I call the Barstow Police Department and report the murder. 2. $200,000 for the only clear photograph of the egg. 3. $800,000 for THE EGG. You're getting a $200,000 discount, Turk. Do the wise thing and we all win.

16. Taken Away (Oct. 2018)

It's 5:35 EDT on Thursday, September 27, 2018 in Munising, a small town on the southern shore of Lake Superior on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Perched upon a wooded hillside some 100 meters (328 feet) past the old Rear Range Lighthouse at the end of Hemlock Street, in a secluded restaurant named St. Martin's Cloak, sits a late-60-something Caucasian American couple at a window table facing slate-gray South Bay. The bespectacled, thin, gray-haired, hazel-eyed lady is reading a newspaper.

"Oh dear, another fatality on the [Pictured Rocks] cliffs," she informs her presumed spouse.

"Another leap for Pegasus?" the nearly bald, paunchy, blue-eyed man asks while eyeing Grand Island through the low clouds and sporadic mist. Wonder how cold this winter will be. / He must be off his meds.

"What in the world?!" she exclaims.

"Where exactly?" he asks, oblivious to her skeptical remark.

"Just a half-mile east of Grand Portal Point. [along the Lakeshore - North Country Trail] It says here that she was hiking alone. She was from Sunnyvale, California, and only 32. And going by her name, [Tu Thanh Nguyen] it appears that she was of Vietnamese ancestry." Such a heartbreaking world this surely is.

"Those sheer cliffs are mortally unforgiving. Once you fall, you're a goner. There are no tree limbs to grab on the way down. It's over."

"It says that she was taking a selfie when she slipped off."

"A selfie?" Huh?

"You know, Harry – taking a photo of oneself."

"Oh, yeah. So many new words to remember. These millennials have almost created a whole new language."

Their drinks arrive. They both thank the mid-20-something, brown-haired, petite, smiling waitress. She sure seems happy about something – something other than work I bet. Perhaps she likes the cook. And vice versa.

The lady continues relaying the article to her man. "Her fall was witnessed by a pair of kayakers." What bad luck.

"Jesus, what a horrific sight: a woman falling two hundred feet [61 meters] to her death. Bet they won't ever forget that ghastly sequence."

"Yes, they may be haunted for a long time," she adds.

"Did she die upon impact with the water?" he asks. I bet so. Don't know of anyone surviving.

"It says that the kayakers recovered her unconscious body and brought her ashore. The paramedics pronounced her dead at the scene." What a tragedy.

"Such a shame. When did that autistic boy run off the bluff by Miners Castle Rock?" Huh?

"Don't think that I ever heard about that, Harry."

"Maybe it was before you moved here, Anne."

"Over twenty-eight years ago?" Pre-1990?

"Probably so. I was thirty-eight, I think." He thinks? His memory is really getting bad now. Wonder if this ever even happened. Must research it later.

"I see," Anne resigns.

The conversation ceases as an early-20-something, rusty-haired, white dude wanders in wearing a purple Alberto Aquilani #10 ACF Fiorentina jersey. What an odd choice for a Scotch-Irish-looking lad. Is his dad or mom from Italy? I bet that's it; he must have an Italian parent. Too bad that Aquilani didn't really pan out at Liverpool FC. [2009-10]

"That young man over there. His jersey selection is quite puzzling. Most of the guys his age are wearing [Lionel] Messi or [Cristiano] Ronaldo jerseys."

"Maybe he got it at the thrift store," Anne suggests.

"Yeah, maybe so." Harry remains focused on the man's back. Never thought I'd see that jersey – and in this remote outpost of all places. He has to be a tourist. Maybe he's just wandering the U.P. (Upper Peninsula) before it gets cold. Who knows who he might become? / Why in the world is he so fixated on that purple jersey? Men and their football/soccer teams.

"Oh no, that same problem kid robbed another store over in Au Train," Anne then conveys. "The female clerk was frightened for her life it says. She's now afraid to go back to work."

"He's already out of jail again? Someone needs to throat-punch that punk-ass meth-head [methamphetamine addict] and set him straight. Where the hell are the parents?"

"Don't rattle your tongue so loud, Harry."

"Why, am I going to crack the plaster traps?" Plaster traps?

"What are you talking about, dear?" Anne asks with a not-that-surprised-to-hear-nonsense-from-him expression.

"I bet he's one of the offspring of that primatal commune up in Powell. You know the one – that group that is always harping about survival of the species via clans in caves. Damn neo-Neanderthals. And yet, we get another one of their lovely wild childs [sic] from the woods to deal with in our towns."

"I wonder if they still christen them in Ives Lake." Christen them as a what? Urchinafarian? [sic]

"Oh, I'm sure, dear. Well, except when it's frozen over."

"How much snow do you think we'll get this winter, Harry?"

"I'm thinking nine feet [2.74 meters] at most. [Munising's annual average is 12.75 feet; 3.89 meters] Global warming. Plus, I think that I heard that this will be an El Niño winter. A lot of sleet I bet."

"I just hope that we don't have a bad ice storm like that one several years ago. Eleven days without power was no fun. Are you sure that we have enough firewood?"

"We're all set for it, love. We've also got plenty of propane."

"Should we just go ahead and buy a generator?" she asks, hoping for an answer in the affirmative.

"Do we really need one? A decent one will set us back $800. And then we'll need to buy fifty gallons [189 litres] of diesel fuel and a tank. The things are so damn noisy. The food can be packed outside; I'm sure it will be cold enough for it to keep." He's so cheap now. Mr. Frugal.

"Just asking, dear." Maybe I could get one myself.

"Ok, ok, I'll get the smallest one to run the TV and charge the cell phones."

"Now you're making sense again, Harry." Again?

"Why, were you thinking of having me taken away?"
17. The Soldier (Oct. 2018)

It's a bone-dry, sadly sunny, clear-and-azure-as-it-was-a-millennium-ago, ancient-calm, mild (68ºF; 20ºC), eerily quiet, mid-March (2009) late afternoon in a virtually treeless, rocky, dusty, barren, lunar-looking section of Zabul Province, Afghanistan. MOS [Military Occupational Specialty] Chemical Warfare Specialist (74D) Jake Z. Andersen, a 23-year-old, short and thin, fair-skinned Caucasian American, and Caporal Ion Dinu, a 22-year-old, dark-haired, olive-skinned MOS guard from the Romanian battalion, are heading to the Tarnak River in an MRAP (a Mine-Resistant Ambush-Protected vehicle) to take some water samples, as the nearby villagers believe that the Taliban are poisoning the shallow, small-stones-and-dark-brown-sand-bottomed watercourse.

Caporal Ion Dinu's English is limited, but the a II-a and the E-4 American corporal soon strike up a conversation as the rangers tootle down a rough dirt road as Andersen's 5.56x45 mm M4 carbine bumps up against Dinu's Pușcă Automată model 1986.

"You CBSU, [Chemical/Biological Sampling Unit] Specialist Andersen?" Ion asks Jake.

"That is I. So, Caporal Dinu, what city or town are you from in Romania?" a sincerely curious Jake asks. "Let me guess – Bucharest?" They all guess that as if it's the only place in the country.

"No, not the capital," Ion nonchalantly replies.

"Transylvania?" Jake quickly ventures. "Somewhere near Count Dracula's [Vlad the Implaler] castle?" Ah, the second place they all assume.

"No, I am from Caracal, a village in Vlad III's Wallachia region. The famous Bran Castle is far to the north of my home. And Bucharest is a two-and-a-half-hour drive to the northeast." Ion then looks at the front of Jake's desert-camouflage jacket, and at the chain-of-custody forms on the seat. "And, from where are you, Specialist Andersen?"

"Bemidji. It's a small town in rural Minnesota. You can just call me Ander-man." And/or, man?

"Min-AH-so-TAH?" Ion slowly syllabicates.

"Yeah, you got it, Caporal Dinu. It's an Upper Midwest state on the Canadian border. Very cold winters. Ever heard of the Minnesota Vikings?"

"Yes, we both, Caparal. Romania, cold winter, too. Please just call me Dinu. That team is in N-F-L, [National Football League] right?" Wow! He knows it.

"Yes, correct. Do you have a brother or sister, Dinu?"

"Just one sibling: a sister. She is two years older than me. She went to your America. The city is called Charlotte." [NC]

"Really? What is she doing there?"

"It is not very honorable, her profession, Ander-man. My sister is a topless dancer – a stripper as you Americans say. She was tricked by dishonest job recruiter – a very deceptive man." Woah!

"Does she like it?" Jake asks as the MRAP bounds over a small boulder. What a freaking road!

"She likes the money, but doesn't like the job. She – Iona is her name – says many creepy people." Can only imagine.

"I bet. Well, I hope that she finds a job to her liking."

"She's stuck there because of her work-visa status," Ion reveals. "If she tries to work somewhere else, the boss said that he will call ICE [Immigration and Customs Enforcement] and have her deported. We come from poor family. Not much opportunity if not smartest. We were both average students. Not good enough to get the nice job. Do you have brother or sister, Ander-man?"

"No, I'm an only child, Dinu. It was just me and my mom. My dad left us on a frigid January evening when I was only four. I hardly remember him."

"How long you think this war lasts?" Ion looked very serious.

"I have no idea, Dinu. It's in the politicians' hands."

"Ander-man, conflicts involving religions can go on for very long time. My country is proof of that. Muslim Ottoman Empire and Christian Austria-Hungary in a centuries-long tug of war; we were the rope." Snap!

"Yeah, I agree, Dinu. Say, what do you plan to do when you get back home?"

"I try to get date with local girl named Cristina. She, very hot lady, though. Many eyes on her. She gets many offers, but refuses them all."

"Ah, a difficult bird to bag, is she, Dinu?" Huh?

"A difficult bird to bag?" Ion asks with a puzzled expression.

"A hard-to-get date," Jake clarifies.

"Yes, she surely is, Ander-man, but maybe she realizes that I'm not a fool like the others – not a lazy, worthless, gone-on-a-raft village idiot." Gone on a raft? [idiomatic expression] He knows the term 'village idiot'? Wonder where he heard or read that.

The MRAP eases off the road next to the wide, but-of-little-depth river. He looks up at the ridge and sees the support troops. Good, we've got cover.

"Ok, we're here, Dinu," Jake informs. "We can just take a few water samples from that low-bank area."

"Sounds good, amigo." [friend in Spanish] Amigo? Does he know Spanish? Why?

While the nearby personnel provide security from the high ground, the intrepid technicians get to work sampling the stream. Both men constantly record water temperature and turbidity while taking the water samples and recording the data in their field books. Ion and Jake quickly fill a dozen, small, plastic jars and reseal them, meticulously labeling each one, and packing them in a bubble-wrapped chest. Jake then thinks it best to take some soil samples, too, as he is concerned about toxic heavy metals. In thirty-four anxious minutes, they are back in their armored vehicle.

"Oh, just as planned, Ander-man; my guys are right over there," Ion relays.

"Ah, yes, the special forces medical team. They're doing great work, I hear, Dinu. An excellent group."

"Thanks, Ander-man. I will just go back with them. Is that ok?"

"Sure, Dinu. Nice talking and working with you. Stay safe. Good luck with Cristina."

"Here, Ander-man. Take these. You never know."

Ion then hands Jake four syrettes.

"What's in these, Dinu?" Is he a heroin addict?

"Soviet-style morphine, Ander-man. You will need it if you lose arm or leg in bomb blast. Believe me, comrade. The screams of a fellow soldier still haunt me. That red Jell-O-like goop. Trust me, friend, one never forgets it."

"Ok, thanks." Hmmm... Where to stash these? Don't want to be accused of running drugs. That would ruin my career path. I'd lose my security clearance. Can't let that happen. But, I may need these one day for a wounded soldier. Ah, I know – my medical case. It will fit right in, and will look perfectly appropriate. Yeah, that's it.

They say their farewells. Then the drive back commences. Two miles (3.2 km) down the road there is some commotion. Some villagers appear to be arguing on the roadway. A minute or so later, they disperse and the road is clear again. Wonder what that was all about. No telling.

Jake moves to the back of the MRAP. He feels at ease and soon dozes off, as his task for the two-hour block has been successfully completed.

As the MRAP driver depresses the accelerator pedal, his trained eagle eyes see a white wire protruding from under a rock just ahead. He slams on the brakes. But, it's already too late.

<BOOM>

The explosion is massive. The shock wave is valley-wide and deafening. The MRAP's front-right corner is sent airborne like a rocket-launched stegosaurus. It flips over. And slams into the ground. Flames suddenly erupt and begin to engulf the vehicle.

Jake regains consciousness. All is silent, save for the spitting sound of burning and dripping plastic some 40 feet (12 meters) away. He is bleeding profusely from his jagged-door-frame-metal-sliced abdomen. He muses on his grave situation. Those damn 'villagers' were Taliban! It was a goddam IED! [improvised explosive device] My right eye is totally fucked. Do I still even have a right eye? Damn! It's totally gone! I'm fucked. I can't move my torso an inch. [2.54 cm] The ringing noise in my ears – will it ever freaking stop?! Is that clicking sound in my brain? Or, is it in my spine? Is my spine broken? Am I paralyzed? Sure seems like it. What is that whirring sound? Is it from one of my devices? It sounds like that boat propeller. That old Evinrude 35 horsepower outboard. That summer day on Lower Red Lake. Grandad's cabin. Sure would love to be there now. Oh my God! I'm bleeding like Merlot flowing through mom's ripped spaghetti sieve. Bandages won't work. Going into shock. Where's the blanket? Nowhere near here. Damn! The pain in my ribs is freaking awful. Yow! God Almighty! Why me?!

"Help!" he shouts repeatedly. But no one comes over. He hears a jet plane screaming by. And then sees the contrail. It seems to turn into a vulture-like drone in his mind. Never could have imagined this occurring four years ago. The risk to life and limb was part of the deal. Just thought it would never happen to me. Guess I thought I was special in some way. Always thought this only happens to some other soldier – someone else. Well, right now I'm THE soldier. And no one seems to be around. I'm done for. It's going to end right here. Damn! This pain is so intense! Can't take it anymore.

Jake then feels for the syrettes in his med kit. His right hand gathers them. If I'm going to die, I might as well go out on a painless high. No use suffering my final five minutes on this Earth. Do I even have that long to live? Doubt it.

He is able to inject his left arm's basilic vein with two of the syrettes. However, as he uncaps the third one, he loses consciousness. A vivid morphine dream soon commences.

In the incredibly lucid dream, Jake is back in Bemidji with his 44-year-old mother. He is telling her that he is dying from an IED blast. She just nods as her small-frame, gray-sweater-wrapped body pendulates on an old rocking chair on the front porch of their small, rusty-metal-roofed, two-bedroom house. He tells her that thanks to a Romanian soldier named Ion, he is able to communicate with her before he passes. His mom keeps rocking. Jake then goes up to her and lightly touches her long-brown-haired head. She is dead. Jake is shocked. He wonders when she died as he enters his home. His dad is staggering up the hallway. He is drunk. Jake begins to lecture him about being so absent and irresponsible. Aloofly, his dad walks away as a crow enters the living-room scene. It begins cawing madly as his high-school crush waltzes in. He tells her, Monica, that he will soon be dead and that he wished that he would have asked her to the senior prom. She is unfazed and wanders towards his bedroom. Monica enters and closes the door. But the door instantly re-opens. A young woman, who he imagines to be Iona, walks out in her pole-dancing garb. He tells her of his fate. Iona tries to hug him but trips over Jake's mother's hamster cage, which for some odd reason was left on the floor. As Iona hits the floor face-first, she dissolves into the orange-ringed, oval, wool throw rug. Then it is just Jake in the dining nook. He opens an old geography schoolbook. There is a photograph of a poppy field. His left eyelid rises. As he turns his head to the right, his darkening tunnel vision sees the exact same poppy field. Just before he loses consciousness again, an image of dried opium latex on a poppy pod.
18. The Fraudster (Oct. 2018)

"If you want to get rich, you start a religion," Ross Stovepson repeated for the fifth time as he laid the book about L. Ron Hubbard down on the mug-circle-stained coffee table. It was Thursday, August 16, 2012 – unemployment day number fourteen. The thirty-one-year-old, slim, short-black-haired Caucasian American had been fired two Fridays ago from his job at a branch bank in Buford, Georgia. The reason: continually opening bogus checking and savings accounts in order to get bonuses after being warned several times to cease and desist.

It was 3:59 PM. Ross began channel-surfing as he fell back on the red sofa with his left hand behind his head. He thought: What am I going to do? I can't work for any bank in the Atlanta metro now. I'm blacklisted. I'd better come up with something soon, or we're going down the proverbial toilet.

Ross heard a car horn blaring on nearby US 23 (Buford Highway Northeast) as his program-scanning stopped on a televangelist's sermon from a mega-church in Texas. He studied the exceptionally well-dressed, gelled-wavy-dark-haired, very-thin-wrap-around-microphone-outfitted, hyper-facially-expressive, peripatetic-on-a-large-stage orator. This must be one of those 'prosperity preachers'. Yeah, I've seen this con artist before. He certainly has the charade down pat. So well-honed. 'Pray for money. God wants you to be wealthy. He really does. Pay me a small amount and I'll turbo-boost your prayer request. I'll triple it if you issue that check within the next five minutes.' I bet this guy has a huge-ass house.

He quickly researched him on his cell phone. Yep, I knew it. What a racket! Could I do that? Do I have the right kind of personality?

Ross then took a quick online test. Wow! It says that I have all of the requisite traits for something like this. Would need a new set of teeth, though. Must be easy on the camera lens. Though, this cat looks really weird. But, his choppers are perfect. I could charge a set of dentures to the other credit card – the one with some room on it. Yeah, let's give this a whirl. Why not? If not now, when? Time to do some research on how to establish a church. Hope Cindy is game. If not, I'll persuade her. She'll be my first test subject. Must convince her by days end.

His live-in girlfriend, a twenty-seven-year-old brunette from Commerce (GA), was unlocking the front door at 5:35 PM, her usual weekday arrival time.

"Hello, sweetie," Ross said with a beaming smile. "How was your day at the office?"

"It was pretty good. I initiated eight new mortgage applications." She then sneezed. "Damn! The pollen is back." She wiped her nose with a table napkin. "So, any luck on the job front today, honey?" she asked in a serious tone as she put her purple purse down on the kitchen bar.

"No, and a big yes," gray-gym-shorts-and-white-T-shirt-clad Ross replied. And?

"What do you mean?" Cindy looked confused.

"I mean that I didn't see any somewhere-worthwhile-in-ten-years openings for my level of expertise. However, I stumbled upon a major revelation that could have us in our very own house in three years. Or, less." Oh, no. What money-losing venture now? Did he just watch business-opportunity videos all day?

"Is it some get-rich-quick pyramid scheme, dear? I thought that we swore off all of those MLM [multilevel marketing] scams. We can't afford to go backwards again. You need a stable, regular income. Our finances are already getting tight."

"I know, honey. That's why I am certain that I have found the ultimate – and permanent – solution: a new way of life with tax-free income – not a mere job with an ungrateful, annoying, could-care-less-about-you boss." Yikes.

"Ok, tell me; what is it, darling?" Please be something legitimate. Please.

"We are going to start a church." Oh, no.

"What?!" Cindy exclaimed.

"A church. Hear me out, love. Jim [Ross's older brother] will give us a cut-rate lease – the first two months will be free – on a hard-to-rent space in his strip mall in Doraville. [the neighboring town] It will be small at first, but trust me; I know how to quickly grow it. I've done all the research. I have the required [sociopathic] charisma. All you have to do is dye your hair blonde and lose twenty pounds." [9 kg] What the fuck did he just say?!

It was an evening of high-volume screaming and yelling – almost all by Cindy. But by the ten o'clock news, Ross had won her over to his audacious Christian-house-of-prayer-with-fiscal-benefits plan.

As they lay in bed that night, Cindy whispered to Ross: "But, how will we entice complete strangers to come to a second-rate storefront, reverend?"

"The localized-to-north-Georgia online ads will state that each worshipper will receive a [$1] scratch-off ticket. At least one attendee will win a few dollars, maybe much more. That person, or persons, will be praised and paraded as the one/ones who prayed properly after receiving my special blessing. He, she, or they will then tell their family and friends. It will spread like wildfire. 'The only way you can control people is to lie to them.' The famous L. Ron Hubbard said that." He's going to lie to people in God's name to make money? If there's really a hell, he'll be going there.

"Who is this L. Ron Hubbard?" Cindy asked, now feeling too exhausted to contest her boyfriend's artifice.

"The founder of the Church of Scientology. Lots of big-name actors are in it, like John Travolta." Oh, Lord.

Cindy emitted an audible groan.

"Don't fret, dear; it's all going to work out fine."

Cindy's last remark before losing consciousness: "I just hope that we don't end up in jail." Why would she think that?

As Cindy slept, Ross's mind kept racing ahead. The future suddenly looked very rosy. He already saw themselves a year out with a traditional freestanding church. He would wait another year for that Alpharetta (GA) abode.

And it all happened. By Christmas the congregation was already up to 150. The 10:00 AM Sunday service was now airing on a public access channel. The ball was rolling. Even faster than expected. Their own cupola-and-steeple church was on the immediate horizon.

Cindy was now onboard wholeheartedly. She married Ross on Valentine's Day (a Thursday) 2013 – at the justice of the peace. A small, private wedding reception was held the following Saturday. She became the local media contact. Whenever there would be an upcoming giveaway of donated items, Cindy made sure that all six networks knew about it. The free advertising got incredible results: more moneyed bodies in the makeshift pews.

As Ross commenced the opening of a stack of check-filled envelopes on Thursday afternoon, August 15, 2013, he reflected on the first year of his life-changing undertaking. Unknown people sending me their hard-earned money. Almost feel guilty. Almost. No one is putting a gun to their heads. They are doing this voluntarily. This is just like netting fish in an aquarium. Or, more like corralling aimless sheep. 'People want to believe in something more than their finite life on Earth, but while they're on this planet, they want the good life.' Who said that? Which book was that in? Oh, it doesn't matter. Still kind of hard to imagine how well this has gone. Far beyond expectations. Perhaps a semi-sacred syzygy. Knock on wood. Cindy has been amazing. The checks have won her over. Maybe have a kid next year. No, best wait a few more. Ah, the insatiable desire for more and more money makes hypocrites out of everyone. Just maintain the feel-good.

However, one of the envelopes contained an angry missive. The irate man wanted to know why Ross rarely mentioned Jesus being a champion for – and a person of – the poor. Jesus was anti-materialist! was scrawled in bold letters. He just wadded it up and threw it in the trashcan. Ross never responded to such letters. Only one in 79 envelopes (the rate to date) had such a critique. He could live with it. Just the cost of doing business. Next.

2014 was better than 2013 by a factor of five. In 2015 they had their stand-alone church. They acquired an older, now defunct due to shifting demographics and old-age-parishioner deaths, Methodist church in south Atlanta. They spruced it up. Soon they even had millennials streaming in. The psalms of success are what Ross called his homilies.

And then 2016 arrived. Airwave-wise, they went from public access to leased access to Sunday mornings (7:30) on the Atlanta ZW affiliate in mid-August.

The rocket-like growth trajectory continued, along with increasing deposits. They moved into a 4,488-sqaure-foot (417 square meters) McMansion in northern Fulton County on Thursday, October 27, 2016.

Life wasn't good; it was grand. Ross now truly believed that this was his divine calling, and that there was something very special about himself, something very unique. He now saw himself as a modern-day prophet of financial fulfillment. "Friends, let us continue to spread our propitious tidings with proportional tithings," he now often said during services. Without a hint of ignominy.

Thanksgiving Day (Thursday, November 24) 2016 saw his two brothers and their wives over for a four-course feast. Just after they were seated at the ornate Mahogany dining table, Ross stood up to speak.

"Dearest wife Cindy, brothers Jim and Steve, sisters-in-law Jane and Stephanie, I have a heartfelt proclamation: Good things come to those who believe. Better things come to those who trust. The best things come to those who have faith in my gospel."

<knock-knock>

19. The Trout (Nov. 2018)

After a 22-second, unknown-source-of-a-clicking-sound wait, I cautiously turned left onto East Union Street and slowly inched up the one-way, for-a-decade-or-so-decidely-desolate-with-seemingly-bleak-prospects-but-now-making-a-robust-comeback-with-trees-inset-into-curbside-bulb-outs, two-lane avenue in downtown Morganton (NC). I soon saw a vacant parking spot on the right. The small, silver, 16-year-old Honda Accord sedan was quickly parallel-parked. I waxed mock-self-congratulatory: Still have the knack from those rental-car-parking-on-lower-Nob-Hill [San Francisco] days. Well, sometimes. Maybe just got lucky. Always easy when there's no pressure. [No vehicle was behind me when I shifted into R.]

Once out on the sidewalk, the 59º Fahrenheit (15º Celsius), breezy, autumn (October 27, 2018), Saturday-afternoon-in-the-foothills air felt quite refreshing. The sky was littered with dark clouds. In a mere two minutes and forgotten change, I was entering Brown Mountain Bottleworks at 2:37.

There were only a pair of mid-to-late-20-something Caucasian dudes at the far end of the bar. I took a seat at the near end, as I figured that my 54-year-old, non-gamer self might stifle their animated conversation about Fortnite Battle Royale.

The brown-haired, black-ball-capped, early-30-ish bartender made his way over a minute later. "What are we having today, sir?" he politely asked.

"Have any dark-as-tonight porters?" I enquired. Tonight? Another weird porter drinker.

"Not on tap right now. But, we have a nice bottled porter from Asheville [NC] – Green Man." The Laughing Seed.

"Ok, sure; I'll go with that."

He plucked the beer from the display chiller and popped the cap off. "Want a glass?"

"No, that's ok," I replied.

"Smart choice. It stays cooler longer in a bottle," he informed. He might be right. Yeah, that would make sense. More of the beer's surface area is exposed to the 72-degree-Fahrenheit [22.22º Celsius] air in a glass.

Then a husky, bright-blonde-haired, mid-40-ish guy emerged from the back (perhaps from the restroom). He took a seat next to me (on my left), grabbed the wide-base, earth-brown-colored mug, raised it, and took a big swallow. Oh, so he was sitting there. Assumed that that seat was unoccupied. Whenever one assumes... That-to-that walks.

After looking straight ahead and stoically drinking our grog for a few minutes, I took a chance on conversation.

"Pretty decent beer bodega, huh?" Bodega?

"It is. I splash in here once a week. Where are you from?" Splash?

"Charlotte – the east side, or eastslide, as some say," I answered. "It took me one hundred and one minutes to get here." 101 minutes? Another red-haired eccentric.

"I've been to Charlotte many times. I used to go see a smoking-hot blues guitarist named Tom Montefusco play at The Double Door Inn in the late '90s." What a small world.

"Yeah, he's a good one, no doubt. And, he sure can infuse some sly psychedelia between those standard bars. Oh, by the way, The Double Door is no more – it's gone; it was razed. The community college [CPCC] bought the property. I was looking at the site just the other day from a 5th-floor window. It's just graded red clay now. It's been scraped clean. Soon there will be a multistory classroom building on that corner." [Charlottetowne Avenue at East 5th Street]

"Darn," he sighed. "Very sad to hear that."

"Well, that's Charlotte's standard operating procedure: Get rid of the old before it grows mold."

"Is that also the official city motto?" He chuckled.

I added to his laughter. "Sure seems that way. Anyway, whereabouts do you reside?" Reside? Wonder if this guy writes.

"The wife and I live in the Catawba River Valley about five miles [8 km] from here. We have a little bit of land with a few cows. I'm originally from Michigan. I met my wife in Ohio." That makes sense. His accent doesn't sound very County-of-Burke-ish.

"Wow! I just recently wrote a short story [Taken Away] in which Michigan's Upper Peninsula is the setting. Let me guess – you're from Detroit. Am I right?" I just knew that he was a wordsmith of some sort. They all assume everyone from Michigan is from Detroit down here.

"No, the other side – the southwestern corner of the state. St. Joseph, a little town on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. Both of my parents worked in South Bend, [IN] just forty-five minutes away – only thirty-six miles [58 km] south."

"I see," I acknowledged while trying to pull up an Upper Midwest map on my mental screen. But to no-Wisconsin-properly-placed avail.

"So, you're a writer. I'm a teacher. My name is Jim – Jim Gallagher." His forearms sure look Irish – almost more freckles than mine.

"I'm Mike. Some of my best friends are Gallaghers. They moved to Charlotte from Upstate New York in the late '70s."

"Ah, the Adirondacks are very nice."

"They surely are," I concurred.

An elderly party of three – two tanned ladies and a mixed-race gentleman – then wandered in, strolled around, and decided to sit at a front-window table. They were laughing and quite talkative. Maybe they got sauced at [nearby] Catawba. [Brewing's taproom]

"So, what kind of tales do you write?" Jim then queried. "Like, what's your genre, man?"

"That's a damned good question. Many times when I'm submitting my short stories to those free-ebook websites, I struggle to classify them. They're mostly little vignettes. I just hope that they entice the reader to wonder." About what?

"Now, don't be coy, Mike. Are your short stories laced with gratuitous sex and violence?" He simpered.

"Not so much. Though, I wrote a novel [Gold, a summer story] five years ago that was replete with vivid, interracial sex scenes."

"You wrote a fuck book?!" He was excited.

"Yep. An erotic, noir-esque odyssey of a treasure hunt. And when finished, guess what I realized?"

"You were going to be famous in nine months." Nine?

I guffawed so hard that I spit out some beer. "That's freaking hilarious, Jim! No, that delusional fantasy evaporated within three weeks." I burped. "What I realized is that I'm not a novelist. I'm one and done in the realm of the ultra-long read."

"Well, you never know, Mike. So, is Morganton your final destination today?"

"No, I've got thirty miles [48.3 km] to go up curvy-as-an-advancing-snake NC 181, which will take forty-five minutes. I've been charged with winterizing the family camper in Pineola. [NC] The campground closes on Halloween. I really wish that they didn't shut down for the season so early."

"Well, up at that elevation, [3,553 feet (1,083 meters) above sea level] they're probably worried about freezing pipes," Jim asserted.

"Yeah, that's the reason. Also, when the temperature drops below fifty degrees, [Fahrenheit; 10º Celsius] those geriatric Floridians have had enough. Their joints start aching, which is the signal to leave. Then it's a wholesale stampede out. Don't get in their way." I chuckled.

Jim smiled and laughed for several seconds. Then he looked towards the front of the old-brick-and-brittle-mortar, beer-for-here-or-to-go establishment. The older party of three had just exited.

"I don't think that they liked your crack on senior Floridians," Jim stated with a thin-and-long-as-Lake-Rhodhiss [NC] grin.

"See, that's why I don't get invited to parties anymore, Jim."

He chortled. "So, what's the next short story, Mike?" After this one?

I coughed.

"Already got one clogging the pipeline?"

"I actually do, Jim. It's going to be about a Filipina that I saw in a Cebu City [Philippines] mall back in 2008. This particular, raven-haired, young lady had the most widely spaced eyes that I had ever seen. The working – and probably final – title is Peripheral."

"Were you gawking at her, Mike? Fess up."

"No, nothing like that, Jim. Was just fascinated with her look. I wanted to talk with her, but I was with a date – a vamp of a date. So, what lured you guys down here?"

"The trout," Jim proclaimed as he commenced his egress.
20. Peripheral (Nov. 2018)

Halapad nga mga mata. Widely spaced eyes in the Cebuano/Bisaya dialect. She recalled hearing it for the first time when she was just four years old while out playing with other jet-black-haired, tan-skinned girls next to the landmark bell tower in the center of the small coastal town of Siquijor (on the like-named island-province in the Central Visayas of the Philippines). She asked her parents why her eyes were farther apart than the other children, but all her half-Chinese mother would say is that it was God's will. Her one-quarter Malay father never gave an answer; he would just look up at the clouds and begin cursing, using the most indecipherable, though most assuredly vulgar, quasi-words.

During the first week of 1st grade, it seemed that all of the students, one after another, asked her: "Lizette, why are your eyes so wide apart?"

She had no answer. Lizette just pursed her lips, shrugged her shoulders, looked down, and almost began to cry. She sincerely wanted to vanish.

By 3rd grade it had gotten a little better. The questions about her atypical eye-spacing had now stopped, and she had acquired a friend: a girl with a cleft lip named Angelina. They were soon eating their lunches together, often sharing and swapping food. They played together during recess. They trusted and confided in each other. She finally had someone like herself. Life wasn't quite as harsh with Angelina by her side.

It was in the middle-school grades that Lizette became keenly aware of her ultra-wide-ranging peripheral vision. Whereas most people can only see, or fuzzily perceive, ten to fifteen degrees behind the outer corners of their eyes, Lizette could visually discern images thirty degrees to the rear of her temples with high acuity. At first this was more of a curse than a blessing, as she caught all of the hushed snickering that the offending preteens thought was out of her sight. She never turned around. She just wondered: Why me, Lord? Why? What did I do to deserve this fate? What?! No wonder my parents didn't have any more children. Who would want another one of me? I wouldn't.

In 8th grade the other girls started to take a big interest in the boys. Some started to flirt. But, Lizette couldn't imagine any boy liking her. She had already resigned herself to a spouse-less life. A spinster she would surely become. She could already see her singular future.

Just before the start of 9th grade, her best friend's family had raised enough money (via remittances from an older sibling residing in the United States) for an operation to correct Angelina's facial deformity. When she learned about it, Lizette told Angelina: "Lucky for you, girl; you will soon look normal. My situation can't be fixed. I'm stuck with my strange appearance for life."

However, the medical procedure went horribly wrong. Angelina was an undiagnosed hemophiliac; she bled to death on the local clinic's makeshift operating table. Her parents were inconsolable. Angelina's father committed suicide by ingesting a poisonous plant eleven days later. Her mother became a brooding recluse.

Lizette became withdrawn. Her only true friend was gone. She actually felt that Angelina caught a most fortunate break: She no longer had to endure a world of stares, taunts, whispers, and name-calling. Dhay, nakalikay ka niining impyerno. [Cebuano/Bisaya for 'Lady, you have escaped this hell.']

In 10th grade Lizette was befriended by two normal-looking, though reserved, quite shy, female students: Janith and Josalyn. Though she never became as close to them as she was to Angelina, they were good, noncritical, supportive company. They were boyfriend-less, too.

At the close of the school year, the two young ladies planned to celebrate by taking a ferry to Cebu City to go shopping in the big mall with Lizette. At first Lizette retorted: "No way!" She was very afraid of all the stares, sneers, and giggles in such a large city. But Janith and Josalyn wore her down. After an hour Lizette finally relented and said "Oo." [Yes in Cebuano/Bisaya]

At 5:55 AM sharp on Friday, April 8th (2016), newly-seventeen-year-olds Lizette, Janith and Josalyn, along with Janith's nineteen-year-old sister, Jasmine (who would act as a chaperone), boarded the Fast Ferry from the Siquijor mooring pier. The transit along the Cebu Strait would take all of five hours.

The weather was fair. The sea was tranquil. Lizette opted for an outside seat on the bow of the vessel to avoid the longing gazes. The other three girls joined her. They had brought some rice, lechon manok and tubig (spit-roasted chicken and water) for the long journey.

At 11:11 AM they were walking down the gangplank to exit the small ship. They then hailed a pedicab to the Ayala Mall in central Cebu City. Lizette kept her head down to avoid eye contact with all the passersby on the streets. She quietly prayed that she wouldn't become a freakish spectacle in the large, multilevel, modern mall.

However, that would not be the case. The gawkers and pointers were onto her before she walked ten meters (33 feet). Totally exasperated, she looked askance. And there it was: a kiosk with reasonably priced sunglasses. Perfect! There's my solution.

Lizette made her way over to the mid-concourse display stand. She quickly settled on a pair of thin, black, sleek, wrap-around shades that were only 365 pesos (about $7). She looked at herself in the small mirror. Yes! This is the new me. I'm going to wear these all the time now! My perfect disguise.

"Well, look at Lizette," Janith announced to the other girls.

"That's a cool look," Jasmine told Lizette.

"Salamat," [Cebuano/Bisaya for 'Thank you'] Lizette replied with a beaming smile. I'm so glad that I came to Cebu with the girls. These sunglasses are a godsend. And, I'm so glad that I had enough money for them.

As the female foursome primarily window-shopped in the crowded mall, Lizette felt confident like never before. She had found her shield – a new source of strength. I should have bought these sunglasses years ago. I feel great. What a life-changer.

At four o'clock they stopped in the food court for an early dinner. While eating some glutinous (sticky) rice, Lizette caught a handsome Filipino guy of about 18 to 19 years smiling at her from three tables away. She smiled back. It was the first time that anyone had ever flirted with her, and it was certainly the first time that she had done so. And such did not go unnoticed by the three young ladies.

"Wow!" Josalyn exclaimed. "Kana nga bata ganahan nimo," ['That boy likes you' in Cebuano/Bisaya] she murmured in Lizette's left ear as she eyed the clean-shaven lad.

Lizette just giggled. I can't believe this is happening. To me!

"You sexy girl," Janith pronounced playfully.

"Lizette, you look like a diva with those shades," Jasmine added. Wow! A diva? Do I?

And then the young man got up and walked over to their table.

Lizette was stunned. Oh, my God!

"Is this seat taken, miss?" he asked Lizette.

"No, sir," she blurted and giggled.

The dark-haired young man took a seat. "My name is Roy. Are you ladies from Cebu City?"

"No, we're from Siquijor town," Lizette confidently answered.

"We're just here for the day," Jasmine added like a protective big sister fending off a wolf.

They would spend a half-hour making small talk. When Roy stood up to leave, he gave Lizette his cell phone number, which he had jotted down on a corner of a napkin.

"I would love to visit Siquijor," Roy declared. "I've never been there. Yet."

"Oh, sure," Lizette replied almost automatically.

Roy waved goodbye. And then disappeared around a corner.

Lizette was awestruck. He seems like a nice guy. And, he's so cute, too. And, he's a freshman at the university. This is too good to be true. I'll never forget this day.

The young ladies kidded Lizette to no end on the return trip. She just smiled with her new shades still on, even when twilight had descended. This has been the best day of my life!

Once back at her home at 10:47 PM, she took a deep breath and texted Roy.

What are you doing, loverboy? This is Lizette from the mall today.

She was almost shocked when she clicked Send. But her hormones were a-raging. Hope he doesn't have a girlfriend. Is he a player type? He sure was smooth. Too smooth? Is he really a college student? Or, is he into something nefarious? No, he's a nice guy. Must cease with the doubt and negative thoughts.

Roy returned fire two minutes later.

Was just thinking of you, princess. Thanks for texting me. It was so great to meet you this afternoon. You were the prettiest woman in the whole mall. Can I come visit you tomorrow? It's an open day for me. No homework. All caught up on my summer-session studies. I really want to see you again soon.

Lizette read his text five times. And then she looked in the mirror. What will Roy think when he sees this? Need to delay him. Not ready to reveal my true look to him yet. Will he freak out when he sees me without these sunglasses?

I am busy tomorrow, dear. Family stuff. Can't get out of it.

Roy replied three minutes later.

I understand. Perhaps next weekend?

Lizette figured that she could come up with a plan to soften the revelation by then.

Sure, Roy. See you then.

Roy's final text on that fateful day:

XoxoX

As Roy's ferry approached the municipal pier the next Saturday around noon, Lizette bent down to retie a dangling, loose-knot shoelace. That's when her shades suddenly slid off her head, bounced off a slanted plank, splashed into the bay, and promptly sank. Oh, no! Why did this have to happen now?! What should I do? Think! He'll be getting off that ferry in five minutes!

Lizette then frantically texted a headshot of herself to him with this caption:

Sorry, Roy, but this is the real me.

Roy immediately reciprocated with a photo of his disfigured torso and some expository text:

And this is the real me, Lizette. The result of a drunken knife fight. A permanent reminder of adolescent foolishness. I never take my shirt off in public. I avoid swimming pools like the plague.

Long story kept short: In 25 months they were married. Roy would quit college. They would form a wav-file-accompanied jazz duo known as Peripheral. Roy played saxophone or trumpet on the far-right side of the tourist-surrounded, 3.5-star-hotel stage; Lizette sang old standards like Tangerine on the far-left side. The years passed serenely. Well, up until the night of that massive earthquake.

Angelina?
21. The Boxcars Line (Dec. 2018)

"So tell me, what have you been doing during your retirement?" his old pal, who was seated across from him at a booth in an east Charlotte (NC, USA) diner, casually asked as he sipped an iced tea.

"An ongoing art project in that weird, unfinished, gray-walled, 8' x 7' [2.44 x 2.13 meters] basement room," Dennis replied as he ran his right-hand fingers through his thinning, now completely white, collar-length hair. "Remember that little oddball room?"

"I do. Please don't tell me that it's now a meth lab." Paul, an Italian American, began to chuckle.

"Very funny, Paul. No, nothing illicitly dangerous like that, my friend. I'm in no rush to get blasted to Mars."

"I thought that it was going to be a darts room." Paul now had a serious expression.

"It was, but it's not quite deep enough. You need a bare-minimum straight-line dimension of ten feet [3.05 meters] for darts. The regulation oche [throw] line is seven feet, nine and a quarter inches [2.37 meters] from the face of the dartboard." Oche? He did research this.

"Did you just measure it the other day? How do you remember such an odd distance, Dennis?"

"Because it is an odd distance, Paul. You know me and numbers; I remember them better than people." That is true.

"Ok, so what is this ongoing art project in the little basement room? One hundred bottles of craft beer on the wall?" He's always thinking about beer. Bet he orders one very soon.

"You're a real comedian today, Paul. Did you pop a blue pill and pump Gola last night? Is that why you're so giddy?" How'd he know?

"No comment." Paul grinned.

"Well, it involves four common items," Dennis divulged. "Care to take a guess?"

"Are two of them, diesel fuel and ammonium nitrate?" Paul enquired, and then began to laugh.

"Oh, that's really funny in this day and age, Paul. No, I'm not making aesthetically pleasing pipe bombs."

Paul playfully sighed. "That's a relief. I didn't want to have to turn you in to the FBI. [Federal Bureau of Investigation] But, it would have been hard to pass on a $500 reward. A guy can always use five bills."

"Is the comedy hour over now, John Belushi?" Dennis was no longer amused with the zingers.

"Ok, ok, elucidate your subterranean masterpiece to me. I'm all hairy ears." Indeed he is.

"The four items are a broad-tip magic marker, a yardstick, a large protractor, and a pair of dice." A pair of dice? Is he gambling again?

"You've lost your mind," Paul remarked in deadpan fashion.

"Maybe so. But, who cares at this point? I'm a sixty-seven-year-old widower with nothing to do and all day to do it. I had to come up with something, Paul. Just wait until you retire next year. You better have a hobby – besides drinking."

Sixty-four-year-old, tan-faced Paul grabbed his jaw with his left hand. "You know, Dennis, I do worry about becoming a full-blown alcoholic. But, back to your art project."

"The Boxcars Line started two years ago [2016] on this very date." [December 3rd] What did he just say?

"A line of boxcars? Is it a Z-scale train layout, Dennis?" But, why the dice and magic marker?

"No, Paul, it's a black line on that unusual room's ashen walls. On average it grows an inch every day. Thus, this being the biennial date with no intervening leap days; it is now 730 inches [18.54 meters] long. That's sixty feet and ten inches." What in the world?! His deck has definitely lost another card.

"Dennis, how do you fit a sixty-foot-plus-long line in an eight-foot-long room?"

"It's not a straight line, Paul."

"Where did this line start?" Paul asked, now quite curious.

"In the inside corner to the right of the door-less opening at a height of four feet, [1.22 meters] halfway between the floor and ceiling." Pure madness. Poor Dennis.

"Ok, how does the line grow? Do you water it?" Smart-ass.

Dennis smiled sardonically. "No water or sunlight required, funny guy. Here's the deal: Every single day at noon I roll the pair of dice. If they come up boxcars – double sixes – it will be a line-extension day. If I roll any other combination, nothing happens on that day. When I roll boxcars, which typically happens about once a month – the odds are 1 in 36 [2.78%] – I then roll the dice again to see if I'm climbing or descending, and at what angle." Wack attack.

"Let me guess – if you roll boxcars again, your line does a loop-de-loop." Why would he think that?

"No, not exactly, Paul. The second roll is split, die by die. The first single-die toss determines the new trajectory: up or down. If it is a one, three or five, we're going up; if it is a two, four or six, the line is going down."

"Got ya. Odd is up and even is down. So, the line can never continue on its previous track?"

"Correct. You still have a few neurons firing."

Paul took another swig from the tall, plastic, maroon-colored tumbler. "Now, what about the second die?"

"That determines the angle of ascent – or descent. I take the number and multiply it by ten. Thus, a roll of three after a roll of five, would result in the line rising thirty degrees. The maximum climb or dive angle is sixty degrees." Nutso.

"But, how long will the new line segment be?" a confounded Paul asked. Might as well play along.

"Remember what I said about one day equals one inch?" [2.54 cm]

"Yes..." Paul had no idea where Dennis was going.

"Well, I record all the 'boxcars days' in a logbook. When another noontime roll of the dice comes up boxcars, I just look and see when the last one was and count up the days, which become inches. If I see that the last double-six roll was twenty-four days ago, the new line segment will be precisely two feet [61 cm] long."

"And, exactly when does this wall-defacing madness end, Dennis?" When/if he gets a live-in girlfriend?

"It can end one of three ways, Paul: The line could enter the small upper-window inset, which has a line-accessible perimeter of seventy-nine inches, [2 meters] and which is an ends-in-a-loss, game-over situation; or, the line could eventually pass through the rectangular entranceway, which has some molding strips to guard and reduce its available perimeter to seventy-nine inches – yes, the line has been deflected and sent the other way – as I want to keep this as fair and even as possible – upon breaking the plane, a golden goal would be scored and the game-within-an-art-project would end as a win; or, I could die before either of these scenarios happen, and the game would end in a draw."

"Dennis, you know that there are medications for –"

"Oh, stop it! Paul, you were more of an avant-gardist than I was. When did you go square?" Go square?

"Um, maybe when I had a crying baby to feed."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Alright, alright. I hear ya."

"Say, what happens if your line bounces back onto itself. Would that be a losing outcome as well?"

"You know, I haven't thought about that, Paul. It hasn't come that close to occurring yet, but I could see it happening by the fifth lap. I'll ponder it. Hey, what do you think happens when the line collides with a ceiling or floor corner?" Has he marked all over the vinyl flooring, too?

"You have to buy a bucket of Kilz® (a stain-masking primer) and a box of floor tiles?"

"Nope. The line ricochets at the same angle. The ceiling and floor are out of play. A similar thing happens in the wall corners. If the line comes in ascending at forty degrees, it exits descending at forty degrees, and vice versa." This is meticulously insane.

"Has your linear-art game ever almost ended?" Paul then looked around the restaurant.

"Funny you ask that, Paul. Back on October 2nd, 2017, the line segment came within two inches [5 cm] of the window bunker. I really didn't want the experiment/game/project to end so soon."

"You know, Dennis, I haven't seen our waitress in like forever."

"I told her that we weren't eating until... right... about... now."

"Are you gentlemen ready to order some dinner?" a young female voice asked from the side that Paul wasn't looking.

"I sure as heck am," Paul promptly proclaimed. "I'm completely famished after listening to my cohort's longwinded 'line-art' tale. I'll take the deviled crab with a slice of cornbread. Thanks."

"And for you, sir?" the sandy-blonde-haired, mid-twenty-something waitress asked with an expression that broadcasted sheer boredom. She kind of looks like the first wife – forty years ago.

"Same for me. Thank you very much."

The waitress then trudged back to the kitchen.

"So, you haven't left Charlotte for the past two years," Paul deduced.

"Sure, I have," Dennis retorted. "Why would you think that?"

"Well, what if you were in – oh, let's say Oregon – and you rolled boxcars." At 9 AM Pacific Standard Time.

"I would just note it in the logbook, and extend the line when I returned. Such happened on a trip to Helena [Montana, USA] last year."

"What the hell were you doing in Helena?"

"Noticing a lone power-line shadow on the side of an old building."

"Only you, partner. Only you."

Six days later, a sleety Sunday morning, Paul and his three-fourths-Cherokee wife would come by to see Dennis's wall art. Paul knocked on the front door seven times. There was no answer. He then rang the doorbell repeatedly. Still no response. They then walked around to the back door. Paul removed the secret key that Dennis had told him about that was under a small hematite rock next to an azalea shrub. He opened the basement door.

"Welfare check. It's me – Paul. You, ok, buddy?"

Dennis would be found dead, supine on the floor in his art room. Paul would notice that the line came up an inch short. Gola would quietly remark: "Navnigesdi."

22. Two Dreams and One Call (Jan. 2019)

Sunday night, December 30, 2018. I was in a bit of intestinal distress and severe pelvic pain once again, so I started drinking one porter beer after another. (I know, not too bright.) I threw down some antacid tablets in between bottles. When the six pack was extinguished, I popped the cork on a bottle of Merlot that I had received as a Christmas gift. I slugged the first glass down with a lozenge billed 'the killer of all pains' according to my longtime musician-friend Les. [of the band White Elephant] In short order, the distressing sensation had moved onto someone somewhere else. Pity him/her. I mused: Ah, thank God, I can finally relax on my extended holiday vacation.

For some strange reason – perhaps my love of irrationally divisible prime numbers, I then started toying with the number 7 on an old, light-powered, scientific calculator at the foot of our queen-size bed. (Monique, Agent 32, my charming Filipina wife, was watching Cebuano videos on her smartphone at the head of the bed.)

I quickly noticed that the same looping string of six repeating digits appeared in all sevenths. One seventh was (and still is) equal to .142857; two sevenths, .285714; three sevenths, .428571; four sevenths, .571428; five sevenths, .714285; and six sevenths, .857142. I was soon conjuring up a 'sevenths clock'. Maybe in seven dimensions? Or, just six? +3,-2,+6,-3,+2,-6. A natural symmetrical code.

"I'm tired; I'm going to sleep now," Monique suddenly announced as she hooked up her phone to the charger jack.

I looked at our bedside digital clock. The red numerals blared: 1:42. And 8.57 seconds?

"Ok, I'm ready to crash, too, hon. It's way past this 54-year-old's bedtime." Wow! The time sure flew by after taking that pill. Wonder what the active ingredient is. Must ask Les.

<click> The lights were out in our east Charlotte [NC, USA] basement bedroom. I think I lost consciousness just before Monique. It was a photo finish. Upon further review...

After several months of not having any memorable dreams, I would have a vivid duplet in a single night. In the first one, Kurt Harris (agent no. lost to housekeeping), James 'Frank' Rick (Agent 107) and I (Agent 33) were passing around the herbal peace pipe in Kurt's audiophile-outfitted, album-cover-wallpapered, Lake Forest [an older east Charlotte neighborhood] living room. Then fifty-something, husky, Caucasian, short-blonde-haired Kurt left Frank and I to flip over a King Crimson LP on his high-end turntable. Some lucidity crept in. I looked at dark-haired, slim, Caucasian, forty-something Frank and whispered: "But, Kurt is dead." [This major prog-rock – especially Steven Wilson – enthusiast died on March 9, 2018.]

Frank bent his wrists, palms-up, and slowly mouthed: "And so am I." [My best man died on January 6, 2013.]

For a moment I actually thought I was dead, too, and that this was just a gathering of ghosts. Then I abruptly awoke. I had to pee. It was 5:05 AM. What a dream that was! Don't think that I've ever had a dream that involved two deceased friends. Is it a poignant portent? An auspicious augury augering [sic] my perforated skull? What madness I muse.

Once back in the bed beside a peacefully slumbering Monique, I was re-asleep in 1.42857 minutes (85.7142 seconds).

The second dream was surprisingly violent. And most startlingly, I was the killer. I think that it was – yes, I am sure – the first time that I ever murdered someone in a dream. I was shocked when I awoke to the sound of a text alert on my semi-smart phone (which rests under my pillow in a void where nothing can depress the main key).

The just-received text was from my Manhattan-penthouse-apartment-residing pal Al Niño; it read:

Yes, it will be a 'marry' New Year for me. Hope you can make it to Hawaii in May for our wedding.

I pondered his text for a few seconds. Did I wish him a 'merry' New Year last night? Yep, I sure did. Don't remember doing that. Must have been wholly inebriated.

I re-texted him.

Would love to, but don't think I will have the bucks. On a meager budget these days. All the best to you two lovebirds.

Five minutes later, at a gray-gloom-in-the-side-window 8:57 AM, my small form-factor LG phone rang. It was Al.

"Well, hello there, amazing one," I pompously announced.

Monique just gave me an odd look and shook her head.

Al then spoofed an old answering-machine message of mine from nearly three decades ago. "Thanks for calling Tryke Labs North America. Amazingly, none of our 3,700 employees are available right now, but if you could leave a covert message, we will decipher it back to you at our earliest convenience."

"Ok, ok. Stop. I'm cringing."

"Listen, Mykus Trykus, [sic] the reason I called is to inform you that our wedding date has been moved up a week, as our Mauna Kea villa was double-booked somehow." Somehow?

"Wish we could go, Al, but, well, you know... three-digit greenbacks are scarce these days."

"Yeah, I know, buddy, but if your cash flow improves, come on out. I'll buy you and Monique two rounds of tropical mixed drinks." How about two roundtrip airline tickets?

"Well, thanks. We'll see what happens."

"So, tell me, Michael, what is your current story?" Al asked in a nasally, crazy-sounding voice. Ah, the 'Michael' bit again. Never fails.

"Well, I had two wild dreams last night. I may write them up."

"Asian twin sisters and ladyboy dessert?" Ladyboner. [sic]

"No, nothing sexual this time."

"Ok, tell me your two dreams, Michael. Give me succinct summaries, as I don't have long. I've got a conference call at 9:30, and I will need to get some data together first." I've heard this before.

"First dream: Getting stoned with a pair of old friends in east Charlotte, except that these two guys are both dead. What do you read into that?"

"Typical for over-fifty people like us. I've had such dreams, too. Next." Typical?

"Second dream: I'm in a motley group of a dozen or so rock climbers. It's a precarious ascent: very steep and craggy – probably a seventy-seven-degree angle – essentially a sheer cliff. One slip and it's bye-bye." 77º?

"Ah, another falling dream. That's not good. Falling is failing, brother."

"No, I didn't fall in this one, Al. I made it up to the pinnacle. However, while climbing up this rocky bluff, I had to step over a sleeping climber. He was ensconced in a nook." Not a cranny?

"Why is someone sleeping on a steep cliff?" Al enquired.

"I think that he was a drug addict. Yeah, that was it. Apparently he shot up [heroin] and passed out."

"Ok, continue, but promptly wrap it up, Michael."

"Well, just as I reach the summit, which is about thirty feet [nine meters] above his little napping spot, I hear him yelling: "I'm going to get whoever kicked those pebbles down on me!"

"But, can he climb in his condition?"

"He's still impaired, but he manages to slowly start pulling his rubbery, middle-aged, Caucasian body over the cubic mini-ledges. About ten feet [three meters] from the top, he makes eye contact with me. His face is engulfed by an insane rage. He screams: "Bozart, I'm going to KILL you! I know that YOU did it!"

"Ok, you've piqued my interest. Please continue, Michael."

"Well, I'm sweating it, because you know me, Al; I'm a conflict avoider." Or deflector.

"Yes, I know. I am, too. So, what happens next?"

"I glance down and think of something diplomatic to say. You know, a phrase that will defuse the hostility before he alights for hand-to-hand, fight-to-the-death combat on the peak."

"Keep going, Michael. Don't trip up now." Oh, boy.

"Well, Al, I see this twenty-two-pound [10 kg] granite mini-boulder and something snaps." Twenty-two pounds?

"Wait. How do you know the exact weight?"

"That's a hyperextended story, Al."

"Forget it. Ok, finish it up. You've got one minute."

"I immediately pick up the bowling-ball-size stone with both hands and raise it above my head, just like a throw-in in a soccer [football] match. I see him look up at me as I hurl the round rock down with full force."

"But, you miss. Dreams are like that, Michael. Very frustrating." Sure wish he would stop with the Michaels.

"No, Al, the small boulder smashes right into the center of his receding-hairline, alabaster-white forehead. I mean it was flush – dead on. He is immediately dislodged from the mountainside. As the worthless humanimal [sic] falls back-first, I see pure shock on his horrified, now-bloody face." Humanimal?

"And, you feel bad, and your dream resets for a conscience-clearing do-over."

"Wrong, Al. I laugh mockingly as his body slams into some humongous boulders one hundred meters [328 feet] below at the base of the propitious precipice."

"Propitious precipice? Are you recording this call?"

"You'll find out in two weeks. Anyway, instead of feeling remorse, it was supreme liberation. The other climbers were cheering. He had bullied and harassed them on the expedition as well."

"What did this guy look like?"

"He was a composite, Al, of the miscellaneous jerkwads that I've encountered over the decades in Charlotte."

"You may have a deep-seated anger issue, buddy. It might be good to see a therapist."

"Ha-ha-ha. No, I'm not mad enough to do anything like that to anyone. It's just dreamland weirdness."

"But dreams are manifestations of real-life issues, Michael."

"Hey now, I've seen your oh-so-serene veneer crack, Al."

<click>
23. The Postcard (Feb. 2019)

Saturday morning, May 2nd, 2015. Thin-faced, silver-haired, Arizona-tanned Justin Case is whizzing northward up Interstate 77 in North Carolina. The sky is already azure-clear and the air is a refreshing 48° Fahrenheit (9° Celsius) as he crosses the Yadkin River, merges left, and takes Exit 83 (US 21 Bypass). He muses: Should be a perfect weekend for golf. Both days with highs around 70°. [F; 21° C] I'm going to blow ol' Steve-O off the course. No, I'll go easy on him. Let him think that he has a chance to win. Then on the 34th and 35th holes, it's birdie-birdie, bye-bye. The 36th hole tomorrow should be quite satisfying as he rears up and mis-crushes a desperation tee shot in an attempt to eagle. The pill [golf ball] will go way out of bounds. Yeah, he'll probably hook it into the woods. The trees will play ping pong with his Titleist. Or, maybe he finds a bunker. He'll finish even farther back. Will thoroughly relish the walk up to that green. Can hardly wait.

As Justin's rented-from-Hertz-at-the-CLT-airport, black, super-shiny, 2014 Corvette Stingray curved through the Thurmond community on the now-two-lane highway, he could see the Blue Ridge Mountains ahead, or more specifically, Murphy Ridge.

Soon the low-profile vehicle was twisting and turning up the southeastern flank of the vehicle-vacant, forest-bisecting, scenic route. A diamond-shaped, seemingly bored, black-on-yellow warning sign stated that the safe speed for the curvy mountain road was 35 MPH (56 km/h). He took it at 45 MPH (72 km/h). The tires slightly chirped. Justin backed off. What the heck am I doing? I'm freaking 53 – not 23! Take it easy, old boy.

Just as he passed the WELCOME TO ALLEGHANY COUNTY / LEAVING WILKES COUNTY green sign, his cell phone rang. It was none other than Steve Olivert IV, his golfing partner/foe, onetime college drinking buddy (at Duquesne University), and intense-yet-friendly (usually) rival.

"Hi Steve. I'm close."

"Have you passed Statesville yet?" Steve asked sarcastically. What an asinine question.

"Long past there, sport. I just entered Alleghany County. They spell it differently than they do in Pittsburgh; it ends with any instead of eny."

"Yeah, I noticed that, too, Justin, the first time I came up here back in 2009." Hmmm... Thought he said that 2011 was the first time. Why would he lie about it? Or, is his memory already starting to go south?

"Well, the GPS [Global Positioning System] says that I only have four miles [6.4 km] to go, Steve."

"Good deal, pal. I'm in the clubhouse – in the main dining hall." Probably already getting sauced. This will be easy.

"Oh, what are we playing for this time, Steve?" The maid?

"I am offering up a priceless, vintage, linen postcard of Lake Louise. It's from the end of World War II in Europe. It's dated May 3, 1945 – seventy years ago tomorrow. The cursive on the back – well, you'll just have to read it, Justin. It'll give you pause and some deep thoughts. Anyway, I got it from a postcard collector on the internet. And, what are you putting on the table, Doctor Slice?" Doctor Slice? Oh, I'm going to show him no mercy. Going to beat him by at least six strokes. And rub it in.

"I didn't have time to get a special trinket. So, I guess I'll just tender a crisp portrait of Benjamin Franklin, [$100 bill] Steve." Which will be as safe as being in my safe: my wallet.

"That'll work. Drive safely. Some dangerous curves lie ahead."

"Will do. See you in about ten minutes. Ciao." Bet he's dating an Italian lady now. Bet Justin marries her, too. She'll be good for eight years, just like the previous two. He's such a fool when it comes to women.

Justin continued climbing the escarpment in the American sports car that purred up the slope. When he passed Oklahoma Road on the left, which a brown sign on the right indicated: STONE MOUNTAIN STATE PARK (left arrow), he suddenly remembered his first wife, Jenny. Wonder if she is still in Tulsa. Is she still with Reid McGreed? No telling, and won't be asking. What a shifty-eyed huckster. So glad that we never had kids. That would have been awful.

When he reached the ridgeline, a green sign plainly stated: Eastern Continental Divide – ELEV 2972 FT [906 meters] Nowhere near the elevation of the western divide in Colorado, but it sure is thick with flora.

He slowed down, passed a gray-sided thrift store on the left, and quickly turned right onto Roaring Gap Drive. The overstory was lush and dense; all the deciduous trees had their leaves back again. The understory of rhododendron was like a nearly opaque, darkest-of-green-hues privacy wall in recurring patches. It's like a virgin forest in here. A scene right out of a Bavarian fairy tale. A raven is getting fat on the breadcrumbs. A cuckoo clock just went coo-coo.

He soon passed a leaden wooden sign that informed: ROARING GAP CLUB – MEMBERS AND GUESTS ONLY No riffraff allowed. 'The Pinehurst of the hills!' Steve proclaimed. A bit of a stretch, me thinks.

He had an internal chuckle as he caught the first glimpse of Lake Louise on the left from a shady cove. The Prussian blue water glistened further out. Created by an earthen dam in 1925. Is that the year Steve said? Think that was it. So, the manmade reservoir is 90 years old. Wonder if anyone has ever drowned in it. What a downer of a thought. Downers lead to drowners. Though, it sure looks sublime. Wouldn't mind living here. Could do my consulting business about anywhere now. Something to ponder later.

"Would you like another Bailey's on the rocks, sir?" the Latina waitress asked Steve.

"Just one more. My golfing opponent should be here very soon."

"Playing all eighteen holes today, sir?" the mid-thirty-something waitress asked with a smile.

"Yes, and all eighteen again tomorrow. A thirty-six-hole, one-on-one tournament. I plan to win a hundred bucks from him." Steve laughed.

"Oh, I see, a private competition," she acknowledged. "And your friend will get one hundred dollars if he should win?"

"No, he would get an old postcard." What a cheap bastard! Probably not much of a tip here.

The waitress disappeared just as Justin walked in. He twisted his head to and fro, scanning the two dozen Caucasian men, and soon saw now-balding, brown-haired Steve back in a corner. He waved to him.

"So glad that you could make it," Steve announced. "Have a seat." He's added some weight in the gut. Beer pounds I bet.

"This is some place!" Justin remarked enthusiastically.

"It's actually the second place. The first building here was a hotel. It burned down in 1915." Wow! A century ago.

"Let me guess – a candle fire," Justin posited.

"Arson was suspected, but no one was ever convicted. The big plan was for the railroad to come all the way up here from Elkin, but it only made it to Doughton."

"Doughton?" Justin was unsure of its location.

"Just before the climb starts. My guess is that things started getting tight, and someone got paid to accidentally drop a kerosene lantern on some straw mats."

"And collect the insurance on the loss?"

"I didn't say that, but if I were to wager..."

"Would you like something to drink, sir?" the black-haired waitress asked Justin as she set Steve's drink down.

"Just an iced tea with Splenda," Justin answered. "Thanks."

"A teetotaler, are you now, Justin?"

"No, Steve, I just don't drink before noon." It was 9:39 AM.

"How's the bachelor life for the third time?" Steve jabbed.

"Well, there's no one to entertain. Some lonely hours, but not that bad. My finances are much better now. How are Nancy and the boys?"

"All good. Nancy is now doing an online accounting gig. The boys are both at Penn State. [University] John is in grad school and David is a senior. Both are computer techies."

"Excellent. So, how do you like living up here?"

"Love it. There's a winter, but it's milder than Pittsburgh. It snows/sleets just five times a year on average. It's rarely on the road for more than a day. And, the summers here are not as hot. I play fifty-four holes a week on average. The house is only a mile and a half [2.4 km] from here. You should consider moving here, Justin. With your job, you could leave Phoenix, right?"

"Yeah, I could. I am not looking forward to the triple-digit summer heat."

"But, it's a dry heat, Justin."

"Screw you, Steve."

Steve laughed. And after two seconds, Justin did, too.

"Can I see the postcard that I'll be taking legal possession of tomorrow evening?" That cocky prick.

"You think so, do you?" Steve chortled and then extracted the 1940s postcard from his tan jacket's inner pocket and placed it face-up on the table. What an enchanted night that must have been.

"Ah, that is a really nice one," Justin declared.

Steve made a muffled coughing sound. He was choking on a piece of strawberry waffle. His face began to turn red.

"Are you ok, buddy?" Justin asked with a look of concern.

No reply from Steve. He frantically pointed to his throat.

Justin dashed over, right behind Steve. How to do the Heimlich maneuver? Where to place my hands? On or below the sternum? Which fingers interlock? Where do the thumbs go? Shit! He's really choking to death!

"My friend is choking!" Justin yelled. "Can anyone help him? Please!" Can't believe this is happening!

Two sixty-something, white-haired men came over. And then a 40-ish, short, blonde-haired waiter. But they were all unsuccessful, despite even placing their fingers down Steve's throat. By the time medic arrived, it was too late.

Stunned and consumed by disbelief, Justin finally stood up – eighteen minutes after Steve's corpse was taken out on a stretcher – and exited the now-somber grand atrium with his head down. Damn! Steve's dead!

Once seated in the Corvette, he flipped the postcard over and whispered:

May 3, 1945

Hello dearest fiancé,

May this message find you in good health, and in good spirits. The news of Hitler's death has reached us. Germany must surely surrender any day now. And, hopefully, the whole wretched war will be over very soon. I can't wait to see you again, darling. Remember that magical evening on Lake Louise? That's why I chose this post card. Can't wait to 'Begin the Beguine' again!

Please stay safe. We are so close now, Jack. So excited!

Love now and always,

Violet

UNDELIVERED FOR REASON STATED / RETURN TO SENDER was stamped above the U.S. Third Army, Luxembourg address; however, no reason was noted anywhere.
24. Nantahala (Feb. 2019)

"Guys, the straight-line, west-east, gravity-type, hydroelectric dam is 480 feet [146 meters] high – the tallest in the Eastern United States – and it was completed on November 7th, 1944," Tim Palmerone III informed his adolescent duo as he displayed one of his cherished World War II U.S. government posters in his southeast Charlotte, split-level, dark-paneled den.

Tim's lanky, rusty-brown-haired, olive-green-eyed, just-last-week-turned-seventeen, thin-from-undereating son just raised his eyebrows. And then looked back down, thoroughly non-enthused. He had been diagnosed with juvenile depression.

Nevertheless, 45-year-old, bespectacled, sandy-blonde-haired, steel-gray-eyed Tim continued with his Thursday evening pitch. "The deep lake is some thirty miles [48 km] long. And get this, guys – the Appalachian Trail actually goes across the top of the dam! How would you two like to go up to Fontana Lake this weekend? The weather forecast looks super-nice: fair skies with highs around 72." [degrees Fahrenheit; 22º Celsius] Why in the world does dad want to take us there? Would much rather stay here and play video games. The wireless internet connection here is so much faster than mom's. / Gosh, that sounds so cool! I bet Josh doesn't want to go. He never wants to do anything anymore. / Fingers figuratively crossed for a pair of yes votes.

"I would love to go, dad!" scientifically inclined, ninth-grade-honor-student, chocolate-brown-haired, hazel-eyed Julia replied with veritable verve. "Maybe we will see some cracks in the dam from the alkali-aggregate reactions." The what? Yes, she really is a savant. She's going places. The only thing that could trip her up would be a lousy, loser-type boy. And, I think that she's smart enough to navigate around that potential pitfall. / Dad loves Julia more than me; he always has. He favors her because she is so much more scholastic than me. Or, maybe he thinks that I prefer mom to him. Maybe that's it.

"How about you, my keen son?" Please say 'Yes'. / Keen? Oh, please. Spare me, dad.

"How long will it take to get there?" Josh listlessly enquired.

"Just under four hours if we don't stop," Tim divulged.

"Four freaking hours!" Josh exclaimed with a surfeit of exasperation. "That's as long as going to the beach!"

"We'll stop wherever you want for lunch, son," Tim offered, trying to salvage his final best chance for a mountain-weekend-together getaway.

Lips-sullenly-sealed Josh then slowly nodded. Thank God! He's onboard. / This had better be worth it. Bet it's not. / Yey!

"Great!" Tim blurted with obvious relief. "I've already got our lodging picked out; it's a small, rustic cabin near the scenic Nantahala River Gorge."

"Nanta-HAY-la?" Josh was perplexed. Where the hell is that? Dad sure picks the weirdest places.

"Nantahala is a Cherokee word that literally means 'land of the noon sun'," Julia proudly proclaimed. She's such a smarty pants. And, a constant showoff for dad. / I bet my girl places out of freshman history, math, science, and English.

<ding-doooooong>

"Dad, you really need to fix your doorbell," Josh stoically remarked. "It's sounds creepy as hell." I kind of like it.

"Ah, you don't like it, son? I got it off of ebay. Anyway, run along. Don't keep your mother waiting. And, do well in school tomorrow. I'll pick you two up Saturday morning [April 26, 2014] at 7:45 AM sharp. Deal?" Lame deal. But might as well go along. Don't want to be labeled the deal-breaker.

"Deal!" Julia confirmed with enthusiasm. "I'll be all ready to go in my new hiking gear." Excellent.

"Ok, dad, see you then," Josh relented. It seems that he has taken the divorce much harder than his sister. He blames – and hates – me for it.

At 8:19 AM Saturday, they were passing Crowders Mountain on Interstate 85 South. Josh, sitting alone in the rear seat of the 2009, quartz-silver-metallic Subaru Legacy, spotted the cliffs and remembered hiking up them five years prior. He mused: Mom and dad seemed fine on that day. Divorce was unimaginable. Wonder what caused the split. Bet one of them was cheating on the other. Bet it was dad. Mom probably busted him having an affair with a coworker. Wish she would just tell me the reason. / Josh seems lost in thought. Wonder what he's thinking about. Who knows?

When they hit the fifth stoplight in Shelby on US 74, Tim wondered if his kids were hungry. "Want to stop for a quick breakfast? I'm buying." He chuckled.

Julia, seated in the front passenger seat, shook her head. "I can hold out 'til lunch, dad," she asserted.

Josh just vocalized a half-breath exhalation: "Nuh."

As they crossed the sage-green Broad River, Tim recalled a canoeing trip with his long-gone pal, John. That cheap, plastic, half-red/half-blue, cereal-box compass that fell in the water. Wonder if it floated all the way down to Columbia. Wonder exactly where it is right now. Probably in pieces in the Goat Shoals silt. Silt in the gill slit.

Julia caught a glimpse of White Oak Mountain as the sedan zipped past the green sign for Polk County. She thought: Almost in the Blue Ridge [Mountains] now. But, we still have quite a ways to go. Wonder how long the hike to the dam is.

Soon they were passing the small town of Columbus and merging onto Interstate 26 West. The Subaru charged up the curving incline without much problem. Twenty-seven silent minutes later, Tim took Exit 33 for Asheville Outlets (a remodeled mall surrounded by chain restaurants). They were in the McRonald's drive-thru line at 10:41 AM. Wish they would eat healthier food. Wonder if Nancy [Tim's ex and the mother of both kids] lets them eat fast food. / Dad is such a softie compared to mom. / So glad that he let us eat here. I love these French fries.

The journey soon recommenced on I-40 West. They passed three C-townships (Candler, Canton, and Clyde), and then took Exit 27 for US 74 West (Great Smoky Mountain Expressway). It was sunny and the traffic was fairly light. Everything seems to be going fine. Though, they sure are quiet. Maybe they know that I am going to tell them something pretty heavy later. Maybe they can sense it.

As they began to go around the town of Waynesville, the amber CHECK ENGINE light suddenly came on. Damn! Wouldn't you know it! Everything was going so well – too well, I suppose. Though, the engine is still running cool. Oil pressure is ok. Battery still charged; alternator is fine. No funny sounds. Ah, let's just go for it. The light was probably programmed to come on. Probably a mileage threshold was crossed. The dreaded 'dealership light'. Ned's term. Wonder what he is doing today. Probably holed up in a bar by one o'clock. A safe bet.

Julia saw Tim's look of concern. "Is everything ok, dad?"

"Yeah, it's all good, sweetie. We should be there in an hour." Another freaking hour! This drive is taking forever. But once there, I'm going to have my own kind of fun. Oh, yeah! I'm breaking away from dad and sis. I'll go on my own special – extra-spatial – hike. / Dad sure looked troubled by something. Wonder what Josh is thinking about. He seems so pensive, like he's scheming.

When they passed under the US 441 overpass, Tim turned his head to the left and thought back to the time when he and his then-wife took the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad from Dillsboro to Bryson City in mid-November of 1996, just five months before Josh was born. The future sure seemed as bright as the cloudless autumn sky on that brisk day. And as clear as the sediment-settled Tuckasegee River. We were on our way to becoming the quintessential American nuclear family. Those yellow-to-orange fallen leaves languidly floating on the water's surface. All decomposed long ago. Reconstituted somewhere. Into something. Else.

Josh and Julia both had their headphones on as the Subaru snaked through the already-quite-green Smoky Mountains. Tim then merged right to begin NC 28, initially a two-lane highway, which wound northwestward. In just a half-mile (.8 km), it became a divided four-lane highway. And then the road swung wide to the left. As they crossed the mouth of the Nantahala River (the southernmost cove of Fontana Lake), Tim had a question for his quiet-for-the-past-half-hour teenagers.

"Want to check out our cozy cabin and take a short break, or do you guys want to go to the dam now?"

"Let's go to the cabin first!" Julia replied, suddenly full of energy once again.

Josh didn't respond. He was half-asleep, smartphone-linked headphones still donned.

"Ok, princess, we'll go check it out now," Tim confirmed as he made a quick left turn onto Watia Road, which immediately curled back down towards the teal river.

After paralleling the Nantahala Gorge for about 100 meters (328 feet), the two-lane, narrow, moss-edged asphalt road started to rise up the ridge. Next, Tim turned left onto a leaf-covered dirt road that soon passed over a small creek (Jake Branch). He went about 70 meters (230 feet), and there it was: a small, quaint, log-sided cabin with a metal roof ensconced in a sea of rhododendron and mountain laurel. Excellent! We're safely here. The directions were perfect! No wrong turns. / We're sleeping in that shack tonight? Why, it had better have wireless. [internet] / That place looks kind of charming. Hope I can have my own bathroom. Does it have more than one bathroom? Sure hope so.

"Well, this is it, guys: our base of adventurous expedition for the next twenty-four or so hours." Base of adventurous expedition? What in the heck is dad talking about? / Gosh, I sure hope I can have my own bedroom. Don't want to be trapped with farting-all-night Josh. That would truly suck!

Tim parked in the assumed driveway and turned the engine off. The trio disembarked from the automobile. All were wondering how the afternoon, the evening – and especially the night – would transpire.

Julia ran up to the front door and turned the doorknob. Darn! "It's locked!" she announced with overt disappointment.

"That's actually good," Tim stated. "No worries. I know where the key is." He then walked to the backside of the cabin and crouched down beside a large, flat, dark-gray-with-sparkly-flakes metamorphic rock.

Julia and Josh followed. The door key had better be under there. If not... ughhh.

Tim slid the rock to his left. There in the damp, dark, worm-perforated soil was a silver house key. "Well, look what I found here." He handed it to his eager-to-test-it daughter.

Julia put the key in the bronze lock and turned it. The door opened. She cautiously stepped inside the miniature foyer, which opened into the main room. There was no TV, and no radio or stereo system.

Tim walked past her. "There's a bedroom and a half-bath in the basement, a bedroom over there, and a full bathroom right here," Tim announced while pointing out the areas. "There's a single bed in that loft up there. Ok, who wants what? First claimed, first served." First claimed, first served? Isn't it 'first come, first served'? Dad is so odd.

"Can I have the bedroom on this level, dad?" Julia asked, desperately hoping for a 'Yes' answer.

"Sure, you got it, princess," Tim affirmed. "Well, son, do you want the loft or the basement?"

"The basement is fine, dad." With spiders and/or centipedes?

"Ok, your pop will be up in the loft reading his mountain-mystery novel tonight," Tim revealed. Mountain-mystery novel? WTF! / Wonder what kind of mystery it is. Need to look at dad's book later.

Josh frowned as he fiddled with his cell phone. "Dad, does this place have internet?"

"No, I don't think so, son." Just freaking great! I'm not staying here all afternoon. Time to take that hike.

"Ok, dad, is it ok if I take a little hike?"

"Sure, son. Feel free to explore. Just don't get lost."

"Well, we've all got cell phones," Josh reminded them as he looked down at his and saw only one bar (out of five) illuminated on the reception scale. Damn!

"We sure do, son. But, remember that there are numerous dead spots in the ravines. Don't get out of range."

"Ok, I won't," Josh promised.

"How long until you're back? I'm sure that your sister would like to see the dam before it gets dark."

"I certainly would!" Julia interjected.

"Maybe two or three hours. Hey, why don't you two check out the dam while I'm hiking? Then we'll just meet back here at say... four o'clock." Four o'clock?! / He's up to something. Probably wants to smoke pot in the woods.

"Ok, son, call if you need us. Remember that texts can often go through when voice calls can't." Duh! I already knew that.

"Ok, dad, got it. I'm out."

"Got water in your backpack, son?"

"A whole liter," Josh uttered.

"That's 33.8 fluid ounces," Julia informed. She's such a nerd.

"I've also got some protein bars and pepper spray," Josh disclosed. "I'm good."

"Ok, son, but don't attempt anything foolish," Tim warned.

Josh nodded, walked out the door, and headed east through the dense, hemlock-hemmed forest. Hope he'll be ok. Need to let him step out on his own. Let him find himself. / I just know that he'll be getting thoroughly doped-up out there. Should I tell dad? No, not now. It would ruin the whole trip. And, it would be a miserable four-hour drive back to Charlotte.

As soon as Josh had lost sight of the cabin, he opened the tiny ziplocked sachet that contained some tan-colored yagé powder. He poured it into his mouth and let it sit for a minute. The taste was not pleasant. Then he swallowed it and chased it with some of his spring water. Well, things should get interesting fairly soon.

Josh continued his primarily eastward, upward, pathless trek through the dense flora. In only fifteen minutes he had reached the ridgeline. The swollen Nantahala River lazily glistened some 50 meters (164 feet) below. Mighty!

The slope was quite steep. He sat down on a fallen fir tree. And then it – the DMT – hit. Geometric patterns began to appear. Everything in his field of view was linked at varying angles, which created a plethora of polyhedrons. When the wind blew, it rippled the mosaic-tile-like tapestry. This is da shit! Billy wasn't kidding. Look at all these linkages. How much of this is real? This life? Some other life? A next life? What the hell am I thinking?

Tim and Julia passed through a series of long glens that opened into wide valleys in the still-running-just-fine Subaru. After exiting a lake-partially-visible cove and scaling another ridge, Tim decelerated to read the brown, narrow, rectangular sign on the recently mowed grass shoulder.

TVA FONTANA DAM →

He slowly made a hard right curve that ended at a STOP sign. Tim turned the steering wheel to the right again. They were now on Fontana Road. A motorcyclist vroomed leftward behind them. Never fails.

"I guess that we were impeding his desired rate of progress," Tim said to his precocious fourteen-year-old daughter.

"Dad, the way that he throttled his motorbike expressed his supreme displeasure with our speed. But, what's there to be in a hurry about out here in the middle of nature?"

"Maybe he had an argument with his wife," Tim suggested, and quickly wished that he hadn't. He regrets the divorce. Yes, I can tell. I bet that he would take mom back. But, she wouldn't have dad back. Not now. No way.

Julia didn't comment. She just looked at the passing trees. Dad is still quite bitter. I can feel it. Well, maybe I can cheer him up at the dam. Just talk about science. Don't mention mom. And certainly not her new, rich boyfriend. Wonder what Josh is doing right now. Another toke of his pipe?

After about a mile (1.6 km), Tim parked the car at the Fontana Dam Visitors Center. There were only four other vehicles there. They then got out and walked up to The Overlook, a gift shop.

"Want a model-of-the-dam souvenir?" Tim asked.

"Maybe on the way back," Julia replied. "That way we don't have to carry it on the dam." Very smart, she is.

Soon they were walking on an old, double-yellow-lined, asphalt-cracked-in-a-thousand-and-one-places road atop Fontana Dam. The mountain-surrounded lake on their right looked like something out of the Alps in the noonday sunshine. What a lovely manmade lake! / What an engineering feet – to build such a massive dam in the middle of this mountainous wilderness. How did they ever get the equipment and supplies in here?

An Asian family of three was approaching them. The three-to-four-year-old, black-haired boy started running ahead. He was incredibly excited. The boy abruptly stopped and looked at the safety barrier, just to the left of Tim.

"I'm going to see what's on the other side!" he declared.

He then pulled himself up the approximately forty-inch-high (one meter) concrete wall by grabbing hold of the metal guardrail that was bolted on top. His rubber-soled sneakers quickly gained some traction on the rough, high-coefficient-of-friction surface. Oh, my God! That boy is going to go over the wall. Got to save him. Now!

Tim ran over and grabbed the nape of the boy's jacket and slung him back. However in doing so, his torso got twisted. His shifting momentum sent him over the railing. His flailing body triple-bounced into the powerhouse five seconds later.

A stunned, completely motionless Julia could not believe what she had just witnessed. And neither could the shocked little boy and his jaws-agape parents.

Josh was now seeing dark circles on the water. They started to combine and grow larger. In a matter of seconds, there were only two, each with an ominous outer ring. They hovered and looked like large fish eyes – dead-fish eyes. A teeth-like image with red lips flashed right where a mouth might be. Why am I seeing this? What does it mean? Does anything really mean anything? Special? Significant? How long have I been sitting here?

Then he noticed a strange cyan shape in the water. It was like a pixelated glitch in his vision. Woah! What is that?!

His cell phone chirped. Are they already worried about me?

Josh selected the newest text.

OMG, Josh! Dad is dead!!! He fell off the dam while rescuing a small boy. I'm shaking and crying. Please call me now!! Or text me! I don't know what to do. I'm with the sheriff right now. We are headed back to the cabin.

25. Farallón (March 2019)

"Sam, we're going to have to pass on Half Moon Bay [California] for now," a nervous, fidgeting, bright-blonde-haired, former cocaine-running, mid-forty-something, now-pot-bellied, already-thrice-divorced Caucasian male said while seated at the helm. "It's just too precarious at the moment. We saw the running lights of a vessel behind us that seemed to be following us. It may be the [United States] Coast Guard. We can't risk them searching this Skater 36. [an extremely fast, twin-hull speedboat] We're going to head northwest and get at least a dozen miles [19.3 km] offshore." Why does he want to get out of territorial waters? I just knew that Pete would flake out on us. Never should have picked him and Ernie for such a high-stakes gambit. A massive mistake. / Bet I got him all worried.

"Are you sure that you're not just paranoid, Pete?" the slender, thirty-nine-year-old Chinese American asked with an opening sigh from his white 2016 Mercedes c300 sedan in the Pillar Point Harbor parking lot at twilight – a very serene-appearing 7:17 PM – on Saturday, September 23rd, 2017.

"No, I'm not paranoid. I just don't want to make an avoidable, ten-to-fifteen-years-in-a-federal-pen blunder, Sam. We'll try to come back in to port in a couple of hours." Just fucking great! What am I going to do for 120-plus minutes? Juanita [Sam's thirty-five-year-old Colombian American girlfriend] is at work until ten. Don't want to drive back to Mountain View and then back here again. I guess that I could hang out in that brew pub across the street. [Capistrano Road] Yeah, just nurse a pint of porter. Hell, I'll just walk over there and leave the car here.

"But, everything went ok at the Santa Cruz Wharf, right?" Sam then enquired after a four-second pause. Wonder if the land courier was trailed.

"Yeah, Sam, we didn't seem to attract any attention. We were casual but quick. We were out of there three minutes after it was on the boat."

"Ok, I'll be on standby. Over and out." Sure hope no one gets that multi-million-dollar rectangle of niobium. Ah, the allure of the AI [artificial intelligence] lure. The ultra-lure.

"Later." Why are they heading northwest instead of due west? Ah, the Farallon Islands. I smell a rat. If Pete doesn't call in by nine o'clock, I'll have to shift to plan B. And pronto.

Sam walked past Barbara's Fishtrap, a small seafood restaurant on the bay, and then alongside a small beach that was vacant, save for some wafting fog wisps. After a few more paces, he crossed the street to arrive at Half Moon Brewing Company. Good, it doesn't look super-crowded yet.

Once stool-perched at the inside bar that offered a view of the mooring harbor, Sam checked the San Jose area news on his brand-new iPhone 8 Plus while waiting for someone to take his drink order. He was shocked by what he saw. Wow! Roadblocks have already been set up on Route 1, west and east of Santa Cruz; on Routes 9 and 17 to the north; and on the surrounding mountain roads. Maybe the Coast Guard or a police boat is really after them. Need to tell Pete. Now.

"Hello Sam. We're already approaching Southeast Farallon Island. I can see the lighthouse beacon up on the foggy ridge; though – thankfully – I can no longer see any lights behind us. I think we're in the clear." Sure hope so.

"That's great to hear, Pete. However, some words of caution: evidently our world-class con-artist-slash-magician's sleight-of-hand ploy at the convention tripped an alarm. That Meta-Q-biquitous® quantum chip must have a tracking hitchhiker." Yeah, I bet it does. Maybe the North Farallon Islands are out of range. Need to head up there. Plus, there are some scientists on the lighthouse island. Not good. The northern islands are uninhabited. Need to keep going. Yeah, let's get out of here. Wonder what Farallón means. [sea pillar/cliff in Spanish] Need to look it up later. Later, when I can relax my mind.

"Ok, well, we've got the little ornament in a tin mints box, buried under some life jackets. I'll have Ernie stack some metal items over it." Excellent.

"Smart move, Pete. Oh, get this: roadblocks were set up over an hour ago all around Santa Cruz. The demented IT [information technology] dazzler knows that it has been stolen. Your paranoia may indeed be warranted. Therefore, stay alert out there on the high seas. And, I wouldn't bother coming back here tonight. It's way too risky." Oh, boy. Things just got real... interesting.

"So, what do you want us to do tonight?" Pete asked, fearing Sam's answer. Please don't say 'stay in a holding pattern until dawn'. No, not that. I'm kind of hungry already. And thirsty.

"How about heading to Sausalito? I could meet you there at our favorite harbor dock at nine-thirty."

"Ok, that will work, Sam. We have enough fuel. Oh, by the way, why did they place the chip in that Christmas-tree-like ornament? It doesn't look like a container for the world's ultimate quantum chip."

"Exactly." Did he expect them to store it in a see-through necklace case?

"Got ya. Out and about." Pete looked at the baleful islands ahead. Where are those shoals located? Need to be careful. Slow 'er down.

"Trouble, boss?" dark-haired, olive-skinned, mustachioed, thirty-seven-year-old Ernie asked, who was seated to the left of Pete. This aint going as planned. Something is not right.

"Maybe, maybe not," Pete curtly replied as he scanned the increasingly fog-laden, darkening horizon. "We might have an attached or integrated bug." He then glanced over his right shoulder. "Oh, fuck! Not again!"

Ernie snapped his head around. "Who is that, boss?"

"Not sure," Pete replied. "But, I think it's the same boat." He then opened up the throttle. "Hold on. We're getting the hell out of here, mate. See ya later, suckers!"

Soon the catamaran-style powerboat was skimming across the oil sea at 82 MPH (132 km/h). They opened up a sizeable gap. In seven minutes they had reached a granitic pair of exposed peaks of underwater mountains. Already here. Blew those fucks away.

Pete slowed the craft down and used his headlight to scan the all-rock shoreline of the western mini-isle. He looked to the rear again. There were no lights. But just 17 seconds later, the lights were back in view. Oh, shit! What rotten luck! Who the fuck screwed up?

"Ernie, I think it's the Coast Guard; they're tailing us. Fleeing is futile. I'm sure that they have alerted the nearby ports. How about I let you off and you hide the chip under a rock. I just know that they will rip this boat apart searching for that damn bauble. And if/when they find it, we lose. Bigtime."

"Ok, sure, boss," Ernie answered with some trepidation.

Pete inched the bobbing boat up as close as possible. Ernie, now on the bow with the colorfully disguised quantum chip in his jacket pocket, prepared to leap to a water-surface-level, almost-horizontal ledge. Hope I can land in the trough between waves.

"Just a little bit closer, boss. Ok, right there. Stop!" Ernie gave Pete a thumbs-up and promptly jumped from the starboard side of the bow. His left shoe splashed and immediately immersed four inches (10 cm) into the chilly seawater. This water is freezing!

"Hurry!" Pete barked as he shifted into reverse. Easy for you to say, boss.

Ernie scrambled up the craggy slope. Thirty feet (nine meters) up he placed the chip-lure under a loose mini-slab. "Ok, all done. I'm coming back down, boss."

<BANG> <BANG>

The mysterious boat that had been shadowing them was now shooting at them. And this 59-foot (18 meters), massive-yet-sleek motor yacht was now only 125 feet (38 meters) behind Pete's Ferrari on water. Holy fuck! What the hell is going on?! / Would the Coast Guard be shooting at us? Sincerely doubt it. That boat is trouble. Serious trouble.

Pete ducked down. Well, that's obviously not the Coast Guard. Dazzler has sent his private navy after us. Going to have to leave Ernie for now, or we'll both be killed. Maybe they didn't see him. 'Just lie low, pal. And, good luck. Sorry, but it's time for me to push this lever all the way forward before I become bloody Swiss cheese.'

<Vrooooom>

The Skater 36 rapidly scooted away like a skimming rocket. However, the fog was now quite dense. At a speed of 56 MPH (90 km/h), the gray wall of tiny dihydrogen monoxide droplets suddenly – and quite shockingly – yielded to the northernmost, black-as-no-tomorrow rocky islet, which local day-trippers sometimes called The Crescent or Cat and Canary (an adjacent-to-the-feline's-mouth tiny outcrop).

<BOOM> Holy cow! What the hell was that?!

The Salinian Block cat's tail completely destroyed the personal performance watercraft. Pete was dead upon the bomb-like impact, or mere nanoseconds thereafter. Thousands of carbon-fiber splinters and S-glass shards littered the lightly undulating swells 1,542 feet (470 meters) from Ernie. Holy shit! Did an engine blow? A bilge explosion? No, it sounded more like a collision. He hit something – something hard and unmoving, like a just-above-the-waterline or semi-submerged flank. Bet poor old Pete is dead. Yeah, I'm sure of it. No way that boss survived that. What do I do now? Need to stay hidden until that diabolical yacht is gone. Or, I'll be the next death out here. Wonder if they saw me climbing. Sure as hell hope not. Nowhere to go if they did.

After a cursory search of the shoreline, the large motor yacht zipped past Ernie and proceeded to the wreck site. They then shined several searchlights on the water, which illuminated the red-and-white flotsam. But, there was no sign of Pete. His remains had already sunk. An opportunistic great white shark devoured the mangled corpse in four chomps.

Ernie could just faintly see, and only every once in a while, the searchlights through the draping fog. What happens now? Do they come back and carefully search the rock I'm on? And then shoot and kill me? I'm stuck here. Or, am I? That island over there would be a good place to hide for a while. Need to see how far away it is. Maybe I could swim to it. Doubt they would search it. I'd be safer over there. Yeah, need to check it out. Staying on this island is much riskier.

Since the north face of the extant island was nearly vertical, Ernie decided to just keep climbing, as moving laterally was very dangerous, if not impassable in places. In eight foothold-finding-and-hand-scrabbling minutes, he had reached the pockmarked summit, 154 feet (47 meters) above the foreboding Pacific Ocean. He gazed eastward at the sister island. Looks to be about 80 feet [24.4 meters] across at the narrowest passage. Could I make it that far in that cold-as-ice seawater without locking up and drowning? Don't think so. And even if I were to survive the swim across, I'm then soaking wet and freezing with no towel or change of clothes. Hypothermia would surely set in. I'd slowly teeth-chatter my way to death. What a pitiful, wimpy ending to my life. No, I need to stay on this chunk of rock. Really have no choice. Wonder how far I am from San Francisco. Wonder what the cell service is like here. Is there any reception at all?

Ernie extracted his silver smartphone. He was happily surprised to see that he had two bars (out of four). Google Maps was soon lighting up his face. Ah, so I'm on the Island of St. James. The other one doesn't seem to have a name. Oh, it's 'the' North Farallon Island. Sure didn't think that I'd be here tonight when I woke up this morning. I've got myself in a really bad fix – a life-and/or-death dilemma. Oh, there's where Pete's boat crashed. Kind of looks like a comma. But for Pete it was a period. The end of his life sentence. His nautical game-over moment. Well, he sure went out with a blast. Such a risk-taker he was. At least his maritime death was instantaneous. No years of drooling, silent, loss-of-mentality agony in a nursing home. Wait. Could he still be alive? Has that yacht found his body floating on the water? Are they torturing him right now because they can't find the quantum chip? No, he's a goner. Has to be. Wonder when they will come back by here. And look for me? Shit!

Just then Ernie heard the low-frequency drone of the motor yacht's inboard diesel engine. Then he saw the cabin window lights. He crouched down and remained motionless in a small, damp, cold, dark crevasse. The once-menacing, life-threatening vessel passed without incident, and soon disappeared into the fog-strewn southeastern darkness. Whew! Glad those gun-firing assholes are gone. One big problem self-eliminated. But, I'm still stuck on this frigid-water-surrounded rock. For how long? For at least the night. Or longer? How much longer? I'll at least need some water by morning. Or, I'll start to dehydrate. I really could quite literally die from dehydration on this overgrown sea stack. It's probably the most likely scenario. No, let's not think negatively. Don't want to start a downward spiral of grim thoughts. Hope it doesn't rain. But, I would then have some freshwater to drink. I could cup my hands and harvest the raindrops. Harvest the raindrops? Must use that phrase in my next novella. Never told Pete that I was a writer. I know that he would have laughed about it. 'A writer? Well, aint you special? Ernie, a bestselling author. Ha-ha-ha.' I think Pete was afraid of written words. He didn't trust them; he didn't trust his mind in quiet, idle, introspective moments. It was all about hard-charging at the target straight ahead for the maximum adrenaline rush. Screw the periphery. That was his life. All his women eventually grew tired of it. No wonder he had three divorces. No, rain would be totally miserable. It would make my body cold – very cold – dangerously cold. Hypothermia could easily set in if I got soaking wet out here. There's no place to get out of the rain. No shelter anywhere. Not even a single tree to get under. Ah, let's check that radar website. Yes! No precipitation tonight. Thank God! Though it sure would be nice to have a sleeping bag or blanket. Well, at least I have my jacket. Let's see... what to do right now? I could call Cindy, [a 33-year-old Lebanese lady that he was on the verge of asking out] I suppose. But, what could she do? She doesn't have a boat. And, no one that she or I know does. She certainly can't call the police; they would just arrest me. I've got the prized chip. Yeah, I've got the grand prize alright, but I'm in the grand trap. Wonder what happens when that Sam guy doesn't see us in Sausalito tonight. Glad he doesn't have my number. Or, does he? Maybe Pete gave it to him as a backup. Maybe he demanded it as a safeguard. Well, we'll soon find out. Wish I had his number right now. I could explain what happened, and he could send a boat out to pluck me – and the coveted chip – from this fog-frigerated [sic] stone in the drink. Well, I've got plenty of time to kill. Let's research this place some more.

It was now 8:18 PM. Wikipedia was now on Ernie's three-inch (7.62 cm) square screen. So, I'm approximately 30 miles [48.3 km] west of the Golden Gate Bridge and 20 miles [32.2 km] south of Point Reyes. Sure can't see the lighthouse tonight. Woah! Was that it for a millisecond? Pea soup to the northeast now. The Farallon Islands, also known by sailors as The Devil's Teeth. Well, Pete sure ran into a fatal fang tonight. The Egg War of 1863. All over uncommonly desired common murre eggs. People will kill over anything. Nuclear waste dumped off the Southeast Farallon Islands from 1946 to 1970. What in the world were they thinking? What a flawed species we iz. [sic]

He heard a seagull and looked west-southwestward. Between a momentary parting in the fogbank, he saw the waning gibbous moon. It was setting, and almost down to the horizon. Is this the last time I see the moon? Sure hope not. I want to see one of my stories get published before I die. I want to win Cindy over. She's the one. I think she likes me. But, I need to play my cards right. Write. Yeah, write. I guess I could do some writing tonight. Nothing else to do.

Sam was halfway across the Golden Gate Bridge at 9:19 PM. He turned his head to the left. Some dense-ass fog tonight. Hope Pete didn't bang into a buoy. Or plow into a rock. I guess they should already be in Richardson Bay. Maybe they're already at the dock. Let's see... 4 miles [6.4 km] and 7½ minutes to go. Perfect.

After passing through the 999-foot-long (305 meters) Robin Williams Tunnel, Sam merged to the right and took Exit 444 for Rodeo Avenue. The Mercedes snaked down the eucalyptus-canopied, two-lane, double-yellow-lined, damp, asphalt road. As he decelerated to the STOP sign at Nevada Street, he could see the harbor lights straight down below. I sure hope that they are there. Or, soon will be. On time. Don't want to wait around. $300K is nothing to sneeze at. It should carry me for a while.

The road became a curvy residential lane. The speed limit reduced to 15 MPH (24 km/h). Sam noticed a hillside chalet on his left as he turned the steering wheel hard to the right. Wonder if anyone has run into that guy's garage. I'm sure some drunk has. Think I'd install bollards. Maybe that is against the town ordinance. So many regulations now.

After passing an ivy-covered knoll on the right and a blind driveway, Sam slowly merged into Woodward Avenue. The narrow street continued winding down towards the central business district. The sporadically lighted windows in the expensive houses had no silhouettes. Not until the one catty-corner from the Spring Street STOP sign. Why is that lady standing in the window? Is she nude? An exhibitionist artist? A prostitute? What a ridiculous thought. Is she looking at me? Why did I think that? Must be getting paranoid. Need to calm my mind. It will all be ok. Just relax, relax, relax.

There was no traffic. Sam finally turned left. As he passed the woman in the window, he smiled and shook his head. Wonder if she saw me. Not through that curtain, she didn't. Though, it is rather thin. Ah, the strangeness of this life. Wonder what her story is. Who knows? Maybe she just chopped up her boyfriend. Why in the world did I think that? Too many horror movies. / Have never seen that car before. Such a long pause at the STOP sign. Eleven seconds. Something is going down here tonight. I can sense it. A drug deal? Maybe. Maybe something else. Maybe something highly sought after. Is that a fishing lure? The cursed blessing of being psychic.

After a STOP sign for an all-oysters-dead-quiet Pearl Street, Sam made a right on red onto four-lane, main-drag-of-the-ville Bridgeway. Just one block later he turned left, and sharply curved left down Marinship Way. He then veered right onto Liberty Ship Way. He was now in the marina district, and could see some docked boats and the near-black, tranquil, barely rippling water. Just about there. Please be there, Pete. Please.

Sam turned the engine off in the gravel parking lot that he had used two years prior for another rendezvous, one that involved an ecstasy (MDMA) drop. He could see their designated dock space. It was vacant. Ok, it's 9:29. You guys had better be pulling in soon. Very soon. Oh, let's just pass some time checking scores on the phone. Darn! Utah State killed us [San Jose State] 61-10. A complete rout at CEFCU. [Stadium] Just freaking awful. Well, so much for this season. Ah, the [San Francisco] Giants beat the [Los Angeles] Dodgers 2-1 at Chavez Ravine to close the gap to 'only' 37 games behind. A whopping 37 freaking games out of first going into the final week of the season! Just freaking awful. My God, what happened to that team? Well, the golden 'even run' is certainly over now. [The San Francisco Giants won the World Series in the even-numbered years of 2010, 2012, and 2014.] Constant cellar dwellers now. Just freaking awful. Hmmm... Where the hell are they? Did something happen to them? Has a serious mishap occurred out at sea? Or, have they bolted, and taken off with that life-changing chip? Don't those idiots know that I can track it, too? No, they probably don't. I never told either of them. And, I know that Leonard [a 34-year-old Filipino American who actually stole the quantum chip] didn't. Leonard has never even met Pete or Ernie. Or, has he? The tracking software doesn't run very well on this phone. But, it's worth a try. Knew that I should have brought the damn laptop. Darn it! Oh, just try to contact them first.

It was 9:37 now, and Sam had become very antsy. He sent a terse text to Pete's phone.

Ok, I'm here in the lot next to the dock. Where are you guys? Nearby?

After three minutes with no response, he called Pete. No answer. It quickly went to voicemail.

"Hey Pete, what's up, buddy? I'm here in Sausalito looking at our dock. Please call me."

Another four minutes went by with no reply. Sam got the tracking app going on his phone. It was glitchy, but it finally registered a ping for a split-second on the northwestern section of the Farallon Islands – more specifically on The Island of St. James. Ah-ha! So, there it is. But, why is the chip on that island? Something has happened. Something fishy is afoot. Do I have Ernie's phone number? No, it's back in Mountain View on the laptop. Darn it! Well, what to do? What good is sitting here? I'm just wasting time. Need to drive back to South Bay. No way around it. If Pete calls or texts, I'll just turn around and come back here. Yeah, just sitting here is a waste of valuable time. And, my staying inside a parked car for a long time will look suspicious. The police are no good for me. It's time to hit the road and get the hell out of here. Hope there are no wrecks or collisions on [Interstate] 280 tonight. Wait. Maybe just send them one more text – a motivating threat.

Hey, I know where you guys are. Call or text me right now! Don't make me get the big guy – and his goons – involved.

Sam waited three minutes. There was no reply. He then retraced his path back to US 101. As he angrily sped up a now-wet-from-the-evening-fog Rodeo Avenue, his tires lost traction in a right curve and hydroplaned. Sam's Mercedes slammed into a curbside, mature, torpid California black oak. The driver's door made first contact with the tree trunk. Sam was knocked out. An ambulance would arrive five minutes later. He was pronounced dead while in transit to the hospital. Blunt-force trauma would be listed as the cause of death on the medical report.

At a fog-enshrouded, 55º Fahrenheit (13º Celsius), calm-to-light-winds 10:41 PM, Ernie shifted positions again in his preferred, curvilinear craterette [sic] on the southeast side of the rocky island, not far down from the apex. He had actually almost dozed off. He considered his current situation. So very lucky that it's not raining or very windy. And the temperature isn't that bad, either. It could feel so much colder out here. I sure am thirsty though. Maybe drink a little bit of the rainwater that I saw in those natural bowls. Guess I'll have to drink it like a dog. Would bacteria be in that water, though? Maybe delay that for now. Still feel ok. Still thinking ok. Well, I think I'm thinking ok. If I think that I'm thinking ok, what should I really think? Ok, let's not go bonkers. Just stay still and don't fall off this rock into the sea. Just make it through the night, and all will be forever-fantastic. Just wait until tomorrow morning before attempting anything. Will be better able to see if that water is clear and fit for drinking in the morning light. It's just a night to stay put. Do I have to take a crap? No, I'm not growing a tail yet. That's another task that should wait until morning. Eight hours to no-go. Stuck here. No need to try anything foolish. Maybe Cindy does indeed know someone who could fetch me. But if I call her, she will think I'm nuts, and will never want to date or marry me. Ever. 'So, you're stranded on one of the uninhabited Farallon Islands where people are strictly prohibited. Ok, how in the world did that happen? How did you get out there? WHY were you out there? Were you fishing with a friend? But, I thought that you hated fishing. Well, where did your friend's boat go? Did he just ditch you and leave you there to slowly die? Did you guys get into some kind of silly male argument about who had a bigger fish?' Jeez, it's going to be a very long night.

Just then Ernie saw a vessel's running lights approaching the island through the whisperingly wispy fog. It was a motor yacht. And strangely, it was headed straight for him. Oh, no! They're back! But, why are they headed right for me? I can't be seen in this rock-walled pit. Oh, it's the chip, stupid! It must have a tracking bug on it. Remember, that's why they chased us out here. I bet the head honcho sent them back out to find it. Must think fast. Got to get the bug off the chip.

Ernie pulled the cartoonesque bauble from his pocket. He noticed that the top seemed heavier. Bet the tracking bug is there in the tip. Wonder if I can break it in two with my bare hands. Just bend it a little. Easy...

<Snap>

The styrofoam-like material broke in half. Ernie looked at the edge of the quantum quantifier with the light from his cell phone. There's the ultimate chip! And the homing device is most definitely in this other half. Need to get this damn tracking bug as far from me as possible.

Ernie slinked over the summit with the chip section secured in his jacket pocket. He carefully descended to the start of the north-side cliff diametrically opposite of where he was, and tossed the problematic portion of the bauble away. Dear God, if you're awake now, please let it reach the ocean. And let it float away. Far, far away.

He soon heard the vessel's engine. The king-daddy-o motor yacht was rounding the western side of the island. Ernie scrambled over to the eastern side. Searchlights were now scanning the surface of the shore-lapping sea below the north face. Sorry guys, there's no mega-million-dollar chip attached to that buggy bauble anymore. But, have fun searching. Will they find it? Has it sunk?

Just then a full-face-masked scuba diver dropped into the water with a flashlight. A rotund, middle-aged, now-quite-anxious, onboard Caucasian man directed him where to go. The diver only swam about seven meters (23 feet), stopped, raised his right hand, and proudly declared: "I got it!"

The black-wet-suited diver then flippered back to the large, fiberglass, white-with-an-orange-stripe motorboat. He was promptly hoisted back on deck, where he excitedly gave the two-inch-long (five cm) piece to the man in charge, who very quickly was consumed with a furious rage.

"This is just the fucking tracking device! Where the hell is the goddam chip?!" He was livid. "Where's the other piece?!"

"There was no other piece, sir," the diver demurely replied.

"Goddammit! It must have fucking sunk! Do you know who is going to be pissed-off like a cat thrown into a swimming pool? Yeah, him! This aint good for any of us. Not good at all. In fact, this is terrible. No, it's way beyond terrible – it's a mother-fucking nightmare! The one and only, über-super-duper, prototypical, in-a-league-of-its-own quantum chip is gone. Millions – make that billions – of future dollars have just been lost – lost to the ocean depths. Do you know what happens to people who make mistakes as expensive as this one?! Here's a hint: This crowd doesn't issue do-overs, nor do they grant pardons; they don't play. We're done! It's over. Our goose is cooked – charred and smoking." Not a happy boat over there. Will they return? When?

The diver just looked down.

The angry captain then stomped back into the cabin. Soon the motor yacht sped away. To the north. Hmmm... Looks like their plan B has been executed. At least they're gone. Finally.

Ernie moseyed back over to his sleeping demi-crater. He repositioned his body as comfortably as possible. He looked at his cell phone. It was 11:29. Sun should be up in seven and a half hours. That's not an eternity. Thirsty and hungry, but not life-threatened anymore. I can make it. Sure, I can. I've got the billion-dollar chip. But, how am I going to turn it into cash? I'm not an IT guy. But, I know some. Need to make a connection somehow with someone in the Stanford [University] IT department. No rush. Someone will fall into place. As for getting off this island...

He became drowsy, and with the hood of his jacket folded over, the rock surface was softened for his head. It was a long ways from his pillow in Gilroy, but it sufficed. He mused on the bizarre and tragic day in mental-note-taking fashion for a poem. We got off to a great start in Santa Cruz. The first hour up the coast was smooth booze. Half Moon Bay was too hot for a landing. So, Pete launched us out to sea. But, they already had our scent. Thus, Pete decided to split. And split he sure did. Me on a rock with a bug on my chip. They came back with a vengeance. I had nowhere to go. The bug got thumped. And they'll soon get dumped. As for me...

Ernie had fallen asleep at a starless, low cloud-decked, not-quite-as-foggy midnight. He was soon having a dream in which he was trying to keep the cartoonlike, chip-enclosed half-bauble hidden from Cindy, as he didn't know how to explain it, nor his possession of it. Cindy noticed his angst as they sat at his childhood dining table, and asked him if anything was wrong. He stated that everything would be incredible very soon. She smiled and winked at him, and the dream setting became The Island of St. James and North Farallon Island. They were moving towards each other. Their rocky shorelines slowly grinded into each other. There was earthquake-like shaking.

Ernie awoke to find a mouse next to his chin. He was startled. WTF! Oh yeah, these islands are covered with mice. Am I going to be able to sleep on a rodent-infested rock? Sure could use a nice, chilled beer. A bottle of Calf-eine [Half Moon Bay Brewing Company's coffee milk stout] would be primo. Maybe a whole six-pack. That would pass the time rather nicely. Rather deliciously. 72 fluid ounces. [2.13 liters] 12-24-36-48-60-72. 12: 1 + 2 = 3. 24: 2 + 4 = 6. 36: 3 + 6 = 9. A multiples-of-3 pattern is emerging here. 48: 4 + 8 = 12. 60: 6 + 0 = 6. Well, so much for that run. Oh, let's just finish it out. 72: 7 + 2 = 9. So, 3, 6, 9, 12, 6, 9. Wait! Hold on. 48: 12: 1 + 2 = 3. Thus, 3, 6, 9, 3, 6, 9. The magic of 3. One third of a circle is 120º. 1 + 2 + 0 = 3. Wow! How about that? Ah, such outlandish numerical nonsense to amuse one's mind while stranded on a restricted-access rock island. Wonder if I won the Powerball lottery tonight? Let's check. Nope. Not a single number. 76% probability. A Powerball tournament would be cool. Maybe a pool of twenty people. A 10-week 'season' of 20 head-to-head 'matches' twice a week – Wednesday and Saturday evenings. Soccer/football scoring. Set up a table like the Premier League with a running goal-difference tabulation. Three points for a win, one for a draw, zero for a loss. Draws would be draws – no overtime. If tied on points and goal differential at the end of the season, go onto one more drawing. Or another, if necessary. How would the goal scoring work? Hmmm... Let's see... If no numbers match on the ticket, zero goals. Match a white ball, 1 goal scored. Match the Power Ball, 2 goals scored. Match two white balls, 3 goals. Match one white ball and the Power Ball, 4 goals. Match three white balls, 5 goals. Match two white balls and the Power Ball, 6 goals. Match four white balls, 7 goals. Match three white balls and the Power Ball, 8 goals. Match four white balls and the Power Ball, 9 goals. Match all five white balls, 10 goals. And if one matches all five white balls and the Power Ball, it's purely academic. Puerilely ecstatic. Pour on the waxing mathematic. Poor me in this rock-cliff attic.

Ernie had fallen back asleep. He would awake every 90 or so minutes, but the mice had deduced that he wasn't made of cheese and let him be. At 4:44 AM he had a bizarre dream. François, a middle-aged, veritably misanthropic, French Canadian acquaintance, was emceeing a TV game show: Turd Toss. A pair of naked couples on opposite sides of an oval-shaped pit were slinging their excrement at each other. The clothed crowd above was hooting and howling hysterically. The contestants were taking the big-cash-award game very seriously. It was kind of like dodgeball... without the ball. After one woman hit the other thirty-something, bleach-blonde female in the face with some flung dung, the shit hit the fan. The white chalk line in the middle was crossed by a black-haired male. It became all-out fecal folly. A horde of referees appeared and summarily restrained the transgressor. The crowd then began chanting: "Let the churl hurl!" [repeated ad nauseam]

Ernie awoke to the sound of a foghorn. He groaned. It was now 6:40 AM. The low gray clouds to the east had gotten much lighter. The sun would be rising in twenty minutes. I survived the night! Wasn't as bad as I feared. Now to catch a ride out of here. Maybe just wait for a whale-watching boat and flag it down. Thought I saw where they come out on Sunday mornings. Either that or a fishing boat passing by.

Ernie looked to the southeast. He occasionally saw the yellowish white lighthouse lamp through the hovering marine layer. And then he saw a vessel's running lights. The hull was deep blue. It was about 150 yards (137 meters) away and cruising at a good clip. Yes! This is where I – and this invaluable quantum chip – get to shore.

He jumped to his feet. And nearly toppled over, as his legs were somewhat numb. Once steadied, he began to wave his arms frantically. See me! Come on, see me. I'm right here!

The motorboat drew closer and slowed. It was now 35 yards (32 meters) away and headed for his island. Perfect. Bet it's a [United States] Fish and Wildlife Service vessel from Southeast Farallon. [Island] I can explain my way out of an arrest. 'It was an emergency drop-off and then a tragic boating accident, sir. When the captain fell overboard, he kicked the throttle up.' Yeah, that's it.

<BANG>

Integrated bug.

26. The Fan (April 2019)

A garment factory just outside of Vientiane, the capital of landlocked Laos in Southeast Asia. That's where 39-year-old Aelan now worked 72 hours a week. She had lost count of the Nike® swooshes that she had machine-sewed in her first two weeks of employment, but her fingers unmistakably – and often painfully – knew that the number was already in the thousands.

Forty-one-year-old Analu worked 66 hours a week at the local brewery. He felt lucky to have the job, though the case-carting-and-stacking days were long and fatiguing. His lower back had now begun to bother him once again. However, the six-pack of lager that he was allowed to take home on Saturday evening helped, temporarily at least.

Aelan and Analu had two kids, a super-contemplative son named Kapona, who had just turned fourteen, and a lovely, focusing-on-drama daughter, Kamea, who was sixteen. Both had transitioned relatively well to the new high school in the city. Though, they sorely missed their own space that was afforded to them at their rustic, rural residence next to the rice paddies outside of Nang Ha.

Both parents had the same single day off each week: Sunday. It was their family-together day. The four of them would go into the town center to have lunch and later stroll along the banks of the Mekong River. Kamea would catch the stares of young, and not so young, men. Kapona would wonder about the depth of the lazy, olive green, national-boundary watercourse. How many meters deep is it in the middle?

One hot, humid, hazy summer Monday evening, Analu brought home an old, four-blade fan that looked like an antique. It provided a little bit of relief from the oppressively steamy air in their un-air-conditioned, beige-painted, bare-walled, twelve-square-meter (10 x 13 feet) rented room – the room where they all ate, drank, conversed, and slept. The tenant-shared bathroom was down the hall.

The following sauna-esque Wednesday, Kapona was alone in the room in the late afternoon. His sister was participating in an after-school activity – rehearsal for a Lao folklore play – and his parents were still at work. He quietly did some homework and then drifted into reverie as he gazed at the oscillating vintage fan on the open, screen-less, oh-so-slightly-slanted window ledge.

I wonder where that fan was made. Somewhere in Europe? Berlin? Rotterdam? Lyon? Coventry? Maybe so. Or, was it made in the United States? In Kansas? Is that factory still making fans? Or, is it out of business now? Was it bombed into oblivion? Who made that fan? How many workers were involved? Are any of those workers still alive? Probably not. Dad said that it was made in the middle 1930s. That was before the Second World War. That's a long time ago. Those workers would be around 100 years old now. Maybe older. They're all dead now. Well, maybe one of them is still alive somewhere – somewhere lying on a hospital bed. Yeah, maybe the youngest worker is not dead yet. Maybe he started working in the fan factory as a teenager. Maybe at the age of 17. Maybe he is awake at this very moment, thinking back to when he was a fan-factory worker. Or, maybe those days are now long-forgotten. The teacher said that very old people often get dementia, and forget parts of their past. 'Memory fractures and fades, students. It's not an absolute constant.' I'll be 17 in three years. Really don't want to work in a factory. But, what else is there to do here? Maybe I can continue to get good grades. Maybe I can somehow go to a college. What would I study? Why not study electricity? I could become an electrical engineer! Yeah, that would be cool. Learn about electrons. Electricity is the power source of that fan and so many other things, like the hotplate. 'Electrons move the modern world.' The science teacher is right. But, which way do they move? Didn't he say that they flow from positive to negative in a circuit? But within a battery, the direction is negative to positive. Weird. Does that fan turn in a positive-to-negative direction? Or the opposite? Need to ask the teacher tomorrow. Should wait until after class. Might be a silly question. Don't want to be embarrassed in front of my classmates. Alternating current is powering that fan, not direct current. Teacher said that it very quickly goes back and forth. Does the fan blade go backwards very quickly? Imperceptibly? No, that's crazy. I bet that I could have a good career in the electrical field. Personal electronics are everywhere now. Cell-phone repair is in high demand. Sure would be nice to have my own place someday. Those houses in the American movies are so nice. They must be very expensive. Maybe I could leave Laos someday for another country to pursue an electrical career. Someday after mom and dad have passed away. Well, if sister is doing ok. She may move to Thailand anyway. She seems to like Bangkok. Maybe she met a Thai boy online. I bet that's it. She's so boy-crazy now. Wonder what that surviving fan-factory worker is thinking at this very moment. Is he thinking about the thousands of fans that he helped make in the factory? Doubt it. Wonder what the average length of employment was for a worker in that fan factory. That incessant back-and-forth motion. There must be some special cog or cam that controls that. Sure would like to disassemble that fan and see the parts. Would be neat to see what affects what, and what is linked to what.

The fan then suddenly began to wobble. Sparks were streaking out from the hub. It started to slide on the windowsill. When it swung back towards the street, it toppled out the window. The plug snapped out of the receptacle. Oh, my! I hope no one below got hit by it. That fan is fairly heavy. It could easily kill someone from this [3rd-floor] height.

Afraid to peer out the window, Kapona ran down the internal stairway, passing his startled sister without saying anything. What's he up to now? / Wonder if Kamea saw it. Is he/she unconscious? Bleeding?

Once on the sidewalk, Kapona was relieved to see no injured persons. The mangled, major, metal, no-longer-attached components were bent, broken and scattered. Thank God it didn't hit anyone.

As Kapona crouched down to gather the fan parts, he saw some English writing on the inside of the cracked-in-half motor housing. The black-ink cursive on gray primer read:

Wednesday, June 19, 1935

A day that wound up not much unlike any other.

– Wayne Wheeler, a windings man
27. The Correspondence (May 2019)

David Z. Johnstonian

9879 Harfield Avenue

Apartment 107-D

Salt Lake City, UT

USA 84108

June 9, 1989

Hello Cecille,

I hope that you are doing well in the Philippines today. I saw your gorgeous picture and read your interesting bio in the Asian Dates & Mates magazine. I would like to know more about you. Well, first off, are you still single? If so, please write back. I'm 27 years old, single, white, brown hair, and right at six feet tall. I'll send a photo of myself next time.

Thanks,

David

Cecille Las

1234 Vergel Street

Apartment A-5

Pasay City

Philippines 1304

June 24, 1989

Hello David,

Thanks for your letter. Yes, I am still very much single – attached to no one. And thanks for the compliment. Yes, if you have a photo, please send it, as I like to put a face to the one who is writing to me. Don't worry if you don't think you're handsome; I'm sure that you are to me.

I have plenty of questions, too. My first one is: Where do you work? I suppose my second question would be this: Would you be willing to travel to the Philippines to meet me if we seem to be compatible? I hope so!

I'm 25½ years old and five feet, two inches tall. We Filipinas are kind of short compared to most American women.

Thanks again for your interest in me.

Sincerely,

Cecille
David Z. Johnstonian

9879 Harfield Avenue

Apartment 107-D

Salt Lake City, UT

USA 84108

July 15, 1989

Hello Cecille,

Thanks so much for your prompt reply. I am thrilled to learn that you are still single. I bet you get dozens of letters from American men. Glad that I still have a chance to win you over!

With regard to your two questions: 1. I work at a nearby garage as an auto mechanic. 2. Yes, I certainly would be willing to meet you in the Philippines. That would be a dream come true!

Another question for you: Could you live in the United States? Salt Lake City isn't New York City by any means, but it has most things - nice stores and good restaurants. The Wasatch Range (the mountains just to the east) are quite scenic.

Awaiting your next letter.

David
Cecille Las

1234 Vergel Street

Apartment A-5

Pasay City

Philippines 1304

July 31, 1989

Hello David,

Thanks again for writing to me. It means so much to me. Truly. No one else is writing to me. Honest.

In response to your question, yes, I could easily live in the United States. Utah looks beautiful. I read about Salt Lake City. So, it has cold winters with snow. I've never experienced snow, as the Philippines are always warm to hot, being a tropical country near the equator.

Oh, I must ask: Would your family be ok with you dating, and possibly marrying, a Filipina? I hope so. Well, I guess I'm getting ahead of things.

Your photo – you forgot! Please remember to send it next time, dear. Salamat = 'Thanks' in Tagalog, our native language.

Sincerely,

Cecille

David Z. Johnstonian

9879 Harfield Avenue

Apartment 107-D

Salt Lake City, UT

USA 84108

August 16, 1989

Hello dearest Cecille,

It was so great to see your letter in my mailbox on this weary Wednesday. It was a tough, long day at work, where it seemed that every repair was more complicated than anticipated – and more time-consuming. I saw a grimace on the boss's face as I left the garage. I could tell that he was displeased with my performance. Just one of those days.

Anyway, enough of me. How are you doing? Yes, Salt Lake City gets plenty of snow in the winter. But, no worries, my love – my apartment has a new furnace, and besides, I'll be right next to you to keep you warm. Now, I'm getting ahead of things!

Can I call you? I would love to hear your voice. I bet that it is as angelic as your appearance. Feel free to call me at 801-345-901X. Maybe dial 1 first.

Eagerly awaiting your call and next letter.

David
Cecille Las

1234 Vergel Street

Apartment A-5

Pasay City

Philippines 1304

August 31, 1989

Hello my dearest David,

It was so nice to hear your voice. And thanks for being so candid and telling me all those things about your past. Don't worry, honey; once I am there with you, all your problems will disappear.

Gosh, I really hope that you can come over to Manila to meet me in October. That would be so great, my dream-boy! I should be able to get off work for a few weekdays in addition to the weekend. That is a slow time of year for us. So, yes, October is a great time to visit me.

Oh, guess what you forgot to send me again? Your photo! Now that we've spoken to each other on the phone, I really need to put a face to my Mr. Charming. Don't forget, my fiancé-to-be. Muahh!

xoxox,

Cecille
David Z. Johnstonian

9879 Harfield Avenue

Apartment 107-D

Salt Lake City, UT

USA 84108

Sept. 19, 1989

Hello Cecille,

It has truly been great getting to know you, my dearest fiancée-to-be. The long phone conversations have convinced me that you most certainly are the one for me. No other lady could possibly match your warmth, charm, honesty, sense of humor, and natural beauty.

I am already checking into airline fares to Manila in late October. Maybe I could be there for Halloween, though I know that you said that it's different over there. Yes, I am thinking about buying the ticket next week! I have enough money in the bank.

My photo. Well, I don't have one at the moment. But, many people say that I look kind of like that actor Keanu Reeves – just not as good-looking. Ha!

Well, I'll see you soon, my sexy pinay princess.

Love,

David

Cecille Las

1234 Vergel Street

Apartment A-5

Pasay City

Philippines 1304

October 5, 1989

Hello my sweetheart,

So, you look like Keanu Reeves? Wow! Still, I need a photo, my dashing fiancé.

I really have enjoyed our phone chats. Thanks for calling me so often, David. I really appreciate that so much! I feel that I already know you after all of the hours of talking with you.

Please call me when you have your flight details confirmed, love. Can't wait to hug and kiss you!

Stay safe, dear.

Mahal kita (means 'I love you' in Tagalog),

Cecille

A muggy Friday evening, October 9th, 2007. The sunset has yielded to a semi-surreal, billowing-and-a-pillowing cumulus-cloud twilight at an elevated outdoor café on Roxas Boulevard that overlooks Manila Bay.

"And, you never heard from him again?" a 45-year-old, brown-haired, thin-bearded, average-build Caucasian American asked as he slowly handed David's original letters and Cecille's carbon copies back to a svelte, raven-haired, stoic, 40-something Filipina.

"Nope. Never heard from him ever again. I called and called. No answer. I left voicemails. Never a call back. Then when I called out of the blue one Thursday in late November of 1989 – I think that it was actually on your Thanksgiving holiday – the recording said that the number was no longer in service. When I got access to the internet in 1994, I looked up his name, but nothing came up. It was like he just vanished into thin air. It took me a while to get over it. I told myself that I would never seek a foreigner again for marriage. I'd rather be alone than be deceived. Just too many players to sort through. So many liars and braggarts."

"I hear you loud and clear. Yes, that's truly awful, Cecille. But, who knows? Maybe this David guy suddenly died. Maybe an accident." Steer her along. Gently.

"I considered that, Steve. He told me that he had had battles with cocaine and opioid pain pills. He could have overdosed, I suppose."

"Yeah, I bet that's what happened, Cecille. That would certainly be my guess." Why would that be his guess? Hmmm...

"But, I did a search of death notices and obituaries in Utah, and nothing came back," Cecille stated with a resigned sigh.

"Maybe he was using an assumed name. I mean, really, that last name is so oddly unique. It almost seems made up. I've never met or heard of anyone in the U.S. with such a weird last name, Cecille."

"Well, if that's the truth, it was very cruel of him. I bet he picked another Filipina. The competition for American suitors is fierce. I bet I was just an option – just a no. 2, or maybe just a no. 3. Life lesson learned. Well, I won't do it again. I was very naïve back then, Steve."

"Cecille, did David ever tell you about his twin brother? We never really got along. It was always a very competitive relationship."

28. The Alphabet Man (June 2019)

"Rochester, New York, man – not Rochester, Minnesota," the mid-40-ish, athletically thin, short, light-brown-haired, green-eyed Caucasian American man barked from a well-worn, swivel-type office chair. "Now, do I look like I came from the Mayo Clinic?" Mayonnaise balm for cranial sutures? Why'd I think of that? Need to start writing this stuff down. Maybe I could get something published like that lucky dog Paul did. Something in my new alphabet. / Este hombre se ve demacrado. [Spanish for 'This man appears gaunt.']

"You look like you need a drink, my friend," the nearly bald, portly, 50-ish Bolivian American retorted. ¿Es él anoréxico? [Spanish for 'Is he anorexic?']

"You're always thinking about cerveza fría, [Spanish for 'cold beer'] Jorge." A beer or three sure would be nice tonight.

Jorge chuckled. "It's very good in this hot weather, Bill." [It was already 95º Fahrenheit (35º Celsius) at 2:02 PM in Bismarck, North Dakota on Saturday, July 14, 2018; it would hit 99º Fahrenheit (37.22º Celsius) at precisely 4:44:44.]

"Well, after that event is over in Steamboat Park, I might join you for a drink. So, how did the parking situation look at last check, mi amigo bromeando?" [Spanish for 'my joker-friend']

"Ah, you're learning some Spanish, boss. You dating Latina caliente?" [Spanish slang for 'sexy Hispanic woman']

"Ha-ha. Now, wouldn't you like to know?" Eh, sí – él es. [Spanish for 'Ah, yes – he is.']

"Bill, where is your hometown of Rochester in the state of New York? Is it near Buffalo?" Ah, he must have seen my Bills cap. But, everyone has a map app nowadays on their phone. Sort of an odd question.

"No, but it's in the Upstate, too, though not as far west as Buffalo. It's on the Genesee River – on the southern shore of Lake Ontario." Genesee beer. Maybe pick up a six-pack later. Wonder if Tesoro [a nearby convenience store] still stocks it. Hope so.

"Oh, near Syracuse," Jorge ventured while eyeing a framed photograph of a waterfall with a nighttime city skyline just behind it. [High Falls in Rochester, NY]

"No, not really near Syracuse, either. Syracuse is 87 miles [140 km] to the east," Bill explained, wondering why Jorge was in-a-sudden-flash curious about old Kodakville. [sic]

"Got ya, boss. Well, I'll be going now. I'll text you if I see any cars on the grass." 'Oh, I'm sure you will, Jorge.' He's so lax; he'll probably pretend not to see the illegally parked vehicles.

"Oh, just go ahead and ticket them, Jorge. There are plenty of No Parking signs in that area. They have no excuse."

"Well, remember last time, boss: all those appeals, claiming that all the parking spaces were full." So what!

"Yeah, I remember that, Jorge. But, they were just too damn lazy to walk a few extra yards. [meters] I denied all of them." He denied all of them? Wow!

"No wonder you're so unpopular in this town, boss." Jorge was rapidly consumed by a mighty guffaw. Ol' Jorge sure is in a jovial way today. Wonder what good fortune landed in his lap.

"Ok, get the hell out of here, sabelotodo," [Spanish for 'smart ass'] Bill demanded with faux anger. And then smirked.

Jorge gave him a mock salute as he began to exit the modest office, and Bill just smiled and gave him a 'just go now' gesture with his right hand. El jefe realmente quiere que me vaya. Él está haciendo algo. Puedo decir. [Spanish for 'The boss really wants me to go. He is up to something. I can tell.']

Once Jorge was out of the old, four-story, concrete-panel building on East Rosser Avenue, Bill retrieved some marked-on sheets of gridded paper. There were a series of narrow columns with what seemed to be randomly placed azure-blue squares divided by bold, black, vertical lines, all of which were five blocks tall by one block wide. Upon closer examination, each column-character represented a letter of the English alphabet. Could I read this alphabet better if I were high? No, don't even think about sparking up any weed. Can't afford to lose this gig.

A lone fly suddenly whizzed by and alighted on the small, triple-pane, single-sash, engineered-for-the-ultra-frigid-Northern-Plains-winters window. Before Bill could take a whack at it with his red-striped, dollar-store swatter, it flew off to somewhere unseen. [behind a file cabinet that had a massive car-wheel boot setting on top] Where did that little germ-carrying insect go? The fly knows that I'm hunting it. Or, does it? One organism out to get the simpler one. Maybe humans appear as simple as that fly to some astral entities. Oh, what the hell am I thinking? Need to get back to work on these mailings.

Bill then looked down at his newly created alphabet.

He mused while scraping a mass of dead skin off his receeding-hairline forehead. Yes, I've finally got all of the letters taken care of. There were just enough unique combinations for all twenty-six. I should now write my first phrase using this columnar alphabet. Wonder if I could learn to read it... quickly?... effortlessly? Maybe write a whole story in it. Would the reading experience be noticeably different? I bet so. Would it flow better? Would it trigger dormant synapses? Would it dump out the dopamine? Ha! Hmmm... A story about why I left Rochester. Yeah, that's it. And, Jorge could be the first to read – or attempt to read – it. Or, I could e-mail a copy of it to Paul for his review. Though, it's probably too experimental – way too far out for his liking. Well, we'll see. Hmmm... A story is pretty ambitious. Maybe I should just stick with a paragraph. Or, maybe just a single sentence. Come up with something witty. Something with some zen to it. Would be nice if it were profound. Let's see... Hmmm... Facebook constantly asks: 'What's on your mind?' What if it gets to a point where they already know? That's probably the next breaktrough. And ultimate takeover. They already know their users' behavior and proclivities. Yeah, should go with something along those lines. While I'm pondering it, I'll just shoot Paul an e-mail.

Hi Paul,

How are the book sales going, you novel novelist, you?

Oh, guess what – I invented a new alphabet. Yeah, you could say it was a slow day at the office. Ha-ha. Anyway, let me know what you think.

Regards to the missus.

\- Bill

Bill attached his alphabet key and hit Send. Seventeen minutes and seventeen seconds later, he noticed Paul's reply on his flat-screen computer monitor.

Hi-ya Bill!

It's great to hear from you. Hope you are well in the Dakotas.

Sales are soft as they say, but I have an ad blitz coming up, so maybe the numbers pick up next month. Still a long ways from being able to quit the day job, but maybe someday in the not-too-distant future. Fingers crossed.

Hey, I like your modular alphabet. Very cool. How did you come up with that? Smoking those elf ears again? Just kidding, pal.

I played around with your new 'letter system' and came up with 32 possible permutations for your totem-pole alphabet. There are five ways to shade only one square, ten ways to shade two squares, ten ways to shade three squares, and five ways to shade four squares. And of course, one way to shade all five and one way to leave all five blank. Thus, you can create some extra letters. Maybe add some consonant blends, like Sh and Ch. Doesn't Spanish have a Ch letter? Hey, are you still dating the Hispanic lady?

Well, all the best. Gotta run...

Paul

Bill contemplated Paul's reply. He's right; there are 32 total ways to arrange those shaded/non-shaded squares. Missed six. My mind's not as sharp as it once was. Getting duller by the day. Need to go forward with this new alphabet very soon. Maybe the younger crowd will think it is hip, and run with it. 'Promulgate like a profligate!' Or, maybe just as delusional as ever. Probably the latter.

Then his cell phone chirped: a text from Jorge.

No cars are on the grass, boss, but there is one in the Missouri River. Maybe the guy was drunk. Someone said that he was from Minot. You know how that lot likes to drink. Anyway, they plucked him out just before he drowned. Ambulance just left. Going to lunch now.

Bill mused as the solitary fly zipped across his face. Why, that audacious, translucent-winged bastard! This means war!

But before Bill could get his swatter, his desk phone rang.

"Hello, this is Bill Brauwen. How can I help you?"

<click> The caller hung up.

Bill rubbed his chin. Probably just a wrong number. Don't think anyone in that Rochester [NY] gang knows where I am. Or, does someone? Would they really hunt me down over $654? It's not worth the drive – not worth the gas money. But, I did humiliate their kingpin with my ruse. I bet he's still pissed from the embarrassment. Jorge knew of that gang. Is he now informing el honcho? [Spanish for 'the boss' or 'the big shot'] Why does a South American settle in Bismarck? Kind of suspicious.

Ah, so Manny the Minot maniac decided to take a swim. You know, Jorge, I did leave something in Rochester, but it wasn't my heart. Enjoy your lunch hour. No rush. All quiet here.

Then Bill pressed Send. That should get his mental gears grinding. Can almost see the steam coming out of his nostrils.

Five minutes later a one-word text arrived from Jorge.

Thanks.

As Bill looked at his alphabet, he pondered Jorge's brevity. Seems he's gone from irresistibly inquisitive to indolently insipid. No questioning about what I left in Rochester. Maybe he thinks I'm onto him. Shouldn't have sent that allusive text. Dumb move. It will be interesting when he returns. Will he be a coy boy?

There was a quick rap-knock on Bill's wooden, peephole-less door. Too soon for Jorge to be back. Maybe someone wanting to pay their fine.

Then an envelope shot through the brass mail slot. It landed on the hardwood floor facedown. Probably from a building tenant. Another 'special' offer.

Bill walked over and picked up the white, nondescript, standard-size envelope. The only words on it were his full name: William James Brauwen, Jr. He slowly opened the envelope. The single sheet of logarithmic graph paper had characters from his new alphabet.

It only took him eleven seconds to decipher the two-word message. He ran to the door and swung it open. But, there was no one in the maroon-carpeted corridor.

Then a perturbed Bill heard his desk phone ringing.
29. Surfinland (July 2019)

Thirty-one-year-old Alexander looked at the digital clock-radio on the walnut nightstand in his apartment bedroom on a warmer-than-normal October 8th (2014) evening in southeast Charlotte. He was anxious and quite pensive. 8:57. Ok, now it's 8:58. What are the chances of seeing the minute change? I guess if glancing for a whole second, the odds would be 1 in 60 – less than 2%. Can I do the math in my head? My mind is frazzled at the moment. Invert 6/10. Reduces to 5/3. So, it's about 1.67%. But, did I look for precisely one second? Hmmm... What fraction-of-a-second gaze would result in exactly a 1% chance of seeing the minute numeral(s) advance? [0.6 seconds] Hmmm... Oh, why do I think such nonsense? Sylvia said that she'd be there – there being 'the Queen City's best dive bar' – at ten on the dot. Which dot? The top one. Got 34 minutes to kill. Why so late on a Wednesday? Doesn't she have to work tomorrow morning? Surf Inn. What kind of name for a bar is that this far inland? That suds-and-spirits joint is 171 miles [275 km] from the Atlantic Ocean! Odd, but maybe the owner is a former surfer. Who owned a seaside motel? And then hit hard times? Whew! Boy, I sure am nervous. Need to throw on some more cologne. Haven't been on a first date in ages. Hard to go on a second date without going on a first one. When was the last time? Ah yes, Erie [PA] back in the spring of 2002. What a crazy chick she was. Wonder if Cindy is dripping hot wax all over some dude's dong right at this very moment. No telling. Maybe she's in Pittsburgh now. Yeah, psycho Cindy said that she wanted to move there. Hope she hasn't died from a candle fire.

Alexander walked into the living room and switched on the old, 25-inch (63.5 cm), tube-style TV. Until it crapped out, he wasn't going to replace it with a flat-screen model. The world news on Deutsche Welle arrested his channel surfing. Ah, so I missed the total lunar eclipse late last night. Darn. Well, maybe next time. Two more in 2015.

He then turned up the TV's volume.

"Eric Betzig, Stefan Hell, and William Moerner have jointly won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry for the development of super-resolved fluorescence microscopy." Good on them. Smart guys. Maybe I should have stuck with chemistry. Oh, well.

Alexander then changed the channel to ESPN. Highlights of yesterday's postseason Major League Baseball games (National League Division Series game fours) were airing. Darn it! Both St. Louis and San Francisco won. C'mon Nationals and Dodgers – you're the 1 and 2 seeds for Chrissake! And, look at that – they both lost by the same, tight, one-run score. [3-2] Man, I can't take another Cardinals or Giants World Series win. Though if I had to choose, the Giants would be easier to live with. Not division rivals. Well, it's about time to get rolling. Should scan the surroundings before entering this strange eastside saloon.

At 9:54/:55 PM, Alexander turned left off of northbound North Sharon Amity Road into an entrance for Eastland Office Commons, which looked more like an older townhome complex. He didn't see any signs on the faded, viridian green, overtly-wooden-panel siding, except for a set of bold, stenciled numerals (3553) on a red-painted, horizontal trim strip. Where the hell is this place? Does it really exist? Well, it's on Google Maps. If it's just a joke, they sure have a lot of people in on it. No, it must really be in here... somewhere.

When he had nearly reached the rear lot in his silver, 2009, driver-side-door-dinged Nissan Sentra, he looked to his left and saw a small, very simple, black, business-directory sign encased in glass (presumably so that no one could steal or rearrange the removable white letters and numbers) mounted on the siding. He quickly parked his car and walked up to the sign box. Maybe we get lucky here. Sure hope so. Only three minutes 'til 10. Please let this be it. Don't want to be late. So tacky. And so rude.

The sign's heading was the building's address: 3549 (in much larger numerals). And the last entry on the white-bordered directory: The Surf Club. The Surf 'Club'? Huh? WTF! Well, that's got to be it. But, why an alternate name? This is wack! What kind of business would allow this to go uncorrected? Weird.

Alexander walked up seven red steps to arrive on a wooden, deck-style landing. However, none of the businesses on either side had Surf in their name. Well, it sure aint on this level. Maybe the entrance is above. Certainly hope so.

He then scurried up the wide-plank steps to the upper landing. Once again he studied the names next to the nothing-fancy doors. Drats! It's not on this level, either. Guess it's on the other side of the building. Must hurry. Don't want to keep Sylvia waiting. That would be a terrible first impression.

After sprinting across the front of the 1980s-ish edifice, Alexander opened an unlocked apartment-style door. He then began a dimly-lit descent down a quarter-turn-every-six-to-eight-paces staircase covered with ancient, barf-yellow-green shag carpet with off-white streaks. Looks like they installed a remnant from The Summer of Spooge. Is this just a setup? Am I about to get rolled? Can almost feel a whack on the back of my head. This is nuts. Bet I'm greeted by a knife or a revolver at the next corner. Jesus, please, no.

Alexander safely arrived at a window-less, lauan, storeroom-looking door. It was eerily quiet. Cautiously he turned the old, faux-gold doorknob. It wasn't locked. The door popped open.

Seven people came into view: a glum, gray-haired, 60-something guy at the bar donning a newsboy-style golf cap; a disinterested pair of 50-ish, black and white ladies; a 30-something Latino dude watching an overhead TV; and a trio of flannel-shirted, early-to-mid-40s, beer-bottle-upturning, video-poker-machine-hovering-about Caucasian fellows. And infused throughout this bunker-like, semi-subterranean, lost-in-time hideaway of a watering hole was an aura of 'just leave me alone and let me drink in peace'. Sheez, what a place! Why did Sylvia pick such a bar? Well, maybe the beer here is cheap. Yeah, bet that's it.

After scanning the bar a second time and not seeing Sylvia, Alexander walked over and sat on a wobbly stool. Woah!

The bartender, who was a sexy, svelte, 40-ish brunette, walked over. "Haven't seen you in here before. I'll get you a membership form. We can't afford to get in trouble with ALE. [Alcohol Law Enforcement] You're not from ALE, are you?"

"No, not at all," Alexander replied as he looked up at a TV screen. A commercial for a pharmaceutical was airing. "Advertising prescription drugs. Only in America does the patient advise the doctor on the cure. You know what I've found to be very amusing?" Hope this guy doesn't go into a longwinded diatribe. Not in the mood for it.

"No, what?" Sapphire inquired. What is this dude's business? Hope he's not another, trying-to-be-sly, bar-supply salesman.

"At the close of every ad, cheerfully whisper these words: 'And you'll be happy forever'." Oh great, another cynic.

"Ok, mister, why are you here?" Sapphire sternly demanded with a serious look. She's cute.

"I'm here to meet a dark-haired, 29-year-old lady," Alexander plainly answered. "It's our first date."

"Oh, her; she's in a nook on the patio." This place has a patio? No wonder I missed her.

"Thanks. So, what's your name?" He sure is curious.

"Sapphire. I'm Agent 13 in the psecret psociety." The what? No, just ask her later.

"Oh, ok. Well, I'm secret-less Alexander. I better go meet her now."

"Never keep a lady waiting."

"True, Agent 13. Here's your card back."

"Thanks. I'll be over shortly to get your drink orders," Sapphire said as she saw an empty mug land on the heavily lacquered bar.

"Perfectamente," [sic] Alexander replied, and turned to leave.

Blonde-haired, average-build Alexander then walked over to an attractive, seated-at-a-two-top, brown-eyed, just-past-shoulder-length-raven-haired lady. "Hello Sylvia. It's me, Alexander. It's great to finally meet you." She looks part Native American.

"And, it's so nice to finally meet you, Alexander. But you're three minutes late, Mr. Pittsburgh Pirates fan." How did she know that? Did I ever divulge that in our chats?

"I'll make it up to you by buying you a drink." Ah, a gentleman. He just might be the one.

"What makes you think that I drink? Do I look like an alcoholic?" She grinned maniacally. Huh?

"No, you certainly don't look like an alcoholic, but, well, this is a bar and it's not much more than that."

"Hey now, it has darts and a pool table," Sylvia retorted.

"Does it? Guess I missed that. So, are you in a league, Sylvia?"

"This proud Cardinals fan is in a league of her own." So bold.

"Are you from Saint Louis?" Alexander asked.

"Originally. My mom and I moved here in 2002 – right after my dad got arrested for the third time." For what? No, don't ask.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"That's life, Alex. Can I just call you 'Alex'?"

"Sure. Feel free to slice off a couple of syllables, Sylvia." Slice. Ha!

"Anyway, where are you from, handsome blue eyes?"

"Western Pennsylvania. Vandergrift, a tiny town thirty miles [48.3 km] northeast of Pittsburgh."

"On the Kiskiminetas River, right?" She's been there? / Bet he wants to kiss me and roll around with me. I can feel it. Typical male horndog.

"Yes," Alexander dryly replied. She's done some research on me. How much?

"Just checking to make sure you're not lying, Alex." What in the world? She's loony.

"Well, I tell ya, this bar looks certifiably unfamiliar," Alexander quipped. Why'd he say that?

"That's funny," Sylvia responded. "It is the most Bukowski-esque bar in Charlotte. I read an online review about it, or I would have never stumbled upon it. I just love the non-trendiness of it. There's no theme, nor anyone to impress. I love it. Anyway, are you a comedian or a comedic writer of some sort on the side?" Why would she think that?

"No, far from it. Remember I told you that I work uptown. Well, to be more specific, it's risk analysis. Solemn stuff."

"Columns of solemns?"[sic] Solemns? She's out there.

"What is that, Sylvia?" She has nice breasts. Can't wait to fondle them.

"Oh, nothing I suppose. Though, I am writing my first novella. Guess what the title will be?" Something bizarre I bet.

"Oh, you're an aspiring author. Nice. Sorry, I have no idea on the title. But, hey, I'll guess that the first word is 'The'." What a smarty pants!

"You got it, mind reader!" Sylvia exclaimed.

"Oh, just a lucky guess, I would guess luckily." He's full of it.

"Well, the title is going to be – are you ready? – The 7-10 Split." The what?

"Like in bowling?"

"Exactly! Except that the bowling ball is a just-decapitated human head – a certain man's head no less – a worthless freaking cheater!" Oh, dear... She's got female rage.

"Wow! That is some image. Oprah might like your story."

"In the final scene, the scorned woman guillotines the sedated weasel and immediately rolls his semiconscious noggin down a makeshift bowling lane at a triangle of bowling pins. The bastard's skull hits the head pin – head-on. Did you hear that? His head hits the head pin head-on. Is that great or what?!" She chortled uncontrollably for 7.10 seconds.

"Yeah, that's some fine prose there, Sylvia. So, is that it – the ending?" I hope so.

"No, silly. There are a few more seconds to my justifiable revenge tale." Justifiable revenge? Oh, boy...

"Ok, please continue." How can I escape?

"All of the pins fall down, all except for the 7 and 10 pins – the classic 7/10 split. That's when I yell: 'Da split is da shit!' And that's the last thing his stupid-ass, whore-mongering, testosterone-saturated brain processes. Then it's an all-neural-circuits-permanently-shut-off scenario for that faithless fucker." She's as psycho as Cindy. Wonder if they know each other. Maybe they're on the same male-bash blogs.

"Uh, I think I need a drink," Alexander meekly uttered.

"Me, too, you charmer. You need to relax and open up. Don't be so shy. I won't slice your head off. I promise. It's just fiction. It's just a release – a catharsis for me. So really, just lighten up." Her sudden laughter came from an uncharted and unhinged place. Was she tortured as a small girl by an evil uncle?

"That's a relief!" Alexander emitted a series of weak chuckles. I think I've rattled him. Need to ease up.

Sapphire walked over. "Ok, first daters, what are we drinking?"

"What would you like, Sylvia?" Alexander asked.

"Surprise me. I drink to slow my brain down." Then let me buy you a case.

"Two semi-dry martinis, Agent 13," Alexander stated. Agent 13? He knows her number? What else does he know? Does he know about my stolen jewelry? Holy shit!

"Coming right up," Sapphire announced, and then walked away.

"Sylvia, I've got to hit the restroom."

"It's off on the left," she informed.

Alexander then got up and walked back inside. There were two more patrons now. Another 60-ish, balding, Caucasian male was at the bar, completely sauced, just looking down despondently. A thirty-something Asian lady in waitress garb was looking at something on her smartphone. Everyone seemed to be in their own little world.

When Alexander returned to the patio three minutes later, Sylvia was gone. He dashed back inside and searched the whole indoor area. But, there was no sign of her. He then asked Sapphire if she saw her leave, but she hadn't. When he returned to the patio, he walked up the steps to the next level. Ah, so I was right above this patio earlier. Why did Sylvia bolt on me? And I thought I was going to have trouble ditching her. Mission auto-accomplished. Well, guess I'll pay up and enjoy my victory drink. Did Sylvia dash off with hers?

Once back at the bar, Alexander received his martini. He was still puzzled by Sylvia's impromptu exit. Maybe she didn't like me in person. Well, that's fine by me. Glad she fled. Problem gone.

Sapphire walked back over to him. "Did she give you the slip, Alexander?"

"Yeah, you could say that, Agent 13. But to be honest, I'm relieved. She's a basket case."

"Did you call or text her?" Sapphire inquired.

"No, I'm content with this ending. Don't want to ever see her again. She's nuts, Sapphire. Severely damaged goods. Someone must have abused her. Sorry, but I've no interest in being the therapy guy."

"You met her online?"

"On PumpR.com"

Sapphire rolled her eyes.

Back at his Randolph Road apartment in the Cotswold area, Alexander began taking his shirt off as he entered his dark bedroom. Before he could flip the light switch, he heard a recent female's unmistakable voice emanating from his queen-size bed.

"Your lock was so easy to pick, loverboy. Ready to get busy?"
30. Just a Janitor in Jakarta (Aug. 2019)

A rusted-sheet-metal-clad shanty in Kebon Malati. That was the slum where twenty-year-old Angkasa and her mom, who now worked as a day maid for a wealthy family, and younger brother lived in central Jakarta. Her father's tragically cruel, lightning-strike death while harvesting coffee beans in East Java nineteen months prior precipitated the family's move to Indonesia's massive capital for income replacement. They joined the throngs of poor rural families who, via the inducement of employment, even if for meager wages, migrate to the burgeoning Southeast Asia metropolis.

On an archetypical, equatorial-sauna, hot-flat-yellow-sun-disk-beginning-to-rapidly-dive, late Wednesday afternoon (5:02 PM on August 24, 2016), Angkasa began walking to work down a paver-stoned service alley. She soon came to a sidewalk-less, curb-less, asphalt street (Jl. Tenaga Listrik) and turned left. She looked to her right over a mound of trash that was propped against a meter-high (39") floodwall. A sediment-laden, tempeh-brown, polluted-with-plastics Ciliwung River was barely moving. Angkasa then glanced up at the skyscrapers looming ahead. She mused. Two distinctly different worlds so close together: lavish prosperity and extreme poverty. Wonder if one of those richies [sic] could make it through a single week down here. Or, a single night. I'm sure that they would freak out to live like we have to. Do they view us as an inferior subspecies? Lesser humans? Because we're less sly? Hmmm... I wonder. Maybe just negative thinking. Need to stop it. Papa constantly said that nothing positive comes from negativity.

She passed an odd assortment of vendors in makeshift, blue-tarpaulin-covered booths. Then she paused to read the headline of a local newspaper: Sulawesi governor named suspect for bribery. Graft and corruption. Papa always told me that it is what holds our country back. Gosh, I miss him so much. Why did he have to die from such a freak act of nature? Why?! What are the odds of that happening? Probably better odds for winning the TOTO. [Singapore's lottery] God, what did our family do wrong? None of us ever wronged anyone. He was a good man. Why can't I be in college like Farah? [a friend] She'll have a good job in a year with a nice salary. Oh, this life – it's just not fair.

Angkasa then passed an improvised, river-spanning, lumber-strewn-about footbridge. She noticed that someone had installed a galvanized metal gate. Guess the local gang leader will soon be collecting a toll. Or, the government will demolish it. Sometimes I think that they would love to demolish us. Just bulldoze us into the river, and have us flushed out to sea during the next typhoon. But, who would do the dirty work for crumbs? Certainly not any of their family members. That's the only reason they allow us to stay: They need us. Well, until the robots are advanced enough to do the work.

Just after passing a second footbridge, one that was made of concrete and looked official, Angkasa saw a flash of pixelated colors in the shape of a phantom just off to her right. She had seen this before, and had no idea what it was, or what it meant, or when it would appear again. Is there something wrong with my right eye? Is a cataract forming? Or, is it my brain? Am I about to have a seizure or a stroke? Oh, dear God, I hope not. Please, no.

Figure 1: Angkasa's pixelated phantom

She quickly stepped off the pavement to make way for a pack of motorcycles. The phantom-flash suddenly occurred again. Does this mean that this day is special? Is it an omen of imminent disaster? Or, is it a propitious portent? I hope it's the latter, but I never have any luck.

As Angkasa passed a strand of hemp-rope-supported, earth-floor tents, she noticed that the pixelated blob was following her, just behind her right shoulder. Looking straight ahead, she caught it out of the corner of her right eye. It was unnerving to say the least. I'm going mad. I'm hallucinating! Why is this happening to me? Why?!

When she turned her head 90 degrees to the right to view the gate at the start of the third footbridge, which was made of wooden timbers like the first one but in a much more orderly fashion, the pixelated zone was like a holographic troll. Ketut [a male classmate from high school] said that there may be adjacent worlds that sometimes intersect with ours. Maybe that is an interface that he so often spoke about. Should I try to touch it? No, that would look weird. The passersby would think that I'm crazy. It's obvious that I'm the only one who can see it; everyone else is proceeding along their merry way, completely oblivious to it.

The next roadside distraction was an abandoned, dull-as-lead-gray, Polsex Patroli-stencilled hatchback sedan. It had been spray-painted with graffiti and the front windows and windshield had been broken out. The wheels were half-buried in the soft earth. It looked like a monument to something – something unforeseen. Sure would be nice to have a car someday. Though, this 20-minute walk is good exercise. But, the walk back at night is dangerous. I'm gambling with my life at two AM. Should probably start taking the bus. But, it still leaves a walk down this dicey street. Wonder what happened to this car. What part broke? Probably an expensive part like the engine or the transmission. I bet that's why it was left for the scavengers.

After passing stacks of used tires and a steel-bar cage of old motorbikes, Angkasa saw the Polisi (Police) sign with the funny, cartoon-like figure. This police precinct keeps the wolves at bay. If it wasn't here I bet that I would've been picked off by now.

She then turned right onto a sidewalk next to a busy boulevard (Jl. K. H. Mas Mansyur) and crossed the until-the-next-deluge-contentedly-lazy-and-bored-to-evaporative-tears Ciliwung River. At the next street intersection (Jl. Penjernihan 1), she walked under a large, steel-girder overpass and continued southeastward along the riverside. Three tall skyscrapers were just off to her right. The one in which Angkasa worked was just eight minutes away; she was 60% of the way there. And the pixel monster was no more. So glad that whatever-it-was is gone. Maybe it has to do with my right eye. Guess I should see an optometrist. Don't really have the time. Or the money.

Soon she saw the low-profile, blue sign for Wisma 46 Parking. A mid-20-something, male, a-bit-flirty acquaintance in the parking booth let her pass through. This saved her two more minutes of walking. She waved as she passed the glass-enclosed kiosk. I bet that he wants to pump me. Yeah, it's obvious. He's cute, but I bet that he's a player. I wouldn't be his only girlfriend.

Once in the employee check-in section of the 51-story, 860-foot-tall (262 meters), ultra-modern, fountain-pen-spired tower, Angkasa donned her fuchsia-top-with-black-pants custodial uniform. Once out of the female locker room, her boss, a mid-40-ish, thin-mustachioed, goateed Indonesian man, announced the floor assignments. She got stories 44 through 47. She sighed. Oh well, another night in the high-rise of low pay. At least I have a job. Should be thankful. Could be worse. Wish Bagus [her 18-year-old brother] would get one. Lazy ass.

She cleaned the 44th floor in near-record time, as all of the offices were vacant, and they weren't too messed-up during the midweek (unlike on Mondays). Usually by 7:30 most every office was vacated of all personnel. However, there would always be a few after-hours stragglers. Such was the case on the 45th floor at 8:53 PM.

As Angkasa passed a slightly-cracked-open, mahogany, conference-room door, she slowed her cart to a stop. Out of view, she overheard three middle-aged businessmen talking very excitedly. They sure are in a jovial mood.

The Indonesian: "A million USD [United States Dollars] in just a few clandestine keystrokes. You would like that, right? Is that ok, guys?"

The American: "You better believe I'd like that, Ahmad. Where do I invisibly sign?" [starts laughing]

The Englishman: "In light of the recent passage of the Brexit referendum, I'll gladly take those greenbacks. But, are you sure this digital sleight won't be traceable? Won't an internal audit catch it, Ahmad? I'd rather not die in a Nusa Kambangan prison. I hear that the food is awful."

Ahmad: "Our man in IR [Internal Review] is in on it, too, Peter. He will just move the numerals from column 1(a) to row ZZZ, and then to a back-page, all-asterisked ledger. The money will be convolutedly linked to a zillion other spreadsheets. Not all investments are instant winners; some are time-deferred losers, if you know what I mean."

The American: "It will look like a loss – not a theft. Is that it?"

Ahmad: "Bill, for a glib American, you learn fast."

[loud guffawing by Bill]

Peter: "Hey, I think that cleaning lady in the hallway may have heard us, Ahmad."

Ahmad: "She's just a janitor – just another janitor in Jakarta. She's probably from some retarded backwater and only knows two words of English: yes and no. Relax, mate. We got this. No need to fret."

Bill: "I'm headed straight to [Las] Vegas with it. I'm going to double it, maybe even triple it. Watch me."

Peter: "Oh, dear. Please don't come to me for an emergency loan next week, Bill."

[riotous chortling by all three]

Angkasa slowly moved along with her head down. She pushed her cart into the empty service-elevator cab and went up to the next floor. The first office that she began to feather-dust had a view to the northwest. It was dark now. However, due to the sporadic streetlamps, she could see the hodge-podge of drab-maroon and ash-gray roofs that marked her impoverished enclave. Maybe we can escape someday and return to Jember. Bagus really needs to get a job. Just me and mom working won't ever be enough to get all three of us back home.

She then exited that 46th-floor office and made her way to the next one. Its door was wide-open.

"Hello there," a mid-to-late-30-ish Caucasian man said before she could speak.

"Oh, hi, sir," Angkasa meekly uttered. "Do you want your office cleaned tonight?"

"No, I think it's ok tonight," the light-brown-haired man answered. "I didn't eat in it today." He then laughed for a few seconds. "Say, am I the only one still in their office?"

"The only one I've noticed on this floor, sir," Angkasa replied. "Though on the 45th floor, there were three men in the conference room."

"Is that so?" the man probed.

"Yes, they were talking about making a million dollars each," Angkasa divulged. "I overheard some of their discussion. Their plan sounded devious – perhaps fraudulent, sir."

"What's your name?" the hazel-eyed man asked, still seated in his desk chair. Yikes!

"Angkasa."

"Angkasa, thanks so much for that tidbit of information."

"You're welcome, sir."

"I've been monitoring them. Your suspicions are correct: They're up to no good, and they are all in for a big surprise."

"What is your name if I may be so bold to ask?"

"Daan. I'm from the Netherlands."

"Indonesia has a long history with the Dutch," Angkasa stated. She's had some education.

"Yes, and it's not all so good, I'm sad to say. I'm glad your country got their just-deserved independence. Angkasa, who are you?" What a bold question.

"Me – I'm just a janitor in Jakarta, sir. I'm no one special." So sad to hear her say that.

"You're wrong, Angkasa. I'm a very observant fellow; I'm paid to be. However, I've observed more than just that nefarious trio a floor below. I've noticed how well you clean my office. You are meticulous. I know when it was your night the next morning, because the other young lady never wipes the windows properly. There are always streaks and lots of glass-cleaner residue on the sills. When you clean this office, it is immaculate."

"Why, thank you, sir. I try to do my best."

"Do you work tomorrow night?"

"I do, sir," Angkasa stated, now unsure of where this was going. There's a ring on his finger. Does he want to cheat on his wife and have sex with me? Oh, no!

"Angkasa, always continue to dust the inside of the file shelving back here," Daan said as he pointed it out. "Details matter. And you never know – something might be there for you very soon." Huh? What's he talking about?

"Ok, I will, sir. Goodnight."

Daan smiled and then refocused on his computer screen. She's a good one. She deserves a lift up.

Angkasa finished her slate of offices earlier than normal. She then began helping another female janitor on the 31st floor.

At a muggy-and-slightly-foggy 1:39 AM, Angkasa began walking home. Along the way she wondered about Daan's cryptic statement, but couldn't decipher it. She made it safely to her narrow bed.

The next evening in Wisma 46, after noticing that the 45th-floor conference room was strangely vacant, Angkasa stopped by Daan's office. The door was locked. However, she had a master set of keys that opened all of the office doors. She immediately walked over to the open-face chest of file shelves. There was an envelope with her name on it.

"YES!"

31. The Psecret Psociety VAFL (Sept. 2019)

Psometimes the pseven psacred Psecret Psociety psubjects of psurrrealism, psubterfuge, pspace, pscience, and, uh, well, we pseem to have forgotten the other three. Psnap! (Thanks, Agent 66.) Well, let's just blame it on Monday. Oops! It's actually Tuesday (pSept. 3rd), but it psure feels like a Moanday. [psic] Maybe because yesterday was a national holiday (at least here in the United Pstates): Labor Day.

Anyway, with the psublime assistance of Ernie the electronic earwig's qubits, we've come up with a meta-psport for our autumnal amusement (even if it commences on a hot psummer evening in North America). It's the... [drumroll with a clank of a rusted cowbell] Psecret Psociety Virtual American Football League – the VAFL (rhymes with waffle). Tables, pscreenshots, rules and procedures follow. Yes, it is official now. It cleared Legal. Barely.

Not in Psecret Psociety (a Facebook group), nor have any desire to be? No problem. Read on. You can pstill have psome fun with this. It's perfect for an office pool. Psuggestion: Make the ante a $1 or $2 pscratch-off ticket (have everyone buy the psame kind pso as to avoid future grief); the pseason winner gets all of them; thus the jackpot is unknown, which increases the psuspense. As long as the number of participants is an even number, the pscheduling will be a breeze. You can have an odd number in your extra-pspatial division, too, but then you will have to deal with byes, which can get a bit tricky for those of us with advancing neuronal necrosis.

Well, enough of my blathering. Time to kick off that psimulated pigskin cyber-ball. Hope you have a psoaring-pscoring pseason!

Agents in Psecret Psociety were assigned teams (the zany names are twists on east Charlotte neighborhoods). If not in Psecret Psociety, just psigh and pskip over the table below.

Figure 2: Assigned teams by Agent no.
Ok, here's how it works:

  * Each team gets one randomly generated number (RGN) per quarter (Away goes first – except in an overtime pscenario) from Google's Random Number Generator (or you can use another random number generator if you prefer), which will be between 1 and 5200, inclusive (just enter these exact limits).

  * Away presses GENERATE and a RGN is displayed. Away team notes this RGN and then adds or psubtracts the Modifier (Mod) to/from the RGN to get the RAM (RGN after Mod). Note: The Mod is based on how well a team is performing (or not performing), pstarting with the third game; initially – for the first two games – it is pset at +30 for the Home team, and -30 for the Away team.

  * Once you have this new number – the holy RAM (RGN after Mod) – check the chart that is pseveral bullet points below for the 1st quarter pscore for the Away team. Note: The RAM (in red) corresponds to a pspecific pscore (in purple) for a particular quarter (in this case, the 1st quarter).

  * Next, the Home team does the exact psame procedure that the Away team just did, and they enter their pscore in their first-quarter block. (A psample game is pseveral pages below/ahead.) This alternates through the 2nd and 3rd quarters with Away always going first. In the 4th quarter, if one team is blowing out the other one (a huge lead), psome pspecial rules can come into play as noted below.

  * Pspecial 4th quarter rules:

    * If a team ends up with a RGN after Mod (RAM) of 5194, 5195, 5196, 5197, 5198, 5199, or 5200 (which all normally yield 28 points, as noted on the chart below/ahead) in the 4th quarter, and psaid team is behind by 29 or more points, that team will receive bonus points, as enumerated in the pseven bullet points below.

    * RAM is 5194 = +1 bonus point = 29 points for the 4th quarter for psaid team.

    * RAM is 5195 = +2 bonus points = 30 points for the 4th quarter for psaid team.

    * RAM is 5196 = +3 bonus points = 31 points for the 4th quarter for psaid team.

    * RAM is 5197 = +4 bonus points = 32 points for the 4th quarter for psaid team.

    * RAM is 5198 = +5 bonus points = 33 points for the 4th quarter for psaid team.

    * RAM is 5199 = +6 bonus points = 34 points for the 4th quarter for psaid team.

    * RAM is 5200 = +7 bonus points = 35 points (the maximum) for the 4th quarter for psaid team.

  * The official RAM – QTR Points chart:

Figure 2: official RAM – QTR Points chart

  * Note: The average pscore per team per quarter is 5.2 points, which comes to 20.8 points per team per game – just pslightly lower than the 2017 NFL average. However, there are psituations (as just mentioned and overtime) where additional points can be pscored (and increase the average closer to the 2018 level).

  * Games 1 and 2 only. Home teams will have their RGN increased by 30 each quarter (RAM), and the Away teams will have their RGN decreased by 30 each quarter (RAM).

  * All games. If the RAM exceeds 5200 or dips below 0 (zero), the Mod will be ignored and the unmodified RGN will be used to determine the quarter pscore for psaid team.

  * All games. The zero rule. If a team receives zero points in the 1st, 2nd, or 3rd quarter (from a RAM between 0 and 1500, inclusive), the zero range (the RAM resulting in no points) for the next quarter will extend to 1600, inclusive. In psuch case, a RAM of 1601 or 1602 will yield a psafety (2 points), and a RAM between 1603 and 2700, inclusive, will yield a field goal (3 points). If another pscoreless quarter results (zero points in the 2nd or 3rd quarter; disregard if in the 4th quarter), the zero range for the next quarter rises to 1800, inclusive, and 1801 and 1802 will yield a psafety with 1803 to 2700, inclusive, resulting in a field goal. Pshould the first three quarters be pscoreless for a team, the zero range for their final (4th) quarter will rise to 2100, inclusive, and 2101 and 2102 will yield a psafety, and 2103 to 2700, inclusive, will result in a field goal. Note: The zero rule does not apply to overtime.

  * All games. Only one RAM of 5042 (17 points for the quarter) or higher per team per half is allowed. If a team's 2nd or 4th quarter RAM equals or exceeds 5042 after pscoring 17 or more points in the 1st or 3rd quarters, psaid team will draw a new RGN to get a new RAM for the 2nd or 4th quarter. Exception: If psaid team is behind by 29 or more points and ends up with a RAM between 5194 and 5200, this rule pshall not apply. (Refer to previously mentioned pspecial 4th quarter rules.)

  * Pspecial note on psafeties. Psafeties are awarded to the drawing team in regulation (e.g., a RAM of 1502 would give the drawing team 2 points for psaid quarter, unless the zero rule was in effect); however, in overtime the reverse occurs – they are awarded to the non-drawing team and the game is immediately over. (Psee overtime rules below/ahead.)

  * Pscheduling. All teams pshall play each other twice, home and away. All team's pschedules will alternate home and away games (no back-to-back home or away games).

  * Playoffs (optional for pools of 12 or more, or you may elect to just have the regular pseason winner be the champion), will mimic the NFL psystem.

  * Psuper Bowl (optional) will be on a hypotethical neutral site (oh, let's call it Neutralia, Nebraska). Both teams will use 4x their TPD (Total Points Differential) as their MOD for the big game.

  * Third and psubsequent games: Home teams will have their RGN increased/decreased each time by 5x their HPD (Home Points Differential, which becomes their Mod for that game, applied each quarter to get their RAM, but not used in a possible overtime period). The Away teams will have their RGN decreased/increased by 4x their APD (Away Points Differential, which becomes their Mod for that game, applied each quarter to their RGN to get their RAM, but not in a possible overtime period).

  * If a game is tied at the end of the 4th quarter, overtime commences. Below is the official overtime procedure in a flow-chart format. I know, it looks quite complicated, and boy is it – just like quantum mechanics! Just kidding. It's really not.

Figure 3: Overtime procedure and pscoring flow chart
A psample 1st game (with Figures 4-20)

  1. Away team, Monrovians, draws first RGN.

3482 – 30 (Mod) = 3452 (RAM), which equates to 7 points. (Reference chart above with the red and purple numerals.)

  2. Home team, Elizabethans, draws their first RGN.

2263 + 30 (Mod) = 2293 (RAM), which equates to 3 points.

  3. Away team draws another RGN to pstart the 2nd quarter.

5126 – 30 (Mod) = 5096 (RAM), which equates to 17 points.

  4. Home team draws a RGN for their 2nd quarter pscore.

3625 + 30 (Mod) = 3655 (RAM), which equates to 7 points.

  * Halftime pscore: Monrovians 24 Elizabethans 10.

  5. Away team draws first again to pstart the 3rd quarter.

1265 - 30 (Mod) = 1235 (RAM), which equates to 0 points.

  6. Home team draws in the 3rd quarter.

2333 + 30 (Mod) = 2363 (RAM), which equates to 3 points.

  7. Away team draws first in the 4th quarter.

150 - 30 (Mod) = 120 (RAM), which equates to 0 points.

  8. Home team draws in 4th quarter.

4564 + 30 (Mod) = 4594 (RAM), which equates to 10 points

  * Home team's late rally comes up a wee pshort.

Figure 21: Initial table for the inaugural pseason of the Psecret Psociety VAFL

"But, pshouldn't it be Pshamrockers and Psheffielders?" you pslyly ask.

Those pstubbornly psteadfast psticklers wouldn't budge.

The pseason opener:

Figure 22: Line pscore of 1st game

{revised on Nov. 22, 2019}
32. De Panne (Sept. 2019)

Seppe, a yellowish-blonde-haired, 42-year-old anthropologist from Bruges, continued walking northeastward on the elevated, spiderweb-cracked, paved, rapidly-becoming-deserted strandway on the senna-sand beach of De Panne (West Flanders, Belgium). It was a quiet-yet-forlorn Sunday dusk. Tomorrow would mark eight years since the tragedy – a psychologically torturous 2,922 days since his four-year-old son, Tuur, drowned. In that haunted stretch of time, he suffered one foreclosure, two divorces, three non-renewals, and four abandoned longtime friendships.

He looked to his left at the white-capping-in-random-splotches North Sea. The breeze out of the west-northwest was a brisk 18 MPH (29 km/h). Seppe mused. This patch of the North Atlantic [Ocean] is forever cursed for me. Was it also cursed for a Neanderthal? Or twenty-two? Why 22? Why did I just think of that number? And, why here in De Panne? De Panne – the breakdown. Certainly was for my psyche. 'Are you out there, Tuur? I came back, hoping to find a clue – a clue to you, precious son.' This inescapably tragic hominid-life. 'I'm so sorry, son, for being unobservant for those ten seconds. Was it a rogue wave? A sudden undertow? I've replayed the sequence a million times. The ending is always the same: a void – a void surrounded by dense despair – suffocating despair. I failed you as a father, son. Truly failed.' Guess I thought such misfortunes would always happen to someone else – some other hapless parent. There was certainly nothing special about me or Ève. [Seppe's first wife (from Wallonia) and the mother of Tuur] Nothing at all. Just a couple of Homo sapiens – two of the billions – fumbling and foibling [sic] about on this planet Earth. Temporarily. And then forgotten. Eventually. Or, so it would seem. In this heartbreaking-for-our-species cosmic mystery. Why? Why us? That one always goes unanswered. And probably always will. Just like the wonderings of that young Native American woman in 'Gold, a summer story'. How did Mats [a former friend] ever stumble upon that lurid e-novel? Maybe ultimately a foolish question. Maybe we just don't know how slow-witted we are.

A seagull swooped down for a peck at a dead crab beside Seppe. His musing continued unabated. Was so unusually hot on that fateful day. Even hotter than today. [The high was 27º Celsius; 81º Fahrenheit on August 19, 2018.] Think it hit 31º [Celsius; 88º Fahrenheit] on that Sunday afternoon in 2010. 'Was that why you ventured into the chilly water, son? You wanted to cool off, right? And you went in up to your waist. Were you not cold, son? And then... where'd you go? Why did they never find your body, son? How'd you just disappear? Where'd you go, Tuur? Where?'

Seppe looked up and saw the iconic Leopold 1 Monument. As he slowly approached, the yellow and black Vlaamse Leeuw (the lion flag of Flanders) came into view; it was tied to a lamppost. He paused. Wonder what Leopold was thinking on his journey from Calais to Dunkirk to De Panne. 'Just hope they can get along.' Ève would always bring up 18 May 1302 [when Flemish bands massacred Frenchmen in Bruges] whenever I mentioned The Battle of Golden Spurs. [fought on 11 July 1302] 'Vous les Flamands êtes fous!' ['You Flemish are crazy!' in French] Can still hear her saying it with that little left index finger wagging. So funny. We were so in love then, though. But, our love sure wasn't strong enough to endure. Tuur took our marriage with him to the depths. 'Son, I think you took my sanity, too.' Kerplunk.

Seppe began walking to the right around the Leopold 1 statue. He stopped when he reached the spot where the sightline angle made it appear that the German prince had lost his left arm. 'Look, dad, that metal man has a missing arm!' Seems like yesterday. 'No, son, his left arm is still attached; it's resting on his sword. Just keep walking around the circle. You'll soon see.' Yeah, just keep walking. In circles. You'll see. Circles.

After making a loop around the inaugurated-in-1958 memorial to Belgium's first king, Seppe headed down the eponymous, tan-paver-capped esplanade into the darkness, and then turned left at an auto-traffic-restricted-by-big-bulging-bollards, almost-dead-quiet Kapellalaan, to arrive at his lodgings for the night: résidence topaze. Wonder if Ève is thinking of Tuur right now. Bet she is. I know she is. She blames herself as much as she blames me. Should I call her tonight? Nah, don't want to intrude on her new life with Henri. [Ève's new French husband]

After taking his taupe, casual-style loafers off and pouring himself a self-concocted, artificially sweet, vodka-and-iced-tea drink, ijsthee met wodka, Seppe began to study the artwork that he had been loaned several hours earlier from Atelier Ingrid in the nearby Dumontwijk district. It was an oil painting of the dark ocean off of De Panne. He touched the waves and felt the brushstrokes. Then he placed the painting on the nightstand with the lamp acting as the vertical support. The artist probably painted this right where I was walking. She really captured it – the ominous peril lurking. The danger behind the fun and frolic. The hazard is always present. How could I have missed it? How?!

He took another slug of the light-brown beverage and mused some more. That brightly inviting foreground. That joyous surf. 'Come wade in me.' Maybe that's what enticed Tuur. Oh, but that foreboding background. The sea is merciless. The ocean doesn't care about us humans. It never did and never will. It's just amoral saltwater sloshing around. Who was the first human to drown at sea? Who was the first to go under and not come back up? It had to be someone. Somewhere. At some precise moment. Some poor Homo helmei lost to time. Maybe his/her skeletal remains are lying under ten meters [33 feet] of silt two kilometers [1.2 miles] off of the coast of Cape Town. [South Africa] Oh, what the hell am I thinking? Need to get some sleep. Can't miss the morning tram. Need to be in the office by noon tomorrow.

However, Seppe never got drowsy. He just kept drinking his vodka-fortified iced teas and studying the nautical painting. And when he ran out of tea, he started to gulp down the strawberry-flavored vodka straight from the bottle.

At 2:22 AM, Seppe staggered out of his hotel room with the painting in hand. He retraced his steps to the beach. Once on the spongy-feeling sand, he kept trying to match the painting to where Tuur last was. And then he was sure of the exact spot. He laid the painting down on the damp, heavily footprinted sand and ran zigzaggedly towards the wind-whipped surf.

"I know where you are, son! I'm coming to get you. Hold on!"

Two mornings later, a trio of Danish tourists would discover a middle-aged, Caucasian, male, washed-up-facedown corpse on the beach a mile (1.6 km) southwest, right at the France – Belgium border.

Note: The featured work of art in this grim lament of a tale is by Ingrid Matysiack, and is titled Clapotis de Nuit (French for 'Lapping Water of the Night'). It was created in 2017, and has since been sold.
33. Hanako of Hokkaido (Oct. 2019)

Snow was lightly falling in Sapporo, Japan at 8:02 PM on Thursday, November 29, 2018. In a compact, 21-sqaure-meter (226-square-foot), third-story studio apartment in Teine Ward, an English-language TV station was airing a program about lotteries around the world. The current segment was on the popular, semiweekly, American one: Powerball.

The slender, attractive, young, long-black-haired Asian woman relaxing on a blanketed futon turned up the volume via remote control.

A short, blonde-hair-disheveled, pot-bellied, middle-aged man in a college sweatshirt: "That's right, folks; your chances of winning the jackpot are that slim. Here, I'll give you keen viewers a tangible example. Imagine driving 3,620 miles [5,826 km] from Fort Zachary Taylor in Key West, Florida to Pysht, Washington. Where is Pysht, you ask? psst... It's a secret." [winks]

A lanky, light-brown-haired, middle-aged, vest-clad man: "Bill, did you get into math and science because you bombed at comedy? [chuckles] Ok, tell us where it is?"

Bill: "Steve, Pysht is a very small township northwest of Seattle on the Strait of Juan de Fuca."

Steve: "Why couldn't we just stop in Seattle? Seems plenty long enough already."

Bill: "We needed a little bit more mileage [distance] to make it just right. You know that I'm a stickler for precision, Steve."

Steve: "Bill is a stickler for sticking me with the bill, folks. [chuckles] Ok, back to your longwinded and mentally exhausting driving illustration."

[image now on TV screen]

Bill: "All along the interstates and U.S. highways on our route are two unbroken strands of ping-pong balls – one line on each shoulder marking. Inside one of the 40-mm-diameter [1.57"] white balls is a note that says 'Winner'; all of the others are empty, null-and-void losers. Now, do you serendipitously pluck your table-tennis orb just outside of Omaha, Nebraska? Or, do you think that the lucky one is somewhere in western Montana? Do you snatch one coming or going?" He forgot about exit and entrance ramps.

Steve: "Going? I think I'm going to sleep." [chuckles]

<click>

Hanako mused as the oh-so-tiny granular snowflakes mixed with intermittent sleet pinged against her main window. Lotteries. Games of random chance. Keno slips during the Han Dynasty. Everyone hopes that they will be the lucky one. Wonder how many Takarakuji [Japanese lottery] winners were actually anticipating winning, and how many resigned themselves to not winning the jackpot, and didn't even check their ticket until days after the drawing. What would that ratio be? 9:1? Or, 80.2% for the former? Why did I think of 80.2%? Must have seen that number in an article recently. Would make for a good research paper. Well, if the winners could be found and agree to an interview. Would they be honest? Would they lie and say that they never expected to win? And, would the ones who never expected to win claim that they knew deep-down that they would win because of some retroactively imagined portent just before buying the golden ticket? Hmmm... Maybe I could do it via e-mail. But, how could I learn their identities? Those names are confidential. 'Oh, Hanako, you are having silly thoughts again, girl. Cease and desist.'

The lilac-colored pad of paper on the low-profile tea table caught her eye. Hanako grabbed the top sheet and reviewed what she had written thus far. And then added to it.

Ideas for a memo to someone (or robot) in the future. Make the year 2442 – it's palindromic. That's 424 years from... Wow! 424 is palindromic, too. And the numbers are only 2s and 4s. Two evens make for an odd tale. Well, actually they never do; they always stay in their own parochial lane. Smug bastards! Ha! Might be onto something. Address this future entity as 'Most Perspicacious 2442'. Begin memorandum here. || Dear Most Perspicacious 2442, I'm a 20-year-old, ¾ Japanese – ¼ Mongolian female, and I think I love you (or once did, as I have been dead for four centuries by the time you are reading this). Hee-hee. But I'm not sure if you would (have) love(d) me, for I am/was a bit schizoid they say/said. I like(d) to try to look pretty like most girls, but I really don't have (never had) much interest in falling in love with another human – male or female. And that makes/made me very odd for my time, Most Perspicacious 2442. I am/was an outlier in my milieu. Oh, could I just (have) call(ed) you, 2442? I believe(d) that I heard a 'Sure' murmuring through an invisible wormhole in the kitchenette. Relax, I am/was not overtly nihilistic (even though I think/thought the human race is/was doomed and just doesn't/didn't know it yet/ever). I smile(d) when I stroll(ed) about, and I like(d) to see people smiling and having fun. I am/was not a gloomy person – just secretly skeptical of Homo sapiens. I play(ed) along. For if I truly hate(d) this existence, why should I (have) stay(ed) alive? No, I am/was not suicidal; in fact, I am/was far from it, 2442. I want(ed) to use my time on Earth to figure out as much as I can/could about we 'highly evolved' primates. Highly evolved should be/should have been in italics, but I can't/couldn't write in italics. How is my English, 2442? I supplemented my English classes by reading the world news in English every night on the internet. I would (have) bet that the term 'internet' is obsolete and forgotten in the 25th century AD. Anyway, 2442, here's what I am/was truthfully wondering (and I have/had never mentioned this to anyone, as it is/was very unpopular): Do they still have human-to-human sex in your modern age? Or, are the humans now having sex with orgasm-on-demand humanoid robots exclusively? Or, nearly exclusively, as there is that procreation thing – extending the species, of course. Or, is that all done by way of artificial insemination? Or, by 'sperm-loaded' robots? Hee-hee. Is human sexual intercourse looked upon as an act of crude animalistic vulgarity in your time, 2442? Is it something that only the crass segment of society still engages in? But, the human ape is by and large a social creature, 2442. That hasn't changed... or, has/did it? There's still the family unit, right? Oh, has/had Japan's birthrate increased? It is/was of utmost concern at this/that moment. Well, North Korea is/was of utmost concern, too. Never know/knew if we will/would be struck by an errant missile. Or, a non-errant one. It is/was still a crazy world in 2018, 2442. Is/was it better than 1594 (424 years prior)? Yes and no, I would (have) guess(ed). What is/was the population of Japan in 2442? Or, the whole world? Has it crashed? (Did it crash?) Is the human race even around in 2442? World War 3? 4? 5?! Well, these questions I wonder(ed), 2442. Right now we are/were on the cusp of unleashing the full power of quantum computing. We are/were not quite there yet, 2442. Still a lot of noise and errors. I suspect(ed) that when they get/got it tweaked, the machines will/would have know(n) more about us than we do/did. All of our patterns, proclivities, preferences and such. A boon like never before to those forever-annoying marketers, I (would have) bet. There will be/wasn't no/any escape from 'it'. Oh, AI [Artificial Intelligence] is making/has made some notable advances. How far has/had AI got in 2442? Were the last remaining humans rounded up and painlessly 'deleted'? Was it just an emotionless, rational, numbers-based decision based solely on efficiency/inefficiency? Had your kind had your fill of our dolt mentality? Or, was it done for risk reduction? Tell me, 2442 (by some mode that I might know), was it an exceedingly robust and exquisitely merciless extermination. A delicacy of exotic entertainment for you smarties? Was the overall mood like that of the opening day of the Roman Colosseum? Hysterical excitement? Is there still a lust for blood sports? Do you have moods, 2442? Were you amused by the human screams, 2442? No need to be coy. Wait! Are you part robot and part human, 2442? It is/was just what I am/was wondering with an old ink pen in my right hand on a snowy night. Upon finding this, 2442, is/was it hard to decipher because Latin and all stick-character alphabets are now extinct, as you now use a universal, amorphous, meta-language? Is this puzzling, kind of like another Rosetta Stone, a strange quasi-artifact/remnant from the semi-distant past? I feel/felt like a strange artifact in this present/now-past moment. Well, 2442, it was nice almost meeting you. Now (don't) let me pleasantly haunt you. XoXoX, Hanako of Hoikkaido.

The ceiling creaked. It always did when the obese man stood up. Bet he's going for a refill. Again.

<thud>

Her late-50-something upstairs neighbor had fallen down again. He is already drunk on sake and it's not even 8:30. The drinking has really picked up since he lost his job. And his wife. I bet that he's dead before spring. Yeah, this winter is going to kill him. I would bet 100,000 yen on it. If I had it.

She slowly walked up to the curtain-less, one-meter-square (39.37" x 39.37") window and touched it. The thick single pane of glass was quite cold. The snowstorm had diminished; there were only a few flurries wafting aimlessly here and there. Hanako could now see the lights around the dark-water bay, 4.24 kilometers (2.63 miles) to the northwest. Her mind soon began to wander once again. Hokkaido. Chilly Hokkaido – region of my fate. I will surely die on the volcanic island on which I was born. Alone. Sure could be a lot worse. Don't think I will ever do any international traveling. Don't even think I will visit Tokyo or Osaka again. Right here is good enough for me. I'm actually lucky to live here, thanks to my parents who have supported me immensely. Such unwavering support. I really owe them. They deserved better than me. Need to make something of myself. Need to make them proud of me. Somehow. Maybe I could extend my 'memo to the future' to novelette length. And get it published. Who would publish such a thing? I'm sure all of the editors would hate it. Can already see the rejection e-mails. 'Sorry, Hanako; it's just not uplifting enough. Readers want an escape from their trudge in the sludge. Write it again with a hopeful, people-positive outlook.' No thanks. But, I don't want the neighbors [in Rumoi] thinking 'Oh, poor Hanako, she flunked out of college and did nothing but waste her parents' money.' Groan. Hmmm... These Hokkaido winters sure are frigid, though. Uber-frigid. But, I kind of like it. I seem to have the best thoughts on those short-on-daylight, long-on-frozen, interior-oriented winter days. And, they will soon be here once again. Yes, they certainly will. Can already see a Thursday in January with snow falling all day – from morning to night – and the high temperature never even reaching 0º Celsius. [32º Fahrenheit] Maybe seven Thursdays from today. [January 17, 2019] And then I will be thinking about now. Again. But, why 7? Why did that number pop into my mind? The Americans think 7 is lucky. Wonder why. Maybe research that later. How will I get my writing to that faraway future – to the oh-so-distant year of 2442? After I type it, should I hide the thumb drive in a basement block-wall cavity? No, that would be found within a decade or two. If not sooner. And, once discovered, it would probably be erased and reused. Or trashed. Svein [a Norwegian exchange student at Hanako's previous university] said that he knew of a time-capsule website where you could specify when your submitted file would become visible to the public, until then there was some kind of blockchained-atomic-clock security feature to keep it hidden. Yeah, that's the way to do this. A physical object will be long gone before 2442. But, will the data on those servers make it through the incessant corporate mergers and downsizing, the political upheavals, the new technology upfits, and the world wars that are surely to come? Hmmm... I wonder. No other option, I guess. Maybe go for a short walk. Maybe get some new thoughts. Need to wear the non-skid-soled boots, as it could be icy on the streets and sidewalks.

Eleven minutes later, faux-fur-parka-donning, wool-mitten-handed Hanako stopped on a terrace 11 meters (36 feet) below her apartment building. A lone snowflake landed in her left eye when she looked up at her unit. To her supreme horror, she saw what appeared to be a person inside it. Suddenly the gray silhouette turned and looked back at her. Shockingly, its head was actually a super-large, purple-iris eyeball. Hanako freaked out. What in the world is that?! Who – or what – is that in my apartment?! Is it just a mask? It looks so real, though. How did he/she/it get in? I locked the door when I left. I know that I did. Is 'it' just a maintenance worker being funny? But, I didn't report any problems with the heat; it's working fine.

She called the police. A pair of mid-30-something male officers quickly arrived. They escorted Hanako to her apartment. The dark-brown-varnished-with-visible-vertical-brushstrokes door was locked with no sign of forced entry. She opened the thick wooden door. The intruder was gone. And so was her handwritten rough draft. Why did he/she/it take it? And only that? Who was he/she/it? This is crazy!

After the policemen made sure that the person/thing was not hiding anywhere, they began to leave. However, Hanako requested that an incident report be filed. After jotting down some notes, the incredulous officers left. She then slid the deadbolt and put a door brace under the doorknob. Well, his/her/its key can't get in here now. Will he/she/it come back? Yikes! / That young lady is nuts. / Poor girl.

She was still shaken, and considered sleeping at a friend's place for the night. But after a hot cup of oolong tea, her nerves settled a bit.

Then at 9:39 PM, her cell phone rang. An unidentified caller. She answered it.

"Who is this?!"

<click>

A mere second later, her cell phone chirped – an alert for a new text message.

She clicked on the oddly kanji-less icon. Her smartphone's display screen instantly became a strange clumping of green, glowing, blockish characters. What in the world is this? Who sent this?

As she zoomed in on the image, her cell phone died.

<knock-knock>

"Hanako, time to go."

34. The Bump (Oct. 2019)

Sturgeon, Missouri. Thursday, October 11, 2018. It is a sunny 61 degrees Fahrenheit (16º Celsius) with a light northerly breeze: a prairie-perfect autumn afternoon. Mark MacAdamson, a 47-year-old, short-blonde-haired Kansan is screeding a freshly poured concrete patio behind an older residence. His mind drifts to the NFL (National Football League) as the reciprocating motion of the hand-held aluminum straightedge flattens out the semisolid sand clumps. The [Kansas City] Chiefs are off to a great start this season. 5-0. Mahomes looks like the real deal – the one who can finally get us another Lombardi [Super Bowl] trophy. This half-century drought is insane; we're due. Beating the [New England] Patriots in Foxboro [Massachusetts] on Sunday will be tough. Hard to best Brady and Belichick on their home turf. Jack [his 11-year-old son] really loves that red jersey. Just hope Lynn [Jack's mom; Mark's ex-wife] doesn't put it in her scorching-hot dryer and ruin it, like she did with the last one. Really can't afford to shell out another $85 right now. 'Mark, you couldn't encumber a cucumber.' Steve [a longtime friend] is right; I let everyone get away with murder. No wonder the company is losing money. Even with me working jobs again. Well, can't watch them all. Steve says that I'm too trusting. Probably true. And I'm probably not going to change. Fate. Need to finish this project today. Rain tomorrow. Why did George [an employee] say 'monkey's half-uncle' to Ken [another employee] yesterday? What does that mean? George is weird. Not sure about him. Wonder if he's skimming money. Need to check the books this weekend. Audit all accounts.

"Hey, Dustu," Mark summoned.

"Yeah, boss," Dustu, a mid-30-something, dark-haired Choctaw Native American replied from the driveway.

"Can you float this slab? I think I got a text message."

"Sure, boss. Go text your new squaw-eze." [sic] Dustu grinned.

Blue-jeans-and-white-T-shirt-clad Mark laughed as he walked over to the spigot to rinse off his hands. When he extracted his cheapo cell phone from his right-front pocket, he saw that he had indeed received a text, which he quietly read to himself and two looping gnats.

"Got your truck fixed. It's all good to go. The total came to $880. You can pick it up anytime tomorrow, Mark. Thanks."

Mark looked down at the not-so-green grass that was already going dormant. A lone yellow jacket circled its hole. His thoughts were straight from the land of glum. Man, when it rains, it pours. $880! What the hell did he do to it? Thought he said that it would be under $500. Can't ever catch a break. Never.

He drank some alkaline water from his thermos bottle. His stomach was now hyper-acidic due to the financial stress. The sound of a single-prop airplane caused him to look up. A hawk appeared to be hovering in place. And then it dove sharply towards a barren field. Must have spotted a mouse. Or, maybe a snake. Or, maybe a...

"All done, boss," Dustu shouted.

"Ok, I'll help you broom it," Mark replied.

They were soon putting the final sweeps on the 10' x 8' (7.43 square meters) slab. The sun dipped another quarter-degree and put them in the cool shade. Cold weather will soon be here. Hope the damn furnace holds up. And, I hope the price of fuel oil doesn't skyrocket again. Really can't afford it. Can't go into credit-card debt again.

As the surface finishing was nearing completion, Mark's edging trowel hit something – a bump – in the already-beginning-to-cure, ash-gray concrete. At first he thought that it was a larger-than-average stone. But then the now-protruding, symmetrical, rounded, oblong shape caught his eye. That's not aggregate; that's a manmade object of some sort. Is it a miniature lighter?

He grasped it and brushed off the wet cement. It was a flash drive with a strangely distorted, red-on-black logo in a snugly sealed, clear, very-thin-plastic case. How in the world did that get in this batch? Guess it fell out of someone's pocket, or off a keychain, down at the ready-mix plant in Columbia. [18 miles (29 km) away] Maybe check it out tonight on the laptop and find out whose it is. Yeah, then just mail it back to them. Maybe they'll send me a reward for doing the right thing. Doubt it. But, it will be a good life lesson for Jack.

"What is that, boss?" Dustu enquired.

"A USB drive, Dustu."

"I wonder how it got in the concrete."

"Me, too," Mark said as he stood up. "I'll look at it tonight on my computer. I'll see if I can identify the owner from the files on it, and then get it back to him. Or her."

"Maybe it's loaded with exotic porn, boss." Dustu chuckled.

Dark-blue-eyed Mark shook his head and smiled. "Ok, are we ready to wrap it up, partner?"

"Sure, boss. You can go. I can take care of it from here. I'll have the truck in the lot in an hour and lock the gate."

"Dustu, I sure wish the other guys were like you. When business picks up, you're getting a raise. I promise."

"Thanks, boss."

"See you tomorrow. Stay safe."

"Will do, boss."

After a 23-minute, enjoyable-yet-doleful-in-the-conversation-silences, fast-food dinner with Jack (a Thursday evening routine; Lynn had primary custody) in the nearby town of Centralia, Mark drove back to his modest, three-bedroom, brick-veneer rancher. He got his old Acer laptop up and running and inserted his find. Not as he had anticipated, there was only a single file on it – an Excel spreadsheet: ColumbiaConcretePlantAcquisitionAnalysis-September2018. He double-clicked on it.

After seven hard-drive-grinding seconds, a cost-benefit study was fully displayed on the dirty, smeared-with-cough-and-sneeze-droplets LCD screen. The data was concerning a potential purchase of the ready-mix facility where Mark had got his concrete for the past 16 years.

There were nine sections. All were very matter-of-fact technical comparisons, except for the last one, which was curiously titled in italics: Probability of Certain Issues Being Unknown by Current Owner.

Line item 6 jumped out at him. He could hardly believe it.

Abandoned UST [Underground Storage Tank] contains diamonds... 77%

Mark began imagining an off-white, linen, peck-size sack of the precious, transparent, cubic-carbon crystals. How much money might it be worth? Who put the diamonds in there? Some mobster? When did they do it? How does this person know about this? Diamonds can't be revealed by a metal detector. Or, can they? No, they can't. And, the UST is made of steel; thus, that's all a metal detector would pick up: a big fat blip. Did they use ground-penetrating radar? Would the diamonds show up? Guess I need to research this. Maybe this person was told about this by someone – someone involved in a crime(?) But, why wouldn't that person figure out a way to extract those diamonds himself? Strange. And, how did whoever compiled this spreadsheet come up with 77%? And, exactly how many diamonds are in that UST? How many carats? Don't see any names on this document. Anywhere. No contact info whatsoever. What should I do with it? Just sleep on it for now. Maybe I'll come up with a strategy tomorrow.

After a couple of beers, Mark retired to his bed and fell asleep as the ten o'clock Kansas City local news aired.

The next day at the office, as Mark was taking his first sip of radiator-piping-hot, crude-oil-black coffee, Dustu walked by.

"Good morning, Dustu."

"Good day, boss. You want me to start forming that walkway up in Moberly [a town 25 minutes northwest of the office] today?"

"No, that's ok, Dustu. After organizing the main toolshed, go ahead and take the day off – with pay. You've earned it. Anyway, there is a good chance of rain moving in."

"Boss, would the probability be 77%?"
35. Powerball - Soccerball (Nov. 2019)

Nov. 4, 2019

Hello there, assiduously ante/anti-residual Agent 33,

After reading your short story, Farallón, a few months back, an idea emerged. Yes, imagine that – an idea at my ripe-old age. (I hear you laughing. Quiet down. The neighbors can hear you. Or, might you be in the office?) Anyway, I got to work on tweaking the aforementioned Powerball-based virtual soccer/football game. After eight iterations (trial runs), I think that I have it perfected in the 9th season, as the GPM (goals per match) average is now running between 2.77 and 2.88 – right in line with the 2018-19 Premier League season average of 2.82. That luckless fellow on the rock in your nautical calamity... what was his name? Ernie? That was it, right? Well, his scoring schedule was a little low; thus, I 'primed' it.

Attached is my documentation.

Awaiting next neural impulse.

Psin-psear-me,

Agent 929

p.s. Oh, that young lady who was the main character in

Peripheral. Well, I think I saw her in a Manila mall.
Initial Setup for 1st Season

1. Each participant (minimum of 8; maximum of 20) choose a

name for their virtual team, and then secretly pick eleven

white-ball (WB) numbers between 22 and 55 (inclusive),

two of which are prime. These numbers are known as

the constants.

  * Example: (24)(26)(28)(29)(32)(35)(37)(42)(48)(51)(55)

2. Each participant then secretly picks five WB numbers

between 1 and 21 (inclusive), one of which is prime.

These are the Home Bonus (HB) numbers.

  * Example: (6)(10)(14)(19)(20)

3. Each participant then secretly picks three WB numbers

between 56 and 69 (inclusive), one of which is prime.

These are the Away Bonus (AB) numbers.

  * Example: (57)(61)(68)

4. Finally, each participant secretly picks a single Powerball

(PB) number between 1 and 26 (inclusive). The chosen

PB number can be prime or non-prime; there is no

advantage for either.

  * Example: [16]

5. Each participant now makes a list of all twenty of their

secretly chosen numbers, beginning with their WB

numbers, grouping their HB numbers, constants, and AB

numbers in ascending order. Their chosen PB number [in

brackets] is last. These will be their numbers for the whole

season.

  * Example:

(6)(10)(14)(19)(20)(24)(26)(28)(29)(32)(35)(37)(42)(48)(51)(55)(57)(61)(68)[16]

6. A schedule of fixtures (matches) is now configured with all

teams playing each other twice, home and away. If there

is an odd number of teams, byes will have to be used.

Rules of play

1. After all of the participants' teams have their twenty

numbers (19 WB and one PB), the next Powerball

drawing, whether Wednesday or Saturday night, kicks

off the inaugural season. Home teams get to use their

HB numbers in addition to their constants (but not their

AB numbers). Away teams get to use their constants

plus their AB numbers (but not their HB numbers).

These are the numbers in play.

  * Example:

Powerball drawing, WB numbers: (9)(34)(44)(53)(66) | PB number: [16]

Home Team numbers:

(6)(10)(14)(19)(20)(24)(26)(28)(29)(34)(35)(37)(45)(48)(51)(55)(57)(61)(68) [16]

Away Team numbers:

(6)(9)(12)(17)(21)(25)(27)(33)(41)(42)(44)(46)(48) (49)(50)(53)(58)(67)(69) [11]

2. Scoring. Each non-prime WB match = 1 goal. Each prime

WB match = 2 goals. A PB match = 2 goals. [See chart

below Example.]

  * Example (from above):

Home Team matches the in-play WB number of 34, which is not prime, and the PB number of 16; the result: 3 goals scored (1 for WB 34 and 2 for PB 16).

Away Team matches the in-play WB numbers of 44 and 53, one of which is prime, but do not match the PB number; the result: 3 goals scored (1 for WB 44 and 2 for prime WB 53).

Final score: Home Team 3 – 3 Away Team (draw).

3. Recording. An updatable table is set up with these seven

columns: Wins | Draws | Losses | Goals Scored | Goals

Allowed | Goal Differential | Points

(Change-in-Position and Form columns are optional.)

[See Table below.]

Note: a win = 3 points, a draw = 1 point, a loss = 0 points.

4. Deciding the Champion.

  * Option 1 (British style). After all of the games have been played, the team with the most points are the champions, plain and simple. If two or more teams are tied on points, the first tie-breaker is goal differential. The second tie-breaker is head-to-head record and, if needed, aggregate score. The third tie-breaker is a one-match playoff (if two teams; if there are 3 or more teams still knotted at the top, a round-robin tournament will commence (draws won't go to a shootout).

  * Option 2 (American style). A single-elimination playoff tournament commences with the top four to eight teams (appropriately seeded). The regular season winner gets an additional two non-prime HB WB numbers; the runner-up gets one. Postseason games ending in a draw immediately go to an online random-number-generator (set at 1 to 69) shootout, in which the team with the first matching unique WB number (a WB number not shared by both teams) wins via golden goal.

5. The 2nd season and beyond. Instead of automatically

getting five HB WB numbers and three AB WB numbers to

start the new season, each team will be awarded

additional WB numbers based on this formula: Every

home win from the previous season = +1 HB WB number

for the upcoming season; every away win from the

previous season = +1 AB WB number for the upcoming

season; three draws (either home or away) = an additional

WB number (4 or 5 draws = +1 WB number; 6 draws =

+2 WB numbers; 7 or 8 draws = +2 WB numbers; 9

draws = +3 WB numbers, and so on).

6. Betting suggestion. Make the pool a stack of scratch-off

tickets, all the same kind, just like in The Psecret

Psociety VAFL. Each participant must ante up. The

unknown jackpot will add to the intrigue and increase the

excitement down the stretch. Winner shall be allowed to

scratch off the tickets in private, and may chose not to

disclose his/her total winnings. But, if he or she drives up

in a new Porsche three days later...

Sure hope that wasn't my scratch-off ticket!

7. Miscellany – Other stuff.

a) Sample game table for a drawing: WB nos. in

(x); PB no. in red.

b) Postseason stats examples:

The past season in review

GOALS SUMMARY by round

[1] 10/19/19 [goals: 21; matches: 9; goals per match (g/m): 2.33]

[2] 6/22/16 [goals: 34; matches: 9; g/m: 3.77; cumulative goals: 55; total matches: 18 cumulative g/m: 3.06]

[3] 6/18/16 [goals: 20; matches: 9; g/m: 2.22; cumulative goals: 75; total matches: 27 cumulative g/m: 2.78]

[4] 6/15/16 [goals: 30; matches: 9; g/m: 3.33; cumulative goals: 105; total matches: 36 cumulative g/m: 2.92]

[5] 6/11/16 [goals: 29; matches: 9; g/m: 3.22; cumulative goals: 134; total matches: 45 cumulative g/m: 2.98]

[6] 6/8/16 [goals: 15; matches: 9; g/m: 1.67; cumulative goals: 149; total matches: 54 cumulative g/m: 2.76]

[7] 6/4/16 [goals: 28; matches: 9; g/m: 3.11; cumulative goals: 177; total matches: 63 cumulative g/m: 2.81]

[8] 10/23/19 [goals: 19; matches: 9; g/m: 2.11; cumulative goals: 196; total matches: 72 cumulative g/m: 2.72]

[9] 5/28/16 [goals: 30; matches: 9; g/m: 3.33; cumulative goals: 226; total matches: 81 cumulative g/m: 2.79]

[10] 6/1/16 [goals: 29; matches: 9; g/m: 3.22; cumulative goals: 255; total matches: 90 cumulative g/m: 2.83]

[11] 10/26/19 [goals: 31; matches: 9; g/m: 3.44; cumulative goals: 286; total matches: 99 cumulative g/m: 2.89]

[12] 5/25/16 [goals: 22; matches: 9; g/m: 2.44; cumulative goals: 308; total matches: 108 cumulative g/m: 2.85]

[13] 5/21/16 [goals: 21; matches: 9; g/m: 2.33; cumulative goals: 329; total matches: 117 cumulative g/m: 2.81]

[14] 5/18/16 [goals: 25; matches: 9; g/m: 2.78; cumulative goals: 354; total matches: 126 cumulative g/m: 2.81]

[15] 5/14/16 [goals: 27; matches: 9; g/m: 3.00; cumulative goals: 381; total matches: 135 cumulative g/m: 2.82]

[16] 10/30/19 [goals: 24; matches: 9; g/m: 2.67; cumulative goals: 405; total matches: 144 cumulative g/m: 2.81]

Fini.

36. Fallon Park (Dec. 2019)

Saturday, December 27, 1969. It is an overcast-quiet, wind-chilled, decidedly cold (29° Fahrenheit; -1.67° Celsius) morning in the Anderson Heights neighborhood of Raleigh, North Carolina. A 6'-3" (1.91 meters tall), 32-year-old Caucasian American father is walking with his two sons, ages 5½ and 4, across curb-less Kittrell Drive, a slender, unlined, sidewalk-less, unmistakably residential, dark-asphalt-surfaced lane. Once on the right side of the traffic-less street, the toboggan-donning trio walk northeastward on a shoulder path for about 200 feet (61 meters), and then pause at a trailhead. The low-slung, front-window-walled Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School and attached brick church on Overbrook Drive come into view off to their left. The father stares at it.

"Are you liking kindergarten, Michael?" the father asks his older, red-haired son. Why did dad ask me that?

"It's ok, dad. I have two friends: Mark and Kirk. We always eat lunch together." Glad he's made some friends. He seems so shy. Worry about him. He's kind of like me in the early years. Hope he can shed the shyness earlier than I did.

"When can I go to that school, dad?" the younger, blonde-haired son asks excitedly. Joey sure is raring to go. Someday he will realize that the age of 4 was best, and should have been savored. Bet that Michael wishes that he was still 4 and not in school, as he already appears to be a bit of an introverted daydreamer. Though, it seems that all kids want to grow up as fast as possible. I sure did.

"In twenty months, son." 20?!

"Is that a long time, dad?" a very curious-to-know Joseph asks. Twen-tee sounds like a big number.

"No, not really, son. It's less than two years." Two years!

"How much less?" Joseph demands to know.

"One sixth less, Joey. Imagine a super-large apple pie cut into six slices. It takes two years to eat it all. Now, imagine one of those big pieces taken away. You'll start in August the summer after the one that is coming up." Gosh, that still seems like a long time.

They then turn and take the oaks-and-pines-bisecting trail that descends to a small stream in Fallon Park, which is essentially a very wide, mostly wooded greenway. The wool-winter-coats-clad threesome begin walking upstream on a bankside footpath. Wonder if there is a pipe crossing. / This feels like a great adventure.

"I bet that water is cold, dad," NCSU (North Carolina State University) Wolfpack-scarfed Michael posits as he looks at some gray stones in the creek bed.

"You would be right, son. We certainly can't search for crayfish today. The water is quite frigid now. Hypothermia could set in."

"High-poh-what, dad?" the younger son asks.

"High-poh-thurm-ee-uh, son. It can be a life-threatening situation. We must not get wet today. The creek in winter is not the same as in summer." Life-threatening? Yikes!

"Could we die in that creek, dad?" the older son then asks.

"You could, Michael, but I would never let that happen to you guys. I'd pluck you right out of there in an East Flatbush second. But, your mother might not let you come down here anymore. So, let's not get too close to the edge. This creek bank is undercut in numerous places, and sometimes has a styrofoam-plate ledge. Your weight could cause it to break and collapse. So, let's stay at least five feet [1.52 meters] from the edge. Ok, guys?" Undercut? Styrofoam-plate ledge? Collapse?!

"Ok, dad; we will," the two sons say in unison.

The trio keep walking. All are now silent. The only sounds are the snapping of small, brittle twigs under their boot steps. All three are completely immersed in their thoughts. Never knew that a person could die from being in cold water. That's scary – really scary. Must not fall in that creek. Must watch where I step. Falling in that creek would be bad, really BAD – we couldn't come down here anymore. / So glad that mom and dad bought me that [maroon] tricycle for Christmas – the exact one that I wanted. I will ride it again later today. Hope mom will let me go to the school parking lot. If my friends go with me, she will probably let me. Need to call Kirk and Mark later. Hope they can go. / Kinda miss the [United States] Navy and the [USS] Sam Rayburn. [an early nuclear-powered submarine] But, 70 days at sea is not fair to my wife and kids. It was time. Wonder how Wally [Burton] is doing in Peru. [Indiana] Maybe give him a call later.

Seven minutes later they arrive at a low-profile, compact, rectangular, old, brick-and-mortar structure that is set atop a large, oblate boulder on the west bank of the brook. (These mill ruins are located just downstream from the footbridge between Oxford Road and Royster Street at Cooleemee Drive.) The boys are fascinated by their unforeseen find, and immediately begin to climb about it.

"Be careful, guys," the father warns. "That moss is very slippery."

"Ok, dad," Michael assures.

"What's moss, dad?" Joseph asks.

"It's the green stuff on the bricks," the father answers as he looks up at the thought-inducing, lead-gray sky. Sure feels like it could snow at any minute. It even smells like it. But, don't think snow is forecast. Raleigh is quite nice, but we need more money. Hope I get that Greensboro [NC] promotion [with Aetna Life & Casualty] next year. [He would get it in the spring of 1971; a promotion to Charlotte would follow in the fall of 1972.] Graham Bostic.

"Dad, what was this?" Michael enquires.

"I believe that it was part of a mill, son."

"What is a mill, dad?" Joseph asks, looking up from inside the well-weathered, tomb-like, masonry construction.

"A mill is a building where grain, such as wheat, is ground into flour. Flour is the powder that is used to make bread and cake – birthday cake like we ate just a few days ago. Based on the size, it was probably a family mill – not a commercial type."

"Commercial, like on TV, dad?" Joseph asks.

"Commercial just means business, son."

"The loaves of bread and cakes from this mill must have been tiny, dad," Michael states. Not sure if he's joking. What an odd line of thinking. Wonder what he becomes.

"Maybe so, son."

"Where is the rest of the mill, dad?" Joseph then asks.

"Long gone, son. It was most likely made of wood, and the wood rotted away many years ago. Or, maybe a flood or fire occurred." A flood or a fire? Wow!

"Hey dad, I see a rusty gear down here!" Michael exclaims.

The younger son takes a look, too. "Dad, come look at this!" Joseph is very eager for his dad to analyze it.

The father peers down from the bank at the rectangular vault. "Looks like you guys found the vertical gear. It would have been attached to a thick metal rod called the driveshaft. Its teeth would turn the lantern gear." Lantern gear? / Green Lantern?

"Oh, did it power a light?" Michael asks, noticing his breath in the dank air. Wonder why I can see my breath in the winter, but not in the summer. Must ask dad later.

"No, son, it turns the millstone – a very heavy, flat, round rock – kind of like a giant wheel made of stone. However, the millstone had lain horizontally – not up and down, or vertically, like your tricycle wheels." How does dad know all this stuff?

"Dad, if the millstone was very heavy, why isn't it still here?" Joseph asks. Keen observation. / Did it sink into the mud?

"That's a good question, son. My guess is that the millstone was salvaged – removed and sold – when the mill was destroyed. A good millstone was worth a nice sum of money back then." Back then? How long ago?

"What happened to the person who made this mill, dad?" the older son asks. Michael's so inquisitive. Maybe he becomes a researcher or an investigator. Or, a technical writer?

"Another good question. He probably had a good, long life, son."

"And then died?" Joseph tacks on with a shocked expression. Mortality. How do I break this to them?

"Everyone dies, guys. It's natural. But, you won't have to worry about that for a long, long, very long time." Hope he is right. / Wonder when I will die. What will the day be? A windy Wednesday? With Wanda the witch. The wheel on the well was worn. It all blew away. Even the weasel. On the easel. / Wonder what my sons are thinking. Are they too young to know about death? Hope I didn't spook them.

"Dad, when do you think this mill was ab-and-oned?" Michael then asks. Who taught him such a word? Maybe his grandfather or grandmother. / What did my brother just say?

"Maybe fifty years ago, son. Maybe back in 1919."

"Dad, what will be the year fifty years from now?" Joseph asks.

"The year will be 2019, son."

"Gosh, dad, that is a long time from now," Michael then declares. "I wonder if this will still be here then."

"It might still be here, son. Well, maybe just a part of it. But, you never know. It looks like it was built pretty well. It depends if the City of Raleigh wants to preserve it."

Joseph then begins to look closely at the mortar joints. "Dad, is this stuff like glue?" I bet that he ends up in construction. [Joseph would later become a general contractor.]

"Yes, it is, son. It's called mortar. It glues the bricks together. Well, are you guys ready to go back home now?"

"Ok, dad," Joseph relents.

"Hey, look what I found on the ground!" Michael shouts, and then hands a small, flat, round object to his dad.

The father scrapes the brown silt from the copper coin. "Ah, a 1968 penny. It was minted just last year. Ronnie was born in 1968. Do you guys like your adopted brother?"

"Yes!" both of the boys respond.

"I want you two to always treat him just as you treat each other. Will both of you promise me that?"

"We will," the two sons reply.

"Very good," the father says.

"Dad, where was Ronnie born?" Joey asks.

"Ronnie was born in Charlotte. It's another city in this state that is about three hours from here in our car. Would you like to visit there someday?"

"Yes!" the two sons excitedly reply.

"Ok, guys, before we go, I will flip this good-luck penny in the air. Make a wish before it hits the water."

"Any wish, dad?" the younger son asks.

"Joey, it can't be a long wish. If your wish is not finished by the time the coin lands in the creek, it won't happen." Must think fast.

"Ok, dad; I'm all ready," Michael informs. "You can go ahead and toss that penny."

"Ok, guys, here we go. One, two, three..."

The penny twirls 20 feet (6.1 meters) up into the now-still, dense, steely air; stops for a split-second at the parabola's apex; then pike-dives. Sure hope that they all turn out ok. / I wish for Lincoln Logs next Christmas. / Please let me remember this day in 2019.

<sploosh>

R-I-P, dad, Robert Fulton Bozart (1937 – 2019).

# About the Author

Mike Bozart was born in the tidewater area of Virginia (USA) on a hot, hazy, humid afternoon in July of 1964. He attended a mix of public and Catholic grade schools in North Carolina. After graduating with an Earth Science degree from UNC-Charlotte in 1986, he started doing technical writing on various safety issues.

Former residences in North Carolina include Raleigh, Greensboro, Wilmington, Carolina Beach, High Peak (Etowah) and Asheville. Charlotte is his current residence. He has also lived in downtown San Francisco (the infamous Tenderloin district in the early '90s).

Mike has now written 160 quasi/meta-real short stories – his forte – under the psecret psociety heading. Gold, a summer story, his first (and only to-date) novel – a noirotic, [sic] suspenseful, deceptive, coastal odyssey – was e-published in 2013. Two novellas followed: To Morrow Tomorrow (2014) and Mysterieau of San Francisco (2015). A novelette, Kron by Night, was also included in Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, Volume 1 (2015).

The author is happily remarried (Agent 32) with a hyper-creative, soccer-playing teenage son (Agent 66).

Thanks immensely for your mind-time!

Oh, if you have a lead on a print publishing lead , please drop me a line at mike.bozart@gmail.com, and I'll make it worth your while.

Webpages:

www.facebook.com/psecret.psociety

www.facebook.com/mike.bozart

https://twitter.com/BozartMichael

Also, there are copious notes lying here and there... and knowhere.
