

Tales from the Virginias

an octet of short stories

by Mike Bozart

© 2018 Mike Bozart
Table of Contents

i Galax[ ] Galaxy

ii Charlie West

iii Fries or Freeze

iv Gallivanting in Galax

v The Race

vi The Cipher

vii A Blue Whale of a Tale

viii Bridge Day

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

GALAX__ GALAXY

It was just another town in the Blue Ridge ...

by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | October 2012 (rev. August 2018)
As we exited the Family Dollar store on West Jefferson Street, Agent 32 spotted him. He was there – shirtless – in a second-floor, curtain-less, half-open sash window. Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) watched him gyrating and waving his hands while on his cell phone. He was a well-bronzed lad, probably in his mid-20s.

"He looks like this town's lead hipster," Monique remarked.

"Yeah, he sure does," I replied. "Maybe he will be the next Jack Kerouac, and we can say that we saw him here when he was ..."

"When he was a drug-addled specimen in a window," Monique stated as she began to laugh.

"Well, who knows, 32? Let's not prematurely discharge him."

"Yeah, you're right, 33. Who knows? Let's not sell him short."

"I love how you call me 33 when my digital audio recorder is on."

"Your digital audio recorder is always on," Agent 32 retorted.

We continued walking down the street, heading north towards Washington Street. It was a perfect fall Saturday evening, when one thinks back to previous October evenings. I wonder if there's any magic tonight in this little mountain town. What psychic goodies await? Anything? Any compounding waves?

Off in the distance, around a corner, the faint screams and cheers from a Little League Baseball game on Calhoun Street could be heard through the autumn air as the sun began to set. My mind sailed away with the invigorating zephyr. I wonder if he saw the excerpted copy of 'Gold, a summer story' [a novel by yours truly] that I slid under his apartment door earlier in the day, when Agent 32 was asleep. Was that what got him so agitated on the phone? Or, was he just mad at his girlfriend for running late and missing the big weed connection? I bet he's dating the minister's daughter. The bad boy de ville. [sic] Yep, he's Billy Bad-Azz.

"What are you thinking about, Agent 33?"

"Oh, nothing much, Monique."

"Some things never change." Monique guffawed.

I joined in on the laughter. "It sure is a perfect fall night. I sure could go for some Asian food."

"Yey!" Monique exclaimed. "Me, too." As a Filipina, she loved her rice-based dishes.

"Hey, I know where a Chinese restaurant is. I saw it on the way in to town."

"Ok, lead the way, Parkaar." [my ailing alias]

"Nicely pronounced, 32. Just call me that in the restaurant. You know, just in case."

"Why, of course, 33. I've memorized Ernie's game plan."

"Oh?" I asked with a raised right eyebrow.

Monique smiled. "Epicably," [sic] she then said.

"Epicably? Is that a real word, 32?"

"A sure-real word."

We turned right onto West Center Street, went one block, and turned right on North Main Street. Soon we were under a sign that read: ||Canton||

We entered the antechamber, and waited to be seated. I cleared my throat, and a middle-aged Asian lady appeared in black-and-white attire. She said that we could sit anywhere.

We went to a booth near the salad bar and sat down opposite each other. A few minutes later, she returned to take our order. I told her that we would both like the dinner buffet. She motioned to the stack of plates and went back to the kitchen.

Agent 32 then jumped up and began to load her plate with steamed white rice and brown noodles. She was hungry; we hadn't eaten since Charlotte. She was going to get her money's worth of carbs.

After five minutes of nearly nonstop chowing down, I began the conversation as a fly alighted on the high ceiling.

"How long do you think this place has been here?"

"No idea, Parkaar, but the food is good. Yum-yum."

An older Chinese man, perhaps the/an owner, overheard us, and told me that the restaurant was twenty years old. I thanked him for the info. Then the fly flew away with the knowledge gained.

Right after that, a Chinese-American-appearing high-school girl walked in with her Caucasian American friends. Apparently, she was the owners' daughter. They made some small talk. Then the girl whispered something to her dad while shielding her mouth with her hand so that we couldn't lip-read what she said. The winning lottery number? Soon she and her teenage entourage departed.

After a round of desserts, we paid up and left. We walked north on Main Street. I glanced down East Grayson Street. Rex Theatre. Hmmm ... Rex means king in Latin. I wonder how it got that name. Rex de Grayson? Rex de Galax? Rexlax? [sic]

Then Agent 32 suddenly spoke. "What are you thinking?"

"See that movie theater down there, the Rex Theatre?"

"Yes ..."

"Well, rex is Latin for king."

"Yeah, so what? You know, Rex is a common American male name. Remember Rex Chapman for the old [Charlotte] Hornets?"

"Yes, I do. And, well, that's really all I was thinking."

"I had to ask." She sighed and chuckled.

"And, now you know." I had a laugh.

Agent 32 gave me a wry grin and giggled a final time as I heard a motorized mechanism approaching. An old, nearly dead car limped down the street, lagging behind us. We turned around, and it was him – the young hipster who was in the window earlier.

He kept looking straight ahead with his blonde hair all a mess. Then he sped off from the immediate twilight towards the quickly descending drape of darkness. His old, green sedan disappeared around a corner. What an improbable loon. Every small town has at least one.

We continued walking, but not talking. We climbed West Washington Street up to Knights Inn. Our motel room was on the upper level. It had an awesome view of the Galax bowl. (Galax sits in a valley, surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains.)

When we arrived, we took it all in for a few minutes. What a nice, quaint, peaceful little town in Appalachia.

"An incredible Blue Ridge scene, isn't it, Monique?"

"It most certainly is," she replied as she peered out towards the Merlot-wine-red, zigzag-bumpy horizon line. "What's that noise?!"

There was some commotion at a hotel room down from ours.

"Probably just some revelers, already loaded on booze, 32."

We decided to duck inside our motel room for the night. The number on the door: 129. His license plate ended with 129. Strange coincidence?

I flipped the TV on and found a Major League Baseball playoff game in progress.

"Ah, the [San Francisco] Giants aren't dead yet, Monique."

"Ok, 33, you watch it. I'm going to sleep." Monique rolled over, facing away from the TV's beam of electromagnetic radiation.

I turned the volume way down and Monique quickly fell asleep with a pillow between her legs. The wound was still sore. She had been bit by a vicious dog on her right calf during the last mission: an east Charlotte zero-run. A complete non-leaguer.

Then someone passed by the front window of our room. I sensed that they were lingering. I brushed the curtain aside. It was him – Billy Bad-Azz – just sitting in his decrepit automobile, windows open, just smiling. What the fawk! [sic]

I went outside to confront him. I decided to ask him an open-ended question, just to gauge his mindset.

"How much do you know about the plot?" I asked him, trying to maintain a straight face.

He quickly dispensed a reply. "What plot? I don't know about any plot. However, I do have an incredible device that will change your life ... forever. Literally and literarily." And littorally? He coughed. "Want to see it?"

"Why, sure."

Before retrieving it, he went on to tell me that this particular device could extract thought fragments. I was skeptical, very skeptical. He said that the range was up to two miles (3.2 km), and that it was directional. He was eager to give me a demonstration.

He then disembarked from his semi-ancient (late '70s) Toyota Corolla and walked towards the white picket fence with a small, dark-brown case in hand. At the precipice of the upper parking lot, he took the device out of the case. He aimed his contraption, which looked like a phaser [sic] out of a '60s Star Trek episode, at the town of Galax below. He then handed me a set of headphones and gave me a nefarious, shark-like grin.

"Man, when you put these headphones on, your mind is gonna be a-blown, dude. Über-blown. Totally blown away."

This wasted lad was a baked-like-a-cake, closing-in-on-some-perceived-nirvana, glidingly giddy Gilbert Giddy-up. [of Hardee's fast-food fame] Maybe he's on pills. Which ones? Oh, let's just play along. Maybe something short-story-worthy will present itself. I seem to be out of ideas as of late.

"Is that so?" I asked, as I wondered what in the world I was getting ready to experience.

"I guarantee it. Brace yourself for localized thoughticle [sic] overload." Thoughticle?

I slid the headphones on. I started to hear little bursts of audio bleeps. At first they were entirely incomprehensible. Then he made an adjustment, a fine-tuning, I suppose. Discernible words were then heard in various male and female voices in whispery tones.

Well, without further ado, here's the exact transcript of the thoughts that I heard that fateful night in Galax:

[crackling noises] ... only five years to go; yep, just sixty worthless months to cross off on the calendars; I won't be that old; I'll still have a reason to live ... her ass is so soft; can't wait to have some rough sex with her; it's going to be great; I can tell she's the type; I saw her ass-crack tattoo ... I bet Daryl has a big one; gosh, I hope so; a nice, big, rock-hard sausage dog ... tomorrow will be fun, maybe too much fun ... Mark always gets what he wants, every damn time ... I hate how she does that ... I know Eunice is jealous of me; she is always focused on me; she always has been, ever since 8th grade ... I've got to get him to pay me somehow; need to put the screws to him ... her husband is so clueless; he'll never know ... well, everyone steals a little from their employer ... I can't believe what Steve did last night, but then, maybe I can; he's so shady, so sneaky ... Ed will be hungover and completely worthless tomorrow morning; he drinks all the time now; he's a complete alcoholic, just like his dad ... I've got to escape from this nowhere town; nothing is going to happen for me here; maybe I should go in the service ... the wheel is bent again; just my luck ... the house is finally paid off; now we have some breathing room, but I'll bet she finds a way to spend it ... I just know that Earl has a meth[amphetamine] lab in that vacant house by the railroad tracks; why else is he over there half the day? ... she got the job at the bank; she'll probably try to steal money or fuck the manager, or maybe both; I know that girl, totally devious ... Johnny is back to messing with that little whore; I knew he would go back to her; what a total scumbag ... another goddam leak; the plumbing in this house sucks! ... who could be calling at this hour? ... no, no, no; not another annoying-as-hell political robo-call! ... I've got to do something with my life, and soon ... we could go to Roanoke tomorrow; I'd really like that, but she probably doesn't want to go ... I'm so sick of her meddling sister ... my Facebook account has been hacked; Steve probably did it; I really hate that douchebag! ... I swear, it feels like my thoughts are being monitored. <click> [silence]

I took the headphones off. Unbelievable! What a piece of hardware. We'll be rich! Or, World War III will start by dawn.

"This is one priceless piece of hardware you have here, man," I announced as I turned around. But, he was gone! I had become so engrossed in these captured random thoughts from the valley below that I had failed to hear him drive off. Why did he leave something so valuable with me? Does he have more of them? Is this some kind of test run?

I walked back inside our motel room with the thought-extracting device under my shirt. Agent 32 was still sound asleep. I thought about waking her, but then decided to show her this novel toy tomorrow morning. Ah, just let the princess sleep.

I looked at the device under the bathroom light. It seemed to be completely housed in plastic. It must have been glued together; I didn't see any screws. I turned it over. On the bottom it read:

Galax_ Galaxy thought interceptor. 2011 model. Only works in Galax, VA, USA. Never use while a microwave oven is in operation in the same room. Never point at self. Not responsible for content received by this device. End of warnings and legal disclaimers. This lower area intentionally left blank. Do not fill in blank.

I cautiously placed the thought-intercepting gun under the top of the mattress, beneath the pillow on my side, and crawled into bed beside Monique. Hope it's safe to sleep with this thing under my head. Will it interfere with my shunt? Maybe sleep on the left side to be safe.

Sleep came fast, but was unsettled. I awoke several times during the night, and then one more time at 6:06 AM to find Agent 32 making some instant coffee. She had her mug of water in the microwave. She sure got up early. Maybe she wants to get an early start on today's hike.

Then I quickly thought back to what it said on the bottom of the thought extractor – the microwave-oven-operating-in-the-same-room warning. And then I remembered where the device was, and felt the switch with my left hand. Is this on or off? Not sure.

I saw the numerical countdown on the microwave oven display at 1:29. Then there was a big, bright-green flash that lit up the whole room. Monique's face was pure shock.

And, just as I tried to say: "Stop the microwave, Monique!" all quickly faded to black ... and all was silent ... and without thought.
another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

Charlie West by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | JANUARY 2017

**Charlie West**

by Mike Bozart

© 2017 Mike Bozart

A mild, sunny, halcyon December Thursday morning in eastern North America found my Filipina wife Monique (Agent 32) and I (Agent 33) in our gray 2005 Kia Rio hatchback, motoring northward up Interstate Highway 77 (aka I-77), nearing the North Carolina – Virginia state line. We were going to rent a car at CLT (the Charlotte airport), but when Advantage tried to slide in hundreds of dollars in additional charges, we politely declined the disadvantage. The cheerful counter clerk then candidly informed us that they had to do such, as some locals were not returning the cars. I thought: What the hell! Who are they allowing to drive off in their almost-new cars? Don't they do any screening?

The little 4-cylinder engine chugged up the Blue Ridge escarpment. A few miles into Virginia, a breathtaking view of the North Carolina piedmont opened up on the right.

"Nice view, isn't it, Agent 32?" Agent 32? He's already in record mode. Unbelievable.

"It certainly is, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] But, please keep your eyes on the road. Slow down! We're coming up fast on that creeping truck."

I let off the gas pedal a little. An 18-wheeler was crawling up the mountainside. I then passed the semi on the left and settled in the center lane. I wonder if Monique is getting hungry. I bet she is. She didn't eat any breakfast. She's going hypoglycemic, I can tell.

"Want to stop in Wytheville for lunch?" I asked her.

Monique spied a sign. "Is that near Fort Chiswell?"

"Fort Jizzwell?" [sic] He said that for the recorder.

"Gosh, that's so vulgar, 33!"

"Frank [the late, great Agent 107, a dark-haired Caucasian dude who kind of looked like Bryan Ferry, circa 1975] and I called it that. We always got a chuckle out of it." They thought that was funny? Men!

"I guess it's a male thing. Anyway, how far from Wytheville are we?"

"Just twenty-seven minutes out, mahal." [love in Tagalog]

"Ok, let's stop there."

Soon we were sitting in the Appleby's (an American chain restaurant) on East Main Street (US 11). A very courteous African American waitress took our order. I looked over at the bar, and remained fixated on it. So, that's where Frank would go on Saturday nights, searching for new love.

Monique noticed my incessant staring at the horseshoe-shaped bar. "Did you meet another agent at that bar, 33? Tell the truth. Don't lie."

"No, nothing like that, 32. It's where Frank would ply the local lasses a decade ago, looking for a compatible date. He told me that he would be doing ok until the girl found out that he hadn't gone to the local high school." What?!

"Really?" Monique asked with a stunned expression.

"That's what he told me, 32. He also said that he was at a further disadvantage, as he wasn't a ball-cap wearer, much less one to don one backwards."

"Did Frank drink alcohol at that bar, 33?"

"Yes, even though he never really liked doing such. He told me that he would nurse a Heineken for two hours, so as to not seem odd. I know that he would have loved to fire up a big bowl [of marijuana] instead."

"Oh yes, I'm sure of that, Agent 33."

Our waitress then returned with our food. Monique had a grilled chicken and rice dish. I just had a bowl of French onion soup. We ate without speaking; we were famished. This soup is fairly tasty. I'd give it a 7.777777.

I paid our bill thirteen minutes later. Under the tip I left the waitress a coupon for a free download of Gold, a summer story (my 2013 e-novel). Upon exiting, the ever-smiling waitress suddenly said: "Thank you, agents!" Wow! I guess she overheard us. / I wonder if she will friend-request psecret psociety on Facebook. She seems game to it.

Our journey continued up I-77. We were soon approaching the Big Walker Mountain Tunnel. I checked to make sure that the headlights were on.

Monique saw the tunnel's name next to the portal. "Is there a Little Walker Mountain Tunnel, too, Parkaar?"

"I don't think so, Monique."

"Then, why the Big, 33?"

"It's probably a tall tale, 32, with a short ending."

"I just had to ask." She shook her head and sighed.

I had a quick laugh. She then smiled.

Soon we emerged from the northwest portal of the eight-tenths-of-a-mile-long (1.29 km) underground vehicular passage. Nineteen miles (30.58 km) later, we were entering the East River Mountain Tunnel.

"When we emerge from this one, 32, we'll be in WV." [West Virginia]

When we exited the second tunnel, Monique made a declaration: "That last tunnel is longer than the first one, 33."

"How do you know this to be true, perspicacious Agent 32? Did you time our passages through both of them? But, what if our average speeds were different?"

"No, I didn't time them, Agent 33."

"Then how do you know that the latter tunnel is longer than the former?"

"It's a psecret, [sic] 33, with a silent p. That last tunnel was a shade over a mile. [1.61 km] Am I right, Mr. Geo-Almanac?" [sic] Mr. Geo-Almanac? What?

"Well, yes, you are correct, 32. The East River Mountain Tunnel is 1.025 miles [1.65 km] long."

The conversation ceased until we rolled past Flat Top Mountain. I wonder if she remembers that sledding day.

"Remember when we went sledding next to the Winterplace Ski Resort? Agent 66 [my son] was with us."

"Not sure that I recall that, 33." What is he on about now?

"We also tried snowboarding. I think that I made it 70 yards [64 meters] before falling. Agent 66 won, however, as he went 100 yards [91.44 meters] before toppling."

"Oh, yes; I remember it now. We spent the night in Wytheville. You didn't want to drive all the way back to Charlotte." Probably had roid rage.

We stopped and paid at the Ghent Toll Plaza. Twenty-four minutes later, we were rolling into the Pax Toll Plaza to pay another two dollars.

"Is this the last one?" Monique asked.

"No, there is one more before Charleston, 32."

"What do they use the toll money for, 33?"

"Well, initially it was used to pay off the cost of road construction. But, now it's used for road maintenance, I suppose. Once a highway goes toll, it rarely reverts back to being a freeway. State governments like that steady stream of revenue too much."

"I'm glad you have cash in your wallet, 33. They don't accept debit or credit cards."

"Yeah, I researched this turnpike yesterday, 32."

"That figures." She giggled.

After another twenty-four minutes, we were clearing the Chelyan Toll Plaza. Interstate 64-77 then flanked the teal-green Kanawha River all the way to Charleston. The river is wider than I thought. / I bet that water is cold.

When I saw the golden dome of the Capitol Building, I pointed it out (to the left) for Monique.

"Well, after 271 miles, [436 km] we're finally here, Agent 32."

"Where is our hotel?"

"Just a mile away," I said as I veered for Exit 100.

Soon we were parking behind the Charleston Capitol Hotel, an older nine-floor inn on Washington Street that was in the process of being upfitted to become a Wyndham Garden Hotel. Our room – 301 – was definitely pre-remodel: The now-adhesion-less wallpaper had waves in it. But, other than that, it was a decent room for the money.

Monique unpacked our luggage as I examined the room for clues. I soon noticed that the casement window's sashes were screwed so that they would not slide open.

"Monique, the window is locked."

"Maybe someone committed suicide, and the hotel wants to prevent another fatal leap."

"I don't think that a leap from this window would be fatal, Agent 32. Come over and take a look."

Monique walked over and saw that the flat roof of the second story was only 13 feet (4 meters) below. "If we had to evacuate quickly, we could jump onto that HVAC unit." [It was only 8 feet (2.44 meters) below the sill.]

"Yes, we could, Agent 32, like in Tiki Wiki. [a previous short story] Never know when you'll need an alternate exit."

"Do you feel tired, Parkaar?"

"Surprisingly, not really, Monique. Want to tour the downtown on foot?"

"Sure! I want to take some pics and videos, 33."

"Ok, let's hit the streets of this town of Charles, Agent 32."

At 3:47 PM we were walking down Leon Sullivan Way towards the Kanawha River. Monique stopped to take some pics of the patina-coated-spires of Sacred Heart Roman Catholic Church.

Once across Kanawha Boulevard, we walked northwestward along a narrow riverside asphalt sidewalk. The sidewalk was level with the street curb, but just to the left, a very steep, grass-covered slope dropped down to a lower walkway some 25 feet (7.62 meters) or so below. If you weren't paying attention – texting for example – you could take quite a nasty tumble. Surprised there's no railing. Very dangerous for bicycles and skateboards. Maybe they aren't allowed on the upper walk. And, what about tipsy folks leaving pubs? Just one errant step. Has there not been a lawsuit yet? Not even any warning signs. I guess Charleston is not as litigious as Charlotte. Walker beware.

"Watch your step, Monique. You could literally die if you landed the wrong way. No Facebooking [sic] here."

"I hear you, Mr. Safety. But, unlike you, I can walk and chew gum. Don't be so paranoid." Walk and chew gum? She must have got that phrase from my dad.

"I'm paid to be paranoid, asawa." [wife in Cebuano]

She just smiled.

A few minutes later we were passing under the mighty South Side Bridge, a Parker truss bridge. I looked back and noticed a stairway leading up to the road deck. Ah, nice! The bridge allows for pedestrian crossings.

"Want to walk across the bridge, Monique?"

"Maybe later, Parkaar. I think I'm feeling hungry again."

"Ok, no problem, 32. Capitol Street is just ahead. Many good restaurants on that street from what I've read online."

"Ok, lead the way, 33."

We walked up to the historic, twelve-story Union Building, which was where Capitol Street came to a T-intersection with Kanawha Boulevard. The sidewalk was quite narrow. A sign just above the railing warned:

CAUTION

BOULEVARD

TRAFFIC

AT FOOT OF STEPS

And, they weren't kidding, either. Motor vehicles whizzed by us – inches from our toes – at 45 MPH (72.4 km/h). You sure don't want to rush out of this building.

After 30 to 40 seconds, we got a white crosswalk signal and traversed Kanawha Boulevard. We soon came upon a pair of late-20-something Caucasian male hipsters, who were chatting away outside Sam's Uptown Cafe and Bar. As we passed them, I heard one of them ask the other: "Are you staying in Charlie West this weekend?" Staying in Charlie West? Huh?

While waiting for the crosswalk signal to turn at Virginia Street, I turned to look at my lovely pinay (Tagalog for a Filipina) wife. "Hon, can I borrow your phone for a second?"

"Sure," she said as she handed the Samsung Galaxy to me. "Need to look at Google Maps?"

"Uh, no. I just need to look up a phrase."

"What phrase would that be, Parkaar?"

"Charlie West. Oh, I just found it. It's a nickname for Charleston, West Virginia. I heard one of those dudes back there say it." He's always eavesdropping.

I handed the phone back to Monique. We proceeded northeastward on Capitol Street. The sidewalks now had more people on them. Employees were getting off work. A desk clock in a storefront window stated that it was 4:31. Ah, only off by a minute.

We soon came upon The Elite Gentlemen's Club. Monique then looked at me. "Is this a totoy [boobs in Cebuano] bar, Parkaar?"

"I think so, mahal."

"So, they have these places in every city in America, 33?"

"Yeah, pretty much. But, they're not as wild as the ones in Manila."

"And, how would you know, my darling kano?" [Filipino slang for American] Foot-in-mouth disease strikes again.

"Oh, friends have told me." What a lame answer. But, I'll give him a pass for now.

"Well, I'm hungry for some good pizza, Parkaar."

Right after we passed a packed Adelphia Sports Bar & Grille, there it was: Pies and Pints. Ah, yes – found it.

We passed through the green façade. The place was bustling. Lively conversations abounded between pizza chomps and gulps of suds. Looks like a kewl [sic] scene. / Wonder how long we'll have to wait to be seated.

Just a minute later, the blonde-haired hostess led us to a 2-top table that was adjacent to a 4-top table in the rear dining area, where a Caucasian dad, mom and two sons were finishing up and preparing to leave.

A brunette waitress soon came over to take our drink order. Monique just ordered a Sprite. I asked the waitress to surprise me with a good West Virginia dark beer. The Big Timber Porter that she brought back was exceptional. Five stars all the way from Elkins. I hope that I can find this beer somewhere in Charlotte.

We then ordered an onion pizza, as a biracial family of four sat down just three feet (one meter) from us. Due to the close proximity, conversations couldn't be ignored. The light-skinned African American dad made a statement to his Caucasian wife: "We should be able to make it to Mocksville by nine o'clock." Mocksville?

"Pardon me for asking, but are you guys going to Mocksville, North Carolina?" I queried the mid-30-something gent to my immediate right.

"Sure are," the man said. "That's where my wife's family is from. We'll have Christmas down there. We always stop in Charleston, because it's the halfway mark."

"I can remember going to a campground near Mocksville in the '70s with my family," I said. "It had this large pond with a waterslide and diving platform in the middle. But, I forget the name of it. [Lake Myers] So, where did you guys start out from?"

"Just south of Youngstown." [Ohio]

"Browns fans?"

"No, Steelers."

"Oh, that's right; eastern Ohio is Steeler country."

"Most, but not all of it. And, where are you guys from?"

"Charlotte."

"A fast-growing city."

"Fast-growing rents, too."

He chuckled as the waitress placed the large pizza on the silver rack on our table. The pie was delicious. We devoured it, leaving nary a crumb.

Upon leaving, I told the man and his wife that I had a biracial son, and that they had two lovely daughters. The teenage girls blushed. We wished each other safe travels.

Monique and I then sauntered along Capitol Street to Washington Street, where we turned right and walked back to our hotel. It feels fairly safe strolling this town at night.

Once ensconced in our room, I checked the psecret psociety page on Facebook. Ernie the electronic earwig had posted a question about combination sports. Some of the replies from the agents were quite amusing. Billiards using hand grenades. Ha! Agent 4 must have been toked-up.

Monique got into bed and checked her Facebook on her smartphone. She sent a message to me (even though I was sitting in a chair only about ten feet – 3 meters – away):

When are you going to get in the bed? I'm cold! Ah, the madness of this modern digital age.

We fundled [sic] our grundles and then slept like babies through the foggy West Charlie night. After a courtesy continental breakfast, we were putting our shoe soles to the Charleston sidewalks once again. Today's first target: Charleston Town Center, a three-level shopping mall that was only seven blocks away. Monique demanded this one.

The mall was already packed at 10:10 AM on this Friday before Christmas. I followed Monique as she went shop to shop, diligently searching for refrigerator magnets (her favorite item to collect as of late). As we passed through the food court, I saw a dour-looking, 50-something, Caucasian guy sporting a Cleveland Browns cap. Well, there's a true fan. I don't think Cleveland has won a single game this year.

We struck out in the mall proper. However, a nearby corner shop had some very irreverent magnets for the fridge. We bought two: Go Fuck Your Self and one of Mister (Fred) Rogers flipping the middle finger.

The pangs of hunger hit as we arrived at the corner of Capitol & Lee. Monique wanted Italian again, and Graziano's was right there. Thus, in we went. She ordered a Stromboli and I got a slice of cheese pizza. It was good feed.

Our consumption slowed. I studied the restaurant's interior, wondering if any patron had ever uttered the phrase Charlie West. And then I mumbled such. Did he say something?

"Are you feeling ok, 33?" Monique asked between bites.

"Yes, feeling fine, mahal. And, how about you?"

"Feeling good now. I love this food. I have energy again."

Then I thought about the banner on the business next door (Delfine's Jewelry).

"Monique, did you notice the banner hanging on the shop next door?"

"No, Parkaar, I didn't. What did it say?"

"Long-term wife insurance. A clever pun for a jewelry store, huh?" I chuckled.

"The ring you got me is fine, 33. I love it!"

We boxed up what we couldn't finish and walked back to our hotel room. Rain moved in. We just stayed inside, ate leftovers, and watched the local news.

A male reporter was at Yeager Airport giving a delay update. There was only a lone traveler in camera range. The 40-ish Caucasian reporter then made a municipality-deprecating pronouncement: "Well, as you can plainly see, folks, our fair city is not a top holiday destination." Ah, but we came and have enjoyed it. We could retire in Charlie West. Cheap rent.

On the way out of Charleston on Saturday, Christmas Eve, we had a nice Thai lunch at Su Tei on MacCorkle Avenue SE. The green curry was piquantly divine. Monique's red curry wasn't overly sweet, she informed.

Before we left, I asked the late-30-something Asian waitress if Charlie West sounded familiar. She said that she didn't remember such a customer. And, I just left it at that. Of course, I left another Gold card under the tip. Maybe she knows English well enough to read it. Or, maybe she gives it to her novel-loving best friend. Or, maybe I'm just steadily going knowhere. [sic] Floating down the chilly Kanawha River. Slowly losing buoyancy. Settling in the silt.

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

Fries or Freeze by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | JANUARY 2017

Fries or Freeze

by Mike Bozart

© 2017 Mike Bozart

The wooden sign on Scenic Road (Virginia Route 94) read:

Where the Trail begins ... FRIES

I pulled off on the gravel turnout and immediately saw the 15-foot-tall (4.57 meters), stone, turn-of-the-20th-century, cotton mill dam on the New River.

"What's the deal with this stop, Parkaar?" [my ailing alias] Monique, my Filipina wife, asked from the passenger seat of our 2005 Kia Rio. I just know that he's already recording.

"Oh, I just wanted to look at this old dam again, Agent 32." Agent 32? Yep, he's definitely recording.

"Why, did someone go over it and die?"

"Not sure. Maybe when it was a waterfall." [The dam was built at the site of Bartlett Falls.]

I stepped out of our warm, gray car, and into a cold, gray December day. There were patches of hardened snow here and there that crunched under foot. The temperature was below freezing, even at the four o'clock hour.

Monique then got out and walked over to the edge of the little plateau. She glanced down at the narrow pond that was adjacent to the river.

A brown sedan then slowly drove by. I guess we are already on the radar.

"What is the purpose of that dam, Parkaar? Was it built for flood control?"

"No, it was built for hydroelectric power for the textile plant. See that old building down there." I pointed to a brick, four-story powerhouse.

Monique stared at the old building that had large, arched, bricked-in, top-floor window insets.

"The water flowed through it, 32, turning large turbines for electricity. The guy who got the mill up and running was from North Carolina. The town has his surname."

"Oh, I thought that it was because this town had good French fries, 33." She then had a hearty laugh.

I chuckled. "And, get this, the correct pronunciation is freeze."

"How do you know this, 33?"

"I remember reading it in a pamphlet about the New River Trail."

"Really?"

"Yep, yep, yep."

"Oh, not the Malloy [a semi-fictional character who appears in numerous short stories and in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco] shtick again. Give it a break, Parkaar."

I just grinned and rubbed my right eye.

Monique then gazed at the wide river section below the dam. This little town is in the middle of nowhere. Not sure if I could live here. Though, I'm sure my husband could.

For some reason I recalled a day in the mid-1990s when I saw an elderly trout fisherman standing on a mid-stream rock, casting away. Wonder if that guy is still alive. Maybe he died quietly in his sleep in 2009. Did he ever win a mid-level scratch-off prize? Did he once work in the mill? Was work hard to find after 1989? Did he have a rival for a certain local lass? Did he win out and marry her? Did she die tragically on the river? I doubt that he would have ever expected to surface in a short story.

"What are you thinking about, 33? You seem awfully pensive over there."

"Oh, just thinking about mortality, I guess."

"In a fey way again, are you?"

"Well, no one lives forever, 32." Gosh! He can be so morbid.

"Ok, enough of that, Parkaar. New topic: This famous trail – where does it start?"

"Less than a mile [1.6 km] from here, Monique. It's right beside the river. A great photo-op."

"Ok, let's check it out."

We got back in the car and motored into town. After passing the post office, I made a right onto Firehouse Drive. Soon we were entering a gravel parking lot for New River Trail State Park. Our vehicle was the only one. However, the sign said that you had to pay at all times (by cash into a lockbox), and for any amount of time. So, no free parking here. Not even on this fatalistically forlorn day. We'll just stop for a minute.

I parked the Kia so that we were facing the grayish green river. I kept the engine running.

"Well, want to snap a quick pic, Monique?"

"Sure, Parkaar."

We got out of the car and she took a series of photos of the broad river.

"So, how new is this New River, 33?"

"It's actually a very old river, 32. Thus, the name."

"You Americans are crazy!" She laughed.

Then I heard a car entering the parking lot. It was a white sedan that slowly passed by us, looped around, and summarily exited. Whew! Glad it wasn't a cop or someone from State Parks. I need a parking ticket like another hole in my head. [I have a shunt behind my right ear.]

"Who was that, Parkaar?"

"Just some tourists from Ohio. I think that was our important portent: It's time to leave."

We got back in the car and rolled up to the trailhead. This jogged Monique's memory.

"Oh, yes! I remember this place. We rode our bikes here a few years ago. We got drinks at that red caboose. I rode 37.3 miles [60 km] that day! My personal best."

"Yeah, that was one fine ride. No doubt about it. We should do it again sometime. Maybe next spring."

We then exited the parking area and headed back towards the dam. As we went by the former mill site, I thought about the people who worked there over the decades. It must have been devastating to this little hamlet when that mill closed. And the high school closed, too. But, this place sure has potential. So much natural beauty. If I had the money, I'd open an inn here. Oh, what am I thinking? What do I know about innkeeping? Nada. [Nothing in Spanish] In keeping with innkeeping. Words.

Then Monique looked at me as we passed the dam and headed for Galax. "The water just keeps going down."

"Yeah, that's what it's paid to do, 32."

"Paid to do?! Have you lost your last marble, 33?"

Suddenly we heard the rumble of the right-side tires on the gravel shoulder. The car had drifted off the pavement.

"Ok, turn that digital audio recorder off now!" Monique demanded. "Start focusing on the matter at hand: safely driving us to a warm hotel in Galax."

I removed the thin recorder from my shirt pocket and switched it off. Wonder if I got enough material for a short story. Seems a wee thin. There's always the fluff factor, though. And, the form factor. The fluffable, [sic] formable factor. The lost sinker.

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

Gallivanting in Galax by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | JANUARY 2017

**Gallivanting in Galax**

by Mike Bozart

© 2017 Mike Bozart

The Main Street shadows were growing longer by the millisecond. A chilly dusk was starting to settle on the idyllic Blue Ridge town of Galax (VA, USA). It was Christmas Eve, and it was very quiet as far as the ear could see from the 2nd floor, south-facing Rodeway Inn balcony. I wonder if there's any magic tonight in this little mountain town. Did I have that same thought back in 2012? [We stayed in Galax in October 2012 and a shorty story, 'Galax_ Galaxy', was the result.]

I then looked down and noticed that there were only two other vehicles in the parking lot. Who stays in a hotel on Christmas Eve? People like us – that's who! [We had our family Christmas the previous Saturday.] I had an internal chuckle that went external.

"What are you laughing about now, Agent 33?" Monique, my Filipina wife, asked as she came over to the metal railing. Agent 33? Hmmm ... I wonder if Monique is using her new digital audio recorder.

"Oh, just reveling in the invisible yet detectable, small-town holiday cheer, Agent 32." Ok, he knows that I'm recording.

"You've been reveling in that jug of [Cabernet Sauvignon] wine for the past half-hour, Parkaar. [my ailing alias] I'm bored. Is there anywhere that we could go? Is there any place open?"

"Well, it is Christmas Eve, you know. It's going to be slim pickings, 32." Slim pickings? Must be some Americanism.

Monique then did a Yelp search on her smartphone with the keywords: best restaurants, Galax, VA. She studied the first result. Ah, this looks perfect! "Hey bana, [husband in Cebuano] they have a craft brewery here that has good pizza. It got four and a half stars out of five. It's called Creek Bottom Brewing. It's on Meadow Street. Are you up for it?"

"Sure, sweetie. But, are they open? Do you have a phone number? I'll call them for you."

Monique recited the phone number to me, and I called them on my not-that-smart phone. The guy who answered said that they were indeed open, but would be closing early. I told him to hold the door lock, as we were on the way.

"Agent 32, how far is that joint from here?"

"Let me check Google Maps, Parkaar. One minute."

"No rush. Do you have the distance yet?" I then laughed.

"Just like your dad." She chuckled as she looked at the route on her screen. "It's only .7 miles [1.13 km] from here. Want to walk it, Agent 33?"

"Sure, Agent 32. That will increase the short-story potential."

"And, it will be more adventurous. Life should be an adventure!"

"No argument here. Let's go now, before they close."

Soon we were walking south on the east side of North Main Street. After crossing Washington Street, we came upon a tall evergreen tree, perhaps a spruce or fir, decorated with large, solid-color ornaments. Monique demanded a video. My on-location report (now on Facebook) with hands under a couple of six-inch orbs: "Is it on? [Monique: "Yeah."] It's Christmas Eve, and we're in Galax, Virginia, just by chance. And, look at this tree. This tree has got some big balls. Over here. Hey, you've ever heard of the dream of the blue balls?"

Bathroom humor, I know. I can do better. My apologies.

Next, we passed a most likely closed (but maybe open?) Macado's, a sub shop. We kept walking, as Monique is not a sandwich fan. Maybe next time for me.

We then crossed Center Street. We walked past a series of closed boutiques and offices. Next Generation. People put us duh-duh-down. [sic] Just because we get around. Things they do look awful cuh-cuh-cold. [sic] I hope I die before I get old. Well, too late for me. I'm ancient his-his-history. [sic] Talkin' 'bout the next gen-uh-uh-ration. [sic] Next generation, baby. / Wonder what nonsense he is thinking right now.

We then passed The Galax Smokehouse and arrived at an intersection: Grayson Street. We turned left and soon passed the Visitor's Center, which unfortunately, too, was closed. I bet they have some nice brochures.

Next, we crossed a little side street: Rex Lane. The nearly dark streets were completely deserted now. We continued our downward trek towards Chestnut Creek. I noticed the old Rex Theater on the right. Wonder if 'Casablanca' played there. Maybe it's not quite that old. But, that building sure has character. Hope the wrecking ball doesn't get it.

Then we came upon a sheet-metal-clad building that came up flush with the sidewalk. The most striking feature: a couple of exterior doors that opened about three feet (one meter) above the sidewalk. There were no steps. Wow! That is one Paul Bunyan step up – or down. I don't think that would pass ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act). I had a low-volume chuckle.

Monique noticed me studying the doors. "Where are the stairs, Parkaar?"

"They must have reeled them in for the holiday weekend." He's just spouting inanities for the recorder.

"Why did I have to ask?" Monique asked with exasperation.

"I don't know right now, lovely Agent 32, but maybe it will come to me." Whatever!

Monique just sighed. Hope he doesn't drink too much at the microbrewery.

We then crossed Depot Avenue and passed by the USPS (United States Post Office) building. A desolate Railroad Avenue followed. And then, we were walking under the Vaughan Bassett (a furniture plant) over-street connector. It was quite wide. Wonder if they can run forklifts through it. Is there a conveyor belt in there? Wonder how the safety guy – or gal – manages.

We stopped in the middle of the bridge over Chestnut Creek, a shallow brook, and looked downstream. A New River volume feeder. Fries Junction. Yeah, that's the confluence.

"Well, not much farther, Monique. The brewpub is probably right over there." I pointed north with my right index finger. "Probably just .2 miles [322 meters] to go."

"I bet that water is really cold. Do you think it is 33 degrees, [Fahrenheit; 0.56º Celsius] 33?"

"Not that cold, 32. It's probably in the 40s. [Fahrenheit; 4.44º to 9.99º Celsius] But, still way too cold to wade." To wade?!

"Yellow card to Parkaar. One more ridiculous comment and I turn the recorder off." Oh, no!

"That's not much leeway, dearest ref."

Monique didn't respond. Soon we were making a rounded inside-corner left onto North Meadow Street. The galvanized steel guardrail on our immediate left ended, and then the sidewalk did, too. Glad that Monique didn't wear high heels. She would be hating it right now.

We marched on the grass next to the road, passing various industrial businesses. Then we passed a lone residence and arrived at East View Street. We safely crossed Meadow Street, waving a car by. And then as we crossed View Street, I looked back southwestward across the creek. If there were a pedestrian bridge – or even a low-water weir – connecting Webster and View, it would cut the distance nearly in half, I bet. Would also be a good bike link. / Lord knows what he's thinking of now. Won't even ask.

We immediately saw the brown wooden sign in front of the PRONETS Building:

Creek Bottom Brews – Craft Beer Store & Tasting Room

We noticed several cars in the gravel parking lot and made our way to the front door of their building, which was an annex of the PRONETS Building. I pulled on the door handle. It opened. Yee-hee! They're not closed. I'm so hungry for some pizza / Yey! We made it in time. Can't wait to taste their beer.

We walked in and stopped near the register. A middle-aged Caucasian couple, who were seated near the door, had just finished eating, and were getting up to leave. They chatted with the staff as they made their exit. Must be locals. They seem to know each other.

We were quickly seated in the back area by a late-20-something, brown-haired, bearded, white dude. Prerequisite no. 1 for being a male craft brewer: Full beard.

"Thanks for staying open for us," I said to him.

"Ah, that was you," he said. "No problem, man. You guys got in under the wire." He then headed back to the kitchen.

I then studied the walls, which were lined with tall shelves of assorted craft beers, while waiting for our waiter. This was the perfect stop tonight.

A blonde-haired Caucasian lady of about 25 years soon took our pizza order. When she asked me what I would like to drink, I told her to surprise me with something dark. The pint of Porter Wagoneer that she brought back really hit the spot. Nice chocolate aroma. Great brewski. [sic]

Monique sipped on a Sprite as we waited for the pizza. We could see the stone oven from where we were seated. Wow! A real stone oven. / This pizza should be good.

The pizza landed twelve minutes later. It was delicious. The dark beer complimented it perfectly.

"We picked a good place, Parkaar," Monique said as she finished off the next-to-penultimate onion slice.

"We really did, Agent 32. We could have done a lot worse."

"We could have been eating at a convenient store tonight, Agent 33." So true.

"No doubt, 32."

Then the waitress walked up. "Is everything ok?"

"Yes, everything is fine," I replied as Monique nodded.

"Would you like another beer, sir?"

"How much time do we have?" I asked, fearing that closing time was fast approaching.

"Oh, probably twenty minutes. We won't run you out." That's very nice of them.

"In that case, sure!"

"Where are you all from?" the short waitress then asked.

"Charlotte," Monique quickly stated.

"And what brings you up here on Christmas Eve?"

"Our health," Monique replied. Ah, Casablanca. I'll play along, too.

"We came to Galax for the waters," I added.

"But, neither of you are drinking our fine mountain water," the waitress stated. I wonder if she got the Casablanca reference. Her reply is ambiguous. The mysteries in this life.

Seventeen minutes later we had consumed all the food and beverages. I paid the bill with our credit-union debit card. And, par for the course, I left a Gold card (a coupon for a free e-copy of my 2013 novel, Gold, a summer story) under the tip. He sure is dispensing those cards rather quickly.

However, we didn't get out the door before the waitress pulled her tip – and saw the card.

"Didn't you write a science-fiction short story that was based in Galax several years ago?" she asked me as she approached us.

"I did. I've learned to stay away from that genre. It certainly wasn't my best. It has a one-star rating at last check."

"Oh, I was fine with the sci-fi theme. What distressed me was the thoughts of my fellow townsfolk. It was quite negative and dark."

"Sorry about that," I said. "The next short story about Galax will be much more positive. I like this town."

"Ok, I'll look forward to reading it," she said. "Goodnight and Merry Christmas."

"Likewise," Monique and I replied in unison.

We decided to perambulate back, so as to form a rectangular loop, since the northern return route was approximately equal to the distance of the way we had come. Also, I wanted to include a few more sights and site-specific thoughts in the future short story. (The one that you are reading now.)

Monique and I walked north-northwestward on North Meadow Street. We cut through the CVS Pharmacy parking lot to arrive on East Stuart Drive (US 58/221). It was dark now.

Traffic was sporadic on the four-lane highway as we walked over Chestnut Creek on a narrow sidewalk. We hurried so that we would be off of the bridge before a large, whole-right-lane-wide truck got there. We made it by a step. Whew!

As we crossed T. George Vaughan, Jr. Road, I looked over to the right and saw an old red NW (Norfolk and Western) caboose. It was at the beginning of the Galax branch of the New River Trail. I pointed to it.

"Monique, that's where our rail-trail bicycling adventure started 50 months ago." Fifty months? Why doesn't he just say 'a little over four years ago'? Because the recorder is on.

"Yes, it was a perfect fall day, Parkaar."

"Indeed it was, 32."

"I wonder if anyone is on that trail right now, 33."

"Well, there are some 57 miles [91.7 km] of fine crushed stone. There's probably some lost soul out there somewhere. Maybe between Draper and Pulaski."

"Why would you guess there, 33?" Monique asked as we crossed Madison Street.

"Just a hunched-over hunch, 32." What?!

At the corner of East Stuart and North Main was a gasoline station that had been converted into a community church (Hearts United). The sign on the brick wall said that they accepted everyone – Muslims, Latinos, Asians, African Americans, and LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transsexual) folks. Pretty impressive for a small town in Appalachia. Wonder if they get harassed. / I just know that my bana likes this.

We turned left. Two blocks later, we were crossing East Webster Street. Monique then pointed to a wooden sign:

Galax Police Department

She snapped a pic of me standing next to it (posted on Facebook). It's reassuring that the police station is right next to us. / Glad that we're on foot. I'm probably under 0.08, [blood-alcohol concentration] but I know that I have alcohol on my breath. Smart move leaving the car parked.

Seventy-seven feet (25.67 meters) later, we were climbing the exterior steps to our room. A charming South Asian family of four passed us. I wonder if they are related to the owner. [who appeared to be of Indian descent] / Glad we're not the only ones here tonight. That would be creepy.

We rounded the balcony corner and were safely back at our hotel room. I unlocked and opened the door. Monique immediately flopped down on the queen-size bed. She was exhausted.

I then told her that I was going to take a few nighttime pics. I closed the door and walked to the eastern end of the second-floor exterior corridor and noticed the sign on the adjacent building:

Midtown Apartments

A make-your-own-message wall sign stated that all utilities were included. Nice views. Cheap rent. This would be it.

And then a 60-ish white guy in a green army jacket staggered out of the shadows below. He appeared to be extremely impaired.

"Merry Christmas!" I yelled down to him.

"What's sooooo [sic] merry about it?" he slurred out as he wiped his disheveled gray beard with his right cuff.

"Well, we're both alive in America. We've still got a chance."

"I aint got no chances left. And, you don't, either, pal. It's over. We lost." We? Such an incorrigibly optimistic chap.

"Ok, well, enjoy this nice night anyway."

"What's so nice about it?!" he shouted. Bitter always?

I didn't reply. I just strided back to our room. While unlocking the door, I noticed a sign to my left:

Knights Inn 4 Blocks →

I looked up the hill. Wonder if anyone ever found that note.

Once inside, I sat on the side of the bed and began to take off my heavy, brown, steel-toe hiking shoes.

Monique then rolled over. "Did you encounter anything interesting?" she sleepily asked.

"Just an impromptu story-closer, 32."

"I'll transcribe the recording for you tomorrow."

"Salamat, ang akong matam-is nga asawa. ['Thanks, my sweet wife' in Cebuano] Very much appreciated. I think we've got another story here."

Monique quickly fell back asleep. Twelve minutes later, I heard a man stomping past our door. Wonder if that's the homeless-appearing guy.

Then all was quiet for the rest of the waking night. After the weather segment on the 10 o'clock local news (out of Roanoke), I turned the TV off. Sleep crashed down on my consciousness within minutes.

Just before dawn, an intense dream took hold. The sound of the microwave door closing awoke me. Monique looked at my shocked face. I immediately felt under the pillows. But, nothing was there.

"Wrong story, Parkaar," Monique stated.

We laughed.

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

The Race by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | November 2017

The Race

by Mike Bozart

© 2017 Mike Bozart

John Z. Halpersham III, a 5'-10" (1.78 meters tall); balding; still very much in shape; 44-year-old; often overly demanding; hypercompetitive; currently going through a nasty, lawyer-inflamed, child-custody-involving divorce; salt-and-pepper-Van-Dyke-bearded, bespectacled Caucasian American mid-level project streamliner, just couldn't stop talking about his idea for a team-building cycling race with his early-30-something work unit of five, four males and one female. He was waving his hands as he spoke and paced to and fro in his 23rd-floor, uptown Charlotte (NC, USA), faux-marble-finished, strategic planning office. When John switched on a ceiling-mounted projector, a crude map appeared on the wall next to him, which looked like this:

"The track for the race will be the New River Trail," Mr. Halpersham boldly stated in his Queens [the borough in New York City] accent. "How many of you know where that is? Could I see a show of hands? Now, don't be shy."

Two of the men, both white 31-year-olds, Bob and Richard, nonchalantly raised their hands. They respectively thought to themselves: He must have drunk at least five cups of coffee today. / What is he on about now? Did he make that map?

"Ok, for you other three that don't get out much," John continued, "it's in southwestern Virginia – only two short hours from ye olde Crown Town. [a rarely used, somewhat uppity, nickname for Charlotte] Well, maybe not right now." (It was 3:53 PM on a Thursday; rush-hour traffic was already clogging construction-pinched Interstate 77 North.)

Mary, a svelte, 30-year-old Asian American, coughed. She had the omnipresent late-summer cold that had infiltrated the Queen City in the third week of September 2016.

This didn't escape John's attention. "Mary, as a female, you will be exempt from racing; you will be in charge of team encouragement," John stated in a patently matter-of-fact manner. "Is that ok?" How sexist! Just a cheerleader for the boys? He knows that I ride my bike to work three days a week. What a bastard! No wonder his wife is divorcing his chauvinistic ass. What a complete jerk! I should start looking for another job. I just know that if I file a complaint, it will just get worse for me. Wonder what the guys think.

After several seconds had passed, Mary looked up. "Sure, Mr. Halpersham," she resigned. "That's fine." God I hate him. Why did I ever take this job? I was too desperate. Should have been more patient. More persistent.

The four male employees were also taken aback by his remark. Woah! / Unbelievable. / Can't believe that he just said that. Surely a reprimand is coming. Should I file a complaint? No, Mary should be the one. / It's only a matter of time before HR [human resources] rips him to shreds, or puts the axe to his neck. How has he lasted this long? Maybe he has something on the HR manager. Has he slept with her? Wouldn't be surprised.

John restarted his pitch with unrestrained gusto. "The nicely restored, century-old Jackson Park Inn in Pulaski will be the finish line. You'll each have your own room there, and I'll foot the bill. To give you guys more of a chance, I will start in Galax, which, as the graphic plainly shows, is 51.8 miles [83.36 km] from Pulaski. And, you guys – well, one of you; the other three will be positioned downline – will get to take off from Fries [spoken like 'freeze'] – and, yes, that's the correct pronunciation. You guys will only have to collectively go 45.2 miles [72.74 km] – 6.6 miles [10.62 km] fewer than me. A nice discount, huh? Hey, I want to give you guys a fighting chance to beat me. Just pretend like I'm the ruthless leader of the rival evil empire." Pretend? / No need to pretend. / Is he serious? / The divorce is taking its toll on him. / A bad joke. / I'm starting to think that he is seriously losing it. All.

"What is the trail's surface made of?" Pablo, the 32-year-old, dark-haired, semi-portly Hispanic American asked.

"Finely crushed stone," John quickly answered. "The trail used to be a freight railway owned by the Norfolk & Western Railroad. It has two tunnels and trestles galore. It's a fairly easy grade – no steep hills." That's nice. / Thank God. / We just may have a chance. / Beating him at his own, crazy, off-road cycling contest would be sweet, but I bet that he wouldn't take it well. / I hope that he crashes out in the first mile [1.61 km] and ruptures a sac.

"Shall we bring our own bikes, sir?" slim, brown-haired Richard asked in his distinct Liverpudlian accent.

"No," John barked. "I'll provide and transport the bicycles, which will all be identical three-speeds with 38-millimeter [1.5-inch] tires – not too skinny, and not to too fat; decent speed with the necessary footprint for traction." What a soft lad! / Boss has gone overboard with the cycling. / Wonder if he's one of those MAMIL [Middle-aged men in Lycra®] types, sporting a chub. [slang for a curled, semi-erect penis] Totally effing gross!

"When will this race start?" a now-more-curious Bob asked in his relaxed San Fernando Valley (CA) accent.

"The race will commence at sundown – when the trail has been vacated of all the recreational non-hard-chargers – on Saturday, October 15th," John answered and took a short pause. "It will be an ides of October that none of you will ever forget. Even thirty years from now, way out in 2046, you will all remember our character-building, bonus-chance-enhancing, bonding-under-pressure experience on the 15th of October in 2016. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you: All of the bikes will be outfitted with ultra-bright, LED, [light-emitting diode] 8,400-lumen, see-all-the-way-to-Portugal headlamps. Light won't be an issue." He's gone mad. / I need to get out of this somehow. / What else does he have in mind? / This Yank [British slang for American] is completely bonkers. / He's coo-coo – lost in a male mid-life crisis.

"So, each of us will only ride a fraction of the whole distance, right?" the wide-eyed, intrigued, 32-year-old, male, Senegalese work-visa employee asked.

"Yes, Babacar, each of you guys will only ride predefined segments. Since there are four of you racing, you would each only have to ride, on average, a little over eleven miles [17.70 km] each – probably only fifty to fifty-five minutes in the saddle as we cyclists say. A piece of cake. You will pass a special coin to the next rider – like handing off a baton in a relay-type footrace – who will then hand it to the next one, and so on."

Babacar caught the logistical dilemma. "But, boss, let's say that I start off first from Fries. What happens to me and the bike after I am done with my segment?" Wow! He's got a point there. Must not let them think that I didn't consider this.

John continued without a hitch. "I'm going to have my older son, Harry, the newly unrestricted-licensed 17-year-old, drop off and pick up you guys, along with the bikes, one after another, in a rented cargo van. You guys just need to designate your start-stop hand-off points at or near public roads. Excuse me for just a second. Let me look at a detailed trail map on my smartphone." Hope the road crossings are spaced fairly evenly. Don't want to have to cancel this epic crucible.

"Is this mandatory?" Mary asked while John studied the display on his cell phone's screen.

"Completely optional – just strongly encouraged for professional development, departmental-unit camaraderie, and career growth," John rattled off without lifting his eyes. What a non-disclaimer of a disclaimer. / I guess that I should go. / A free night at a posh historic hotel. Oh, why not? / Hope I can bring Judy. [Richard's Caucasian American wife] She would want to go. For sure.

"Can we bring our special someones?" short-blonde-haired Bob then asked. Just more witnesses to the humiliation. / Bob read my mind.

"Oh, most certainly," John answered. "Yes, you can all bring your significant others ... if you have one." He knows that I'm single and that all the guys have a wife or girlfriend. Such a prick! Wait, does Pablo have a girlfriend? / Oblivious boss still doesn't know that I'm gay. Certainly won't bring Freddie. [Pablo's Latino boyfriend] The homophobe would totally freak ... and get me fired somehow. I'm absolutely sure of it. / Judy will want to do some riding, too. Yeah, we could ride to Draper or even down to Claytor Lake on Sunday. / Jenny [Bob's Caucasian American girlfriend] may be up for this. / Linda [Babacar's Jamaican American sometime-companion] may not care to be around John. Probably better to just not mention it to her. She would think that this is utterly ridiculous anyway.

"Excellent!" Bob gleefully responded. "I'm in." Brown-noser!

"Ok, I got it now," John suddenly broadcasted. "The first hand-off spot will be where Trestle Road crosses the trail in Ivanhoe. That's 12.1 miles [19.47 km] from you guys' starting point in Fries. Babacar, you should be able to knock out the first leg in under sixty-five minutes. Ok, maybe seventy." John snidely chortled. "You want it? Rest assured that we're all headed downstream; it's mostly downhill." Literally and figuratively.

"Sure, why not, boss? I'll bat – or pedal – leadoff." Babacar beamed. "You won't ever see me on the trail, Mr. Halpersham." He sniggered contentedly. Well, look here – a cock of the walk has sprouted. Babacar is going to be a car without axles compared to me. It will probably take him well over an hour to do his dozen-mile [19.31 km] segment. 'No, Babacar, you won't ever see me, because I will have already beat you to Fries Junction.' [where the Fries and Galax paths join] Yeah, the race will already be over for all intents and purposes. Though, I must not tell them that. Just let them think that they have a chance. Don't crush their spirits in the first quarter.

"Hey, I like that self-confidence, Babacar," John eventually said. "But, don't be surprised to hear 'on your left' as you near the end of your run." That's not happening.

Babacar demurely chuckled some more. John's not going to make up those half-dozen miles [9.66 km] on me. No how. No way. He's in for a big surprise. I'm going to start riding again. Shave some pounds off. Build up my endurance and speed. I'll get my stamina back up. / I'm going to humiliate all four of these amateurs in front of Mary. I'll win by at least ten minutes. Minimum. She'll be impressed. She'll start falling for me. She'll see that I'm more virile than these 30-nothings – the true, well-seasoned alpha dog amongst meek sheep.

John recommenced his speech. "The second transfer-of-the-special-commemorative-coin location will be the Baker Island Road crossing in Barren Springs, an 11.2 mile [18.02 km] segment. Maybe that's you, Bob? You want it?" John guffawed. A commemorative coin for an insane, nighttime, ad hoc bicycle race? / Boss needs to see a shrink. / Gosh, he's wacked. Totally.

"Sure, put me down for the second leg," Bob requested. Hope that I can catch a second wind by then and put this race to bed. I'll take some of that stimulant that Jay gave me. I'm going to blow their chains off. / I hope that this isn't the leg where John passes us – me. Hope Baba[car] doesn't give up too much time. He's not in the best of shape. I don't want to see that smug asshole going by me in the night.

John then continued. "The third and final transfer spot will be the Julia Simpkins Road crossing in Hiwassee, an 11.3-mile [18.19 km] leg. Is this you, King Richard?" King? I'm sure that he said that because I'm from England.

"Sure, I'll take it," Richard replied. I'll be way ahead by this point, cruising to victory over my cast of schleppers. / Gosh, I hope that John doesn't pass me during my segment. Oh, he's probably already rolled past me before I even start the penultimate leg.

"That leaves a 10.6-mile [17.06 km] homestretch to the hotel's patio in Pulaski," John concluded. "Pablo, this is you. Are you ok being the closer for your decidedly underdog squad?" He'll only see me passing him as he waits for the coin in Hiwassee. The race winner will be evident: me. An academic exercise from thereon. / I bet that John passes me way before Richard gets to me. I'll just ride leisurely for 50 minutes and crash in a nice, comfy bed.

"Sure," Pablo vocalized. Nothing to sweat.

"Ok then, I believe that we are through here," John declared in closing. "You guys are free to make changes to the order and segment lengths. Just make sure that all of the segments begin/end at public-road crossings. We have to have vehicular access. And, don't forget to solicit Mary for moral support." What a turd! Grrrr ... No, don't say it.

The next week went by with no mention of the race in the office by John or anyone else. The five employees concluded that it was just a what-if scenario incisively invented by John; it had to be yet another ploy in which he gauged their reactions to a hypothetical competition.

But then on Monday morning, October 3rd, a best-foods-for-cycling e-mail landed in each one of the five employees' inboxes. Later that day, John went by each individual cubicle and informed with a manic expression: "A dozen days 'til a dozen miles. Get ready. It's on!" He departed each time with a beguilingly grin.

The five employees had a secret meeting during their lunch half-hour on Friday, October 7th at an eatery in the Epicentre (a mixed-use complex two blocks away). They discussed possible changes to some segments. Mary demanded to ride, too, to cut down the average segment length to nine miles (14.48 km). She was persuasive. After seventeen minutes of discussion, they unanimously agreed to add her to the lineup. As the third cyclist, Mary would ride the middle 8.1-mile (13.04 km) segment. When such was presented to John, he begrudgingly agreed to it and thought: Whatever, folks. Whatever.

Friday, October 14th finally arrived in uptown Charlotte. Though, Pablo didn't; he had come down with the flu yesternight and would have to be scratched. At lunch the trio of men suggested three new segments, each divided by road-rail intersections: Fries to Austinville (16.3 miles; 26.23 km), Austinville to Allisonia (16.4 miles; 26.39 km), and Allisonia to Pulaski (12.5 miles; 20.12 km). However, Mary dismissed it and requested to just use the original four-segment plan, and assume Pablo's final leg. The males tried to talk her into taking a shorter, to-be-created mid-segment, which would either be in the second or third position. But, Mary would have none of it. She reminded the guys that she rode more miles each week than any of them. The three men acceded to her demands. When this substitution was shared with John at 3:13 PM, he just smirked. Mary and her little lambs are all going to slaughter. Maybe I'll ride right alongside her as we approach Pulaski. Should I let her win? No way! I'll power-pedal it, and sprint away from her in the last 500 yards. [457 meters]

At 2:52 PM on an autumnally splendid, mild, sunny Saturday (the 15th of October), Bob, Babacar, Mary, Richard and Judy motored out of Charlotte in Bob's silver 2013 Buick Encore. Jenny had decided to pass on the trip; she surmised that it would be massive ennui. Mary agreed to join the carpool once she learned that Judy was going. Babacar rode shotgun; Mary, Richard and Judy took the backseat.

On the way up to Statesville on Interstate 77, the four employees explained the race in detail to Judy. She was at first flabbergasted. But then after quietly thinking it over, she deduced that what this race was really about was who would get the next promotion. However, she kept this psychological analysis to herself.

At 4:54 they were disembarking from the crossover SUV in a large Walmart Supercenter parking lot off US 58-221. John had picked Appleby's as their five o'clock dinner rendezvous. Harry would pull the white van into the asphalt parking lot four minutes later.

The seven of them sat together at a table in the back of the American chain restaurant. It wasn't yet crowded. Surprisingly, John was not his usual braggart self. Maybe it was because his son was sitting next to him, having a subduing influence. Or, maybe it was because auburn-haired Judy, whom he really didn't know, was sitting directly across from him.

"Sunset is at 6:47," John announced after all the orders were taken by the mid-20-something, tart-like, bleach-blonde, Caucasian American waitress. "Harry will drop me – and my just-the-same-as-yours bike – off first at the Galax trailhead, which is just three miles [4.83 km] down the road from here. Then you guys will follow him over to the Fries trailhead, which is only a fifteen-minute drive. We'll start the race at seven sharp – right on the nose. I plan on being snug in my bed at the inn in Pulaski at eleven o'clock, watching the local news."

"So, after dropping Babacar and his bike off in Fries, we will proceed to the first coin-transfer point in Ivanhoe?" Bob enquired.

"Exactly," John confirmed.

Richard noticed a potential quandary. "But, who will drive Bob's car when Bob is riding his segment?"

"Any of you could drive it," John replied, relieved that this wasn't an overlooked, race-threatening, logistical issue. "You all have driver's licenses, right?"

"I'll be glad to advance your car to the next stop, Bob," Judy offered. There's the solution. / I can trust her driving.

"Problem solved," Bob plainly stated. "Thanks, Judy. I'll drive it again after my segment is done."

"Ok, are we all good now?" John asked, sounding ready to get going at 6:09. "All clear now on the details?"

The adults all nodded. Harry kept eating.

"Oh, the coin ... do you have it on you, John?" Richard asked. Of course.

"Thanks for reminding me, Richard. I have it right here." John then handed what looked like a poker chip to Babacar. "If Mary gets this coin to the Jackson Park Inn before I do, you guys won't only win, but will receive something unforeseen."

The four employees had the same thought: I wonder what in the world that could be.

John picked up the tab. Everyone thanked him except Harry, who now sported a sullen look for some unknown reason. Mary thought: For a first-class ass, he sure is generous.

Soon Bob's silver Buick was following the rented white van that was being driven by Harry towards downtown Galax as the sky grew dusky. After crossing Chestnut Creek and a red caboose on permanent display, the vehicles turned right into a now-vacant gravel parking lot.

John swiftly got his bike out and checked the tire pressure. Satisfied, he waved for Harry to go on. As Bob made a U-turn to follow Harry, John yelled: "Don't start before seven o'clock, Babacar. No cheating!"

Babacar nodded as Bob made a left out of the parking lot to follow Harry back northeast on US 58-221. At a forking Glendale Road, Harry made a soft left. Bob followed as the sun slipped to the tree line on the horizon. Then the white van's left turn signal was flashing again. Harry turned onto Cliffview Road. They weaved through forests and fields to arrive at Fries Road. Harry turned right this time. He didn't go very far before making another left. It was mostly dark woods on both sides of the road for five minutes. Then there was a long bridge over the wide-but-not-so-deep New River. The two-lane road then paralleled the broad stream and trail into the tiny town of Fries. They pulled into the gravel parking area. We made it. / So, this is where it begins. / This little Blue Ridge town has seen better days. / It feels so eerie here. / Hubby's boss is nuts.

Harry then unloaded a bicycle for Babacar. It was a refreshing 59º Fahrenheit (15º Celsius) at 6:48. Twilight was settling as Babacar switched on the headlamp. Wow! That's as bright as the [Las] Vegas strip!

At 7:00 on the dot, the two vehicles drove off and Babacar started pedaling down the gray trail. He settled into a 15-MPH (24.14 km/h) cadence on the packed stone chips. Soon it was pitch-dark. His headlamp was more than sufficient, though. He pedaled a little faster as he looked at the languid surface of the now-almost-black river on his right. I feel good. This isn't a problem. No way is John making up that deficit on me. Not happening.

John was already 3.2 miles (5.15 km) down the Galax spur at seven o'clock, as he had started pedaling along the two-meter-wide (6.56 feet) path that followed Chestnut Creek at 6:49 – insouciantly disregarding his own race's prescribed start time. He was cruising in high gear on the mostly smooth, flat to descending, off-road path at a brisk pace of 18 MPH (28.97 km/h). Wonder where Babacar is right now. Wonder if I'll beat him to Fries Junction. Maybe overly optimistic. Plenty of time to catch and pass one of them later. Yeah, no need to kill the suspense so early.

Babacar would arrive at Fries Junction first. He looked to his right down the 1,089-foot-long (332 meters), diagonally aligned trestle over the tranquil river. He didn't see a light. I'm sure that I arrived here first. I'm certain that I'm ahead of John. Just need to keep up the pace. No letup. Need to finish strong.

Just then John entered a short, curved tunnel. He thought that he saw a dark animal pass by the exit portal. Holy shit! Was that a black bear? Damn! Forgot the pepper spray. Those bears can run up to 33 MPH. [53.11 km/h] I can't achieve that kind of speed on this bike on this trail. Hope my headlamp spooked it away.

John emerged from the tunnel. He then looked back. Nothing was chasing him. Whew! Got lucky there.

After passing through a stretch of dense woods, way out of sight of the river, Babacar started to cross a short bridge over the mouth of Brush Creek. He again saw the New River, which was making a slow, lazy, wide-right (eastward) turn. There was no sign of John. Still ahead of the boss. Must hold onto this lead. Getting passed in the first segment would be beyond awful. I'd never hear the end of it. 'In just a measly 5.8 miles, [9.33 km] Babacar lost the race for you guys.' That would be horrible. Must pedal harder.

In the middle of the bridge to Fries Junction, John stopped, dismounted his bike, drank some water, and texted Harry.

Has Babacar arrived yet, son?

Eighteen seconds later he got a one-word answer from his increasingly bored teenager.

No.

John popped a couple of Jay's quasi-amphetamine pills. Then he got back on his bike and charged across the old, single-track, level, chain-link-fence-added-to-the-railings-for-child-safety railroad trestle. Kayaking at night on this river would be exciting. Maybe too exciting for my troupe. Wonder where Babacar is. Guess I'll find out soon enough. No need to panic. I'll soon be zooming past one of them. 'Hello Richard, it's me; I'm on your wheel; you've been caught by your Yankee-Doodle-Dandy boss.' No, that's wrong; it's Bob who is going second. Mr. West Coast is going down to his East Coast daddy-o.

Babacar raced onward under the luminous, nearly full, post-harvest moon. Soon he was passing Byllesby Dam on his right at 13.7 MPH (22.05 km/h). He noticed the river's surface lapping over the lip of the old concrete spillway. So, that's why there was no current. Wonder how far I'm ahead of John. Am I really ahead? Surely. Hope so.

Buck Dam was just 2.4 miles (3.86 km) downstream from Byllesby Dam. It was here that a rapidly pedaling John (now ripping it over the minced gravels at 19 MPH – 30.58 km/h) first caught a glimpse of Babacar's flashing red taillight. I've already reeled in the first fish. This race is over. I'll ease up. Don't want Babacar to detect me. I'm now the killer whale playing with the to-be-eaten-later seals.

Babacar soon saw the white van, and then Bob's car, both down on the right, just before the short bridge over Trestle Road. His leg was done, and so were both of his legs at 7:57. Yey! I made it. Barely. Glad that's over.

"Good job, mate!" Richard yelled. "You didn't get overtaken."

"Toss me the coin," Bob implored as he mounted his already-lit-up bike.

Babacar obliged.

"Charge!" Mary cried as Bob took off on his tri-speed.

Harry said nothing. He continued to play a video game on his smartphone as he sat in the driver's seat of the 2014 Dodge Ram van. Dad better really pay me $100 for this boring-as-hell nonsense.

John pedaled onto the bridge over Trestle Road at 8:01, just as the Buick's taillights disappeared around a curve. Should I go in for the kill now? Should I roar past Bob? Let's just see how fast he's riding.

Due to the alignment of the roads, Bob actually saw the white van and his Buick pass by three minutes later on the adjacent highway on the left (VA 94), which briefly ran parallel with the trail as he crossed the short trestle over VA 764. He thought that he saw a thumbs-up gesture from Richard in the back seat, but wasn't sure. Maybe I just imagined that. Don't think they even saw me.

After rounding a sweeping left bend, John, now riding at a less manic pace of 16 MPH (25.75 km/h), spotted Bob's rear light far ahead on a long straightaway section: the planked-over Ivanhoe River Bridge. Bob was almost at the end of the trestle, proceeding at a modest pace. I bet that Bob is only going 14 MPH. [22.53 km/h] I feel like going on a burst.

Bob continued pedaling through the dark forest. His mind was in a trance. Such a crazy thing this is. Bicycling on an old Appalachian railbed at night. So many bad things could happen. John's really taking a big chance. If someone gets hurt – or worse – his job is toast. Smoldering burnt toast.

Suddenly, while in a curve, Bob heard the sound of another bicycle's tires on the crushed stone. It was John. He gave a brusque, wrist-flick wave as he zipped past on the left. Crap! The boss caught me. I'll be the one who lost the race.

John continued his torrid pace of 20 MPH (32.19 km/h). He soon opened up a sizeable gap. In 84 seconds he was out of Bob's sight. I bet that Bob never saw that coming; he never saw me gaining on him. Wonder if he'll try to give chase. I'll ease up. Let's see if he has anything in the tank. Jay's pills are like an additional 100 watts of power in each leg. I bet that it's banned in USA Cycling-sanctioned races.

Bob did indeed pick up his pace. He was soon within 60 feet (18.29 meters) of John, who noticed the additional light. Maybe John's spent – shot his wad. He's considerably slower now. Maybe he overexerted his 40-something body. I can take him now. I'll get the lead back for us. 'Sorry, boss, but it looks like your batteries are dying. Please move aside. Bob is coming through.' / Mr. California is in for a stunning surprise. 'Get your Kleenex® ready, Bob; crying time is nigh.'

John could hear Bob closing in. He let him pass unchallenged, feigning exhaustion. After Bob was 220 feet (67 meters) ahead, John turned on the stimulant-fueled jets. Mouse free. Mouse caught. Mouse wriggles away. And now, cat finishes off mouse.

Bob heard John charging back as he neared the at-grade crossing of highway VA 636. Bob slowed to check for traffic; however, his boss didn't.

John would be struck and killed instantly by a northbound, slingshotting-out-of-a-descending-right-curve, overspeeding, left-headlight-out, drunk-driven, flat-black Ford F-150 pickup.

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

The Cipher by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | March 2018

**The Cipher**

by Mike Bozart

© 2018 Mike Bozart

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 Caucasian middle-aged 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. In 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."

"Me, too."

Walter 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 hidden 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 always-exciting 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-speckled 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?

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

A Blue Whale of a Tale by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | AUG 2018

**A Blue Whale of a Tale**

by Mike Bozart

© 2018 Mike Bozart

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.

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

Bridge Day by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | AUG 2018

**Bridge Day**

by Mike Bozart

© 2018 Mike Bozart

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 crystal clear, 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've 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 think 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. Wonder 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 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? Someone in American political history ... a widow who married a widowed president. Which president was it? Darn, c'mon memory. I just read it the other day.

Mony re-awoke and sighed. "Almost to the birthplace of Woodrow Wilson's second wife, 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 olivine-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 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 some cock. 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.

Thanks so much for your precious mind-time!

p.s. I've written many other short stories (138 in total as of August 16, 2018), three novelettes, two novellas, and an erotic, film-noir-esque novel (GOLD, a summer story).

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