 
### Dividers

Copyright 2016 Travis Adams Irish

Published by Travis Adams Irish at Smashwords

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

I. Riding The Demon - Fingal's Cave

II. Sin Screening - Dark Comforts

III. A Bonfire to Hope

IV. The Early Bird

V. Jacob's Scat

VI. Drink To Remember

VII. Of Twisted Tongues and Tow Trucks

VIII. An Apple for an Arrow

IX. 1,000 Kelvins

X. War of the Songbird

XI. Sin Screening - Salvation Resurrected

XII. The Indifference of Plato

XIII. Sin Screening Chandler Glenn

XIV. Life is Brutal

XV. Exculpation

XVI. Emancipation

XVII. Lost Forewords

XVIII. Sin Screening - Darker Comforts

XIX. The N Word

XX. Love by Hourglass

XXI. Riding The Demon - Alexandria, Egypt

XXII. Absolute Zero

XXIII. Riding The Demon - London, England

XXIV. A Mighty Debt

XXV. Posthumous Exhibition

XXVI. Life is Cruel

XXVII. Riding The Demon - The Dead King Scrolls

XXVIII. Full Circle

XXIX. The Greatest Generation

Other books by T. C. Clover

Connect with T. C. Clover

Acknowledgements

Dedication: For Tatyana Alexandra Khorishko, the desert rose that survived the blizzard; my inspiration, and someone I love very much.

To my father and siblings (in alphabetical order): Robbie Griffith, James Sellers, Jodi Sellers, and Shane Sellers.

To my mentors Jacque Turner-Schettler and Don Miles. I hope this work does justice for the wisdom that you have shared. I'm grateful.

To Lonna Marie for performing a beautiful, original song. Please visit: www.LonnaMarie.com for more great music.

Twitter: @LonnaMarie

Performance and Editing by Lonna Marie

Song Lyrics by Travis Adams Irish

To Tierney Roberts for your beautiful and inspired cover artwork. Please visit: www.TierneyRoberts.com for some incredible designs.

Twitter: @TierneyRoberts

I. Riding The Demon – Fingal's Cave, Isle of Staffa, Scotland – March 27th, 1697 A.D.

"Lord have mercy; you say? If you have not tasted the wrath of your lord, then how can you beg for his mercy?" **–Thretch**

The wretch sits atop his makeshift crow's nest, staring through the dank blackness of the evening sea. On the deck of the ship below, the pirate William Kidd skulks about with wounded disdain. Never before had this crew been so bewitched in making the acquaintance of Tarron Nethersby; a scrawny and timid man, gone insane overnight on the open ocean. For three nights, the crew of twenty men had tried to subdue their mate, feeling ironic wrath delivered through the powerful fists of a madman. At only one hundred and sixty pounds, the lanky sailor had bested half the crew, fighting with his bare hands against the captain's cutlass. The captain found himself the victim of a superior fighter, fast enough to strip him of his sword whilst breaking his fingers.

Captain William Kidd stands on the deck of his ship as the ocean heaves and gives beneath the ninety-two foot vessel, causing it to buck and yaw as if restrained. At age fifty-two, the ambitious Scotsman has never expressed such fear in his dark brown eyes; the hue of which matches his bronzed skin. This once charismatic leader is now shamed in the shadow of a braver and more ruthless soul. He knows that his massive biceps and fast reflexes were for naught against such an unnatural terror. His hands are wrapped in sackcloth, stained red from wounds that he received earlier at the pleasure of the undone sea dog. Kidd removes his black hat with stoic defeat, watching the entrance of Fingal's Cave as if it is the cause of all his woes. The massive plateau sticks out of the sea like a prison built for Satan himself. Its entrance is darker still than the rest of the whole, showing not a hint of welcome to sea travelers.

Captain Kidd recalls his first venture into the abysmal cavern, when he was just a boy growing up in Scotland. He and a group of lads had taken a longboat into the majesty of the forbidden place; a formidable fortress of rock rising up out of the sea in defiance. Young William had been awestruck at the symmetrical pillars of black stone within the cave. The people of his village had issued a stern warning: that the stone pillars were the black souls of wicked men. Any trespass into the cavern would put a curse upon Scotland and its people.

As an exuberant youth, Kidd had scoffed at their superstitious notions, finding them humorous. When he tries to move his broken fingers, the defeated captain can feel only shame within, terrified of the scrawny sailor that hovers over his ship and crew. He looks up in earnest at the purveyor of this bold slight, confirming his notion that something inhuman lords over them. There is a fearless and ancient warrior, wrapped in the sinewy body of a twenty-two-year-old man.

Tarron Nethersby gazes with fascination at the deep darkness within the center of Fingal's Cave. Despite his recent battle with the crew, his body feels vibrant and rejuvenated, having snuck in a few hours of rest amidst the heavy swaying of the crow's nest. He knows they cannot venture much closer to the cavernous mass without risking the entire ship. Regardless, a mighty darkness within him admires the hulking rock formation. The young man laughs to himself as he glances down at the captain beneath his feet.

Never in his life had Tarron imagined having the power to strip a man of his sword, with only his bare hands. He had given ten men such a severe beating – that they dare not look in his direction. The bosun had mistook him as 'the wretch' when Tarron was objecting to the actions of his new companion. This due to the portly fool being almost deaf from years of cannon fire. Anyone who was listening could have distinguished that the young man was crying 'Thretch;' the name of his newest friend, and the scalawag that had vexed the captain and crew.

Tarron runs his slender fingers through a mass of oily, blonde hair on his scalp, breathing as instructed by his new mentor, to quell the pain. His body is wrought with collateral damage, having beaten down most of the crew during their attempts to imprison or kill him. The young man recalls his first act of defiance, standing at the helm and changing their course by forty degrees starboard.

When the captain ordered them back to port, the ship became a scene of malicious defiance, and the brawling sailor shocked his shipmates with a primal display of force. It all had the earmarks of conventional madness, until Tarron snapped the bosun's neck, and cast him overboard: the heavy man had flailed in the air like a dying fish. The crew stopped fighting to stare with their mouths agape, watching the lanky sailor grab another hefty pirate. He then used his face to break a section of railing, judiciously casting the man overboard.

Captain William Kidd emerged from the group of stunned men, cutlass in hand, and ready to delve out some mob justice. Tarron remembers that Thretch caused a smirk to form on his thin face, emboldening the captain in his efforts to seek vengeance. When the captain raised his cutlass with his right hand, the mighty demon used Tarron's left hand to grapple Kidd's throat, and stomped at his toes. He stepped into the blade before it could swing downward. While his left hand compressed the man's windpipe, Tarron used his mighty grip to break the fingers of the captain's free hand. The instant pain in his nerve endings caused William Kidd to cry out, and Thretch used the back of Tarron's head to knock the cutlass from the captain's hand. Thretch then contorted Tarron's body, sending his right elbow into the captain's chest, using his left hand to break the fingers of Kidd's sword hand. With the captain disarmed, and both of his hands broken, Thretch delivered a mighty kick to the center of his chest. This assault forced the crew to catch their captain: thus preventing a nasty fall to the main deck.

Although the crew didn't understand the newfound strength of their shipmate, they elected to follow his lead, changing their course for Scotland. During their journey to Fingal's Cave, the men had made two more failed attempts to take down their unsavory mate. These attempts were met with further aggression, and two more large men cast overboard, along with severe injuries to other members of the crew. With only sixteen crew members remaining, the captain yielded to the vicious spider of the sea, warning the crew not to do him any harm. This accord allowed Tarron to take his leave in the crow's nest.

Tarron caresses the back of his skull where the captain's cutlass dug into his flesh, realizing that Thretch has no qualms about damaging his body. The young man detects hairline fractures throughout his thin frame, and his right hand has been swollen for days with two broken knuckles. He dares not offend Thretch, nor give any hint that he is a coward, fearing that the mysterious deity might cast him off the ship as unworthy. In their many 'conversations,' the young man has learned that the ancient presence within his body has been the subject of much suffering and betrayal. Thretch has given Tarron details from his six thousand years on earth, telling him things that would only be known to other men through songs and stories. Tarron has discovered that the creature died of plague eleven times before taking to the seas in avoidance of more agony. He knows that his new companion was a slave in Egypt, a warrior in Greece and a Viking chief. The world has subjected Thretch to almost every form of torture and pestilence that have petrified people for centuries. His role has been master and servant, fortunate and destitute. Through all this adversity, he has remained unyielding and fierce, reminding the world daily that he is a force of nature. Tarron shivers at the thought of dreaming another death suffered years ago by his companion. The creature has already shared with Tarron the worst of his own fears: enough to make a man vomit and cry just from the memories. They were harrowing experiences of drowning, suffocation, bludgeoning, burning, and even being eaten alive. These horrifying images cause Tarron to miss his old, pedestrian nightmares. He yearns for a time when his knowledge stretched only the course of his twenty-two years; rather than the vast corruption and raw reckoning of thousands of years in misery.

A noose dangles down from the mast, working its way over the top of Tarron's blonde hair. In his state of reminiscence, the young man almost finds himself strung up by a boy of only eighteen. This brave, young adversary had climbed up the mast to join him atop the sails.

Tarron snaps back to reality, immediately emboldened by Thretch. He grips the noose before it can find a hold on his neck and pulls at it with volatile fury, staring at the teenage boy with homicidal tendencies. The familiar crack of a pistol breaks the tension, and Tarron notices a small hole in the bottom of his flimsy crow's nest. He soon detects the heat of something unnatural cutting through his thigh and looks down to see his light brown britches saturated in blood. Tarron loses his footing and grips the rope of the noose to prevent a fall from the mast. He drops a few feet as his weight drags the rope down.

The eighteen-year-old feels instant burns from the rope as it slides through his hands, leaving patches of torn flesh from the sudden heat and friction. He loses his footing on the topsail yard, grabbing the rope in vain as his body sways fifty-three feet above the deck.

Tarron notices that the young man hasn't bothered to tether the rope to anything, intending to use his upper body strength to hang the ferocious pirate. He glances up at the rope that is draped over the topsail yard, with both men hanging from either side. The young man's fingers are bleeding, and he looks at Tarron as if to plead for his life. His grip slips, causing a perilous plunge to the deck nearly sixty feet below him.

Without any weight on the opposite end of the rope, it dangles in the air, allowing Tarron's body to fall right behind the young man. During his final seconds of life, Tarron can hear Thretch laughing at the back of his mind with sadistic fervor. On his way to the solid planks, he takes one final look at the auspicious cave, admiring the wondrous solitude of the ancient formation. When Tarron's body hits the deck, Thretch recognizes the sharp pain of ribs breaking through into organs, and the resounding shock of all limbs going numb. There isn't time for a last breath, as his capacity to draw breath has been crushed. The creature stares at the blackened boards of the ship in the darkness, waiting for his host to die. Tarron's passing allows his presence to transfer to another young man – somewhere on the earth.
II. Sin Screening – Dark Comforts

Jacob awakens to the horrid stench of cigarettes, combined with another smell that makes him gag. The granular filth of the cheap Spanish tiles on the bathroom floor beneath him feels sticky and littered with debris. He senses pain throughout his body, and pushes himself up from the floor to assess the damage. As he begins to rise, a shooting sensation snaps through his left arm, and he rolls over onto his back. The sharp throbbing in his forearm is not as raw as a fracture, so the young man assumes that his arm was sprained during the night. He breathes in; smelling the sour contents of many drunken stomachs having been recently emptied, inspiring him to vacate the area.

The young billionaire recalls his recent nightmare from the memories of Thretch; another horrible death at the hands of scorned men. He can almost smell the sea exactly as it had presented itself in the vision, and the lanky body of Tarron, plunging to his death on the large pirate ship. Jacob opens his eyes wide, wondering what events have led him to this place.

After a few seconds of trying to remember something about the previous night, he hears the squeaking sound of a door opening and closing in quick succession. Jacob blinks his eyes and immediately notices that his left eye is practically swollen shut. As he uses the fingers of his right hand to inspect his face for damage, the affluent entrepreneur hears footsteps approaching from the front.

"Are you still in there; you little bastard!?" The hostile voice of a woman calls out, expressing her disdain for Jacob with a Brooklyn accent. "My husband wants you out of this bar RIGHT NOW!" She orders in a self-righteous tone, trying to hide her fear as she speaks. "Do you hear me, psycho!?" The bar owner's wife demands as she kicks the bottom of Jacob's shoe. "We need you out of here!"

"I'm injured..." Jacob mutters, gazing with his right eye to see that he is lying on his back in a bathroom stall, and his feet are protruding underneath the door.

"Yeah, welcome to the club!" The woman exclaims with bitter sarcasm. "You have five minutes to get cleaned up and leave, or I'll let these boys tear you apart!" She finishes in a threatening tone as the bathroom door opens and closes again.

Jacob sits up immediately, feeling a warming rush throughout his body; not the type of buzz one gets with alcohol, but something much stronger. The moment he moves his abdominal muscles, Jacob realizes that it is a mistake. He senses the entire surface of his stomach and chest reporting trauma, causing him to tremble. The young man peers down at his damaged arms, noticing several lacerations across his exposed skin. The thumbnail of his right hand is completely smashed and turning purple beneath the surface with compressed blood. Every muscle in his left arm seems to be shrieking discomfort, and he can sense bruising in the bones of the same. He is wearing a navy blue polo shirt, and a pair of black cargo pants. Beneath the stall door, he can see that his running sneakers are covered in: mud, tar, blood, dirt, and what looks like specs of asphalt. This vision comes as a surprise to the twenty-three-year-old since the shoes were like new just a day ago.

The foul odors that are wafting across the bathroom floor rise with the heat of the furnace, bringing some comfort into the dingy bathroom. Despite many injuries, Jacob manages to get to his feet, pushing himself up against the enclosure wall using his left arm. When he is standing upright, the young man notices a stinging sensation coming from both of his ankles. They exhibit an almost paralyzing tenderness that makes him wonder if he recently jumped from a two-story building.

After a full assessment of the damage to his body, Jacob shuffles to the black stall door and slides the lever clockwise to release the pin. The door opens with an odd squeak, and Jacob thrusts it out of his way as he half-stumbles to the sink for a bit of cleaning. When he reaches the white porcelain sink, Jacob is repulsed by the rancid smell of digestive fluids on the floor of this area. Both sinks are coated with a bit of cigarette ash, and he notices that they have been recently used to clean blood from someone's body.

Jacob turns on the water, recalling the threat that the frightened woman issued just moments ago. He uses the surprisingly clean water to remove the blood and filth from his face, hands, and arms. The young man's American-Irish features begin to show through, and his short brunette hair with blonde highlights is an oily mess. He minimizes his breathing to abstain from the smell of his unfortunate surroundings. Once his hands and face are clean, he is not surprised to see that there are no means to dry them. For the second time in the past few minutes, Jacob notices that he is feeling wonderful for someone who has been through so much pain. His body is warm all over, and although moving causes him a slight amount of agony, it is bearable.

He rubs his hands together, staring at the corroded sign that reads 'Men' on the door before him. The sign looks blurry through his left eye, and Jacob breathes in deeply, opening his eyelid as far as it will go in an attempt to correct his vision. His throat convulses a bit, and he feels stomach acid rising up to the back of his mouth, but he steadies himself and lets it flow immediately back down. After one last look around the lonely bathroom, Jacob pushes the door with his right hand. He then forces his body against it to help him exit the restroom quicker.

"Shh... Shh...guys, here he comes." A man whispers from behind the bar to Jacob's left, sounding cautious and focused as if a bomb were about to go off. "I know that we're all hurtin' here, but let's not piss off the hurricane again. We don't need any more fighting."

Jacob takes a look around the bar, noticing that a considerable amount damage has been caused by what appears to be a recent brawl. There is a group of three large, Polynesian men standing off to his right, watching his every movement. One of them is leaning against the wall, nursing his bare stomach with a crude ice pack, fashioned from a white terrycloth, provided by the wait staff. He seems to be in agony, observing Jacob from a pair of deep, blue eyes nestled within his large, round face.

The other two Polynesian men are clad in red and yellow T-shirts, complimented by green denim shorts. Their genetics and clothing are similar, giving Jacob the impression that they are brothers. One of the men is holding a makeshift ice pack against the side of his head, gazing at Jacob with tears streaming from his right eye. His brother is pinching several napkins over a broken nose. From the amount blood seeping toward the large man's fingers, Jacob surmises that it will soon be time for him to replace them.

"So ten thousand dollars each then?" The bartender asks with caution, gazing around the bar as if to appease his uneasy patrons, in an attempt to confirm a deal with Jacob. "You told me that you've got money, and we looked you up online. It's gonna' take ten thousand dollars to keep everyone here quiet."

Jacob shuffles toward the bartender; not recalling having made this offer. He is grateful for the opportunity to avoid police questioning and the negative press. His short journey to the bar is akin to the haunted houses he used to visit as a child. Every man and woman that he walks past has injuries in various combinations of bruises, cuts, scratches, swollen eyes, and even broken fingers. They look like a group of people who just survived a fierce battle in a poverty-stricken nation, rather than customers at a local pub. Each of the bar patrons keeps his or her distance, watching Jacob with distrust and unmistakable fear.

When the entrepreneur is only three feet from the bar, an older woman withdraws from the group of wooden tables at his right, surrendering to the darkest corner of the room. Jacob observes the small, gloomy establishment with caution, not recalling at what point he decided to venture into this place. The lights are cheap and dim, hanging from the ceiling like a gallows of economic distress. Everything within the building screams desperation to Jacob. From the tacky, red polyester fabric that covers the small booths, to the unkempt wooden surfaces of the tables and chairs.

The young billionaire sneers at the leering faces of the bar patrons, noticing their cheap clothing and the hefty, bloated bodies before him. There are men with poorly groomed beards and mustaches, some of whose faces are soaked with blood. Many of the women are hanging out of their clothing all over, appearing to have wandered out of their homes without a shower.

Jacob places his hands atop the filthy bar surface, amused by how much this reminds him of movies that he has seen, featuring saloons from the 1800s.

"So...does your elbow hurt as much as my mouth?" The bartender asks in a pitiful attempt at humor, failing to sound friendly as his voice cracks mid-sentence.

The warmth inside Jacob's body is remarkable, as though the greatest painkiller ever invented has been infused into him. Jacob observes the bartender for a moment, realizing that all eyes in the building are watching his every movement. The bartender seems gentle despite his ratty, gray hair and prematurely aged skin. As a man in his early fifties, the bar owner more resembles someone creeping into his seventies. His frame is lanky, and he is clad in faded blue jeans, along with a white T-shirt that covers his torso. The pocket of his T-shirt contains a pack of Marlboro Reds. Jacob assumes that the ignited cigarette in the cheap, jade ashtray behind the bartender used to be among them.

"So ten thousand dollars...and you make this all go away?" Jacob asks with growing paranoia, having not a clue as to which part of town he has embarked.

"Ten thousand dollars EACH!" The aged bartender states, trying to hide his fear long enough to ensure full payment. "You told us that every person here tonight who got injured would get ten thousand, and every witness would get two thousand."

The young man breathes in through his nostrils, sucking in as much air as his lungs can contain. He then exhales, lowering his head and shoulders as the carbon dioxide exits his body into the atmosphere of the seedy bar. The crowd around him moves uncomfortably, and his frustration is felt through the place like a wave of pressure from a jet that has just broken the sound barrier. Some of the patrons shift from one foot to the other, while those with worse injuries make their way closer to the exits. The discomfort is growing like the splitting of atoms, rising with heat and energy at one thousand meters per second.

"That last part is bullshit, isn't it?" Jacob asks, watching a bit of spittle fly from his lips and land on the bar as he speaks. "I'm a business guy, and I deal with liars all day long. Hell, I was raised by one of the biggest liars in the game. So tell me again what our deal was, and leave off that last bullshit about me paying each witness two grand!" He finishes with radiance and primitive flair, jutting his chin out at the barkeep with unholy disregard.

"Irene, do you have that list of injured people?" The bartender asks his younger wife, holding up his right hand as he turns to face his spouse.

A woman with thick, horn-rimmed eyeglasses is leaning against the counter where the liquor is stored. Her elbows are stretched defiantly backward, setting her body at an odd angle with her toes pointed toward the bar, and her feet pushed outward. She is smoking a cigarette and staring indignantly at Jacob, seeming to be the only person in the area that is not afraid of him. The woman shows signs of aging, looking to be in her early forties, and unlike most of the bar patrons, isn't showing signs of injury. Her body is hidden by a pair of gray coveralls with a white T-shirt beneath them, making her breasts seem almost invisible. She takes a drag off the cigarette and daintily removes it from her mouth with her right hand, blowing a heavy wave of smoke in Jacob's direction. The woman uses her left hand to ruffle her shoulder-length, curly brown hair, staring at the wounded entrepreneur with her light blue eyes.

"How does your arm feel?" The bartender's wife asks, flicking her cigarette at Jacob as she snatches up a small, spiral notebook from the counter and steps over to the bar next to her husband. "Does it feel like someone caught you with a baseball bat? How about your eye?" She asks with further scorn, shifting her weight into a posture of disapproval and folding her arms across her coveralls. "Can you feel the sting; like someone clipped you with a Louisville Slugger?"

Jacob remains unflinching and stares at the woman evenly, unresponsive to her words and the fiery ashes of the cigarette that dropped to the floor near him. His eyelids flutter a bit under the pale lighting, and he looks toward the back counter, seeing a somewhat bloody, broken baseball bat atop the prep station.

"I ain't never seen that before 'n my life." The woman announces, shaking her head as she gives the small notebook to her husband. "You snapped my baseball bat in half with your left arm – splinters and all. Then you just kept goin' like some kinda' runaway train. Are you on medication – escape the nuthouse? High on drugs, maybe? Shoot, it don't matter; nobody here is gonna' say a word...as long as you pay up."

"We had to rush four men and two women to the hospital." The bartender reads from the notepad, glancing up at Jacob with disdain. "They...had some injuries to their insides. Why did you have to hit 'em so hard, son? I mean, Jesus, I've seen bar fights; broken up plenty in my twenty-some-odd years, but what happened tonight...Jesus!" He sighs with frustration, turning away for a moment and placing his left hand on his hip. "All in all, you injured twenty-seven people up in my bar; not to mention the damage."

"How did it start?" Jacob prompts with sincere curiosity, letting his guard down for a half-second.

"It started like a goddamn fire!" The bartender answers with a shocked expression, having a fit of anxiety and distrust at the advent of Jacob's poor memory. "You're about two shots short of a Long Island Iced Tea; aren't you, boy? It's stupid for me to even ask..." The man says with regret, tossing the notebook on the bar before him.

"I know; why would ya' bother?" His wife interrupts with passion, shaking her head at Jacob. "I've never seen someone cut through a crowd – just whoopin' on everyone without any reason. You're lucky nobody died, because money or no money; your ass would be in jail!" She finishes with bold reverence, providing the crowd with a teaspoon of justice, despite their desire for buckets more. "Prison!" The woman exclaims with subtle insecurity. "I mean your ass would be in prison!"

"So I owe you two hundred and seventy grand?" Jacob ascertains in a cold fashion, starting to realize that what took place this evening was due to a much darker influence. "Whom should I make the check out to?" He quips with an electric stare, watching the bartender's face transform to deeper shades of disgust and betrayal.

"That ain't funny, dude! You hurt a lot of people tonight! ...And scared even more." The bartender raises his voice, heaving his chest in panicked fervor as he eyes Jacob with ravenous instability.

"Yeah, no shit!" His wife adds with bitter regret for their bartered hospitality. "Why don't you spend the next five to ten years in prison to think about how you should treat people?" As she speaks, the woman snatches a cordless phone from under the bar and begins to dial.

"Relax!" Jacob orders, realizing that he can't slide out of this situation, especially with almost two dozen angry people ready to stampede him at any moment. "Do you have a checking account?"

"Yeah," the bartender's wife says, showing respect for the first time as she hangs up the cordless phone. "How are you gonna' deposit a check at this hour? It's almost midnight."

"I'll do a wire transfer." Jacob concedes with a bit of frustration, comparing this experience to doing business with natives who are seeing gunpowder explode for the first time.

"How will you get the bank to transfer the money?" The bartender inquires in a sarcastic manner. "There's nobody to complete the transaction."

"The bank manager will take my call; just give me the phone." Jacob insists, holding out his right hand with the fingers outstretched.

"Why would he help you with a transfer in the middle of the night?" The bartender's wife conveys with mistrust, smiling from the right side of her mouth as though she knows that Jacob is trying to play them.

"Because he works for me." Jacob evokes with elitist confidence. "It's my family's bank, Calbraw Atlantic. Now give me the phone!" The young billionaire states with haste, snapping his fingers as if preparing a meal for a group of eager children.

The bartender's wife passes the phone to Jacob, handing it to him like a precious, newborn baby.

"Write down your routing and account numbers on that notepad." The young man orders with a nod as he dials a number on the keypad of the phone. "Ben, this is Jacob...doing fine. No...listen, I'm in a bad situation, and I need to do a transfer." Jacob raises his eyes to the bar where the woman has turned the notepad around so that he can relay the numbers to his banker. "Yes, I need to do the transfer right now! Well, whatever then, I'll just pull all of our money out. Why don't we plan to withdraw everything in the next forty-eight hours? Yeah...yeah, I know you're tired. That's okay... Are you gonna' take care of me then? Good man... Sure, no problem; go turn on your computer, and I'll wait." After a long, uncomfortable silence, the entrepreneur leans forward and reads the numbers twice to his banker for confirmation. "Yep, that's right. I need you to transfer two hundred and seventy thousand dollars into that account. Yes, that's what I want! Yes, I can confirm... No, I'm not drunk or under duress... My PIN number? Jesus, Ben, it's 0825... Okay...okay, thanks, 'bye." Jacob sets the cheap, white cordless phone atop the bar with pride, as though having just scored a touchdown. "Call your bank." He instructs the couple from across the bar with condescending malice. "Check your balance."

The bartender's wife snatches the phone off of the counter with festering impatience and dials the toll-free number to her local bank. The entire room is filled with greedy anticipation as the woman navigates through the automated menus to get her balance information. After punching in her account number, zip code, and PIN number, she turns on the speakerphone for everyone to hear. 'Your balance as of February 7th, 2025 is $272,474.37.'

The dingy serving area of the bar is ablaze with gratuitous cheers, and Jacob feels two hands pat him subsequently on the back and right shoulder. He turns with surprise to see dozens of battered faces alive with the knowledge that the money they sought, and the pleasure it buys, are within their reach. The billionaire turns back to the bar with a sharp sneer, and his face transforms into a wicked smile.

"It's all yours now!" Jacob broadcasts from his dry throat to the entire room, gesturing with his right hand toward the bar owners. "Keep it all for yourselves, or share it with your customers. I don't care either way. But it's all yours." He repeats with a short wave of his right hand as he walks toward the front door. "And I'm free and clear. Good night!"

"You better give us our share of that money, Lyle!" An older man shouts from the center of the crowd, growling at the bar owner with distrust.

"Yeah, give us our money, Lyle!" A woman concurs with fiery indignation, stomping on the floor as she locks eyes with the aged bar owners.

'You sonofabitch.' The bar owner's wife mouths to Jacob, glaring at him through her glasses. Jacob winks with his right eye at the small business owners, as a flood of questions come flowing from their patrons in the serving area. He glances at the bartender, who is shaking his head in disgust, and departs into the frigid night air with a grin.

Jacob steps out into the modern ruins of what looks like a poor Brooklyn, New York neighborhood, wondering how he got this far from his Park Avenue penthouse. As he walks to the street corner under a solitary streetlight, his hands immediately begin to shiver from the cold. There is an odd chill in the air beneath the pale lighting. He can see masses of frost that are hugging the sidewalk, wrapping around the aged concrete in a marriage of elemental bonding.

His thoughts are interrupted by a brief, mental vision. Jacob sees the flash of a little blonde girl screaming as someone forces her into a locked container beneath the surface of the earth. Once she is secured in her subterranean prison, its steel surface is covered with over a foot of gravel. Blood begins to rush into his brain with mortal consequences as Jacob reconstructs the events of the past few hours. He sees himself buying a few doses of heroin from a drug dealer just ten miles from where he is now standing. Jacob then recalls snapping some rubber tubing around his arm and injecting his body with the drug.

Under the sporadic hum of the poorly maintained streetlights, Jacob remembers his journey on foot to the bar, and the unprovoked attack that led to an all-out brawl. His internal visions lead him to the moment where he snapped the baseball bat in half, damaging his left arm – after the bartender's wife used it to strike him near his left eye. This incident was the final act, inspired by nearly thirty minutes of fierce brawling. After which, he stumbled into the bathroom and passed out in the stall.

Jacob sucks air into his lungs with remorse and terror, realizing that it was he who imprisoned the little girl underground. 'She's going to suffocate!' He thinks to himself, feeling perspiration coming forth from his underarms and forehead with the onset of panic. 'What the hell is wrong with me?' He wonders, searching his cargo pants for a cell phone, and determining that he has only his wallet.

The young billionaire begins to convulse with immediate despair, realizing that he has no idea how much time has passed. His only conscious memories are from daylight hours. He can't recall the size of the container that he used to entomb the little girl - or whether he marked the spot of her burial. Jacob grabs the back of his head in feverish horror, trying to work through the cloud of heroin-laced thoughts and logically map out a way to rescue his quarry. 'Where the hell did I get her!? Why did I take her!?' Jacob demands of himself with a queasiness that he has never before felt.

"Celeste is right; I'm losing my mind!" He says aloud, trying harder to figure out in which direction he should travel to find his prisoner.

Jacob turns at the sound of soft footsteps maneuvering in his direction, surprised to see a man in a black turban approaching from the south. As the man gets closer to the light, his Israeli features are shown in clear splendor. He appears to be fit and strong, running with militant force as he hefts his way across the pavement. The man has a long beard and dark skin from many years spent in the desert. His eyeglasses and the slight patches of gray in his facial hair, make him appear wise and foreboding. The powerful Israeli looks to be in his mid-forties, having aged well.

Thretch awakens from his slumber within Jacob and immediately sees the Jewish man running toward him. The man stares through his glasses at Jacob with a guise of ownership and hatred. Under the wintry sky, he conveys a righteous and ancient vendetta through labored breaths and deliberate movements.

'NICODEMUS!' Thretch shouts from within his host's mind, willing him to start sprinting; almost tearing his Achilles' tendon.

Jacob feels his body moving faster than he has ever experienced, propelled by the terror of a man known to be nothing but fearless. He is almost struck by a car as Thretch forces him onto a reckless path of frozen streets and unknown dangers. Jacob can hear the accelerated footsteps of Nicodemus behind him, and he is awestruck by the speed that the middle-aged man is exhibiting. He urges his body forward as the mysterious Israeli gains on him, one inch at a time, refusing to back off. Jacob hears the sound of a knife snatched from its scabbard, inspiring him to run with the passion of a world-class Olympian.

After running for less than a block, Jacob concedes that several nights without sleep, a strenuous bar brawl, and being high on heroin – are limiting his movements. The young entrepreneur knows that if he doesn't act soon, the knife that is trailing only a few feet behind him, in the capable hands of Nicodemus, will soon be his demise.
III. A Bonfire to Hope

THREE WEEKS EARLIER

"Yeah, I've got a story to tell: are you outta' your mind!? The only laws I ever had to follow were mine. So many people go to work every day and think that they are getting ahead. Ahead!? That's hilarious! They were as ahead in life as a pack of sled dogs pulling a tank up an icy hill. You'll find a lot of truths when you realize that you aren't what you make of yourself – you are what you negotiate. I won't pay you a fair wage; not on my life! The world doesn't work that way anymore...fair is what I say it is..." **–Earl Calbraw, drunk at a party in 2019, addressing his wealthy guests.**

"A bit of music before we get started?" Chamberlain asks in a dry voice, his chiseled face and slicked-back hair gleaming beneath the conservative office lighting.

"What are you getting at, Chamberlain?" Earl inquires with a strong, discerning stare, measuring his colleague's intentions and showing that he is not amused.

Earl leans back in his soft, brown leather chair, feeling the fallen bovine flesh beneath him; an item in service to a guilty man that it has comforted since winter began. The fifty-seven-year-old billionaire looks crossly at his protégé. He determines that the young man's sculpted features and incessant self-indulgence are among his many sins. The cruel arrogance by which Chamberlain presents himself is nauseating, even to the young fawns that spring forth into his bed, when he and his credit card beckon. Earl's fears are further confirmed when the music drones out of the small digital player through the Bose Speakers, filling the lavish office with modern pop music.

"You are shameless, my young friend," Earl announces with a scornful stare, showing off his Dutch-Irish features. "I should have you fired for your precarious, self-serving grin...hovering over my fortune – dainty little ass."

"Ah, the Calbraw fortune..." The thirty-two-year-old emanates with pride, opening his mouth to display a set of whitened teeth. "The fortune...that includes yourself, Jacob and Plato. It's an amazing story, and yet, here you sit, bored to death like a helpless grandmother. A titan no longer worthy of his seat at the head of the proverbial table." The tall Italian deadpans with a friendly smirk.

"Well, my young secretary," Earl quips through his well-manicured white beard and mustache. "Those with actual tables don't need proverbial tables. That said, who is this young singer?" The older man begins as he leans forward in his thick, gray knitted sweater to better hear the music. "She certainly has talent; though it seems a bit familiar, like someone who starred on-"

"Calbraw's Enchantment of The Muses," Chamberlain replies with affirmation, winking at his mentor with more than a hint of brotherly love. "This is Celeste Marie; the woman from Boston who won the grand prize on your reality music show last year. She's a lovely woman; extremely sexy, but also tenacious and playful."

"You sound like the crap that pours out of Jacob's staff when they publish his bi-monthly adult magazine." Earl emotes with bitter frustration, placing his left hand over his forehead.

"You mean his quarterly adult magazine?" Chamberlain evokes with a short belly laugh.

"Dear God, has my son become that lazy?" Earl asks as he slams his water down on the desk and gazes at Chamberlain, joining in his visceral laughter. "He couldn't maintain a once-monthly publication of Vagina Hunter? How will the literary world survive?"

"I'm not sure." Chamberlain retorts, wiping small tears from the corners of his eyes as his body relaxes into the heavy, leather chair. "I'll bet the world is on pins and needles waiting for the wisdom of his dissertation entitled Cunilingus Poacher."

The two men erupt in rich, hearty laughter, and Earl can feel the tension winding down. He lays out the embarrassments of his son on the table like so many dead rabbits.

"It's funny that he had to start his own literary pursuits shortly after you published your dissertation," Chamberlain says through labored breaths, still enjoying a healthy laugh. "After his first publication, it's a wonder that the critics called him a 'bloated hack enamored by his genitals.'"

"Yes, my son," Earl begins, shaking his head with a stare of revulsion. "He can't even..." The older man sits up straight, looking sober and wise for a moment, considering the events of the past few days. "I hate his disgusting tattoo with the embossed 'J.C.' on each of his pecs. Not only is it insulting to the name Jacob Calbraw, but also Jesus Christ, Julius Caesar, and all the other big JCs. How could I be so unlucky to raise an arrogant, perverted punk? You know, I feel like he reached the age of thirteen...and never evolved."

"I wouldn't worry so much, Earl," Chamberlain whispers. "After all, he has to grow up someday."

The two men look at one another for a brief moment, seeming to reflect on this statement and they burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.

JACOB'S PENTHOUSE – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Jacob scratches the top of his head, oblivious to the subtle changes in lighting that show night is creeping across New York City. His manicured fingers carve unnerving lines through his messy crop of brunette hair that is frosted with long, blonde streaks. The twenty-three-year-old lies across his sofa within the spacious living room, relaxing with his muscular torso exposed. He is fixated on a massive, one-hundred-and-fifty-inch LCD display at the far end of his penthouse condo. Jacob spies his father, Earl Calbraw, displayed in ultra-high-definition on the screen. The elder Calbraw's head moves like a wicked drummer, besmirching a tune of his son's failures.

Jacob's legs are covered in posh, Nike sweatpants that are as red as the neon lights threaded here and there through the walls of his lavish condo. He is lying on his back in an uncomfortable manner, with his knees pointed in the air and his bare feet on the coffee table. Jacob's back is arched to the right, and he is leaning into the cushions of the leather, cream-colored sofa. The discomfort of his body reflects the emotional pain in his face, watching his father further damaging his name.

"You're right, Chamberlain, I believe he'll realize the despondent madness of having everything he wants and nothing that he needs." Earl states with formidable authority, his graying head of hair showing in rich detail on the pristine glass of the display.

"Well, what has he done with his life?" Chamberlain asks with squeamish rhetoric. "I can think of at least five brawls involving him this year, and he even tried to relish himself on this young singer." He gestures with disaffected sorrow toward the Bose Speakers and the rolling sounds of pop music.

Jacob sits up with a bit of interest as he notices that his father has gone quiet, pointing toward something near the desk. Chamberlain turns the music off and twists his neck, seeming to have made an error. On the sofa, the young man continues to hold his body up using a powerful group of abdominal muscles. There is a large 'J' and 'C' tattoo in black, Heretic Sanskrit on each of his pectoral muscles.

"What are you doing, father?" Jacob asks with a hyper spirit of curiosity; his dark blue eyes gleaming from adoration and seductive revelry.

"I have something that I need you to do for me." Earl utters with a slow, cavalier drone in his voice, as though ordering a shot of pain in a house of blues, where death is the bartender. "Our girl is important, and I need to know that she'll be healthy to go on tour, especially for the charity events. I don't want Jacob going anywhere near her. We can't afford to take our eye off the ball here."

"Yes, Mr. Calbraw," Chamberlain replies in a sermon of obedience. "I'll make sure that we keep Jacob away from Celeste Marie. She doesn't need to be bothered while we're trying to make an appeal to Asia and Europe this winter."

A broad grin of deviance spreads across Jacob's adolescent face. His pelvis is already frenzied with heat at the idea of destroying another of his father's angelic songbirds.

"I need your word that she'll be okay, Chamberlain." Earl remits with sober urgency, tilting his weathered face toward the younger man under the obscure lighting. "If you fail me on this, you'll be no better than Jacob."

"I won't fail you, Sir." Chamberlain waxes reassuring, standing to offer Earl a firm handshake, signifying his agreement. "The girl will be fine. She'll have the performance of a lifetime, and Jacob will be on the other side of the world as far as she's concerned."

These words are devoured by the foggy ears of a once mighty business magnate as he stands to shake Chamberlain's hand. He is quick to end the gesture and emphasize his dominance. After they shake hands, the two men amble toward the door of the luxurious office and out of view.

EARL'S HOME OFFICE – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

In the hallway, Earl gestures for Chamberlain to follow him to a window near an oil painting that is shown red in the fading colors of sunset.

"Do you think he'll go after her?" Earl asks with innocent and loving eyes, shedding his hateful posturing to show a majestic demeanor.

"I'm sure if he feels that she is vital to anything you're doing, Jacob won't stop until he has a piece of her...or all of her." Chamberlain asserts with a painful gaze, turning his head away from his friend for a moment.

"This is a sacrifice that has to be made!" Earl commands, grabbing Chamberlain by his lavish suit jacket and forcing him to look into his eyes. "I can't have Jacob making this worse for me; not when we're trying so hard to win hearts and minds. My little swan needs to spread her wings...without the crocodile trying to snap her out of the air. What kind of man has to destroy everything his father tries to build? I want to be a good man – really want to help people. And we can't afford to fail." Earl pauses for a moment, placing his hands on his hips in bitter discomfort, and then gestures out the window at the vast city beneath them. "We are only men, Chamberlain. The world won't let us move gracefully into history. I need to know, or at least hope, that a few hundred good deeds can balance the damage done by a few thousand wretched mistakes. My name needs to mean something other than...forced disparity."

"Don't worry, Earl." Chamberlain oversteps with ostentatious pride. "How long ago did he install the video cameras? When did all of this come about?"

"Don't worry!?" Earl remands incredulously, stomping his foot somewhat as he speaks. "Don't worry is something a fool says and a baby does. Do I look like a baby or an idiot!? I don't know how long the cameras have been there, but they have been there long enough." The mighty businessman rests his left hand on the edge of the marble window frame, allowing his body to relax as he breathes in deeply. "How about a better plan? Don't let Jacob win this one! I need her to finish this tour. The starving, angry people...need her to finish."

Earl grips the window frame rigidly as he presents Chamberlain a hard look, almost daring him to refuse or complain. After a brief nod from his employee, the older man releases his hand from the stone. He pats Chamberlain on the back as if stroking a champion-bred horse.

JACOB'S PENTHOUSE – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Jacob is standing in his living room with a meaningful gleam in his eyes, holding a cigarette between the index and middle fingers of his left hand. He wraps his right arm around his muscular stomach. The young man's eyes dart around feverishly as the smoke billows past them, and his mind weighs scenarios for how this will play out.

"They know about the video cameras." Jacob thinks aloud, extinguishing the cigarette in a large ashtray on his lovely coffee table. "My father wants me to pursue this woman. He wants me to sleep with her, and try to break her away from the tour...so that he can do something else behind my back."

He puts his leg on the corner of the coffee table, moving a bit to keep his balance as his weight shifts further to one side. Jacob takes in all the hidden messages and manipulative rants that he just saw his father and Chamberlain enjoy. The conversation seemed scripted, derived from 18th Century plays or the many ballads of Shakespeare.

"I think your father is a joke." A young, female voice beams suddenly, breaking Jacob from his thoughts.

"Coffee tables don't think...and they don't talk." Jacob mutters in a scornful tone as he steps back and gazes down at the legs of his wonderful new coffee table.

A young, blonde woman is sprawled out on all fours, completely nude in front of the sofa, acting as a coffee table for his amusement. She has a black, forty-four ounce mug of soda balanced between her shoulder blades and an ashtray in the small of her back. Jacob admires how her breasts shake now and then as the weight of her body, and hours of being in the same pose, is beginning to wear on her.

"How long has it been?" The young lady asks with polite urgency, needing to please him on some level.

"Three and a half hours," Jacob states with bittersweet admiration. "You agreed to be my coffee table for four hours – for twelve hundred dollars."

"Can't we just have sex for the last half-hour? I need to use the bathroom." The woman pleads with seductive charm, pressing her knees together and holding her abdominal muscles tight.

"You can go, but you won't get your twelve hundred dollars." The young man taunts as he steps aggressively from the living room to the kitchen.

"How about you give me a thousand fifty, and we call it good?" She asks with increased shaking in her upper arms.

"You were so sure of yourself when you were high on ex," Jacob calls out from the kitchen, over the sound of an electric can opener.

"What are you doing?" She asks, feeling a sudden terror rise through her naked body, realizing that she doesn't know anything about this man.

"I'm making some chili before I go to the magic show," Jacob replies in a calm voice as the microwave door pops open and closed in a single motion.

The young, petite blonde feels cold with the icy fingers of winter penetrating the home, noticing that the temperature is insufficient for a nude body. Her bladder is full of white wine from a gourmet dinner earlier in the day, and although the money is appealing, she feels a desperate need to relieve herself. She looks down at her delicate fingers on the hardwood flooring, feeling ashamed at what her mother might think of her now; a human coffee table for a ruthless, wealthy brat.

After a few moments, the microwave stops producing its tormenting hum, and she hears the door pop open and closed again. The young man wastes no time as he strides over to the sofa, remaining quiet and mysterious.

"Let's watch some TV," Jacob suggests, placing his feet on her bare buttocks with his right leg crossed over his left.

The young woman feels terror for the first time, realizing that there is nothing playful about what he is doing. She soon has a lump in her throat from the anticipation of his cruelty; not wanting to give up the cash unless there is a real danger. The channel changes on the television a few times, until the young man finds a news program that he likes. His feet are cold and heavy on her naked bum, and as he removes the mug from her back, she anticipates the warm sting of the chili bowl. Her breath comes and goes in short, panicked gasps as she feels his hand approaching her upper back. The young woman's shoulder blades tense up as Jacob places an object between them. She grips the floor with restraint, expecting searing heat, but feels relief, recognizing the mug of soda. The petite blonde does her best to balance the soda, knowing that the clock is ticking, and twelve hundred dollars is only a few minutes away.

"Hmm...there's no more room..." Jacob says with trepidation, looking over her trembling body. "Tip your head down a little."

"Why?" She asks in a frightened voice.

She turns her head to the right, trying to see his face and immediately senses something being balanced on the back of her head. Although the bowl seems hot, it doesn't register as scorching, so the young woman moves her head in place, allowing him to balance it on her hair. She holds herself upright with staggering dignity; feeling like this is a war of wills and more about pride than money. 'Oh my God,' her internal voice screams, as the heat from the ceramic bowl begins to sting the skin at the back of her head. She grits her teeth, trying to determine if the bowl is hot enough to burn her skin, and soon feels a new level of pain as the heat penetrates further through her hair.

"OH MY GOD! THAT'S HOT!" The young blonde shouts as she flips her head to the left, dumping the contents of the bowl on the floor.

As she reaches back with her right hand to inspect the burns on her head, the young woman is overwhelmed with terror. When the bowl turns over on the floor, a small black, cobra emerges near her left hand.

"SNAKE! SNAKE!" She screams, vaulting up from the floor and feeling urine running down her legs as she stumbles away from the sofa; moving backward with all her strength.

She covers her breasts out of protective instinct, flailing backward until her calves slam into a smooth, black steel end table. This obstruction causes her to fall onto its cold, hard surface. Despite the immediate pain, the young blonde leaps to her feet, moving closer to the corner of the room and away from the sofa.

"Haha! THAT WAS AWESOME!" Jacob exclaims, clapping his hands and laughing wildly at his guest. "Look at how much you peed! You're like a scared little dog! That's too funny!"

The young woman looks down at the bowl and snake in awe. Tears flow from her eyes as she realizes that it was already dead, immersed in what appears to have been hot water. She folds her arms and glares at the floor, seeing a trail of her urine, a patch of cigarette ash and a spilled mug of soda. These items make a path leading up to the decadent, smiling bastard.

"Give me my twelve hundred dollars!" She demands with a stare of betrayal and pride, as the burning pain in the back of her head awakens her better judgment.

"No!" Jacob says in a flat tone, folding his arms over his muscular frame and smirking at her.

"Then give me a thousand dollars and we'll call it good." She submits in earnest, aching with deep regret the moment these words leave her mouth.

"No." Jacob admonishes with gleeful cruelty. "Get out of my house!"

"Don't do this to me...just give me the money." The horrified lady pleads as tears begin to flow from her eyes. "This is not cool."

"You have ten seconds to leave my house, or I'm going to call the cops and have you arrested for bringing drugs here." He growls with a powerful stare, straining the veins and muscles in his throat.

"Just give me three hundred dollars then – for the sex." Her heart begins to flutter as these words leave her mouth. "C'mon, dude, that was our deal; even before the coffee table."

"Ten. Nine. Eight." Jacob begins counting as he grabs a phone from the kitchen counter and holds it in the air, walking until he is face-to-face with her.

"Okay, just let me get my clothes." She says, moving to the side of the sofa where she scoops up her skirt and underwear.

"Seven. Six. Five." He continues with unmerciful tenure in his dark blue eyes, staring her down from only inches away.

"I need my fucking clothes, okay!" The young blonde begs, grabbing her coat and socks with the other hand.

"Four. Three. Two." Jacob moves aggressively next to her, pushing her toward the front door with his body.

She begins to cry like a young girl as he dials 911 on his keypad while escorting her to the door. When they reach the solid steel security door, he releases both locks and pulls it open. The muscular billionaire then uses his shoulder to shove the young woman out, smiling wide as he watches her drop to the shiny, white hallway floor. He then kicks the door shut with all of his ferocity and secures the locks.

"Jake, I need my shoes." The young woman calls through the door, hoping for some humanity. "JAKE, I NEED MY SHOES; I'LL FREEZE OUT HERE! IT'S TWENTY BLOCKS TO MY HOUSE!"

Jacob leans against the door, thinking to himself. 'Now you know how it feels to be in daddy's shadow. Let your feet hit the ice, until you realize just how cold a father can be. And make your way block-by-block, until you understand how distant the warmth has become.'

"Jake, I need my shoes. Please! Please! I need my shoes, baby. I'll do anything for my shoes." The young woman conveys through the steel door, hoping to avoid walking to the subway in negative five degree weather.

"I'll drop your shoes to the street in two minutes." Jacob declares with primal disdain, feeling tears flowing from his eyes as he puts his hands on his hips. "If you're fast enough, you'll get there before someone steals them."

"Jacob, no...I need my shoes to survive!" She pleads with repressed rage.

"One minute, fifty seconds." He blurts out, stepping toward the sofa to find her small, black boots.

A smile forms on his chiseled face as he hears her scrambling through the hallway to the elevator. He begins to count down and walks over to grab the small, black boots with his right hand. The sliding glass door opens automatically as his body triggers the motion sensor, and he steps out into the frigid evening air. The wind is blowing about seven miles an hour, and he can feel the bitter chill of winter as his bare feet trample the crisp snow. When he reaches the railing, Jacob dangles the boots above the street, thirty-six stories below. There are a few people out this evening, moving from one necessity to the next. As his silent countdown ends, he releases the boots. Jacob watches them cascade through the air like ships of lifesaving warmth, dropping faster than expected. The wind carries them out a bit, and they bounce upon impact; one atop a parked car and the other near the edge of the sidewalk.

Jacob continues to count in eager fascination, as though he is watching a nature program on television. He gazes down the sheer side of his building, ignoring the pain of the cold enveloping his bare skin. Jacob's hands grip the steel railing as he observes a figure in a black hoodie; they have noticed the boots and are moving toward them. The figure snatches a boot from the roof of the car and looks upward at the building. Jacob continues counting as he sees his lovely, blonde vixen sprinting out into view toward the figure in the hoodie. With sudden excitement, he bites down on his right index finger at the knuckle, watching as the young blonde grabs her boot from the stranger. A tug-o-war begins, and the stranger finally releases the boot, letting the young woman drop onto her back against the snowy concrete.

Jacob watches as she gets up from the pavement with the boot in her right hand, and then moves victoriously over to retrieve the other. From his vantage point, he can almost feel her relief and vicariously enjoys the succulence of the moment.

Soon the young woman is on her way, and his excitement piques as he realizes that her horror is just beginning. The beautiful, young lady will ride the subway alone at night with only a coat, skirt, wet socks, and a pair of boots.

"Good luck!" Jacob mutters with sincere respect, wishing he could watch each step of her journey – to know every second of misery and elation therein.

The young entrepreneur removes his left hand from the railing and walks to get away from the bitter cold of night. Upon reentering the condo, he locates the cellular phone, purse, and shirt belonging to the petite blonde. Jacob then carries these items back to his bedroom, watching the water seep from his feet onto the coarse, dry carpet. When he reaches his bedroom, the young man approaches a white cabinet with more than a bit of reverence. The cabinet has four doors, and Jacob grabs the small, ceramic knob of the door on the bottom right, pulling it open so that he can place the shirt and cellular phone inside. He closes this door and immediately opens the door on the top left, using his right hand to place the purse inside. Jacob then opens the door at the bottom left and sees a familiar white spiral notebook next to a calculator on the bottom shelf.

He retrieves the notebook out of habit, which has almost one-third of the pages flipped over. There is a single fraction written on the page '21/29.' Below that fraction is the number '72%.' Jacob opens the cupboard at the top right, exposing another shelf filled with various purses and wallets. He counts them up to fifteen, and then looks to the shelf at the left. This shelf is only at half-capacity, but also contains purses and wallets. Jacob methodically continues counting up to twenty-two, and then closes both of the top cabinets. After taking a quick inventory, he places the notebook back in the bottom left cabinet and retrieves the calculator. On the small, black display of the calculator, he divides the number twenty-two by thirty, and it shows: '0.733333333333.'

"Seventy-three percent," Jacob announces with an emotional sigh of relief. "If she survives, then there is a seventy-three percent chance that mom is still alive..."

He closes his eyes for a moment, recalling the men who took his mother from their home twelve years ago. It was dark inside the house, and he remembers her screams, calling for him to save her. Jacob thinks back to the winding staircase and seeing his mother's exposed legs under her pink, silk nightgown. He presses his lips together, trying to remember if she was wearing boots or a coat, but his only memory is of her bare legs and the nightgown.

A tear rolls down his right cheek from reliving this memory. He tries to contain the hatred that is plowing through the bottom of his gut and biting at his tender heart. Jacob places the calculator back into the cabinet and closes the doors.

"Twenty-eight percent of the women died of exposure or assault." He admits to himself with a cold, blank stare. "By dropping the coats or the boots, it allows fate to decide the missing part of the equation. If she survives, then there's a seventy-three percent chance that mom is still alive... I rolled a snowball down a hill. It became a restless toddler. It became a monster's will... I rolled a snowball down a hill. It became a noble snowman. It became a water pail." Jacob places both hands over the back of his neck and drops onto his knees, weeping into the soft, shag carpet of the empty bedroom.
IV. The Early Bird

The young man's eyes carefully trace the tiny ice crystals that formed during the night on the edges of the window quadrants. He smiles at how the ice is ubiquitous, despite the chipped and faded slats of wood that separate it into a traditional shape.

"Are you admiring the ice formations again?" Kelvin asks, his mocha complexion seeming a bit darker in the shadows of the early morning.

"I'm just tryin' to figure out the different states, dad," Geo replies with a youthful and tempered strength, not wanting to look away from the window.

"What temperature does water freeze at?" Christina challenges with motherly pride, scratching her rear end beneath a soft, chartreuse robe as she enters the kitchen with a grand head of bed hair.

"Two hundred and seventy-three point sixteen Kelvins." The young man replies with a hearty smile, winking at his father, and sticking out his chest with fervent pride.

"What about Celsius?" His mother asks as she stumbles over to the kitchen cupboards and retrieves an empty yellow coffee mug from the upper shelf.

"Zero degrees Celsius, and thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit." Geo responds with prideful delight, looking upon his parents with zeal for their warmth and attention.

Christina smiles at her son as she fills the coffee mug with cold water, blinking a bit under the dim lighting.

"Uh-huh, and what is the temperature of an exploding hydrogen bomb?" Christina inquires as she presses the button to release the door of the small, white microwave before placing the coffee mug inside.

"One hundred and eight million Kelvins!" The young man exclaims with vibrant enthusiasm, holding up his hands with the palms facing the microwave oven, and smiling at his mother.

"What is absolute zero?" Kelvin prompts with a mysterious expression that softens as he reaches around Christina's abdomen, pulling her to a sitting position on his lap.

"It's the point where...all movement stops at a molecular level." Geo recites from memory, not wanting to disappoint his father with a poor answer.

"Good. And what does that mean?" Kelvin asks with an approving grin, sneaking a kiss from Christina as he tries to maintain eye contact with the young man.

"It means that..." Geo turns to face the window as if it will answer his question through osmosis, and then snaps his fingers as he turns back to his parents. "It means everything is so cold that not even the atoms are moving."

Kelvin winks at his eight-year-old son, appearing bold and illuminated by intelligence and love. This distraction helps him to forget the things that they lack in life. The small kitchen is barely large enough for the three of them, but they manage comfortable meals at the white, polyurethane table.

As a black couple living in New York, the Carvers have been true to their name. They carved out a family life for themselves and rejected the idea that violence is the only path to sustenance.

The proud father looks around with somewhat exhausted eyes at his beloved family. He knows that the fourteen-hour shifts as a repossession agent are paying off. Despite his youth, being a man of only thirty-five, Kelvin's neatly groomed beard and mustache have already begun to show signs of graying into a silver fox. He smiles wide at his wife as she gets up to retrieve her now boiling cup of coffee from the microwave. Christina is almost ten years younger than him at age twenty-seven, looking fit and strong, like a mother of the old frontier. His eyes follow the mystical ebony as she traverses the kitchen tiles with effortless and tempered grace. They are an odd couple when standing side by side. Kelvin is six-foot-five-inches, and Christina only five-foot-three-inches, provoking interesting stories at family gatherings.

"Geo, go get ready for the game." Kelvin beckons his son with a slight nod, displaying an ulterior motive that makes his wife blush. "We need to be there in an hour, so make sure you wash up and grab your EpiPen."

Geo smiles and jumps down from his chair, scampering across the tiles toward the bathroom at the back of the home. His parents continue their warm embrace as the boy disappears around the corner with an excitement that is contagious.

When they hear the bathroom door shut and lock, the couple engages one another in a passionate kiss. Kelvin feels the warmth of Christina's beautiful body rocking in his lap. After so many late nights working in the cold, the dedicated father finally has had enough rest to make proper love to his wife. They have indulged their repressed cravings at every opportunity these past two days. Kelvin enjoys the welcoming wetness of her mouth, and the eagerness in her eyes as they reignite a love ritual that was intense just hours ago. Christina can feel how much her husband wants her, his pants growing firm under her warm rear end. Even through the robe and his business casual pants, the desire is clear. Kelvin grabs the small of her back, and she spreads her legs to surround his abdomen, welcoming his thrusting pelvis. In his excitement, the tow truck driver grips her tight and pulls her toward him, pressing his face between her breasts.

"Ow, ow!" Christina calls out, trying to muffle her voice with her right hand as an afterthought, recalling that Geo is still in the shower. "Oh, God, my back!" She exclaims, wincing in pain from her chronic spinal issues.

"I'm sorry, baby..." Kelvin empathizes with a face of regret. "I forgot... Your body was feeling so good that I-" He stops short as Christina places her right index finger against his lips.

"It's fine, hon." She says with a forced smile, moving to place both of her feet on the floor at the same time. "We'll try again when you get back- Oh! Oh, my God." Christina lowers her head to cope with the pain, and Kelvin doesn't budge, knowing through experience that any sudden movement could send her into a fit of back spasms. "Baby, lean back – until my feet touch the floor."

Kelvin does as his wife instructs, watching her expression for signs of a fit as he tilts his body backward until her toes settle on the shiny, cool tiles.

"Now grab under my arms and lift as I stand," Christina instructs with a face of frozen suspense, gazing with trust into the eyes of her lover.

Kelvin moves his hands beneath the robe, accidently caressing her right breast as he wraps his fingers around the soft, warm skin of her armpits.

"Seriously!?" She asks with frustration, trying to hold herself steady as she feels his member becoming aroused again beneath her. "Just lift. Wow, slow...slow..." Christina orders as his strong hands gradually raise her off of his lap.

The couple moves in synchronous limbo, Kelvin pushing her up a little bit at a time as she puts more weight on her legs. They gaze at one another with a disciplined love, having done this several times over the past few years. When Christina is finally upright, Kelvin sighs in relief as he slides the chair out from under her. He then gets to his feet and walks around to the back of his lovely wife. When Kelvin is directly behind her, he uses his hands to support her arms again and puts his right foot against the outside of her right foot. After a few deep breaths, he uses his leg muscles to push her right foot closer to her left, as he keeps Christina's body supported with his arms. She inhales with anticipation as the tension builds. They both know that if she uses her back muscles too much in the wrong position, there will be hours of agony.

Finally, Kelvin can move her feet into the proper position on the kitchen floor, and he kisses the back of her head, grateful for her strength and bravery. To his surprise, she is breathing in short gasps, terrified to move, despite the position being just right.

"It's okay, baby," Kelvin says with comforting grace as a tear streams from his right eye. "We should take you to the doctor...there will be other football games."

"Don't you dare say that!" Christina deflects with extreme defiance, finding her courage again as she turns to face her husband. "This game is more important than some visit to the doctor. You've worked extra hard, and HE NEEDS this experience to give him hope for the future. I won't let you ruin this for him, Kelvin, and I won't let you ruin it for yourself. We can deal with my back later. Take your son to the football game. Lord knows we may not get many opportunities. It's like you said; we need to live – no matter what the economy is doing."

Kelvin cannot find the words to express how incredible his wife is at this moment. He leans forward, kissing her full, pouty lips with intense love, feeling more tears spring forth at the sight of her inspirational strength. As they finish the soft kiss, Christina reaches out and grabs his right arm with tender assurance.

"Take your son to a football game, and let me see how happy you are when you get home." Christina asserts with a soft squeeze to his bicep. "That's how you'll repay me for breaking my back!" She finishes with a giggle, walking around him to the right, on her way to the bedroom.

"I love you, baby," Kelvin states with pride, smirking at her ability to joke, despite the pain.

"I love you too." She replies, turning her head with a seductive wink, before continuing to the comfort of their bed.

After Christina departs, Kelvin makes his way to the front of the house where his son is getting ready. Within less than an hour, they are both prepared for the game, dressed in full winter apparel, and making a quiet exit from the home. Kelvin locks the door behind him and verifies that it is secure before making his way down the cement stairs to join Geo on the sidewalk. In the brisk winter breeze, they need little motivation to start moving quicker en route to the train station.

"Why does it get winter?" Geo ponders aloud, watching the mystic steam waft out of his small mouth.

"You mean, why does it become winter?" Kelvin mutters with a raised eyebrow, turning to remind his son that a lazy mind is not sharp.

"Are you gonna' correct me all the way to the game?" The young man replies, looking at the ground with a wounded gaze as he stops walking.

"No, buddy, I'm sorry. You're right, let's enjoy our day." Kelvin reassures his son in a warm fashion, watching the boy's face become cheerful with a big grin. "It gets winter because God wants to make us smarter. He offers up extra challenges to see if we are worthy of the life that was gifted to us."

"God must really want to make us smart today. It's freezing!" The young man quips when he begins to walk again, placing his delicate hands in his pockets.

Kelvin smiles with radiant satisfaction at his son's natural optimism. He gazes at the snow-covered streets of New York like a war veteran. There are large piles of frozen snowplow fodder here and there, covered in ashy filth from all the carbon dioxide in the air. The sidewalk is checkered with unmerciful ice formations and uneven snowbanks. This terrain creates an unwelcome passage as they traverse to Met Life Stadium.

Geo looks upon the frozen masses with infinite wonder and fortitude, seeing dozens of surfaces on which to slide. The soft powder has ample sponginess, and the perfect adhesion to create snowballs in a hurry – even on the run. He sees the dirty masses of snow as an opportunity to add a beard to a snowman.

Their quiet observations of the snowy path are invaded by the sound of a young man screaming from the sunroof of a limousine. Kelvin twists his head to the right, watching the tall, black SUV limousine race past them. In a moment of sudden propriety, he uses his left hand to shield Geo's eyes from the perverse display protruding from the sunroof atop the car.

The wealthy, young pervert is 'sheep surfing,' as the new slang dictates; pulling the hair of his female companion while getting her from behind. He does so with their bodies halfway exposed in a speeding limousine. Kelvin holds his breath as if doing so will somehow cause this moment to pass by sooner. He is somewhat surprised to see a couple 'sheep surfing' this early in the day. It often takes place at night, with young men passing one another, traveling in opposite directions. They sometimes have competitions on Friday evenings to see who can be loudest.

Geo doesn't question his father's actions as his eyes are shielded. The shape of the large black car triggers a recent memory, and the young man feels colder than ever.

"I rolled a snowball down a hill. It became a restless toddler. It became a monster's will." Geo recites in a manner that is barely audible to his father. "I rolled a snowball down a hill. It became a noble snowman. It became a water pail."

"Yep, that's your poem," Kelvin says with a radiant glow, releasing his hand from Geo's eyes now that the car is out of sight. "You won first prize at school for that poem. Miss Literno said that you're a young genius, remember?"

"It's not my poem, dad," Geo replies with a somewhat urgent honesty, peering up at his strong father. "It was the man with the black car. He kept saying it over and over again..."

"No, I think that was your imagination." Kelvin shrugs, motioning for his son to start walking again so they can reach the metro rail platform in time. "When did you ever meet a man with an expensive car like that?"

"You picked him up with your...hook truck." Geo states, unsure if his statement is correct.

"Okay, buddy, I remember." Kelvin responds with a warm smirk, not wanting to correct his son again and spoil the day. "Speaking of remembering; did you bring your EpiPen?" He asks with a hint of alarm; his eyes widening a bit.

"Um...yeah, I've got it, dad," Geo says, squeezing a small cylinder in the right pocket of his small, black coat.

"Show it to me!" Kelvin demands, recalling the last time they were in public without epinephrine, and the horrific onset of anaphylactic shock that overtook his small boy.

Geo sighs deeply, mired in the frustration that his father doesn't yet see him as a man at the age of eight-and-a-half. He reaches into his right coat pocket and produces a small, yellow injector. Its familiar label bears important instructions and warnings. The young man refuses to look at his father as he brandishes the lifesaving injection for him. After showing the evidence of his preparedness, he shoves the pen into his back pocket and folds his arms indignantly.

"You learned that from your mother," Kelvin admits with a slight chuckle, trying to avoid making his son feel worse. "I'm very proud of you, son! Let's enjoy the game."

Geo smiles with forgiveness at his father, reaching up with his small left hand to take Kelvin's right. As the two clasp hands, Kelvin realizes the day has become bitter cold. It is now around negative five degrees Fahrenheit. He uses his large, strong hand to warm the boy's icy, fragile fingers.

THE STADIUM

The brisk wind is tearing at the folds of every article of clothing in the area. It irritates the patrons that exit the metro train onto the platform in front of Met Life Stadium. Kelvin's first instinct is to carry his son, but the young man is stubborn, electing to keep his head down and hands in his pockets. As he watches his boy struggle against the thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds, Kelvin wonders if it was a mistake to bring him out on a day like this.

"Are you okay?" Kelvin calls out over the whipping noise of the turbulent freeze that is biting at their eyes and ears, like fruit bats with jaws of ice.

"YEP!" The young man shouts over the dominant winds, determined to prove to his father that he is just one of the guys.

Geo knows that if he doesn't act mature, it may be a long time before he is invited back to the stadium. Kelvin smiles at his son's persistent bravery, and he adjusts his posture to match the stoicism of the young man. They approach the enormous building across the concrete expanse, much like a moat before a grand castle. Kelvin expresses relief when they finally reach the doors, as his stoicism is waning. The young father's protective instincts are once again spiraling to the surface.

An elderly ticket taker looks miserable in his green jacket and black slacks as the duo approaches him through the glass doors. The man's pale skin seems to match the cold whence they came. Kelvin fishes around in his coat for the tickets, alarmed that he may have just lost his most expensive purchase in months. His heart begins to race until he remembers placing the tickets into his wallet to keep them secure. Just as the ticket taker is raising his soft, aged hand to dismiss them, Kelvin produces the two tickets and stares at him with pride. Although Kelvin's passion is sincere, the man is unimpressed. He tears their tickets and waves them past as if in a rehearsal of The Boatman ushering souls into Hades.

Despite the elder's apathetic nod and dead eyes, Kelvin struts past him like a triumphant cock, feeling alive under the glow of the industrial lighting high above. Both father and son embrace the atmosphere inside with heartwarming smiles, having many great memories of this place, but far less than Kelvin would like. As they step across the smooth flooring, Kelvin first spies the VIP area, which is blocked off from the public by painted steel dividers. They are covered with pads that match the team colors, making them appear less like barriers of incarceration. There is a metal detector with its simple, open box shape, and a conveyor belt immediately to the right. A few men are sitting beyond the dividers with their backs to the emerging crowd of general admission patrons. They are laughing and drinking coffee from stylish, black modern serving cups.

"Hey, dad, can I get some ice cream?" Geo asks with excitement, exploding out of his stoicism, back to a normal eight-year-old boy.

Kelvin stops and gives his son a stern look, and just as the boy shows signs of discomfort, he flashes an enthusiastic smile of his own.

"Yes, but only chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry," Kelvin instructs, pulling a ten-dollar bill from his pocket.

The young man snatches the money and smiles with excitement before charging toward the ice cream vendor.

Kelvin rubs his hands together, wanting to ensure every minute of this day is special. He knows that his neglect of Christina's back problems cannot go on much longer. The costs of her treatment; even with healthcare coverage, are almost prohibitive. His eyes wander to the VIP entrance, where a veritable fashion show has entered the building with their security escorts. Kelvin has become accustomed to seeing some awkward and sometimes loud clothing in this group. The young man is surprised to see a woman dragging a burgundy, wheeled suitcase behind her. He twists his face at this new level of ridiculousness, looking like a man who tried to swallow a can of concentrated orange juice.

"Grandpa said that they took our business away," Geo states with a somber voice, stirring Kelvin out of his silent contemplation. "Why did they do that?"

"Where's your ice cream?" Kelvin inquires with a stupefied look, gesturing with his right hand toward the ice cream display case.

"Nobody is buying any because it's so cold outside," Geo replies while digging the toe of his right shoe into the concrete, and kicking at it with just the bottom half of his foot. "They said I can buy some at halftime." He continues, refusing to take his attention away from the shiny, epoxy-coated floor.

"Are you ready to climb The Matterhorn?" Kelvin asks with a wink.

"Yessss!" Geo says with an excited smile, his face blossoming from youthful disappointment to adventurous zeal, causing him to hop from one foot onto the other.

"Okay, hop on; I'll be your Sherpa." Kelvin kneels down on his left knee, allowing his son to climb onto his back.

Kelvin darts forward with child-like energy, moving through the corridor and into the lower bowl of the stadium. Geo is chuckling from the bouncing as he rides on his father's shoulders, enjoying the view from the perspective of an adult. The young man glows with anticipation as Kelvin reaches the stairs. He races up them at a pace that does not disappoint, traversing past more than thirty rows of seats without stopping. When they reach their assigned row, Kelvin hoists his son from atop his sinewy shoulders and sets him down on the concrete steps. The young boy walks past a few patrons on his way to the seats, having memorized the ticket numbers during weeks of anticipation.

Kelvin notices the frosty discomfort of the weather, and despite the short stint of cardio, finds himself immersed in its frigidness. He takes his seat, anticipating the rough plastic to be much cooler than normal. Geo doesn't seem to share his concern and plops down on the blue polyurethane as if it were a bean bag chair. Kelvin exhales a mouthful of steam as his backside touches the surface of the seat. Through his pants, he can feel the transfer of cold causing his legs to shiver.

The young father looks at his watch, noting that the game won't start for fifteen minutes. He gazes down at his young boy, feeling irresponsible for bringing him out on such a dangerous day for exposure and hypothermia.

"Put your hands in your pockets, Geo." Kelvin orders with a fatherly glance to his right, watching his son with growing fear as an icy wind begins to lick their faces.

"It's cold, dad!" The young man admits, following his father's directions without hesitation as his lower jaw begins to tremble.

"Try to relax, buddy," Kelvin states with warmth and reinforcement. "The game will start soon."

"I rolled a snowball down a hill." Geo begins with a face full of melancholy, staring with dead eyes down at the football field. "It became a restless toddler. It became a monster's will."

"You mentioned the man with the black car. He kept saying that?" Kelvin asks, only half-listening to his son as he watches the cheerleaders down below them.

"Yeah, dad, he had this picture of a lady, and there was something written on the back." Geo says with a nervous gaze, his face dispassionate, anticipating that his father will again shrug off the story.

"Really? What did the man look like?" Kelvin prompts, trying to keep Geo talking, distracting him from the cold as he enjoys the athletic movements of the professional cheerleaders.

"He had a black suit," Geo recalls with caution, squeezing his eyes shut tight for a moment as he attempts to summon the memory. "Also, a tattoo!" The young man exclaims as he snaps his fingers, holding up his right hand next to his father.

"Is that right?" Kelvin redirects as he observes the stadium clock on the scoreboard high above their heads.

"Yeah, it was a tattoo of a skull and crossbones – with a top hat!" Geo elaborates with pride, finally piecing the memory together.

Kelvin freezes in his seat, feeling his son's words penetrate through him in a way that the cold never could.

"What!? Wait...what color was the tattoo?" Kelvin asks delicately with his eyes fixed on Geo's face.

"It was a black top hat with a red skull." The young man responds with a bit of discomfort; not understanding his father's sudden change in demeanor.

"Was there a rose beneath the skull? A rose with a long, green stem?" Kelvin suggests, leaning a bit closer to Geo.

"Yep," Geo affirms after a short pause. "It was behind his left ear."

Upon hearing this news from Geo, Kelvin feels an involuntary swallow of saliva pass down his throat. The skull tattoo with the top hat and a red rose beneath it had become a way to advertise to the wealthy that one is willing to do anything for money.

These people had become the most deadly part of society; their deeds numerous and brutal. Nightly news stories showed dozens of murders, kidnappings, acts of torture, and bizarre crimes. They became known in the media as The Faceless Red; a society whose methods of operation were brutal and clever. This precedent prompted the U.S. Government to create a task force to take them down. According to their credo, any member would be willing to cut off his or her face and expose the red muscles and tissues beneath – for the right price. There was never a case of anyone doing such a thing. Though the mission statement helped to advertise that no deed was too sinister for this group.

"What's wrong, dad?" Geo asks with a confused expression, immediately recognizing his father's distress.

"Nothing, Buddy," Kelvin replies with a swift and phony shrug, "let's just enjoy the game."

Geo observes his father with a bit of suspicion, but soon emulates his shrug, and turns his attention back to the field.

The excitement within the stadium soon reaches blistering levels as the announcer brings the crowd to life. From the time of the first kickoff, until the break at the second half, the game is a harrowing battle between two fierce rivals. The New England Patriots are facing The New York Jets on their home field, and despite the deplorable weather, both teams are vying for control. Several times during the game, Kelvin and Geo find themselves out of their seats, high-fiving in celebration of the plays made by their heroes. Kelvin doesn't remember when he last saw such a great football game, but is mindful of his son's small body in the winter weather. Thus, he often asks him if he is feeling okay.

For a brief moment, Kelvin is taken out of his blissful enjoyment of the game as he peers down at the VIP seating area, which now dominates the lower bowl of the arena. He scowls at the accommodations of the super rich, installed during the summer of 2022. Stadium executives provided them with large, heated enclosures to have parties and conduct business during the games. The vision of these glamorous, tinted rooms remind him of what his son said about the member of The Faceless Red. A mysterious stranger who rode in Kelvin's tow truck at some point.

"You owe me an ice cream!" Geo shouts over the blaring cheers of the stadium crowd. "If we go down there now, we can get warm in one of the stores."

"It's five degrees below zero and you want ice cream?" Kelvin confirms sarcastically, looking at his son with a hint of doubt. "Ice cream is a waste of money on cold days like this."

"We'll get warmed up in the stores, and I'll be able to eat my ice cream." Geo responds with enthusiasm, sticking out his chest to impress his father, and refusing to be beaten by the cold.

"Okay." Kelvin gives in finally with a knowing smile. "As long as you promise to get warm again after you eat your ice cream."

Geo raises his right hand in a thumbs-up motion, and stands up immediately, urging his father to get moving before the first half of the game is over. He is hesitant to miss any of the game, especially considering the cost of the tickets. Though Kelvin gives in to his son's wishes, and they depart from the upper bowl of the arena.

With three minutes remaining in the first half of the game, Kelvin escorts Geo to a prominent gift shop. The shop has New York Jets jerseys on display, along with other sports memorabilia. He asks his son to wait in the gift shop where he can warm himself under the supervision of the cashier. Kelvin then makes his way to the nearest ice cream stand to fulfill his promise, and to make a point about eating something that is cold – in the cold. There is a woman ahead of him getting ice cream as Kelvin approaches the vendor. While he is waiting, he retrieves his cellular phone and dials Christina on the familiar bright display.

"Hello, Baby!" Kelvin says with an emotional smile, immediately missing his wife from the sound of her voice. "No, he's doing good. It's been cold, but he's a trooper... No, he's not just trying to impress me...much."

"What can I get you, Sir?" The pale, young man asks from under a mess of golden curls tucked under a red headband.

"Yes, a vanilla cone, please." Kelvin puts his hand over the phone to place his order, giving the worker an obligatory smile. "Ice cream..? No, it's not for me; it's for Geo." He answers into the receiver of his phone sheepishly, preparing for a scalding rebuttal from his wife.

Kelvin twists his face in a bit of discomfort as he holds the phone against his left ear. He tries to decide whether his wife's nagging is more annoying than the blatant flirtation between the ice cream shop employees.

"Here you go, dude." The young man states with a bashful smile, attempting to watch Kelvin and his female coworker simultaneously. "That will be four fifty."

"Yes, I know it's five below zero, but he wanted ice cream." Kelvin accepts the ice cream cone from the young man's outstretched, skinny hand while bracing the cellular phone between his right ear and shoulder. "No, he's warming up at the clothing store, and I'll make sure he warms up again before we go back into the second half." He removes his wallet with his right hand and places it on the counter. The busy father uses its hard surface to unfold the black leather and retrieves a ten-dollar bill, which he hands to the cashier. "Yes, I'm looking at him right now; he's snooping in the jersey bins below the display racks." Kelvin twists his head to see Geo's silhouette in the clothing store and turns back to finish his transaction.

"Your change is five fifty." The cashier manages to say, now lost in his coworkers eyes, and oblivious to the man in front of him.

Kelvin snatches up his change, stuffs it into his wallet, and puts it away, departing with a bit of disgust. He then makes his way back to the clothing store, filling his wife in on the highlights of the game as he goes.

"Yeah, it was a close play. I wish you could've been here." Kelvin says with affection as he approaches Geo in the clothing store. "Here's your ice cream, buddy." His eyes shift nervously left and right as he realizes that something is off, and when the boy turns around, Kelvin is stupefied to see that it is not Geo.

The young father freezes in his tracks, feeling alone on the rough carpet of the sports apparel store. He pulls back the ice cream cone, looking at the Hispanic boy who is about the same height as his son, but with much different hair and facial features. The concerned father holds his breath, stunned into silence by the discovery that his son is not where he left him. Kelvin reacts instantly, spinning around to his left and marching through the crowd of shoppers like a crony soldier leading a search party.

When he reaches the far end of the store, Kelvin does an about-face, and traverses immediately to the other end of the area. Geo is nowhere in the retail space. With growing disbelief, Kelvin returns to where the Hispanic boy is standing, hoping that Geo will pop out and surprise him. His wife is beginning to ask questions through the cellular phone that Kelvin doesn't want to answer. He instead approaches the clerk, darting in front of customers who are waiting to pay for their items.

"Did you see a little boy!?" Kelvin asks; his face now flushed and breathing elevated.

"Yeah, he's right behind you." The Indian clerk answers dismissively, pointing toward the Hispanic boy.

"No! Not the little Mexican boy." Kelvin asserts, holding his phone away from his ear in frustration. "Did you see a little black boy?"

"I haven't seen him. No." The cashier admits, shrugging a bit before gesturing for Kelvin to move away from the counter so that he can help his other customers.

"Yes... No, you heard me right." Kelvin states nervously into his cellular phone. "I'm looking for him now... Just give me a second, honey, please! He should be okay."

Kelvin exits the store with a brisk gait, searching the crowd for his son. He sees a men's bathroom across the way and immediately walks in that direction. His insides are shuddering with preemptive despair, and the sound of Christina's anger in his right ear is further compounding that feeling. Kelvin pushes open the door of the men's bathroom and sweeps through the space. The worried father ignores odd glances from a few men staring at his ice cream cone. He walks past every stall, checking for small feet, and familiar shoes dangling, but sees none. Kelvin then turns on his heel, and inspects the figures near the urinals, but doesn't spot his boy. With a heavy sigh of frustration, he returns to the restroom door. Kelvin pins the cellular phone to his shoulder with his left ear while pulling the door handle with his right hand.

Out on the concourse, Kelvin feels nauseated, and his gaze returns to the clothing store, but he doesn't see Geo anywhere. His wife is screaming into the phone about divorce and child neglect, but he has tuned out her voice to concentrate on the problem. After surveying the clothing store again, he decides to make a lap around the concourse to see if Geo wandered off, or if he can catch his abductor. Kelvin strides through the crowd like an ancient beast that is protecting his young. He decides that playing the part of 'the angry black man' will work in his favor and feels it is justifiable. His technique is effective, as most of the people get out of his way. Just as Kelvin is about to round the corner to the other side of the concourse, something jumps into view far to his left.

He pauses for a moment, uncertain whether he saw Geo or not. Adrenaline is now filling his veins as his chest thumps with parental terror. Kelvin sprints through the crowd to a pillar near a giant poster of Max 'Maximum' George. He breathes with a great deal of relief when he finds Geo next to the iconic poster. The young man is trying to emulate the star by crouching and pretending to hold a football.

"Baby, he's right here." Kelvin declares with relief, knowing that his wife will have to backpedal all the hateful things that she has been saying. "Yeah, I'll put him on the phone..." He hands the phone to Geo, staring the young man down with grating disapproval.

"Hello." The young man answers as he holds the phone to his ear, refusing to take his eyes off of his angry father. "Yeah, I'm sorry... I stepped out of the store because I saw this cool poster of Maximum George... Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry... Love you too, 'bye."

"She chewed you out good, didn't she?" Kelvin asks with a smile and a wink, having his wife's scathing comments still in recent memory. "What the hell, Geo? You know how dangerous this world is... I shouldn't even give you this ice cream." He says with both affection and frustration, pulling the small ice cream cone away with his left hand.

"I'm sorry, dad." The young man submits with humility and compassion. "I saw this poster, and he looks so boss – just crouched and running." His eyes move upward to the melting ice cream in Kelvin's left hand, and he can't help but smirk at how lopsided the cone looks. "Is that vanilla?"

"Yeah, what the hell – here you go," Kelvin says with a smile as he hands the cone over to his son. "We'll enjoy the rest of our day. I'm just glad that you're okay."

As his son begins to enjoy the coveted ice cream, Kelvin looks up at the poster of Maximum George with a bit of reverence. The football player stands over twenty feet high, watching over the concourse with his piercing brown eyes. The football is cradled in his right arm as if it were a newborn baby.

"That does look boss." The proud father admits with a half-smile as he feels a small hand tugging on his coat.

Kelvin looks down to see a blank stare of horror on Geo's face. The young man is gasping for air, clearly going into anaphylactic shock.

"Let's get your EpiPen, son!" Kelvin says with urgency, fumbling in Geo's coat pockets. "Where is it, buddy? Where is it!?" He asks desperately.

Despite the heavy wheezing, Geo manages to tap his back pocket, and Kelvin immediately searches for the lifesaving injection. A shudder of fear and shame hits Kelvin at his core when he realizes that the young man lost the injection from his rear pocket – likely during the subway ride.

"Geo, it's okay. They've got epinephrine here!" Kelvin reassures his son, watching with increasing fear as the small boy's body becomes weaker. "It's not vanilla; is it?" He asks in vain, glaring down at the small cone like a deadly virus in his son's hand.

Kelvin wipes the surface of the ice cream with his index finger and immediately blots it on his tongue to determine the flavor. He then picks Geo up from the floor and begins to sprint across the concourse toward the first aid station near the VIP area. The young man's wheezing has become more severe as his airway is further constricted. His eyes are darting here and there; no longer feeling safe in the world as precious life is leaving his small body.

"It's white chocolate and macadamia... Macadamia!" Kelvin announces with tears streaming from the corners of his eyes as he races through the crowd to the first aid station just fifty feet away. "MEDICAL EMERGENCY! I HAVE A MEDICAL EMERGENCY! LET ME THROUGH!" He shouts over the crowd, watching people clear a path; their faces shifting to shock, fear, or indifference at the plight of his son.

As he nears the first aid station, Kelvin looks on with confusion. There are a series of black, steel dividers; all lined with blue padding, preventing him from reaching the first aid station. Just beyond the dividers, there is a group of wealthy patrons enjoying a catered halftime dinner, and they turn to look at Kelvin from their seats. Geo's wheezing has worsened, and Kelvin looks his son in the eyes, witnessing the hope draining out of them.

"I NEED HELP! HE'S GOING INTO ANAPHYLACTIC SHOCK!" Kelvin screams through the dividers as he grips the steel frame and yanks to no avail.

"You can't be over here!" A heavy security guard says in a chastising voice, jogging quickly to confront Kelvin behind the dividers. "This is the VIP luncheon for halftime."

"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT A FUCKING LUNCHEON!" Kelvin screams at the security guard. "MY SON IS DYING! He needs epinephrine from the first aid station!" The panicked father continues with a voice that changes from anger to a plea.

"So your son's having an asthma attack? Where's his inhaler?" The guard asks suspiciously, glancing back toward the wealthy patrons that he is protecting.

"ARE YOU RETARDED!?" Kelvin shouts. "MY BOY HAS A NUT ALLERGY! HE'S SUFFOCATING TO DEATH!"

The heavy, Irish guard looks at Kelvin with empathy, trying to see if the young man is in genuine distress. He turns back toward the wealthy couples that are having lunch just ten feet behind him, and raises his eyebrows. Two of the men ignore the guard and continue their conversation, asserting that the emergency is not their problem. An older, white patron with a red face glares at Kelvin with reservation and sits back in his chair with his arms folded across his large chest. He shakes his head in disapproval, causing his young wife to mimic this action, also shaking her head at the guard.

"I'm sorry. I can't let you through this area; you'll have to hit the first aid station on the second-floor concourse." The guard states with hesitation, obviously affected by his patrons.

"WHAT!? THERE'S MEDICINE RIGHT THERE! I CAN'T-" Kelvin is about to protest further when he realizes that Geo's breathing is becoming sporadic.

The distressed father grits his teeth and glares at the guard with piercing lamentation, letting out a half-scream of disgust and amazement. Without wasting another second, he turns on his heel and sprints across the concourse with the boy in his arms, keeping his focus on the path ahead of them. Geo grips his father's coat sleeve with all the strength in his small body. The young man's eyes are filled with terror, darting around, as if searching for a pocket of air that is breathable.

In a mad dash, Kelvin begins to climb the stairs, three at a time; spraining his ankle and ignoring the pain. The young boy stops breathing long before they reach the landing, and Kelvin goes numb with horror.

"NO! NO! NO!" Kelvin cries in rapid succession as he lays Geo's body on the cold concrete. "Come back, buddy! Please come back!"

The desperate father begins to perform CPR on his son, doing chest compressions as appropriate for a child and breathing into his mouth. When he places his lips over Geo's mouth, Kelvin notices that the boy is turning blue. He can feel himself dying inside right along with Geo, hoping that the air is getting through. In his panic, Kelvin finds himself wrestling back a wave of despair. His intellect tells him that the boy is dying, but his heart is in denial.

After two breaths, Kelvin notices that Geo's small stomach is moving in and out on its own, and he hears the wheezing again as the young man begins to take in air.

"Yes! Yes! Thank you, God!" Kelvin cradles Geo in his arms and rises to his feet, traversing with renewed strength toward the second level concourse.

Kelvin panics with a rush of misdirection when he reaches the second level concourse. The young father has no idea where the first aid station is on this floor. He is about to gallop aimlessly to his right when he notices the American Red Cross symbol just to the left of the stairs from which he climbed. Kelvin rushes forward with fresh hope, barreling past strangers; the once awful sound of his son's wheezing now indicative of a small miracle in his arms.

"He's going into anaphylactic shock!" Kelvin says abruptly to the paramedic at the first aid station. "We need epinephrine! Now!"

The portly paramedic wastes no time as he approaches Kelvin and takes Geo into his arms. He carefully places the young man on a stainless steel bench and spins around to a medical kit on a shelf behind him.

"EpiPens... EpiPens..." The paramedic says as he looks through his medical kit.

Kelvin is watching Geo's wheezing and observing the paramedic with pressing eyes, wondering why he is checking the same pockets of the medical kit twice. His eyes fill with sorrow as the paramedic reaches for a two-way radio.

"Yeah, this is Station B on concourse two. I have a boy here in anaphylaxis and need an EpiPen right away." The paramedic declares in a professional tone, holding the radio next to a white shirt that is snug against his belly.

"What the hell!? You don't have epinephrine!?" Kelvin asks incredulously, gripping the hair on the back of his head with a fist of desperation.

On the medical bench, Geo's breathing goes silent, and Kelvin's demeanor changes from rage to concern. The paramedic also notices that the boy is not breathing and moves in to provide care.

"I'm going to have to perform a tracheostomy!" The paramedic reports as he checks Geo's pulse.

"Station B, this is Station A on concourse three. We have someone coming to you with an EpiPen." A static-filled voice proclaims from the two-way radio.

The paramedic ignores his radio and spins back around to the medical kit. He searches until he locates a small tube and scalpel; both sheathed in plastic. He then twists back around and sets the items on Geo's small chest. The man wastes no time in feeling for Geo's trachea with his index and middle fingers. After a brief search, he tears the packaging from the scalpel and uses it to pierce Geo's throat to access his trachea. Kelvin is unwittingly biting his lower lip as he watches his son's blood stream down the side of his neck from the incision. The paramedic then pushes the tube into the young man's throat.

Kelvin feels a surge of hope as Geo opens his eyes, but his elation is staggering when he realizes that the young boy isn't looking at anything specific.

"He's not breathing on his own." The paramedic admits with a feverish tenacity. "I'm going to breath for him and administer CPR. Hang in there, buddy." With another quick spin, the paramedic retrieves a breathing bag from his medical kit and attaches it to the tube in Geo's throat.

"Oh my God, Geo. Wake up. Please wake up..." Kelvin pleads in an almost whisper, unfettered by the saliva that is hanging from the corner of his mouth, and the tears that are awash upon his cheeks. "Come on, son! I need you in my life!"

At the medical bench, the paramedic continues to administer CPR, using the bag to breathe for the small boy between chest compressions. After over thirty seconds of persistent efforts, he holds the young man's wrist and lowers his head to the floor.

"I need to give him a shot of adrenaline!" The heavy paramedic states in a panicked voice as he turns about and looks from side to side for one of his colleagues.

After a few seconds, the man turns back around and removes Geo's coat from his upper torso. He takes note of how discouragingly blue the boy's facial color has become. The paramedic uses his scalpel to cut open the young man's shirt and pants, giving him access to the entire body for care. He continues to administer CPR, glancing back at Kelvin with an expression of absolute shame. Kelvin gazes into the large man's eyes, mirroring his look of defeat, but refusing to acknowledge that this could be the end.

Another paramedic finally arrives to help, and she is carrying an EpiPen in her right hand. The young blonde has kind eyes and wears the same white, button-down shirt as her counterpart. When she presents the EpiPen to her colleague, he snatches it from the woman and signals for her to breathe for the boy using the bag.

Kelvin peers down at his son with desperation and agony, wishing he had never agreed to the ice cream. Geo's face has turned completely blue, and there is no air coming from his small body. He gazes with paternal anxiety at the short needle as it pierces his son's arm. The paramedics then remove the needle as they commence CPR.

The young woman persists in breathing for the small boy with the bag, while the passionate first-responder continues chest compressions. After three full minutes of sustained efforts, both paramedics turn toward Kelvin with grim faces.

"No! No! He can't!" Kelvin shouts in shock, shaking throughout each of his extremities as his body begins to reflect his emotions. "He... He can't be dead. My little boy can't be gone. I... I... No... FUCKING ICE CREAM! GODDAMN STUPID BASTARDS! GODDAMN KID SERVING! Bastard security guard..." Kelvin walks away from Geo's body, unable to face the horrific scene.

An explosion of tears flood Kelvin's tormented eyes. He slumps down to the floor, doubling over and almost curling into a ball. The pain is too real, and his instincts tell him to shut down from the world. To close off all sensation of sight, sound, taste, and touch, with the hope that nothing he just witnessed was real.

"This is a nightmare! This day is...my worst nightmare – come true." Kelvin exclaims through the tears, shaking more with every passing moment, feeling betrayed by the world and more alone than ever. "Oh my God! What am I going to tell his mother!? There's no way... I can't tell her...no way she can know."
V. Jacob's Scat

"I created something terrible in Jacob – he never had a childhood. From the moment his mind was strong enough, I began to pour in the finest knowledge available. We hired instructors to train him to fight. He had his own stock broker and financial advisor at the age of eight, and assisted my attorney in our legal battles from the age of ten. I was so arrogant; the boy was nothing more than another employee, cast to entertain me by showing off the power of my loins. It wasn't enough to watch him defeat others physically. When he became a young man, to win my approval, Jacob had to outwit and overwhelm my most affluent colleagues. I wanted to create the ultimate man in my image. Unfortunately, I succeeded long before knowing that my image...had to die." **-Earl Calbraw, in a late night conversation with Chamberlain.**

'Blind have I been to the perfunctory manipulations of my father, the media, and his nest of influential serpents.' Jacob thinks to himself as he watches his guests mingling in the lobby of his club. 'I'm standing at the back of the room, cowering behind my contrived Phantom of The Opera mask. A trinket often mistook for those from the Theatre of Pain. The lovely redhead teases before me in a grand gesture of the space between us, and Calbraw senior's need to rule the world, or at least – my world. With something as simple as slipping an invitation under a doorway, the vanity of my father's dreams is now within my reach. She seems so fragile; a woman not yet corrupted by her infamy. As the night goes on; corruption she will learn – where once there was loyalty and innocence...'

"What can I get for you?" The muscular, young bartender inquires, pretending not to recognize the celebrity standing before him.

Celeste approaches the shiny, black bar with curiosity, admiring the yellow, orange and green neon lights infused beneath the surface. She looks down with a cautious fascination at the variety of snakes making their way across the top of the serving area. All types of pythons, rattlers, and cobras of different lengths slither alongside popular drinks, filled with fruit juices and spirits. The serpents themselves feature glow-in-the-dark colors, painted in simple patterns. These vibrant colors include electric reds, tribal blues, and mystical greens.

Celeste observes in awe as patrons dart their hands into the snake pit atop the modern bar to retrieve their drinks. She stares at the bartender before her with a quirky smile, reading the menu as if through fog. The twenty-two-year-old is wearing a bright orange, designer dress, featuring a black leather belt with a trendy silver buckle. Her silhouette moves in a seductive rhythm with the low hum of the tribal music from the bar. She pulls her hair back with delicious enthusiasm, noticing that several men are watching her.

"Can I get a Rattlesnake Bloody Mary?" The redheaded beauty requests with a pair of opalescent blue eyes.

"You got it!" The athletic bartender replies with vivacious tact as he flexes his muscular chest, and runs his right hand through his gleaming black hair.

"I've heard that the magic shows here are dangerous," Celeste suggests with curiosity, jumping a bit as she watches a patron get bit on the forearm by an angry python. "Everyone tells me that people have died performing in these shows."

"Is that right?" The bartender smirks with a sober rhetoric. "I'd say that's true. I mean, take me for instance. I'm from the underworld – been dead for over ten years."

"Is that a fact?" She inquires playfully, feeling intrigued by the false ghost story. "You look kinda' sexy for a dead man!" Celeste admits, flashing a gratuitous pinup girl pose and then laughing at herself.

The bartender winks at her with confidence as he uses a pair of custom-made tongs to pick up her drink and place it in the snake pit atop the bar. The young singer glares at him across the serving area. She watches in alarm as he positions her drink within the array of deadly, slithering creatures.

Celeste examines a pair of glowing rattlesnake jaws that are mounted onto the rim of her adult beverage. She feels her heart throbbing with intrigue at the red ambiance of the drink. There is a black, bendable straw protruding through the jaws, between the fangs. The entire skull of the small creature extends a third of the way out of the large glass, looking as if it is ready to leap out at her.

"How do I get it without being bitten?" The young woman beckons with an uncertain expression, watching the bartender with mistrust.

"Just reach in and grab it slowly, and show them you're not afraid." The bartender advises, turning his chin upward at her with preemptive respect.

Celeste peers into his eyes, ensuring that the bartender is serious, and then takes a closer look at the coiled bodies that are slithering before her. After a few seconds of contemplation, the young woman reaches down with her delicate fingers. She moves with caution to avoid alarming the snakes. Celeste's skin begins to crawl in discomfort when her hand gets within fifteen inches of the pit. She can feel droplets of sweat forming beneath her wild, red hair, and her mind is in a state of crazed confidence. Finally, her fingers wrap around the base of the glass, and she begins to pull it toward her, but stops when a distinct rattling sound reaches her ears.

Celeste holds her breath in terror as she spots a large rattlesnake coiled up just under the lip of the bar, behind where her drink was placed. The back of her neck goes cold as the snake raises its head almost level with her hand, rattling its tail with more aggression as if to protect the drink. In a moment of panic, she pulls the glass toward her, watching the muscles of the snake as it tenses and strikes at magnificent speed. The jaws are heading for her hand faster than she can move it out of the snake's path. Just when the fangs are a few inches from her skin, the snake slams against something solid and retreats back under the bar.

Celeste pulls the Bloody Mary back in a rush, almost falling over in her high heels. She spills the contents somewhat from the scare delivered by the deadly snake.

"It's okay," the bartender announces with his palms outward, laughing a bit and suppressing a smile. "The poisonous specimens are behind Plexiglas. It's just an optical illusion... Welcome to the Club of Hearts. Enjoy the show!" He finishes with a cheesy smile, indicating that this act has become part of the allure and a sort of brand for Jacob's club.

"Thanks...I'll try." The young singer mutters squeamishly as she departs the bar, making her way toward the auditorium for the magic show.

Celeste steps through the dark, wide corridor that precedes the auditorium. She watches for more surprises from the solid black rock walls and ceiling that surround her. The floor is concrete, but painted black to give the corridor a cavernous appearance.

"You're brave to come here by yourself." A young man utters in a reptilian manner, leaning close to her ear.

"Well, there was only one invitation," Celeste replies, turning sideways with the Rattlesnake Margarita in hand to face him.

As the young singer turns, she recognizes Jacob Calbraw from the photos that Chamberlain showed her earlier in the day. The younger Calbraw is not nearly the sweet bear that his father has become, yet there is a distinct sadness behind his arrogant eyes. He is standing by her right shoulder, wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask that makes him appear more romantic than dangerous – even childish. His hair is neat and slicked back into a regal mass that is not endearing for his age. Though when coupled with a black, designer suit and matching bowtie; he pulls it off nicely.

"Didn't they tell you to stay away from me?" Jacob inquires with an almost defiant certainty.

"I'm a big girl, Jacob," she replies with a wink, "and I heard these magic shows are not to be missed."

"True. There's nothing more magical than someone who's willing to die for their art." He answers with a sly grin, removing his mask and holding it playfully behind his back. "Are you here to see someone's final moments?" Jacob asks, lowering his brow somewhat as he poses the question, and steps toward the singer with a sinister gaze.

Celeste refuses to show fear, but steps backward to maintain her personal space, trying to keep her footing in the expensive high heels. Jacob continues to advance until her exposed back presses against the firm, black rock of the cave-like wall. The young singer is stunned when a red light flashes to her left, and she turns to see a baboon snarling at her from within the rocks through a glass portal. The powerful creature leaps toward her and kicks with primal fury. There is an earsplitting bang, much like a gunshot that echoes through the man-made cave. The baboon slams the thick glass enclosure and rebounds back to its small living space. Celeste immediately drops her drink, and the margarita glass shatters on the hard, cement floor. It then becomes an oozy mass of red slush with upside down rattlesnake jaws at its core.

"Oh... Wow..." Celeste says with an intense gaze, clutching her stomach in pain and breathing with deep gasps of relief. "Oh, God, you...make an impression...don't you?" She swallows a bit of vomit that crept up in her throat; an unusual response to fear that has been with her since childhood.

Jacob smiles in a moment of villainous enjoyment, but retracts his vindication, realizing that he has wounded her pride. The young billionaire feels empathy for her; an artist trying to appear tough after having a bad scare. This coming from someone who not only stacked the deck, but holds all the cards. Celeste glares at the young man and begins to walk away, clicking her heels hard against the concrete as if to announce that she is the queen. After a few steps, she turns back to face him, refusing to acknowledge defeat. The young woman transforms as she moves toward her assailant. She shows off her rugged superiority; the trademark of a girl from Boston.

"Your ass is going to be as red as that baboon if you try that on me again – and don't ask me if that's a promise." She snarls in conceit, cutting him off before he can engage any half-charming attempts at banter. "You don't scare me, Calbraw."

"How many tour dates do you have with my father?" Jacob beckons with impatience, wanting to get down to business.

"Why are you trying to stop this!?" She demands with heated discontent, coming off like a spider, exposed by someone kicking a rock. "We have forty-eight tour dates over the next year. I took this gig because it will help people to climb out of the misery that you created for them."

"So you think my father is a saint?" Jacob surmises, scoffing at her ignorance as he studies her petite body. "Why don't you ask my mother what a great man my father has been?"

"I didn't know he was married," Celeste replies aloud, immediately regretting this statement as she sees Jacob glaring at her with distrust.

"I suppose that was my father's great magic trick...making my mother disappear." Jacob lets his guard down for a brief moment as several tears begin to form at the corners of his dark blue eyes. "Enjoy the show." He says in a curt fashion, moving away from her like a wounded boy, trying to recover his manly gait with each step.

Celeste sighs with suppressed anxiety, as if trying to regulate the pressure inherent with awkward tension. She wonders whether there is any truth that comes from the lips of these billionaires, but suspends her doubts at the memory of Jacob's tears. Her mind is now reset, and free of judgment, allowing her to study the elder and younger Calbraws independently of one another.

Celeste looks down at her small, gold watch, noting that the show will soon begin. She glances over her bare, left shoulder at the doorway that precedes the seating area, and makes her way into the large auditorium.

A shiver runs through Celeste's muscular thighs as she observes various scorpions in the floor. They run and stop at random beneath the clear Plexiglas that makes up the flooring of the seating area. The dangerous creatures are revealed by strings of white lights that turn on and off in sequential patterns. These lights move beneath the clear Plexiglas in a forward motion, revealing both large and small scorpions that are a mixture of black and brownish hues. The surreal atmosphere makes her skin crawl, and the young woman wishes that she had worn something more protective.

Celeste removes a ticket from her small, black purse, feeling the expensive, shiny noir plastic between her fingers. Each ticket is a customized piece of art unto itself, containing the club logo, and engraved letters that are shown white through the black exterior. Every row of the seating area has a pitch black floor. This darkness contrasts with the living marquee of scorpions that usher guests into the auditorium from the aisles.

The young singer locates the row for her seat and slides between the linear sets of black, leather chairs. Her body goes numb when she feels something poking her feet as she steps through the row toward her assigned seat. A rush of adrenaline causes her to leap sideways, and she removes her cellular phone from a pouch within her purse, using the light to see what pinched her foot from the floor. The young woman's eyes tighten with intolerance as the light shows small plastic stingers attached to the risers beneath the seats. Each plastic stinger is meant to create the same scratching sensation on skin and clothing as would the tail of a scorpion.

This deception turns Celeste's expression somewhat bitter as she proceeds to her seat. The young woman flops down in a huff and folds her arms, clutching the cellular phone beneath her elbow.

CLUB OF HEARTS - CONTROL ROOM

"Who's that?" Jacob asks, pointing to a large monitor embedded in the oak control panel before him.

"It looks like he's assigned to her," Danielle replies as she rests her chubby fingers on her chin, observing surveillance video of the auditorium with her boss.

The husky, young technician turns in her chair and looks up at Jacob with a question in her eyes. Jacob licks his lips while his eyes remain locked on the screen. Without uttering a word, he juts his chin out a bit, indicating that he wants Danielle to dig deeper. His silent answer beckons a grateful smile from the twenty-seven-year-old Hispanic woman. She twists in her chair to get comfortable, and begins to run facial recognition on the mystery man.

"Where did you come from?" Jacob asks in a whisper; his gaze still fixed on the large LCD monitor. "I know you work for my father, but I've never seen you before."

On the colorful, high-definition monitor, there is a depiction of an older man sitting several rows back from Celeste Marie. The mystery man and Celeste are both early for the performance, making it easy to gauge their body language amid the empty seats. The man is keeping an eye on the young singer, appearing nervous and dutiful in a cheap, gray suit and long, black trench coat. He is completely bald, and his scalp bears a remarkable sheen. This effect is courtesy of the overhead lighting and from the man being recently clean-shaven.

"He's retired Navy, Pete Perry, according to your father's HR files," Danielle announces as her fingers stop tapping the keyboard. "Should we ask him to leave?" She suggests with genuine concern for the security of their illegal, underground club.

Jacob looks down at Danielle's fingers, hovering above the keyboard like a pair of reptiles stalking a bug. The expensive, green blouse she is wearing seems loose around her curvy figure, indicative of a new diet or recent return to the gym. Jacob lowers his gaze to the black skirt and lime green heels that were not part of her ensemble during their show last month. A smile forms around the ridges of his lips as he realizes that the judgment of his operations manager may be compromised.

"No, let's make him part of the show – willing or not." The young billionaire answers with a wink. "Who else do we have that can be part of the ride tonight? And what is the theme?" Jacob inquires with a dry smirk, realizing how detached he has been from this once beloved project.

"The theme is illusions and ice." Danielle conveys in monotone with a concerned expression, glancing back at Jacob to measure his level of detachment. "We had two guys talking smack about the show in the men's room earlier."

"Two guys? Right, because it's rarely ever the ladies. I tell you what, Danielle, owning a penis means a lifetime of liability." Jacob evokes with a wicked smile, placing his hand on Danielle's shoulder, and watching her relax back into her leather swivel chair. "Can you queue up the footage?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Calbraw," Danielle confirms with a pleasant smile, her brown eyes glimmering amidst the dull lighting of the dust-free environment.

Within a few seconds, the video begins to play showing two men washing their hands in the bathroom. Jacob and Danielle observe the exchange between the men with their heads locked in place. They are like two wild animals enjoying the solidarity of stalking their prey.

"The short black guy is Joshua Singer," Danielle announces immediately, pointing toward the left side of the screen. "His tall, Jewish buddy is Phillip Epperstein. They were trash-talking the show, saying that it's all bullshit."

Danielle freezes the footage and turns to Jacob, indicating that this is all the evidence she has to offer. Jacob cups his hands for a moment, and then locks them up into tight fists, holding them at his sides as if they were loaded guns.

"Get our guests some special drinks on the house," Jacob orders in a calm tone, letting his mind relax so that reason can welcome itself back into his thoughts. "I want to ensure they enjoy the show with some vivid clarity. Let's also get them to participate."

"What do you have in mind?" Danielle asks with a naughty smile, having a difficult time hiding her enjoyment during their sessions of scheming.

"Let's give the short one The Phoenix, and the tall one..." Jacob pauses, glaring at the pale man that is stationary on the monitor as he ponders his fate. "Poseidon and Helios."

Danielle raises her eyebrows at Jacob, waiting a moment for him to change his mind, but without gain. As Jacob notices her concern, he reissues his command by nodding. The entrepreneur then moves toward the dressing rooms to finish preparing for the show.

CLUB OF HEARTS - AUDITORIUM

Celeste Marie feels a childish excitement rising within her as the lights begin to dim in the glamorous seating area. She holds her breath as the lighting fades to complete darkness in dramatic fashion, and the crowd goes silent with anticipation.

"Welcome to the Club of Hearts." Jacob's voice booms from several speakers placed strategically around the seating area. "You've taken a risk to be here tonight. You could have stayed at home, watched a movie – done something completely predictable. But that's not who you are; are you? You're here to see something you've never seen before – to know real fear; the type that happens on the plains of Africa between wild creatures. You have lost your senses...taste, touch, sight, sound, and smell. You've come here asking...no...begging me to give them back to you. As any good host should, I will indulge you in your fantasies...and your fears. So without further delay, I present to you the magic of life and death. There are no rules. There are no restrictions...and YOU ARE NOT SAFE!" His final statement shows off the power of the sound system and then returns the auditorium to silence in the darkness.

Celeste's eyes immediately trace down to the stage where new lights are emerging. She notices a protective sheet of glass that wraps all the way around the stage, and wonders why it is necessary.

A series of four large, square lights bloom up from the floor at center stage, each in a brilliant shade of color. They cut through the darkness as rich hues of red, orange, yellow, and green. These lights reveal four stationary figures on the stage; each shrouded in a black cloak, appearing medieval in their splendor.

"We begin our journey," Jacob announces with booming authority from the amplified sound system, "with a dance between life and death. A dance that you will soon partake. A dance that none of us can escape. We locked the doors, ladies and gentlemen. There is nowhere to go. Tonight you face one of your oldest fears...mortality!"

The gritty rasp of Jacob's hateful voice causes Celeste to shiver, and although her logical mind knows that this is just a show, her primal self feels otherwise. She focuses her energy on the stage, where four gallant, faceless performers have appeared from the darkness atop the colorful squares. Each of these performers wears a form-fitting, white body suit, standing next to their black, shrouded counterparts. They approach the shrouded figures in synchronized unison as an ominous tune begins to play. This tune builds up in conjunction with the movements of the athletic figures. Each of the four performers raises his or her hands, and the shrouds begin to ascend toward the ceiling, exposing four ice sculptures floating just above the stage. The sculptures look somewhat frail, appearing as unique skeletons of ice; their hands outstretched as if to welcome someone.

Once the shrouds are removed, the four performers in white approach the ice figures on their respective squares. They lock their hands together and move in time with the music. Celeste smiles with delight at the faceless, celestial dancers. Each performer moves their ice sculpture partner as though they were alive. Their timing is flawless, and the nuances commence as a simple set of ballroom dance moves. They work in unison to create a pattern that synergizes lights, music, and dancers. As the momentum increases, Celeste is further amused when she sees the performers toss their ice sculpture partners to one another. Though she knows that the sculptures are floating on wires, the simultaneous transitions are seamless, and the music ties it together with majestic grace.

The fury of the music continues to build, and the performers make more daring moves with their ice sculptures, launching them across the stage past one another. They miss collisions within inches several times, inspiring subtle applause from onlookers. When the music reaches its peak intensity, the stage lights turn blood red, and each performer hurls their sculpture to the center of the stage. In a brilliant flash, the four ice skeletons explode into dust, showering the stage with a powder that is finer than snowflakes. A slight CO2 discharge resounds during this blast of air and ice particles, creating powerful popping noises.

Celeste gazes at the stage in wonder despite the awkward red lighting that is now blanketing its surface. She is enjoying the precision of the performance with the innocent eyes of someone who yearns for artistry. While Celeste is gazing at the stage, she hears a loud creaking sound right above the seating area and other members of the audience raise their heads in alarm. The ceiling above the seats changes from a soft, white color to a translucent material, displaying a large water enclosure above the audience. Celeste freezes in her seat as she watches a twenty-foot saltwater crocodile thrashing around in three feet of water above her head. The young singer holds her breath as she looks for the support beams that are holding the water tank in place.

Inside the crocodile enclosure, an unseen figure is taunting the majestic beast with a chicken on a rope, hovering just over its snout, and out of reach. Each time the crocodile lunges for the meat, its weight slams down on the ceiling above the seating area, creating sounds as though the entire structure will collapse. For two minutes, the croc is led around the tank, giving the audience a feeling of dread each time its body pounds the shelter overhead.

Celeste grips the armrests of her chair, trying to stay calm as the sounds of the buckling roof continue to worsen. She can hear wood splitting and metal bending under extreme pressure. Her pupils become dilated with fear, as the potential for this ancient species of carnivore to crush the audience is now clear. The young singer observes the long tail as it cuts through the water, and the creature's stubby legs propel it across the surface of the carbon fiber tank. When the croc starts thrashing its way to the other side of the auditorium, the young woman licks her lips with relief. She enjoys the horror of other patrons seated beneath the incredible animal. After several seconds of terror, there is a metal on metal sound of a pressurized door cranking open. The water begins to flow out of the enclosure above the audience, carrying the large creature out of the auditorium.

She exhales with relief and looks back up at the stage to see that the four figures are encased in blocks of ice. The massive blocks of ice are around seven feet tall, and three feet thick. Celeste recognizes the four figures in white that were dancing just moments ago; each now trapped inside a solid block of ice. All four ice formations are lined up in a row at the front of the stage, facing the audience. A ten-foot tall figure stands between them, shrouded in a black cloak, displaying a skull made of ice. Beneath the cloak is a massive iron skeleton holding a real scythe consistent with its size. The scythe is made of aged oak, and its blade is gleaming stainless steel, appearing far too large for a man or woman to handle. Celeste caresses her chin with intrigue as the huge, skeletal figure is presented to her. She stares at the skull of solid ice with fascination and lets her eyes wander over the rest of its body, attempting to guess the purpose of this creature.

"It's time for fate to decide who is worthy!" Jacob states with dramatic fervor, dampening the impact of the crocodile on the crowd. "We'll need a volunteer from the audience. Joshua Singer, we require your assistance. Please move to the stage in front of the ten-foot reaper."

From the left side of the crowd, a spotlight is shone upon a well-dressed black man. Celeste notices that he is seated next to a gorgeous African-American model that seems too tall for him. Joshua shifts in his seat, silently protesting this demand for his participation, but the other members of his party urge him to take the stage. The young, athletic man gets to his feet, confirming Celeste's suspicion of his short stature. He begins to make his way through the row of leather chairs toward the center aisle.

While Joshua is moving to the stage, a second spotlight turns on, and swivels to highlight another person in his party.

"It looks like we'll need another member of your group for this trick," Jacob announces callously through the speakers. "Phillip Epperstein, please rise and make your way to the rear of the auditorium, directly across from your friend. We need you to stand in front of the glowing red heart."

A pale, Jewish man rises to his feet, forcing a smile as he watches Joshua glance in his direction. The older man responds to his friend with an innocent shrug. During their exchange, the sound of an electric jolt is heard as though a breaker was tripped. Then a bright red heart appears, illuminated in brilliant neon at the back of the auditorium. Phillip turns to blow a kiss to his date, enjoying her look of excitement when she presses her hands over her mouth in surprise. He then moves his tall body toward the rear of the auditorium, until he is standing before the three-foot heart of glowing red neon.

Joshua has made it to the front of the stage, and he turns to point a jovial index finger at his friend across the way. Phillip sees Joshua pointing at him and waves with a cheesy smile. Joshua has only a second to enjoy his friend's gesture before a loud noise startles him from behind. There is a sound of something heavy rising up from the floor.

Phillip looks down at his friend from the back of the auditorium. He notices that a panel of glass is sliding up toward the ceiling behind Joshua. This opening eliminates part of the barrier that separates the audience from the stage. Phillip senses that something is off about this entire selection process, and wonders what the magic show will have in store for them. Just as this fear is presenting itself, a dark figure in a ceremonial black cloak approaches Phillip from the front. He lunges backward somewhat, startled by the rapid movements of the performer. Before he can protest, the acrobatic character swipes his forehead with a paintbrush, leaving a two-inch streak of black across his pale skin. Phillip takes a sample of the liquid with his index finger and immediately smells it for identification. He winces a bit as the strange black liquid smells almost like urine or vinegar. Phillip turns toward the cloaked figure with disgust, but the man disappears through one of the exit doors.

"Step into my office, Joshua." Jacob requests in a powerful voice, enjoying the anxiety that his guest is exhibiting. "We have a challenge for you."

The announcer's voice seems to calm the young, black entrepreneur, and he steps through the opening in the glass, climbing a small set of stairs onto the stage. When he reaches the decadent figure of death, Joshua cannot help but admire the level of detail in the artistry. His admiration is cut short as the glass panel behind him drops to the floor, locking in place as it touches down. Joshua looks to his rear, showing slight concern, but decides to smile and shake his head, refusing to let the show get the better of him.

"Joshua, your task is simple," Jacob instructs with a voice reminiscent of a condescending ringmaster. "You need to take the scythe from the reaper, and use it to free one of our heroes from their block of ice. Fate will give you three attempts. If you cannot free a hero in time, then that hero won't be able to save your friend...and he will die!" The young announcer finishes with benign contempt.

After Jacob gives these instructions, the large skeleton pushes its arms forward, moving the scythe closer to Joshua. At first, the man shields himself with his left hand. But when he realizes that the blade has stopped moving, he reaches up and takes the massive scythe from the giant reaper. Joshua grips the ten-foot weapon with both hands, feeling surprised by its substantial weight. His fingers barely wrap around the shaft, and it reminds him of holding the thick end of a baseball bat. He points the blade down toward the stage for safety and steps around the tall reaper to the right. Joshua gets an eerie feeling when he notices that the reaper is turning with him as he walks, swiveling sideways on some type of platform or rollers.

When he reaches the center of the stage, a group of white lights shine upon him. This lighting shows off the recently sharpened steel blade and makes him appear awkward in his expensive black suit. Joshua wastes no time and raises the scythe over his shoulder, swinging it at a huge block of ice on the right side of the stage. To his dismay, the blade misses, and he smacks the ice with the heavy shaft, feeling discomfort in his fingers from the resulting vibrations. He lets out a grunt of frustration, deciding to use the momentum from his first miss to hit the ice again. This time the blade cuts the ice block near the top, chipping off a four-inch piece.

Joshua gazes at the dangling block of ice with confusion, twisting his head to look at Phillip, who is watching nervously from the back of the auditorium. With a sudden jolt of inspiration, Joshua pulls the scythe back again and turns his body completely away from the suspended block of ice. Once he is in a position to strike, he holds the scythe at a firm forty-five degree angle, and spins with all his strength, almost tripling the force of his last swing. To his surprise, he smacks the massive block of ice dead on and watches with optimism as a large crack appears at its center. Joshua pulls the scythe back and waits for the ice to crack open completely. A smile has spread across his face, and he turns to see that Phillip is also smiling. Though, his happiness soon fades when he realizes that the ice isn't going to break.

"It looks like your friend loses." Jacob declares in a solemn fashion from the sound system.

The shriek of a raptor is heard throughout the auditorium, and Phillip is panic-stricken as he realizes that the sound is coming from the heart directly behind him. He steps away from the large neon sign for a moment, turning to see if there is any sign of a bird. As he is backing away, the raptor cries twice more. The Jewish businessman feels his insides twisting up in knots of anxiety, combined with the bass rhythms of his flustered heart.

"Behind you!" A woman cries out from the audience, pointing toward the stage.

Phillip spins around to glimpse a pair of enormous, brown and white wings flapping in his direction. He looks upward to see the bird flying at his face with its sharp talons outstretched. The frightened man steps backward in haste, moving clumsily across the sleek flooring, but is halted by a spectator's leg, and the tall backing of their seat. Phillip senses a poke on his forehead, followed by three hard pecks, and he can hear the large wings of the bird flapping above him. He closes his eyes instinctively to protect them. His head immediately begins to throb whilst thick, red droplets of blood stream down from the injured area.

Phillip starts to flail his arms in a state of surrender, forcing the bird to land on the Plexiglas in the aisle between the seats. He then darts to the center of the aisle, moving backward as he watches the bird. The raptor looks proud as it follows his movements, and it launches up from the floor again, flying toward Phillip like an attack dog with wings. The bird delivers two more pecks to the forehead of the terrified man, before he runs away screaming and covering his head.

Joshua is focused on the back of the auditorium, sensing that his friend is expressing real terror. His eyes follow Phillip as the tall man sprints along the rear of the seating area, tripping several times with his arms flailing at the large bird. After a few seconds of this, the bird retreats, and Phillip escapes through an exit door.

Joshua is so taken by his friend's predicament; he fails to notice the iron reaper moving towards him on the stage - until it is only four feet away. When he turns to look upward, there is the sound of a C02 discharge, and the skull of ice explodes, spraying particles on Joshua's face. The young entrepreneur wipes away the ice as he witnesses a blue flame emerging from the reaper's neck. It extends about six inches into the space previously occupied by the skull. Joshua twists his head to the right without realizing that he has done so and watches the glowing blue flame in hypnotic awe.

This blue flame continues to lick the air for a few seconds, and then cuts out completely. At that same instant, the auditorium lights are turned out, sending the stage and seating area into total darkness. A few seconds pass and a spotlight shines down at Joshua from the rear of the auditorium, showing the man looking frustrated and confused. The sound of flames are heard again, and Joshua looks up at the reaper, but there is nothing coming from its neck. He feels heat building above his head and looks up to see a stream of flame shooting downward at his body. In one rapid motion, Joshua tosses the scythe and falls onto his back, covering his face with genuine concern.

In the audience, Celeste watches with horror as bursts of fire are shot downward at the man, forcing him to cower on his back. She feels her chest rising and sinking with heavy breaths as the flame bursts get closer and closer to his body. Without realizing it, she is gripping the armrests of her chair and leaning forward with a look of urgency.

Just as the flames are close enough to lick his body, a water cannon goes off in the floor underneath the young man. It extinguishes the fire and raises Joshua several inches off of the stage. He lands on his side, farther away from the reaper, feeling humiliated and enraged. The water cannon and flames are immediately turned off, and the auditorium returns to darkness.

"C'mon! C'mon!" A young male voice beckons as a panel slides open somewhere in the stage. "We need to get off quick, before the lights come back!"

Joshua feels a pair of strong hands grabbing at his torso as a man moves feverishly to help him up from the floor. The young man escorts him into a compartment near the center of the stage, behind the reaper. Once they are inside the compartment, the stagehand closes it again and turns on a light that cannot be seen by the audience.

"Two victims claimed by the powers of the earth." Jacob's voice resounds through the seating area, filled with pride and suspense. "But there will be more victims as the night goes on." The lights turn on throughout the auditorium, transforming complete darkness into a blinding illumination. "Hundreds of you!" Jacob adds with a wicked laugh, seeming to mock the crowd of spectators for choosing to attend his show.

On the stage, the massive reaper's cloak begins to rise gradually in the front, and a large black cylinder emerges from beneath the fabric. From her seat in the auditorium, Celeste cannot identify the large object, but does see six, evenly spaced barrels at its front.

"Holy shit! That's a minigun!" A man calls out from the front row as he gets to his feet and bolts for the nearest exit.

Celeste watches the large, curly-haired man as he moves to the exit faster than anticipated, and then returns her attention to the stage. The reaper is weaving back and forth menacingly as the barrels of the minigun begin to spin in a clockwise rotation. Dozens of people leap from their seats and move toward the exits as the weapon begins to fire at a blistering 3,000 rounds per minute. Celeste looks on in helpless limbo, trapped within the panicked crowd as the weapon blows out the glass that separates the stage from the audience. She can feel her throat tightening with anxiety as the minigun continues its ballistic assault. The weapon drowns out the sounds of the crowd with radical, sustained explosions. The reaper moves from right to left on a swivel until the ice blocks have disintegrated. All four of the figures within the ice blocks explode out into a bloody, frozen mess, spraying the crowd with macabre. When the blocks of ice are destroyed, the gun stops firing, and lowers itself back beneath the reaper's cloak.

Celeste feels traumatized, shaking and standing amidst the other spectators in complete silence. Her ears are ringing from the metallic scream of the deadly weapon. The young singer gazes upon the reaper with absolute hatred, watching the smoke of the machine gun wafting up from beneath its black cloak.

Celeste hears the piercing scream of a woman above the high-pitched ringing in her eardrums. She turns around to see a bald man slumped over in the seats, just a few rows behind her. His forehead bears a single gunshot wound, and a woman is standing over him screaming: her large, round face turning red from the effort. This discovery gives speed to the departing crowd, moving them twice as fast, and emptying the auditorium in less than two minutes. Soon the young singer finds herself alone in the auditorium with the allegedly dead stranger.

"One. Two. Three." Celeste recites aloud, trying to determine the quality of her hearing through the obnoxious ringing sounds.

The young woman slumps down in her seat and begins to cry, feeling betrayed by Jacob. Celeste covers her face with both hands, breathing out in heavy gasps, petrified at the thought of losing her hearing. She is in shock at the sight of the dead man, but suspects that he is part of the show.

"That horrible little bastard ruined my career...to spite his FUCKING FATHER!" The furious singer exclaims, squeezing her right hand into a tight fist and holding it close to her mouth.

"Hey, it's okay." A voice calls out as the ringing goes immediately quiet, and a gentle hand grabs Celeste's left shoulder. "That was just an illusion."

Celeste turns to her left, unsurprised to see the bald man talking to her, his face covered in fake blood. The young woman stops crying, realizing that there has been no damage to her hearing and wipes the remaining tears from her face.

"The ringing wasn't in your ears; it was from the sound system," Jacob explains as he sprints down from the stage, carrying a damp, white towel. "There's no way anyone would have survived if we were using live rounds." He adds with a bright smile, approaching the seating area with confidence, enjoying another successful horror show in his house of magic. "We also used very little gunpowder, just enough for the blanks to look real." The young man boasts with a charming grin as he throws the towel to the bald man behind Celeste. "Your hearing is fine. I didn't ruin your career. Speaking of 'horrible little bastards,' would you like to join me for lunch tomorrow? If all goes well, we could make some of our own." He approaches the emotional beauty from the row in front of her, looking boyish and embarrassed.

"One row of seats between us...really isn't enough!" Celeste answers with the fury of a chemical explosion. "You're like a little boy, playing with people in your giant sandbox. When are you going to grow up?" She turns to walk toward the exit, jerking her shoulder away from the comforting hand of the bald performer.

Jacob watches her furious departure with sincere regret, sharing a look of lost opportunity with the bald man whose face is still half-smudged in fake blood.

"PICK ME UP AT TWO TOMORROW!" Celeste yells from the rear of the auditorium, using her hands to amplify the sound. "But don't forget, I owe you!" She deadpans with a confident grin, winking with her right eye as she turns to exit through the double doors.

"Wow! I guess it's true what they say about redheads." Pete Perry emotes with genuine admiration, wiping the remaining blood from his face and scalp. "How did you do that thing with the bird? It seemed like a real attack."

"It was a real attack. The raptor has a clear, plastic coating on its beak and when it pecks something, a sensor in the plastic shoots fake blood from under its chin. You seem very protective of her." Jacob suggests, his face turning from boyish charm to suspicious industrialist. "How long have you been working for my father?" He asks with a haughty expression, lowering his eyes to let Pete know that he isn't playing games.

"I'm just...part of her security detail. There are three of us." Pete begins in a nervous tone, nodding a bit as he tosses the red-stained towel back to Jacob.

The young billionaire snatches the towel out of the air with ease and lowers it in front of his abdomen, holding it with both hands.

"You're her security detail, but she's gone, and you're still standing here." Jacob fires back, showing his intent to corner the Navy veteran. "How long have you been working for my father?" He demands again, his voice getting deeper.

"Are you going to waterboard me, Jacob?" The older man replies with tenacity, eyeing the young entrepreneur like an enemy. "I fought against The Taliban in Afghanistan; do you think a muscular, dick-brained kid in a suit scares me?"

"No." Jacob responds in a calculated fashion, maintaining eye contact with his adversary. "You've answered my question though. I appreciate the input. My father and I have been spying on one another since my mother died." He lowers his face toward the floor, gazing at the stained towel in his right hand. "Do you realize that three hundred people watched you die tonight?" The young man asks with a sinister smirk, still examining the red and white fabric. "Do you have time for a drink?"

"I need to go!" Pete states with pride, waving Jacob off with his right hand as he turns to exit the auditorium.

"That's a pity; your family would be heartbroken," Jacob replies with arrogant determination, strafing to his right in the aisle until he is standing before the Navy veteran. "I need you to take a ride tonight." He orders with a wry smile, watching Pete stop and turn to face him.

Pete looks down to see a bullet protruding from between Jacob's thumb and index finger. The .38-caliber round appears small and common in the billionaire's right hand, but seems ominous next to the red-stained towel in his left. Jacob raises the bullet with predictable movements and holds it horizontal before his guest, staring at him with hypnotic eyes. He begins to move progressively faster, draping the towel across his right hand a few times until the bullet is no longer visible.

"I'm not going for a ride with anyone!" Pete exclaims, looking annoyed and bored by the musings of the young entrepreneur. "That's a lame trick. I'm going home." He confirms as Jacob's right hand opens to display the bullet.

"You're right; I can't make the bullet disappear, but that's because the best part of this trick has already happened." Jacob nods to a man who is standing just ten feet to the right of Pete, pointing a pistol at his head. "A police car is waiting for you in the alley. You need to take a ride with them." He states with confidence, showing blatant disrespect.

"What the hell is going on, Calbraw!?" Pete asks in alarm as he raises his hands above his head out of instinct. "You're threatening me because I work for Earl? What the hell is wrong with you!?

"You shouldn't have spied on me, Pete," Jacob answers with a cold stare, appearing bolder and more businesslike. "I don't mind my father's pawns when they stay on their side of the chessboard, but when you cross the line..."

"So these cops are going to hurt me because I spied on you?" Pete inquires with a wounded gaze. "For your information, I haven't really learned anything valuable about you, except that you're an ass!"

"I have no idea what they're going to do to you," Jacob admits, gazing back at the reaper on the stage, wondering what will happen to the man's family, and how his father will respond. "I told the cops to teach you a lesson and to get creative. That could be somewhat bad - or very bad for you. I'm not sure." He continues to stare at the reaper, feeling excitement in the knowledge that his father will have to clean up this new mess. "You have no other choice." Jacob declares with hatred, turning to face his captive as he gestures for his associate to escort Pete from the building.
VI. Drink to Remember

Kelvin listens to his wife stomping through the house, keeping herself busy with the laundry and cleaning. She works as though their home were a Greek temple, and cleanser a form of paying homage to the gods. He stares down at the empty bottles of vodka and beer on the kitchen table in front of him, feeling shaken and ill from too much drinking these past few days. It has been less than seventy-two hours since he held his son's lifeless body, and almost everything since then has blurred to obscurity. The grieving father recalls his desperation at the stadium, and the useless moments spent begging paramedics to call an ambulance instead of the coroner. 'Come on, son, I need you in my life,' he remembers saying to Geo's motionless body at the stadium. These memories provoke a perverse sting of reality; something he doesn't want to face. He buries his head in his hands, immersed in shame for failing to protect his son from a simple allergy.

Kelvin raises his head as the familiar sound of slipper socks approaches toward the kitchen from the hallway. He senses his wife's hatred moving through the home like a righteous tiger, having the ability to destroy him, but deciding instead to cause persistent tension. The young tow truck driver adjusts his weary face to look at the woman who once loved him. She stands at the edge of the small kitchen, glaring at Kelvin as if he killed Geo while driving under the influence of alcohol – lamenting his negligence. Christina grips her petite waist with both hands, appearing formidable. Kelvin notices that she is wearing a pair of faded jeans and black T-shirt that he hasn't seen since before their wedding. There is a dirty, white cloth hanging from the back of her jeans, dangling just past her thigh. The grieving mother has her hair pulled back under a dark green bandana.

When Christina sees Kelvin staring up at her with sympathetic eyes, she sharpens her glare and folds her arms across her chest with rigid disapproval. Beneath the green do-rag, a single tear drips from her right eye. This tear is the first sign of emotion that she has shown since a night of spastic weeping at the loss of her baby boy. As a strong, black woman from a hardened family, she has known pain before, but nothing like this raw agony.

When her mother died of a heart attack at age thirty-eight, Christina learned that life comes laced with tragedy. She was only nine-years-old when the woman who was her entire world gripped her chest in terror, and within seconds, dropped lifeless onto their kitchen floor. It was a haunting moment with awful repercussions. At a time when most of her friends were grieving for lost pets, she had to say goodbye to the biggest hero and influence in her life.

The sight of the white tiles brings forth a resurgence of that traumatic moment, when her mother fell onto the yellow tiles of her childhood home. She is struck by a dual tragedy, forced to relive these suppressed memories that have no business being at the core of her life.

For the first time since Geo's death, Kelvin looks up at his wife with hopeful dignity, seeing the single tear as an emblem of forgiveness. When Christina notices this change in his demeanor, she snaps back to reality. His wife immediately wipes the tear from her face, maintaining a disposition of judgment and concentrated rage.

"You need to clean out the rain gutters." Christina orders her husband with a callous and empty stare that penetrates through him. "The ice and snow are gonna' tear them off of the roof – if you don't do somethin'. There's been a Nor'easter come through here – for those of us who've been sober." After delivering this heavy-handed message, she executes a robotic about-face. The wounded mother then returns to her temple of cleaning duties.

"Are we gonna' talk about it?" Kelvin asks defiantly, feeling enraged that his wife blames him for Geo's death, despite his efforts to save the boy. "Are we gonna' talk about it!?"

"You know what goes good with vodka?" His wife conveys with corrosive rhetoric. "Ice cream." She states in a manner that is self-indulgent and satisfying.

Kelvin feels his wife extracting the proverbial pound of flesh in this moment of vengeance, realizing it is the first of many such assaults. He immediately decides to stand down his position. Kelvin understands that the scarring pain Christina just delivered, is only a warning shot in comparison to what she has been holding back. For a brief, fragile moment, he feels a taste of hope. The grateful father grips his knees with his hands, accepting this difficult path to forgiveness.

The deeply wounded husband now sits alone in the kitchen. He misses his little boy and concedes that evil men robbed his family of its previous glory. Kelvin begins to replay the events of his son's death in his mind. He thinks of what could have been done to prevent such a meaningless tragedy. The defeated father focuses on every action taken from the time his eyes opened that morning. After a few minutes of deep thought, Kelvin's hands tighten around his knees, and he shifts to a state of fury that would impress a Brahma Bull. He sits up in his chair, finding a new purpose in his life and recognizes that greed has suffocated his happiness.

Kelvin gets up from the table and immediately retrieves a piece of paper and pen from a small, white kitchen drawer behind him. He then sits down at the table in a rush, with the pen hovering above the blank page in his right hand. Thousands of neurons in his mind have been set afire with a recollection of the security guard from the VIP area of the stadium. The scheming tow truck driver thinks about all those fat, ungrateful faces, eyeing him and his son as an inconvenience to their posh luncheon. His mouth forms a smirk of mixed emotion as he realizes that Geo's death was not his fault. A simple act of kindness could have saved his little boy. The stadium had everything they needed to prevent his world from being torn apart, but his world didn't matter at the time. Even in a moment of severe crisis, none of those fat cats could soften their hearts long enough to let the boy through the gate.

The enraged father's mind is now exploding with unscrupulous thoughts. They pour rife from within his heart as though his blood were an oil well of darkness, ignited by the treason of his fellow man. He begins to pull at strings left unchecked from the underworld of his past; a restless and violent time before he met Christina. In his late teens and early twenties, Kelvin had been jumped in as a gang enforcer, pushing drugs, and keeping people on a short leash for the local criminal enterprise. These hateful thoughts breathe life back into his former self, and Kelvin smiles as a plan begins to sprout from within his damaged mind.

The combination of time with a gang and many years spent working as an engineer, provides a way for him to engage those who have done the most harm. Kelvin's thoughts become darker as he lowers his pen to the paper. He begins to write a letter laced with contempt, manipulation, and theocratic dissidence.

'Dear life sentence,' he begins with feverish intellect, knowing that explosions need only two ingredients. There must be an enormous amount of fuel under pressure, and a means to trigger a chain reaction. 'I thought a little history lesson might entertain you for a while,' his hand continues to write as his face bears the determined gaze of a madman.

Over the next several hours, Kelvin drafts a three-page letter, creating the fuel he needs to execute his plan. He looks down at the letter with reverent appreciation; thin cuts of wood pulp, serving up ideas that are as destructive as the poison in his heart. When Kelvin finishes the letter, he envisions the next stage of his plan: typing, printing, and distributing 1,000 copies. This act would create the pressure, and then at last, the chain reaction. 'Geo isn't the only one who will suffer this year,' Kelvin thinks to himself, staring at the pages as if they are covered in his late son's blood.

JACOB'S PENTHOUSE – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Jacob marvels at the rays of sunshine passing over his outstretched fingers as he awakens in his king-size bed. The brilliance of this new day is short-lived; however, when he notices raw pain throughout all the muscles in his body. His abdomen is racked with electric pain as if he had been using it during the night to battle jellyfish in the open seas. With a slow, dry whine of discomfort, he finally rises up out of the bed, taking note of the aching in his joints, especially at the ankles. Jacob attempts to stretch, and immediately puts his arms down. His movements strain from discomfort in the muscles of his shoulder blades and an unusual tenderness in his chest. He notices that his desire to smoke has dissipated and shrugs it off as a testament to his legendary willpower.

The young man looks down at his gold, silk robe, trying to identify any signs of blood or other moisture. He holds his hand out steady and straight, but it immediately begins to tremble. His stomach goes cold at the thought of these being symptoms of chronic illness. Jacob shakes his head dismissively, brushing off these new developments as signifying the onset of a cold. The entrepreneur rolls his shoulders forward in a cocky manner as he makes his way across the sleek bamboo flooring; its dark surface feeling cool beneath his bare feet. Within a few seconds, he reaches the digital thermostat and scratches his head when he notices that the temperature is set to forty-five degrees. Jacob closes his eyes and turns to the right, presenting with confusion; his chiseled face adorned by sunlight from the bedroom window.

The young man gazes at the thermostat with frustration, knowing that he checked the temperature a few hours ago. It was set at seventy degrees when he got up for a drink during the night. He scratches his head in thought, moving his muscles with caution. Every fiber of connecting tissue in his body is still reporting injury.

The phone begins to ring on his desk in the back room. Jacob points at the thermostat with his index finger and thumb in a handgun pantomime; his way of remembering to have it replaced. He then struts across the fine bamboo flooring of the hallway to the soft carpeting of his office at the back of the penthouse. When he reaches the desk, he snatches up the cordless phone and takes a moment to identify the caller on the bright blue display.

"Hello, Giant," Jacob answers in a friendly voice, feeling his throat crack as he steps over to a nearby fridge for a bottle of cold water.

"Hey, Calbraw! How the hell are ya'?" Scott 'The Giant' Ortiz responds in a plastic tone that fails to hide his ulterior, scheming nature.

Jacob smirks as the young investor speaks to him with a guise of loving adoration. He pulls a bottle of water from his small, stainless steel office fridge, and pops off the cap as he holds the cordless phone between his right shoulder and ear. Although Scott is waiting for Jacob to answer, the young man decides to quench his thirst, obliged to allow the phony trader to wait in silence for several seconds.

'The Giant' had gotten his name for being among the shortest brokers on the floor at the stock exchange. Before he made his fortune, the man had to wear platform shoes, and fight his way to the front of the pit like a terrier to make deals happen.

"Well, anyway, Jacob...I just called to find out how you and your dad are doing." Scott begins in a nervous manner, unable to wait out the silence in what may be a lucrative phone call.

"My dad and I hate each other, Giant, but you know that." Jacob conveys with deliberate honesty as he presses the cold bottle of water against his forehead, half-listening to his colleague.

"Yeah, but you're still family, right?" Scott asks with the devout rhetoric of a true manipulator.

"What do you want, Giant?" Jacob demands in frustration, throwing the half-empty water bottle down into his stainless steel garbage can. "Ah...are you looking for a trade?" The young man ponders aloud as he grabs his ribs in slight agony, having forgotten that he should avoid any sudden movements.

"No, I'm doin' okay, but if you've got something, I sure won't turn it down." The sleazy Wall Street baron replies in a manner that inspires Jacob to envision him rolling up his sleeves and licking his lips. "You see, I've got a new mistress, and she's got expensive taste. Anyway, I just need some extra padding to get through this relationship – 'til I get bored."

"Right...your mistress." Jacob acknowledges, rolling his eyes at the decades-old code language that Scott is using. "Well, does your mistress have anything to do with a bunch of cargo containers that were held up by authorities in Singapore? ...Something about not obeying trade restrictions and your assets frozen in the shipping lanes?" The young business magnate relays with a sublime expression.

"Good God, Jacob! I would never do anything like that." Scott announces with a panicked voice, as though he were whisked into a deposition for the FBI. "Look, I was just calling to see what other pieces I might be able to move around the board. I had a fight with my wife last night. It was brutal...she left here with a damn washcloth over her nose."

"Wait! Did you just say that you smacked your wife!?" Jacob asks with building suspicion. "Don't you have two little girls?"

"Look, Jacob, buddy; you know better than I do that you've got to keep these gals in line," Scott reassures him with a tone of innocence, realizing that he has revealed too much. "That's why I need a trade. The other stuff that's goin' on is turning me into a bad father. Besides, man, I've heard stories."

"You've heard stories?" Jacob evokes, raising his eyebrows with disappointment, looking like he is urging his counterpart to cross the line.

"Yeah, I've heard about the women that leave your apartment." Scott beckons in an enamored tone, speaking to Jacob like a college roommate. "Lots of women have gone into your apartment, and many have come out. Although, one might argue that a small number of those that make it out – never get home alive. ...If one were going to make that argument."

"Where's your wife now?" Jacob asks with a concerned stare, remaining stoic as he gazes out the window, trying to sound pleasant.

"Why? Did you want to kick her out of your apartment too?" Scott chuckles with a bit of sarcasm, waxing superior and establishing his intent to be an acrid nuisance. "Just kidding, Calbraw. The wife is out of the house. She signed a prenup, so she doesn't have a pot to piss in right now. You might check the homeless shelters."

Jacob shudders at the sociopathic tendencies of his well-to-do acquaintance and twists his neck in defiance. The young entrepreneur recalls his mother being abducted from their home during the night. His stomach becomes sick at the thought of this man wanting his wife of twenty years to starve in the streets. He grips the phone tight and wonders what Scott's little girls thought of their mother leaving the house in the cold with a bloody nose.

"I have a trade," Jacob begins with a tone of charismatic excitement, hiding his disdain for Scott to keep his interest. "But it's high risk...unless you know what I know."

"You've got my panties dripping, Calbraw." Scott declares with the juvenile enthusiasm of a young pop star. "What's the trade? Give me a hint."

"Sorry, buddy, I can't," Jacob says with a wide smile, leading his quarry further into the crosshairs. "My dad has put a strict none-ya' on this one. So it's none-ya' business until we've had a chance to test one hundred thousand shares."

"Oh...I gotcha'." Scott replies with a somewhat grateful tone, giving the proverbial wink of obvious solidarity. "No worries, Jacob. Nobody will be monitoring any trades worth a hundred thousand shares from your account. When do you plan to make your test run?"

"I appreciate that, Giant," Jacob states as he makes a fist with his left hand and raises it victoriously into the air. "It should be today around 2 pm...as long as who comes and goes from my apartment is still my business."

"Well, look, I've got a conference call coming up, but I appreciate you looking into things for me. It sounds like your love life is going to remain out of the public eye. Have a good day!" Scott exclaims with brazen arrogance, hanging up the call before Jacob can bid him farewell.

Jacob pauses for a moment, his shoulders twitching in unavoidable pain as he laughs to himself. Over the years, the Calbraw family had helped this trader to amass a fortune, but in one idiotic moment, the man destroyed everything sacred between him and Jacob. When the young entrepreneur has satisfied his need for levity, he dials the phone again and speaks more fluidly, addressing an employee at his bank.

"Gabe, this is Jacob," he begins with an authoritative smile. "I need to make a purchase of one hundred thousand shares. ...No, I don't want anymore lithium-ion batteries, we're making something better. I'd like to buy into that aerospace company... Yeah, Unibolt – that's the one! ...Of course, I know the risks. Yes, I've seen the financials; that's exactly why I need this stock so badly. Buy it at 2 pm, wait for The Giant to drive up the price, and then sell it at a profit when he goes all-in. Yep, we're going to cram his teeth down his throat so hard that he'll bounce on his ass three times before he realizes that we knocked them out. ...Sounds good, 'bye."

"Wait, Jacob!" Gabe calls out from the other end of the line. "Plato left a message for you early this morning. He was asking about someone named Pete Perry."

"Is that all he said?" Jacob asks with a deep sigh as a grimace spreads across his face.

"That was the message," Gabe confirms dutifully. "He just wants a call back."

"Thanks, Gabe, 'bye." Jacob replies with a sudden rush of haughty anger as he ends the call, and immediately dials another number. "Plato, I got your message." He begins with a satisfied sneer, engulfed in the rapture of his affluence.

"And we received yours..." Plato answers, staring distantly through the various bottles of aged white wine that are in a display case next to his desk. "I'm guessing that you've not seen Pete Perry?" He asks in vain, knowing that Jacob would never admit to any wrongdoing. "According to our records, he was last seen at your magic show, having been shot in the head."

"Well, Plato, a lot of people volunteer for that part. It makes them feel transcendent in a decadent sort of way." Jacob quips without much thought, toying with Plato like a mouse in a bathtub. "Why would your man be at my magic show?"

"Are we going to do this dance, Jacob? He was providing security to a young singer named Celeste Marie." Plato responds with little emotion, confirming his fears that the younger Calbraw would never own up to his deeds. "Nobody has seen him since that night; not even his wife and children."

"Well, maybe you and father shouldn't send such poorly trained men to provide security." Jacob counters with merciless charm and poise. "I know for a fact that Celeste is doing fine, but your security guard left the bar with quite a bit of alcohol in his system. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a serious accident; perhaps driving too fast late at night..."

"I'll tell Earl to keep our security away from your magic venue." Plato agrees in a diplomatic manner, placing his left hand over his forehead. "Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to keep your magic away from our young singer?" He adds in a bitter tone. "I'd hate to see a young Calbraw put into a compromising situation...or worse."

Jacob tips his head back as a wide smile forms on his face. He never thought the day would arrive when a man who attended his childhood birthday parties would issue blatant threats on his life. With a twist of his thumb, he terminates the call, letting Plato know that his threat carries no weight.

After a moment of silent consideration, he searches for another number in his phone and dials the maintenance supervisor for his building.

"Chad, I need you to replace my thermostat. ...No, it's not working. Well, the past few days I keep waking up to find it turned down to forty-five. ...No, I don't want another digital model. Give me a thermostat that is fail-safe. Let's install an old-fashioned unit that slides back and forth. ...Yeah, I just want to know that when I set the temperature, it's going to stay there. Thanks, 'bye."

Jacob peers out the window of his lavish penthouse condo, wondering what has pushed Howard to the point of death threats. After careful consideration, he decides to expand the surveillance around his father's offices. The young man wants to know what they are planning and to be the flaming torch that sets Earl's dreams ablaze.
VII. Of Twisted Tongues and Tow Trucks

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. No, no, I don't need more details." Gerald Lemar speaks into his cellular phone while rubbing his pale forehead with disgust, as if kneading his skull into a state of solace. "No, that gives me plenty to present with, and we're almost there." He raises his bulbous head toward the driver from the back seat of the large, black limousine, looking predatory and aggressive. "Let's go, Randy! Three more blocks! If I don't get to this meeting soon, none of us may have a pot to piss in before the end of the day."

"Yes, Mr. Lamar." The Egyptian-American driver replies through pursed, dry lips, repressing a desire to rid himself of his volatile employer for a few hours.

"Okay, so where do we stand on the price per unit?" Gerald continues his conversation with a frustrated glare, seeming impervious to his body swaying left and right in the speeding limousine. "That's highway robbery! We can't afford three forty per unit... Ask him about material costs per thousand units, and labor costs of the same."

The forty-two-year-old investment banker bites his lower lip with just the incisors of his upper jaw, pushing his chin down to his chest as he waits for an answer. His white Anglo-Saxon features stand out and are complemented by a well-groomed head of short, black hair. Although his hair is receding in a V shape on either side of his forehead, the posh, black suit with gold pinstripes helps him to appear distinguished.

"No! Look, Jaime, I need you to nail him down on cost per thousand units produced... It makes a lot of difference in the price, usually around sixty percent." Gerald reaches out into the air with his left hand, shaking it violently in disapproval, and snapping it into a fist. "I'm not going to explain modern economics to you. Just get the damn price! No... It's not three forty – I can guarantee that. Look, he's giving you the price for one unit – a prototype. I want the cost of one thousand units produced from an assembly line; not made by hand."

Gerald extends his right hand, pulling the phone away and shaking his head as if talking has become a useless exercise. He sighs within the confines of the luxury car, staring through the windshield in hopes of recognizing the plaza where his next meeting is already in progress.

"Left... Left! Randy, what the hell are you doing!? GO LEFT NOW!" Gerald shouts with disbelief from the gray, leather seat in the back of the car.

Randy inhales and yanks the steering wheel left, realizing that he missed the turn lane. Fortunately, the light is green, and the car in the turning lane has not yet moved. The limousine driver accelerates, keeping his eyes fixed on the side view mirror as he makes an illegal turn in front of the car, hoping that it remains stationary. A smile forms on Randy's bloated face, his insides welling up with accomplishment and relief as the large car makes the turn.

The limousine strikes something with its right front fender, causing a shockwave of pressure that reverberates through the chassis. Gerald and the driver both gaze through the polished glass windshield with expressions of disbelief and surreal terror.

MOKE'S CIGAR SHOP – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

It has been a slow Tuesday morning at Moke's Cigar Shop on 27th and Broadway. Tyrese Ellison, the store owner, a black man in his late fifties, is enjoying the majestic, smooth jazz of Louis Armstrong. He rocks back and forth on a soft, black padded barstool, reading a copy of The New York Post as he watches over the tourists who are 'browsing' in his shop. The elderly man is wearing full Rat Pack duds to emulate the greatness of Sammy Davis Jr. He peruses the headlines of his newspaper with childish curiosity, enjoying the definitive statements made by his preferred news source. His eyes move to an article with the headline: Lack of Funds Leads to Closing of Senior Living Community. He shakes his head before indulging the first paragraph of the article.

There is a muffled scream from the street outside of the cigar shop, which pierces through Tyrese's jazz music. As his aged hands lower the newspaper to look at the front window, he has only enough time to watch the glass shatter. An entire twelve-foot section of the storefront window is destroyed by a woman's body crashing through it with astonishing force. Barrels of cigars are toppled over by the body as it comes to a halt when the woman's head strikes the bottom of the front counter.

"Oh m' God!" The shop owner exclaims, jumping to his feet and allowing the newspaper to drop into a crumpled heap on the floor.

Another, louder crash causes Tyrese to protect his face. When he realizes there is no danger, he lowers his hands to see a black limousine that has smashed into the rear end of a small, blue sedan on the west side of Broadway. The damage isn't spectacular since the corner of the limousine crumpled against the other vehicle, and brought it immediately to a stop.

INSIDE THE LIMOUSINE

"Gerald, are you okay?" Randy asks in shock, wiping a bit of blood from his nose and staring at the ballooned, white fabric of a recently deployed airbag.

"YOU HIT A WOMAN WITH MY CAR!" Gerald snarls from the back seat of the limousine. His face and right shoulder are pressed firmly against the deep cherry wood and gray leather trim of the right rear door. The middle-aged billionaire finds his body compressed against the passenger side of the car, and he pushes against the door handle to straighten himself. Gerald notices a throbbing pain in his right cheek and a mild headache, but doesn't feel any broken bones. When he removes his hands from the door, Gerald watches his smashed cellular phone as it slides to the carpeted floorboard.

"I need your cell phone, Randy," Gerald demands with a cold, hateful gaze, snapping his fingers in the air. "Give me your cell phone, or this deal is dead!"

Randy shakes his head from side to side as he retrieves his cellular phone from the glove compartment, and tosses it to his employer in the back of the car. He then jerks his door open and exits the vehicle, ignoring the honking cars in the street. The large man moves briskly toward the cigar shop adjacent to the crashed limousine, wanting to check on the woman.

"Michael, this is Gerald." The investment banker begins, glancing at the borrowed cellular phone in his hand as if it were from The Stone Age. "I know, I was talking to Jaime, but we had an incident... First off, are the manufacturers still there? Okay, good. Tell Jaime I want her to keep them occupied and to wait for my call. I need you to come across the street to where my limo is crashed at 27th and Broadway... Yeah, we had an accident... I don't want to talk about it over the phone. 'Kay, 'bye!"

Gerald opens the right rear door of the limousine and steps out with anxious ambition. He moves across the short expanse of concrete leading up to Moke's Cigar Shop, and immediately notices that the front window has been destroyed. The view inside the shop is more gruesome than the street; a path of debris that includes blood, cigars, glass, and toppled barrels. This path of carnage leads up to a body in a lifeless pose. The woman's head is resting against the charcoal-colored wood at the base of the front counter.

Randy stands with his arms folded, looking away from the woman's body, keeping his eyes toward the street. Thick streams of tears are moving in sloppy, wet drips down the large man's cheeks, and he is distraught, watching Gerald with deep emotional injury. Gerald signals with his index finger for Randy to wait a moment, and dials a familiar number on the cellular phone.

"Jaime, this is Gerald. ...Yeah, we were in a crash." Gerald breathes out a reckless gasp, clenching his torso with his left arm while holding the phone with his right. "Look, I'm fine. Keep the manufacturers there. Don't let them leave... Give them a striptease if you have to, just don't let them leave... Okay, good. CALL ME if they are trying to leave. 'Kay, 'bye!"

Randy opens his mouth to speak, but Gerald holds up a finger to silence him and begins to dial another number.

"Hey, Jacob, this is Gerald. Thanks for answering an unknown number." The investment banker seems to be calmer in this phone call and speaks with more respect, bordering on reverence. "Yeah, you too... Hey, I've got a problem. My limo driver just hit a pedestrian, and she flew about twenty-five feet into a cigar shop on Broadway. I know you're pretty good at handling these things so... Yeah, hold on." Gerald keeps the phone pressed to his ear and steps into the cigar shop, listening to the broken glass scrape and crack under his weight. "No, she looks clean and respectable." The billionaire continues to step forward, strafing around patches of smeared blood here and there on the rough wooden floor. "Uh-huh... No, she was in the crosswalk... We were going too fast... Okay... Yeah, thanks. 'Kay, 'bye!"

"Okay, Randy, the cops will be here soon, so join me over here for a minute." Gerald gestures for his driver to move toward the far corner of the store, further into the cigar shop, and away from the woman's body.

Michael sprints up the street, approaching the limousine crash site with every ounce of his strength. When he reaches the broken display window, he freezes to assess the situation, staring in shock at the horrifying tragedy.

"Michael, please join us," Gerald says, glancing over his shoulder and gesturing with the cheap cellular phone in his right hand.

The tall, redheaded attorney steps over shards of glass that are protruding from the window frame. He avoids fresh pools of blood with his black trench coat on his way across the floor.

"All right, here's what we're looking at..." Gerald conveys with an impatient gaze, rubbing his hands together as he speaks. "Randy, you're gonna' be up for manslaughter, and this is a respectable woman, so they won't give you anything but the maximum penalty. What's he lookin' at, Michael?" He asks with concern, turning to his attorney.

"I'd say...twenty years or more with parole in ten." Michael replies with genuine concern in his blue eyes.

"So you could plan for ten years, or you could plead insanity," Gerald confirms with a nonchalant expression.

"What!?" Randy demands with extreme confusion, unable to think clearly as he is still in shock from the recent crash. "What do you mean insanity?"

"Look, I know you want to think this over, Randy, but the cops are gonna' be here in less than a minute," Gerald announces while glancing at his expensive, silver wristwatch. "You have ten seconds to decide how this is going to play out. Do you want twenty-five years in prison or a few months in a mental institution?"

"I wanna' see my wife," Randy mutters through a fog of terror, confused by Gerald's urgency for him to make a decision.

"Okay, then you're gonna' roll with the insanity plea, right?" Gerald asks with a dominant stare.

"Yes-" Randy begins, but is cut off by the sound of Gerald's hands clasping together to show enthusiasm.

"Okay, we've got to act now! Michael, do you have any party favors? Coke? Anything!?" Gerald inquires with a primal urgency, staring at his attorney with high expectations.

Michael reaches into his jacket to retrieve a small vile that looks like cologne, and a bottle that is disguised as travel shaving cream. He then uncaps both bottles and gives Randy two small, round, white pills from the fake cologne bottle.

"Swallow these Percocets, they'll make you numb," Michael instructs in an official tone.

Randy does as the attorney requests, gulping the two pills down his throat with a bit of difficulty. Michael continues to administer party favors, gesturing for Randy to hold out his hand flat with the palm facing downward. He then rattles the open shaving cream container over Randy's trembling right hand, dumping an almost even line of cocaine across the top.

"Snort that up; all in one shot," Michael says like an encouraging father. "Don't hesitate in the middle; just get it all at once."

"Oh, man, Gerald, I don't know if I can do this," Randy admits as a tear streams out of his right eye.

"Twenty-five years, Randy!" Gerald emotes with his hands raised. "Just suck it up, and let's move on to the next step."

This extra push helps Randy decide to follow their instructions to the letter. He snorts the line of cocaine, feeling an immediate burn throughout his right nasal cavity.

"Wow, God!" Randy exclaims as his heart begins to race, and the burning in his nostrils turns to a magical tingling.

"I know, right?" Gerald states with a smirk. "But we're not out of the woods yet. Tell us about a subject in history that you know well. What period in history did you study a lot?"

"World War II," Randy answers with a hypnotic stare, starting to feel the effects of the cocaine.

"Great!" Gerald replies with growing anxiety. "Here's what we need you to do. Go out into the street, and start doing some of the craziest shit you can think of... Tell people that you're...trying to stop the Nazis, but make sure you go balls out with the crazy. You need to sell it like you value your freedom. Go out there, and wreak havoc like a man who doesn't belong in public." He says with passion, patting his employee on the shoulder like a basketball coach.

Randy nods his head, thinking for a moment about what this means for his future.

"Don't think about it. Just do it!" Gerald commands with a raucous voice. "Get your crazy on! Now!"

After another quick glance at the woman's body, Randy makes his way toward the street. He fails to notice that Michael deposited two bottles of contraband into his jacket pocket. As he leaps onto the sidewalk, Randy can hear police sirens in the distance and knows that his performance must be memorable. He grabs an elderly woman by the shoulders, shaking her a bit while he screams incessantly.

"What the hell is your problem, dude!?" A large man asks as he grabs Randy by the shoulder and pulls him away from the woman.

Randy explodes with energy and grabs the man's head, while leaning forward to lick his left cheek.

"I'm here to stop the Nazis!" Randy yells into the man's ear.

The tall stranger pushes Randy away, looking confused and disgusted as he wipes his cheek and steps backward.

"I want to stop the Nazis!" Randy yells again as he steps back from the angry man and takes off his jacket. "I want to stop the Nazis!" He repeats as he rips his blue shirt open, breaking off all the buttons in one motion, and removing it from his torso. The heavy man's large, hairy stomach is now on display to the world.

A crowd has formed around him to watch the event, and police cars have arrived in front of the smoke shop. Two uniformed police officers approach Randy from his front and rear. The officer at his front advises Randy to place his hands on his head, pointing at his hairy chest with an authoritative index finger.

"The Nazis are here to take me away!" Randy screams in a convincing moment of dementia, and to Gerald's surprise, throws a wild punch toward the police officer at his front.

Although the punch is fierce, it is easily blocked by the well-trained officer, and he steps aside as his partner fires a Taser into Randy's back muscles. This blow ignites his nervous system with nineteen punishing pulses per second, until his body collapses into a spasmodic heap on the concrete. The officer is mindful enough to release the Taser trigger and uses his arm to soften Randy's fall, preventing a brain injury.

"What if we can't make the insanity plea stick?" Michael inquires with a nervous gaze as the officers take Randy into custody. "You didn't tell him that he'd have to be proven mentally incompetent."

"It doesn't matter. The public won't hold me responsible for my coke addict limo driver. That's all I need right now..." Gerald responds with a sarcastic wink, raising the cellular phone to make another call. "Hey, Jaime, things got complicated, but Mike and I are on our way."

"I'm sorry, sir; you're not leaving!" An officer orders from just outside of the cigar shop, observing Gerald with suspicion and objectivity.

"I don't understand...you got the guy." Gerald states with a platonic shrug, as if talking to a friend on a fishing boat.

"Look, I don't know what your involvement is here, but you're in my crime scene, and you're not leaving until I have all the details." The muscular, blonde officer declares boldly, pointing his index finger back to where Gerald was standing.

"You're keeping me from a meeting that is worth billions of dollars!" The banker pleads with authentic concern.

"Look, I don't care how much money you have, or about your immunity deal. The only way you're leaving my crime scene is if you have enough money to bring that woman back from the dead." The officer finishes defiantly, stepping away to establish a perimeter for the investigation.

"Sonofabitch! There's no way." Gerald presses the palm of his left hand against his forehead, contemplating how he can salvage this meeting. "Jaime, are you still there?" He asks over the phone. "Good, I want you to bring them to Moke's Cigar Shop on 27th and Broad... Yeah, that's right... Nope, right away. 'Kay, 'bye!" He finishes with a smile, snapping the cellular phone shut and placing it in the right pocket of his black slacks.

"Have you lost it, Gerald?" Michael wonders aloud with wide eyes, watching his client as if he were an escaped zoo animal.

"You sound like the wife I never had." Gerald deadpans with calm confidence, bending down to retrieve a cigar from the floor as he removes a lighter from his jacket. "If we don't finish this negotiation, then we could lose over fifty percent of our gross revenue. If China finds out that their price is only thirty percent of what we pay everyone else, then the consumer contracts we already have locked in...could sink us. If the cost per phone goes up, we're dead." The investment banker bites the tip from the cigar and spits it on the floor, before holding the stogie to his lips.

"What about her?" Michael inquires with solemn reverence, glancing back at the dead woman next to the counter, and then looking down and away in shame.

"Wrong place, wrong time...my hand wasn't on the wheel." Gerald answers without looking at the body, flicking the lighter until a flame appears, and the tip of the cigar is aglow with tobacco smoke. "Why? Do you think I should give her family something?" He thinks aloud with callous and calculated tenacity. "If someone gets hit by my car, does that mean their family has won the lucky lotto? 'Oh look, Grandma, our daughter got launched off the business end of a limo, and we finally get to cash in on her corpse.' What a waste of my time. The idea that someone's dead body is worth more than it was alive and breathing. Maybe you should start doing drugs to dull your sympathies...instead of just giving you pleasure."

Michael simply shakes his head as a smirk forms across his face. He dismisses the concept of issuing platitudes to Gerald since the righteous and self-righteous can never play nice in the same room. When he returns his gaze to the street, he shakes his head again, this time in disbelief.

Jaime is approaching the cigar shop with two other board members and eight Chinese manufacturers in tow. The older woman seems majestic as she makes her way across the sidewalk toward them. Her blonde hair flows with the wind, pulled outward as if by some mystical, static electricity. Jaime is wearing her usual rimless glasses, making her appear authoritative, despite the provocative black skirt and white blouse.

Michael looks just to the right of the group where Paul Anyang is keeping pace. His Chinese features are rich with tradition, and his bald head gives off an ambiance of objective nobility. Despite his humbleness, the fifty-two-year-old has exhibited a deepening narcissism. He has become bolder in recent negotiations, asking for equal pay and better working conditions.

"Paul Anyang, this is Gerald Lamar." Jaime declares with finesse, her blue eyes appearing unshakable as she points out the men to one another.

"Mr. Anyang," Gerald begins with tactful grace, moving closer to the yellow police tape that is now separating him from the group. "I'd like you to meet Mrs. Brown." He states with a wily stare, pointing back at the dead woman in condemnation. "Apparently, your decision to rush our negotiations has led to her untimely death."

"You will not make me feel guilty for this woman's death!" Paul Anyang replies without hesitation in his heavy Chinese accent, glaring up at Gerald with piercing brown eyes. "I know who you are, Mr. Lamar, and I know your tactics. You are a greedy investment banker that loves to scare people like little children. Well, I'm not a child, and that woman's death is yours to keep."

"Did you know that she spoke to me?" Gerald addresses the group, watching the reactions of the Chinese executives after every word. "When I first got out of the car, she was still alive – in terrible pain. It was very hard to witness."

Michael and Jaime exchange glances of disapproval, attempting to hide their shock at Gerald's lack of humanity. Paul Anyang also notices this deceptive encroachment and folds his arms in defiance. Though his colleagues appear nervous, several of them are shifting their weight from one foot to the other. After a few seconds of stalemate, the men address Paul in Chinese. While Gerald cannot understand what they are saying, he knows that the tone sounds urgent. He restrains himself, withholding a smile that is forming inside of him; all but demanding to be displayed on his face.

"What did she say?" Paul Anyang asks with raised eyebrows, silencing his colleagues by raising his right hand into a fist.

"Well, when I got here she was breathing heavy, saying that her insides were torn apart," Gerald announces with a somber stare, playing up to the crowd that has gathered around the crime scene. "She said the demons had become restless; that they were unable to turn away from our sins. I tried to hold her hand and give her comfort, but it was hot...her skin was too hot to hold." He displays his left hand with the palm facing forward and fingers outstretched.

Jaime raises her eyebrows when see notices a bright red burn mark on her boss' palm, almost in the shape of three suns overlapping one another in a triangle. The seven Chinese men react to this burn in awe, chattering away in their native language at a speed she never knew possible. Paul Anyang shakes his head, keeping his arms folded and expressing contempt toward his American trade partner. The savvy businessman notices an extinguished cigar on the floor next to the Gerald's right foot and rolls his eyes.

"She said that the demons would visit me soon, and she would visit me as one of them." Gerald declares with sustained, ominous theatrics. "She also mentioned that her soul cannot rest until the greed has been cleansed from our souls."

"Seventy-nine dollars per unit." Paul Anyang interrupts, silencing the chatter of his colleagues, and Gerald's posturing in one bold statement. "That's a five percent increase; enough for a few more months of comfortable living – before it's swallowed by inflation."

"Agreed." Gerald accepts with a wicked grin, staring down his nose at Paul for his predictable submission. "Jaime, write it up. Have a good day, Mr. Anyang."

"You shouldn't mock demons, Mr. Lamar," Paul warns with a creepy smile. "You've lived only forty-some-years on this planet. Unfortunately, you'll have to learn the hard way; there are things much more powerful than money. Let's go!" The older Chinese man turns away from the scene with disgust, now leading the entire party back to the office building.

"I can't believe you used a dead woman to negotiate a seventy-five percent discount in production costs," Michael states with a hint of relief and mild amusement.

"It did seem a little...wrong, but we make the most of what God gives us." Gerald asserts, feeling a gentle hand running its fingers through the hair on the right side of his head. "Jesus, Michael, I'm not that anxious; you don't need to play mother!" He shifts to his right and is awestruck to see that Michael is standing at the far end of the smoke shop, reading something on his cellular phone.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Michael criticizes in a snappy tone, raising his eyes from the small screen for a moment. "So you burned your hand with a cigar - you're going to be fine!" The irritable attorney returns his gaze to the small, colorful screen, appearing annoyed by his employer's constant need to belittle him.

Gerald twists his head to one side, noticing that his right hand is in an upward position, hanging in the air as if waiting for something. His breathing becomes irregular when he realizes that he just stroked his own head, but it felt like the hand of a complete stranger. The investment banker is further alarmed when he notices that the fingers seem to be waving at him; a subtle, restrained effort, as if performed by a newborn baby. The middle-aged man stares down at the woman's lifeless body with alarm, feeling as though his hand is moving on its own.

NEW YORK CLASSICO PIZZARIA - MANHATTAN

"Who was that?" Celeste beckons with a wild and yet shy smile, eyeing Jacob with suspicion from across the decorative dinner table.

"That was just someone needing legal advice," Jacob admits, placing his cellular phone back into the pocket of his dinner jacket. "He wanted to know how to get out of paying a personal injury claim, so I gave him some basic tips." The young man stares into her blue eyes with measured sincerity, watching his date relax from these added details. "So, how did you like the show?" He asks with a wry smile, eager to vicariously experience his art.

"It was interesting. I may have gone for more blackish scorpions than brown since they don't match the décor." She answers with a confident gaze, leaning back and teasing her fiery, orange hair a bit with the fingers of her left hand, and sipping wine from a glass in her right. "How do you maintain all those wild animals? I bet that's expensive."

"Yeah, but I have friends that are bigger liabilities than my wild kingdom," Jacob states with a bit of dry honesty, rolling his eyes somewhat. "At least the saltwater croc won't go on a cocaine binge...then decide to start shooting clay pigeons from the balcony of his Manhattan penthouse with a shotgun."

"Do you think that money ruins people?" Celeste asks with drunken impulsiveness, feeling a rush of panic as the conversation dies down to awkward silence.

Jacob cringes at her question, displaying his vulnerable side for the second time since they met. He leans back into the tall Italian chair, enjoying the unpolished wooden frame as it presses into his shoulders and spine. Celeste feels small in her short, black skirt and red blouse. The awkwardness becomes monumental in proportion, hanging in the air like the stench of a large, sweaty man during the height of summer. She smiles after a moment, displaying a set of healthy white teeth behind her glossy, red lips.

The young entrepreneur waits for her to speak first, detecting that the exposure of his pain has somehow moved the young singer. Jacob swallows hard; feeling like his gray turtleneck sweater is suffocating him from the inside out. He places both of his hands atop the soft fabric of his black, designer slacks, trying to calm himself as bad memories are rushing to the surface. For some reason, he is comfortable appearing vulnerable in front of Celeste. Jacob allows his guard to drop completely, knowing that she is exceptional and special.

His newfound feelings are as real and flawed as the Italian restaurant in which they both sit. The thick, white fabric of the tablecloth is exemplary of the most luxurious item in the room. Most of the pizzeria interiors are old-fashioned, with bare woods and unstained surfaces, appearing wholesome. Even the live folk music brings a level of honesty and old-world charm to the place. The atmosphere resembles what Italian restaurants might have been like before the industrial boom. Even the silverware, napkins, glasses, and place settings were created using methods that would be cost prohibitive for a chain restaurant.

"Yes, money ruins people." Jacob finally admits when the band stops playing, putting an end to almost a minute of frigid silence. "I also believe that people ruin money." He adds with a bold stare, exhibiting that he has both knowledge and experience in this arena. "My father spent over twenty years of his life exploring the hedonistic, though somewhat entertaining, aspects of wealth. I was just one of his personal success projects. He ran my life like a whiteboard in a quarterly executive meeting. In his arsonist-like arrogance, he put together a demanding regimen of healthy eating, exercise, and meticulous study. I passed the bar exam at age fourteen, although it served no purpose since I was too young to practice law. But I was able to get my finance degree, black belt, and to gain tenure with Harvard University."

"So you were his toy?" Celeste inquires with slight hesitation, feeling like there is not enough wine in the world to take the edge off of this conversation.

"No, my mother was his toy. She was his beautiful little plaything." Jacob looks away from the table, staring at the band in a state of instant depression. "I remember our last night together; she was trying to teach me something about right and wrong. We stayed up late, watching old movies and talking about the future. I had gotten into trouble at school for beating on four or five kids...I can't remember. So she created this sort of nursery rhyme to teach me how bad actions can't be taken back. It was simple phrasing, but it's also the last thing she said to me before they abducted her."

"I'm so sorry," Celeste empathizes with reluctance, realizing that her cliché statement is a thimble of feeling compared to the river of emotion that her date is sharing. "How did the nursery rhyme go?" She asks with a smile, sitting tall in her chair, and gathering herself up for the unlikely task of moral support.

"I rolled a snowball down a hill." Jacob begins with a haunted expression, as though the words will cause the wooden flooring to drop out from beneath them, revealing the fiery pits of hell. "It became a restless toddler. It became a monster's will... I rolled a snowball down a hill. It became a noble snowman. It became a water pail."

"That's beautiful!" Celeste says with a raised voice, buffering her thoughts as she witnesses Jacob's almost catatonic state. "You always know that a statement is powerful when the power comes from its simplicity. My grandfather told me that." She finishes her sentiment with an affectionate smile, waiting for her date to reciprocate the warmth.

"Thanks," Jacob says finally through his trance of pain, becoming more alert and indulging the young singer with an endearing smile of his own. "Let's tour the city tonight. I want to show you things you've never seen before."

"Yeah, let's have some fun. We'll see if you've learned how to impress a girl on top of all that useless legal knowledge." She says with electric eyes, raising her wine glass again to take a hearty drink.

Jacob smiles back at her with luminous pride, feeling a real connection for the first time in years. His heart grows cold for a moment as his thoughts regress back to his father, and the powerful grip that he has on this lovely, young redhead. The young business magnate clenches his left hand into a fist and maintains a reassuring gaze for the sake of his companion.
VIII. An Apple for an Arrow

"There was a joke that we passed around a lot, and it went something like this: During his lifetime, a man had fished the rivers and hunted in forests around a home built on land that he discovered. One day, a man from the government showed up while he was fishing, and said, 'Why are you fishing here without a permit?

'I don't need a permit,' the man explained; 'all of these fish were given to me by God.'

'Well, you can't fish in this river without a permit from me.' The government official demanded.

'What? Who the hell are you to tell me where I can fish and hunt?' The man asked, placing his hands on his hips.

'I am God!' The government official said with total confidence and a bright smile.

At this point, the fisherman set down his fishing pole. He removed his filet knife from its scabbard and stabbed the man several times in the chest.

'Oh my God! Why did you stab me!?' The young government official said as he fell to the ground.

'Well, I reckon I'll take my fish back to the house, and go about my business. If you really are God, then you'll be here when I get back in three days.'

And, ladies and gentlemen, that's why we don't allow the government into our business. God provided us the means to prosper, wild and free as intended from the dawn of man." **–Earl Calbraw, addressing The Blackstone Group at a private event.**

"This winter has a bite like none I've felt for over ten years," Plato complains with his hands concealed in the long pockets of his black trench coat. "I hope your speech is succinct."

Howard 'Plato' Hudson, also known as H.H. or Plato to his friends, is an unremarkable man of short stature, appearing stoic and stalwart regardless of the occasion. His full head of hair does not show a spot of gray, which contrasts with Earl's shiny, slicked-back locks of silver. As the two men traverse Broadway, they appear odd, coming from opposing backgrounds and opinions, distorted to a polar level. Their symbiotic relationship has evolved over the years. In much the same manner as the Egyptian Plover cleans a crocodile's teeth – Plato has been there to ensure Earl's survival. For a black man in his early sixties, Plato has become increasingly 'codgeresque,' as Earl coins it, moving into the early stages of 'get off my lawn' likeability.

"My speech is concise and eloquent," Earl deadpans, not to be outdone as a wordsmith. "I look forward to your warm tears of joy, Plato, when you feel touched at how many lives we save today." He jests, standing tall in his Armani suit.

"Pfft." Plato spouts an indiscernible sound from his mouth, blowing hard through pursed lips; something he has done for many years. "You want to emancipate the poor with a job fair and music festival? How...endearing." He breathes out a sigh of frustration from his full, black lips, displaying his ebony features that were once chiseled.

"Plato, I know how you feel-" Earl begins with empathy, but is immediately cut off.

"You don't know how I feel, Earl!" Plato snaps with electric wit, sensing the fresh snow compressing under his black dress shoes as he stops walking, and aims a defiant stare at his old friend. "I appreciate that you're trying to win over the universe through good intention, but you should tread cautiously. You are not Jesus Christ, if ever such a man existed. Yes, I've agreed to give ten percent of our funds to these humanitarian efforts. And I will attend the events, but you won't convert me to your line of thinking. Don't even try! I lost my mother, father, and sister to a group of... Well, you know. I don't want to talk about it anymore. Save your preaching for the media, and let's get back to work. My only hand in this was convincing the shareholders that it was necessary...and it was the hardest sell of my life! That said, I support you, and will do so every step of the way."

"Thank you, Plato." He says with kind eyes, appearing like a powerful bear, staring at his old friend with compassion; the words dusting him like flakes of fresh snow atop his broad shoulders. "I wanted to... You know that..." Earl goes silent and continues on his path, moving farther down the street to the extravagant marquee to give his speech.

Plato follows his lead, matching pace with him, and smiling inside at the elusive acceptance between them. The two men make their way to the velvet ropes at the right of the marquee. A pasty-faced security guard with thick eyebrows is waiting to let them through the barrier. Both men stick out their chests as they enter in full view of the press, ensuring that the world sees them as captains of industry.

Once they are through the velvet ropes, Earl takes his typical position as the robust orator at the podium. Plato stands to his right, mostly nodding in agreement, but always appearing strong with his arms folded across his chest. There is a poster of Celeste Marie to Earl's right, her wild orange hair appearing primal, complimenting a hungry sexual pose, and tight leather outfit. Another poster at his left depicts a Hispanic comedian, HeySeuss Jesús. The comedian has short black hair and sits on a throne for his tongue-in-cheek approach to inequality.

"Dear friends, I appreciate you coming out in the snow today," Earl begins with a radiant expression, showing off his unique blue eyes. "But don't despair, it's only cold in New York if the mayor says so...at least twelve hours in advance." He pauses and turns, watching the reporters laugh and feels more relaxed himself. "I don't want to bore you with the details of my evolution into philanthropy. If I did, you'd fall asleep on the sidewalk long before last call. Today is important because we are doing the right thing by our fellow man – and woman. My colleagues and I want to provide fresh opportunities for entrepreneurs of all backgrounds. As our headline comedian HeySeuss Jesús states, 'America used to be called the land of opportunity. Now it is just called the land.' We've reached deep in our pockets to provide the capital needed for young artists and entrepreneurs to make their dreams come to life!"

Earl cannot restrain his passion for this project, and he smiles, feeling a rush of pride. The small crowd before him is like a bundle of dry tinder, and their applause are the flames that elevate his soul.

"My father had said, 'nobody knows what they're doing, until they are doing what they know.' I wholeheartedly agree, which is why we're strengthening this charitable fund through a series of concert fundraisers. Our ten billion dollar budget is sizeable and will help many small business owners to get their projects off of the ground. Though another billion never hurts..." The elite philanthropist states with a pause, knowing that the mention of big money is always greeted by cheers from starving reporters. "So we'll kick off this tour with our featured comedian HeySeuss Jesús, and the bedazzling singer Celeste Marie." He pauses again, holding his hands upward and gestures to the posters behind him.

A young reporter is smiling up at Earl, holding a small, black digital recorder out toward the podium. He has a thin jaw and a well-groomed head of short, red hair. The young man gets a fierce jolt from his backside, turning his expression to icy confusion as he is launched out of the way. Earl twists left to see a young man with long, black hair emerging from the crowd with a knife clutched in his right hand. When he sees the eight-inch blade, Earl tries to determine its destination. He reaches out with his gloved hands to grab at the stainless steel, and protect himself. His thick, padded, black gloves immerse the knife in fabric for a moment, but his attacker pulls the hunting knife down and to the right. Earl feels helpless and vulnerable when the knife leaves his view. He breathes in rhythm with his heartbeat as his body senses mortal danger.

The young man is muscular and wild, moving like a ferocious, wounded animal. He lacks regard for anything but his desire to end the man in front of him. The deadness in his attacker's eyes is haunting to Earl. He sifts through twenty years of oppressive and corrupt behavior in a split-second. In doing so, the billionaire tries to isolate the most likely of motivations for this attack.

The young assassin darts his right hand out, extending it with the blade upright. He then lunges at Earl's left side, faking toward his face, and then forcing the blade toward his upper ribs. Earl uses his longer left arm as an advantage against his attacker, blocking the swipe of the knife before it can connect with his chest. The elderly billionaire is now numbed into a state of shock, exploding to act when needed, but remaining unemotional to keep his wits. His attacker swipes at his ribs twice more, and Earl feels the point of the blade pierce the fabric of his clothing, stinging his skin. The numbness immediately subsides, and Earl leans backward to avoid a fourth strike. This dodge causes the young assassin to lunge toward empty air, and Earl sidesteps, watching his assailant lose his balance. As the young man is falling forward, Earl grabs him from behind by his right wrist with one hand, and clutches the back of his right shoulder with the other. He then uses his weight to topple his attacker, bringing him down with relative ease. When they hit the chilly ground, Earl imposes his weight on the young man, holding his right wrist so that the knife cannot budge.

"Plato, get the knife!" Earl calls out in desperation to his old friend, feeling the young man writhing beneath his weight.

Plato responds immediately, stomping on the young man's hand and forcing the blade out of his grasp with a swipe of his foot. Once the blade is no longer a factor, he keeps his foot pressed against the assassin's small, white hand, compressing it against the tacky, red carpet.

"The knife is gone!" Plato announces over a muffled growl of agony from the young man; a response to the pain in his compressed right hand.

"I'm going to get up now!" Earl declares with unfiltered hatred. "You will wait until I am all the way to my feet before you move, or my partner will cut your throat with your own knife! Do you understand!?" He shakes the young man anxiously, shifting his entire body somewhat, and feeling adrenaline from the brief, yet intense attack.

After counting to ten, Earl rises off of the young man and begins to step backward. The stubborn assassin leaps back to life the moment Earl removes his weight. In response, Earl falls back onto him with a fierce tackle. Earl holds his would-be assassin to the ground for a moment, noticing that the security guard has also grappled the young man's left shoulder. With renewed confidence, the exhausted entrepreneur gets to his feet. He watches the security guard take his place in grappling the young psychopath.

As Earl gets to his feet, there are cheers from the group of reporters. He waves them off with an eager fury, noticing that their priority was to keep the cameras rolling during his time of crisis. The billionaire stops to take in the sweet, crisp winter air, grateful to have survived. He watches the crowd with distrust, looking for another potential assassin. After ensuring that there is no further danger, Earl feels the wounded skin beneath his shirt. He detects only a small cut in his chest from the tip of the blade. The entrepreneur takes another deep breath, finally able to relax and reenter the real world.

Earl focuses on Plato as the security guard pulls his young assailant up from the carpet. Although Earl is gazing at him with warmth and admiration, Plato is distracted, making a fist in the air with his right hand towards the building across the street. A rush of despair shoots through Earl as he watches Plato opening and closing his fist, next to the guard and the young assassin. Earl immediately steps to the left of his young attacker, and gestures with his right index finger back and forth across his throat.

On the rooftop across the street, a sniper from Waldorf Security is watching the incident through the scope of his rifle. The thirty-year-old army veteran is clad completely in black, wearing a maroon beret. Down on the street, just below the marquee, he can see his young target and his clients standing on either side of him. The Army sniper's finger is taught against the trigger, and his shot is already lined up for the kill. He intends to end the young man without wounding the security guard that has the assassin's right arm locked at the elbow behind his back.

The seasoned sniper smiles for a moment, observing the conflicting orders that are coming from his clients on the street. One man is calling for a mortal wound, and the other is asking for him to stand down.

"Looks like the bear wins over the wolf." The young sniper admits to himself aloud, recognizing that the man with over fifty billion dollars in wealth has more authority than the other with just over ten billion.

Below the marquee, Earl feels relieved when he sees a thumbs-up from a black, gloved hand on the rooftop of the building across the street.

"Plato, you can stop," Earl says with a devious grin, "he's not going to fire."

"Ugh, the bears always win," Plato replies, grabbing the back of his head in frustrated discomfort. "Let's get some lunch out of the cold while the cops clean this up." He suggests, looking at Earl and gesturing toward the building behind them.

"I'll take it from here." The security guard reassures Earl, turning with a dutiful stare and maintaining a strong grip on the young man's contorted right arm. "The police should be here soon."

"Why did you want to kill me?" Earl asks, leaning forward to look at the young man's face. "Never mind, why don't we discuss it over lunch?"

"Are you out of your mind, Earl!?" Plato protests. "I'm not having lunch with...a murderer."

"A murderer without a weapon is nothing but a man." Earl quips, feeling bolder by the second. "Can you pat him down to make sure he doesn't have any other weapons?" He asks, looking at the guard with poise and strength.

The security guard nods abruptly, thinking the scenario through for a moment, and then tows the young man to the wall next to the poster of Celeste Marie. When his prisoner is flat against the wall, the guard frisks him twice. He checks every possible hiding place, which includes pulling his shoes off for a brief inspection.

"He's clean!" The security guard reports to Earl, keeping a firm hand in the middle of the young assailant's back.

"Can you behave long enough to join us for lunch?" Earl inquires of his attacker with a fascinated gaze. "I would be very interested in knowing why you want me dead."

"Have you lost your head, Calbraw!?" Plato explodes, expressing that Earl has defied the laws of common sense for the last time. "He just tried to knife you – like an animal...a brutal animal straight out of Rikers Island."

"Well, it's your choice," Earl continues, ignoring his partner's warning. "You can join us for lunch, and tell me your motive, or spend a few years in prison."

"We can...have lunch." The young man agrees, scowling at Earl as his voice cracks mid-sentence.

"Okay, let him go." Earl orders the security guard with relative ease. "Could you get us a table, Plato? Oh, and make sure they remove the knives."

Plato waves off Earl's inappropriate humor, disgusted by his behavior, and lack of healthy fear during moments like these. He makes his way to the entrance of the theater and steps through the door on the right, not bothering to turn around.

"You first," Earl instructs with guiltless enthusiasm, putting his left arm on the young man's right shoulder.

As anticipated, Earl hears unanimous applause from members of the press who were fortuitous enough to watch and record the human drama.

"So does this mean that he's not going to jail?" A young reporter inquires as Earl escorts the young man indoors.

"No, he's not going to jail." Earl responds from the left side of his mouth. "That's all for today! Come to the concerts and help us to raise some money. Good day." He effortlessly dismisses the press like an iconic celebrity, adding to his legendary reputation.

"Are you going to kill me?" The young man asks with a nervous gaze after they enter the lobby of the theater.

"Do I need to kill you?" Earl replies with a wry smile. "Let's have lunch and figure out where we stand." He says in a calm manner, leading the young man into a club at their left, just opposite the entrance to the theater. "I find myself to be more on the human side of things lately, and no longer assume anything."

The young man retains his discomfort as they step across the posh, white tiles of The Applewood Club. Earl enjoys the sweet smells of pipe tobacco and the dim lighting of the ritzy restaurant and bar. The atmosphere makes him feel like a member of The Rack Pack in his sleek, black Armani suit and matching shoes. His young guest is underdressed in this atmosphere, wearing faded jeans with a tear in the knee, and a white, short-sleeved T-shirt.

"You look very 'Catcher in the Rye,' to this crowd," Earl suggests, unable to suppress his sense of humor in the midst of all the fresh tension. "But we'll make it work. Are all of the knives removed?" He asks Plato with a smirk of dominance, awaiting the obligatory roll of his partner's eyes in to answer the question.

Earl gestures for Johnny to slide into a large booth on the right side of Plato, forcing him to sit between the two businessmen. After a brief glance at the table, Earl removes his gloves and takes a seat to the right of the young assassin. He ponders whether to remove the tempting bottle of wine from within his reach.

Plato is glaring at his companions, already reflecting on the insanity of the situation. His shoulders are doused here and there with melted snowflakes, leaving neat droplets on the rough fabric of his suit. Earl tries not to smile as he thinks that Plato's famous temper likely melted the snow long before it could react to the heated indoor air. Plato further confirms his icy rhetoric when he grabs the bottle of white wine from the ice bucket, and sets it on the floor. He then stares at his business partner, showing that his resolve is still unbreakable.

The padding of the booth is adequately firm, and the black, leather coverings are comfortable, giving off a delectable odor. Their table is a foot above the tiled ground floor, draped in fine white linen with a thick thread count. Since the club theme is red and white, their napkins are an expensive burgundy cloth, as is the fabric underneath a black pitcher of ice water.

"Let's have some water," Earl says finally, after observing the young man for a moment, acknowledging that he remains filled with fear. "So, other than the fact that you're bad with a knife, I don't know much about you." He says with an amused expression, pouring ice water from the black, plastic pitcher until the young man's glass is halfway filled. "What's your name?" He proceeds to fill the glass in front him with ice water and leans over the table, passing it to Plato.

"My name is Johnny." The young man says, trying to control his breathing as though two lions have him cornered in a small, dark room.

"Johnny, that's a good all-American name," Earl says with discerning eyes, holding an empty glass over his plate with his right hand. "Johnny, why are you trying to kill me?"

"Can I start you off with some drinks this evening, gentlemen?" A stout Italian waiter interrupts as he swoops in on the table from the right side of Earl.

"No." Plato declares with a passionate gaze. "Also, get rid of this bottle of wine. My companions will have water."

Earl leans back into his seat, glaring at the pudgy waiter and displaying a stare that would singe off his mustache if it were possible. With his many years of service experience, the waiter is hardly taken aback. He snatches the bottle from the floor and holds it against his black and white uniform, feeling a bit downgraded from five-star status with the lack of wine service.

"Just a bit of coffee for now," Earl states in a disenchanted monotone, waving the waiter away with the four fingers of his right hand. "Please continue, Johnny." He requests, turning back to face his young guest.

"My family used to own a business just outside of Saint Paul, Minnesota, in a place called Woodbury." Johnny begins with nervous pride, his twenty-year-old body shuddering a bit. "We had a general store called Casey's Place, and it was the bread and butter of my family since my grandpa built it in the 1950s." The young man raises his head, leering at Earl with his soft brown eyes. "Then you brought your big money and crony capitalism into our town, and dropped your prices so low that we couldn't compete. You and your rich friends bankrupted every small business in town. Within a year, nothin' in Woodbury belonged to anyone who lived there. Every dollar I spent went to you, and when you dropped the prices, everyone's wages went down...way down."

"So you tried to kill my friend because you took a cut in pay?" Plato surmises with disgust. "Just move to another town; I'm sure other people have done the same. How old are you?" He demands with a self-righteous expression.

"That's not the reason, and I'm twenty," Johnny says immediately, shooting Plato a measured stare of hatred before turning back to Earl.

"Please continue, Johnny," Earl advises, leaning closer to the young man as he nods at the waiter, watching him set a black, steaming pot of coffee on the table.

"After all the competition went away, the prices had gone up, and wages stayed down. My Dad couldn't afford his diabetic medication; his insulin, and he was too proud to ask me for the money." Johnny begins to cry, but wipes his cheek, wanting to appear strong for his adversary. "His eyesight failed, and then his kidneys. My Dad died screaming in the emergency room because he couldn't afford the insulin that he needed to live. His wages at the grocery store; your grocery store, dropped over twenty percent from what people were getting paid before you came along. After we had gone under, you doubled the prices – just some sick game of monopoly."

"The Frozen Trail of Tears?" Earl announces with a haunted expression. "The winter of 2018...when nine hundred thousand people died."

"The Frozen Trail of Tears," Johnny confirms with smoldering fury. "The legacy of crony capitalism...and the death of my family. I think my mother gave up after my father died. She couldn't make ends, so I quit school and went to work at one of your stores."

"How could you get a job at our stores being only thirteen?" Plato asks with stubborn sensibility.

"I was emancipated by my mother, allowing me the freedom to pull eight hours a day." The young man says; his eyes filled with despair. "But it wasn't enough... Your managers started me out making four dollars less an hour than my father. Mom fell into a depression and started drinking and sleeping all the time. I had to pick up a job as a waiter at your diner to try and make ends, but she was drinking all the money. We would've qualified for food stamps, but you already got Congress to kill that program."

Earl looks down at the table in shame, feeling sick inside at the devastation that he has caused the young man. He raises his gaze to Plato, who is indifferent, as always. His partner maintains a noble stance that all of life's creatures must experience tragedy – as a right of passage.

"No matter how hard I worked, I couldn't make ends." The young man says as his agony bursts forth in clear, even, streams of tears; his fragile poker face fading away. "When I was fifteen, I told mom that she couldn't drink anymore, and threw out all the alcohol. She promised that it would be her last day of drinking. I guess I was too naïve to realize that she meant...it would be her last day. When I got home, I found a note that started out with neat letters, and then faded to these bigger, uneven letters... And then just chicken scratch... There were a lot of things she said in that letter; apologies and such, but at the very end, after the chicken scratch, it said, 'you're a good man, Johnny.' You're a good man." He says in a solemn tone, clutching his stomach.

"What happened to her?" Plato asks with a degree of urgency, and a sprinkle of concern.

"She drank herself to death – alcohol poisoning," Johnny answers through a thick stream of tears that are dripping on the white linen, saturating the tablecloth in sadness. "My mom had gone through three-and-a-half bottles of vodka before she gave out... And that's why I wanted to kill you, Mr. Calbraw. You're a bear, and everyone knows that the bears rule the world."

Earl looks down at the young man's right arm, the same arm that tried to open a gaping hole in his chest less than half an hour ago. Johnny's arm is stronger than that of the average twenty-year-old, by Earl's standards, and the white shirt makes it appear somehow celestial.

"We were acquitted for The Frozen Trail of Tears in a congressional hearing." Plato emotes with a tone bordering on outrage.

"I watched that hearing on CNN." Johnny retorts as he rests his hands on the table with the palms facing downward. "...Very interesting. I think it was when the Senator from Vermont asked you about allegations of keeping medical supplies low. You gave him the stink eye, and he backed down...reworded his question."

"I didn't intentionally keep supplies low." Earl fences in fervent denial. "You're blaming me for genocide, and I won't stand for that!"

"Then why did the records show that supplies were at a third of their normal stock in the pharmacies that you were running? They were empty compared to the pharmacies that had been there for years. Your warehouse had plenty of supplies on-hand, but you kept it low so that you could raise the prices."

"No. The Frozen Trail of Tears was a natural disaster. You can't blame my partner and I for a ten-day blizzard that was supposed to be a nor'easter, lasting only three days. Hell, the mayor of New York didn't even issue a severe weather warning until twelve hours before the storm hit. There's no way I could ship medications that fast!"

"That's why the medication should've been there already. I've done nothing but study this since my mother died, so I could find out who was turning the screws, and why." Johnny scolds the men with a voice of righteous damnation. "You had plenty of stock in your warehouses and more than enough shelf space in your stores. I don't care what you say, Mr. Calbraw, your greed killed my parents and my town."

"I'm sorry...a blizzard is an act of God." Earl states in a tone of half-confidence. "I've done some terrible things, but I won't admit to killing a million people."

"Of course not!" Plato says with abrasive reinforcement. "We aren't dictators; the country is run by the government."

"There are over five billion dollars of political contributions every year, and the bulk of them come from the bears. You control the government, and you killed my family." Johnny maintains his stance with a fearless fortitude. "You've quietly slid your monopolies into small towns, taking over pharmacies and retail businesses. I've done my homework...had a lot of time to think since I lost everyone."

"We did not kill-" Plato begins, but gets cut off by Earl.

"Plato, please, on some level I think he's right," Earl admits with a shaky right hand. "We did give our portfolio managers the order to maximize profits by any means necessary. Just like a bunch of wild dogs, the moment we let them off of their leashes, it was a pathway to disaster. I remember the photos from that winter, the scenes of horror on television." He reminisces in a respectful tone.

"People panicked when the winter storm warning came out just hours before it was supposed to blanket the east coast and The Great Lakes region." Earl continues, rubbing the tablecloth somewhat with his right index finger. "During the panic, they rushed their pharmacies and grocery stores, buying up everything in sight. Those who weren't watching TV or paying attention to the news would find themselves without life-saving medicine for ten days. After three days, people got desperate, driving hundreds of miles to find insulin, heart medication, and antibiotics. The hospitals were overwhelmed with people who caught the flu, crashed on the icy roads, and suffered from exposure. We teamed up with The National Guard to fly medications in, which couldn't happen until seven days into the storm, when there was a break in the winds."

"And when the medicine got there, it just sat on the ground," Johnny says in disbelief, rolling his left hand into a tight fist in his lap. "I remember just before my father lost his vision, the army had dropped off pallets of medical supplies. But nobody could get them because the digital prescription records were down, and you didn't have any medical staff to give anything out."

"We weren't prepared...I'm sorry." Earl agrees with genuine pain in his voice. "It affected Interstate 80; from The Great Lakes to the shores of New York; all the way down to South Carolina. Families got trapped in their cars, frozen out of desperation, and not prepared for ten days without services-"

"Exactly!" Plato interrupts with a condescending sneer. "If you need medication to live, why wouldn't you buy a six-month supply?

"Because you can't have a six-month supply of anything when you live paycheck to paycheck... If your wages are cut, and the medication costs twice what it did before." Johnny replies through gritted teeth.

"Look, I feel for you, Johnny, but we aren't responsible for all those deaths. We're a corporation; not Amnesty International." Earl states in a somber tone. "There were more issues with The Frozen Trail of Tears – having to do with infrastructure. Gas companies failed to heat homes. Power companies were unable to restore the grid quick enough. Emergency vehicles and hospitals got overwhelmed. Supply routes were cutoff for almost ten full days during almost back-to-back blizzard-like conditions. Interstate 80 turned into a sheet of ice, and that's where many of the deaths occurred. There was just nothing to be done, and the unprepared...died. It was a horrible tragedy."

"It was a horrible tragedy?" Johnny asks rhetorically. "You squashed our family business with your big money and took over our town. It wasn't enough for you to have ten billion dollars because that made you a wolf, right? You needed to be a bear, and it didn't matter who suffered, as long as you got to your fifty billion dollar goal. All of these things would've been illegal...before you bought our politicians."

"I would suppose that is the fault of the politicians for making themselves available to be bought," Plato states with an icy demeanor. "Perhaps you should be sticking your knife in other places? Places where it really belongs."

Earl and Johnny look at one another, shocked at the blistering honesty of Plato, but both nod their heads in agreement.

"Johnny, I'm doing a lot to help people crawl out of poverty." Earl begins in a positive fashion. "I spent twenty years of my life destroying other people. The Frozen Trail of Tears was a wakeup call for many of us. What you need to know, is that there are evil billionaires and good billionaires. During the past five years, I've cleaned up my act, and I'm trying to be a man of the people. When you tried to stab me out there, I was announcing a philanthropy project. It has funded ten billion dollars for small business owners to grow their operations. There are also hundreds of other projects that I'm funding to relieve the poor from economic disparity. So I can't have you trying to take my life...before I have a chance to redeem myself. Do you understand?"

Johnny looks at Earl, and then turns toward Plato, who is nodding in agreement with his partner.

"I understand...if you're telling the truth," Johnny replies, displaying a lack of trust.

"If I'm lying, you're welcome to take me down. I'll even provide you with the knife," Earl states with a steady gaze. "Now, I'm going to pour some coffee into this cup," he begins with a nod toward a white mug with a gold rim at his front. "And if you can't promise me that my life will never be endangered by you, by the time this glass is filled; your life will be over before sundown. Unfortunately, too many people depend on me for support, and I'm making a difference, so I can't have you taking that away from me."

Earl lifts the coffee pot from the brown serving pad and begins to pour coffee into the empty cup. He watches Johnny as the coffee pours, knowing that the cup is only seconds from being filled.

"I promise...that your life is not in danger from me." Johnny surrenders with reluctance, watching the pot tip away as the last stream of black liquid drops noisily into the cup.

"Let's have a toast then," Earl suggests, raising his glass of water and gesturing for Johnny to do the same with his coffee. "To good health!" He says with passion, tapping his glass with Johnny's cup, and saluting Plato with it before swallowing a large amount. "Johnny, I like you, and it sounds like you care about people. How would you feel about heading up my new philanthropy project?"

"Dear God, you're out of your depth!" Plato complains in earnest. "Did you suffer a head injury? He was just swinging a knife at your ribcage."

"Yeah, well, he's an honest man, and I have his word that no harm will come to me," Earl answers with authoritative grace, staring his partner down.

"So you're going to trust him...on his word!?" Plato replies incredulously, laughing a bit at Earl's naïveté.

"Yes, Plato, and I'll tell you why, because now he knows that I'm not the bear he was looking for," Earl assures him with a wink.

Johnny sits between the two titans of industry, realizing that they must often talk about people as though they are not in the room. He surmises that, with a great deal of discouragement, even trying to kill one of these people is not enough to get their attention.

"If you're working for us, then you better get some nicer clothes, especially for a director of the world tour," Plato observes aloud in a pouty fashion. "And if you ever try to stab ME, don't expect a lunch unless dessert is laced with cyanide!"

"Strange job interview, eh?" Earl asks with an eccentric gleam in his gem-like eyes. "Are you in or out, Johnny?"

"I'm...in." Johnny says with confused hesitation, smiling a bit, considering that he began the day expecting his body to be filled with bullets.

"Fantastic!" Earl says with passion, clasping his hands together above the table. "Let's get some food!"

Johnny peruses the menu halfheartedly, watching the subtleties of the two men and their silent communication. He wonders how long they are planning to keep him alive.
IX. 1,000 Kelvins

Dear Life Sentence,

I thought a little history lesson might entertain you for a while, considering that three stone walls and a set of bars will be the only familiar sights for a long time. Unlike others, I can admit to feeling as you do; knowing what you know. The only question for me is... Who started all this misery? Did you grow up in poverty? Did Daddy leave your home when you were just a boy? Maybe Mommy ran off with the only college educated man in your neighborhood. It don't matter none, now that you have the walls to keep you company.

Swing low, sweet chariot...comin' for to carry me home... But, let's get back to the history I promised. It's likely that you're already familiar with the economics of slavery in the 1800s. You know how the white devil took it upon himself to raise lucrative industries on the backs of our brethren. But you may not be familiar with The French Revolution, a period much more akin to the problems we are facing today. It happened only a few hundred years ago.

For most of your life, you have felt like the man was keeping you down. I'm certain you've said it over and over to many people, but nobody would listen. They said that you were just making an excuse so that you don't have to get a job, but what if you couldn't get a job...even if you wanted one? Welcome to the modern, equal-opportunity version of slavery.

But first, we'll explore The French Revolution. I'll keep it basic because I know you have a lot of plans today: poker, weights, and chow. Also, hours of staring up at the ceiling, pretending that you're okay with being in prison.

The French Revolution began because people were starving, and they were having power held over them by inbred kings and queens. This system of government was known as a monarchy, where everyone was ruled by one man. People enjoyed a good life or suffered a horrible death, depending on how nice or ruthless their king was. In other words, if the king were an asshole, people would starve. He would neglect medical treatment and keep them disenfranchised from the kingdom. Sound familiar?

In the late 1700s, France was doing awful things to its people; many of those I've already discussed. After so many years of suffering, people decided to pick up their fish knives and cleavers so they could march on the palace. When they found the king and queen, they didn't just butcher them. They knew that making examples of them was vital to the success of their cause. So they used their guillotines to cut the heads off of the pompous, sanctimonious asses that stood in their way. They then drafted new laws, and designed a society that was fairer, promoting trade, free will, and prosperity.

So maybe you already knew that story, right? Here you are, sitting in your cell, reading this dumbass document that hasn't provided you squat. Well, here's the relevant part. Our society is ruled by a new monarchy of kings and queens; people who are infecting America with dark money. Did you ever take a look at your life and consider who was doing The Most Harm? When you started bangin' with a gang, did you ever wonder if you were attacking the right people? Of course, you didn't, because here you sit in jail, for taking a few thousand dollars, or killing a few people. Meanwhile, they sit on the outside, cozy in their private jets, killing thousands of people without touching them. They rob billions of dollars from you and your loved ones every day, and they don't so much as get a cavity search.

How do I know that this is true, my brother? I have done the research...I have been to the mountaintop, and it is covered with liars and thieves. So my question for you is this...if you were going to risk being trapped in here for the rest of your life, why didn't you make it count? Why didn't you attack the people who were doing The Most Harm?

What does that mean; the most harm? Do you think that your only option for a job should be fast food? Do you believe that your only chance at an education was from the fear of death? How do you know that your sons or daughters deserve the life they have now? Daddy's in jail for defending a street! A hood! A territory! Why did you waste your life fighting against your own kind? We are strong, but sometimes so foolish. But it's not your fault. You were made to feel like less of a man. This society has gradually stripped you of your dignity. First, by denying you the things that you need to excel, and second, rubbing it in your face that you don't have those things.

It wouldn't have worked...except that you allowed the last part to happen. You bowed down and BELIEVED that you were less of a man. Well, I'm here to tell you that they're right – you are less of a man. Look at where you are, brother, locked away from any semblance of love, pleasure, or prosperity. And it's not because you're stupid or weak. It's because you haven't learned to play the game as well as they have. Whoever convinced you that defending a hood is a way to live your life...has robbed you of your life. If I asked you to drive a car with a bomb into a building, you'd tell me to go to hell! So why is it that you'll go out and rob a liquor store, or do a drug deal that might end your life? Why do you risk yourself so much for so little, just to get by?

Now, the people on the mountaintop; they don't need work. Everything that comes out of their mouths is smart, because they have the money. Further, everyone in this country has decided to bow down to the money. This surrender is where the well got poisoned...money ahead of humanity.

So I'll get right to the point, and tell you what you need to know. The society you're living in was engineered by the man, and here's how. The news media are owned by billionaires, and so are the politicians. They are sucking America dry of its wealth, one day at a time, suppressing the wages of the middle class and eliminating jobs. Eventually, they'll suck the country empty of its wealth, and then they'll move on to other countries. If it continues for a few more years, our military won't be able to function, and the U.S. Dollar won't be worth spit. Hundreds of millions will suffer for the greed of a few thousand.

I'm certain that there are people you care about on the outside; those who make sure your life is a bit more comfortable. Do you want them to suffer? Would you like them to live in a world where they don't have a fair chance at success?

With your history of violence, you have everything that it takes to be a patriot. As you read through these facts, consider who is doing The Most Harm. Once you agree on who is causing the most harm, you can show your intentions to put these people in their place. By getting a TMH tattoo on your right cheek, the world will know that you will not accept corruption. You can use that restless heart of yours to free millions from the suffering of poverty. There are people in this world that have far too much power, and if you value the future of America, then your assistance will be needed.

Embrace the gift of being the soldier that God made you, and use your strength to free us all from this new form of slavery. You are not alone in your battle, my brother. Stay strong, and remember to watch who is planting the seeds...as opposed to robbing those who harvest the crops.

United Strength of America,

_-The Crimson Clover_ _._

The Most Harm – 10,000 Strong by November 5th, 2026. Do your part! Be a patriot!

"So I'm guessing we don't have a clue as to who is sending out these letters?" Walter Stone evokes with embattled frustration, taking off his thick eyeglasses and setting them on the conference table as he rubs his eyes. "At least we know that he's black. That's a start."

"What kind of penetration is this getting with the inmates?" Timothy Porter asks with an expression of genuine concern, holding his right hand tightly against his forehead as he gazes down at his copy of the letter.

"How do we know that this isn't misinformation or disinformation from a foreign power or radical group?" Lee Jensen asks, taking the formal stance of paranoia that comes natural to his position as director of the CIA.

"We don't!" Walter declares with corrosive superiority, looking down his nose at the CIA bureaucrat with bitter revulsion. "I'd like to know the answer to Mr. Porter's question. How is this impacting the inmates? How many copies went out? How many were intercepted?" The elderly billionaire finishes by folding his arms across his chest, covering up his bulky abdomen.

There are seven men seated around a conference table in a secure room within The Pentagon. Most of them wear high-priced, custom-tailored suits and designer shoes. The room isn't accessible to nature, as there is no natural lighting. Several incandescent lights in the walls and above the table make the area seem alien. The black conference table adds to this mystique, crafted out of carbon fiber and presenting with a modern sheen. Only a clear pitcher of ice water and the filled glasses surrounding it, give any hint to the comforts of home.

Walter gazes around the table at his companions, and then at the heavy steel door that faces him from the other side of the room. He then examines the phone next to the door, with its several red lights blinking sporadically. It is an older phone, but the lights remind him of flashing beacons that prevent aircraft from hitting tall buildings. The billionaire looks down at the letter again and returns his attention to the meeting. He takes inventory from the reactions of those in attendance, twisting his neck in discomfort. Walter is disenchanted at the thought of sitting in a meeting with four entrepreneurs, The Director of The CIA, and The President of The United States.

The industrial magnate chuckles to himself aloud, keeping his arms folded across the jacket of his black Armani suit. Nobody dares to look in Walter's direction other than Timothy Porter – the only other bear in the room. In Walter's mind, aside from himself and Porter, the only other people relevant to this meeting are the president and his CIA stooge. The other three billionaires are just wolves – people who could 'fill in' at the meeting on short notice. Between the three of them, their combined wealth is less than half that of Walter's, which is why he is not keen to share in the decision-making process with them.

The elderly businessman scratches his left leg as he scowls at the three wolves across the table. His father would never have approved of a Korean man like Mr. Tobias sitting in on a meeting to discuss national security. Further, the other two men are 'tech' billionaires, having made their fortunes because someone liked their ideas and bought them out. Although they are white, Walter considers their presence to be pithy and unnecessary. Their names are Hendrickson and Jones, which causes Walter to smirk a bit, as he likens them to a cheap bottle of Harlem whiskey. Despite his hatred for Tobias, at least the man is over fifty, while the other two have yet to break the age of thirty.

President Carlos Richter sits at the head of the table. He listens to the men who provide financial backing for his military, pretending to care about their well-being. Despite his lack of interest, the forty-two-year-old Puerto Rican man brings an ambiance of power to the room. He secured the election with false promises to help the poor and to maintain the status quo. This deception has made him invaluable to the wealthy donors that sparked his career. His clothing is top notch, consisting of gray trousers and a black suit jacket. The ensemble also bears a cream colored, button-down shirt, a solid red power tie, and golden cufflinks. Lee Jensen, the fifty-eight-year-old director of the CIA, sits at his immediate right, looking like a good puppy to the others in the room. His clothing is far less flattering, consisting of a navy blue suit and shiny, black formal shoes.

"What do we know about the impact of these letters?" President Richter inquires, running his fingers across his dark, slicked-back hair. "How many have gone out?" He parrots with finesse, turning his gaze to the CIA director at his right, and then back to Walter.

"We've seen a few TMH tattoos among the prison population, but not enough to scream about," Jensen replies in a tedious monotone, his voice rising a bit with each phrase. "As for the quantity, there've been well over a thousand. The first batch went out about five days ago, distributed from various mailboxes in New York, New Jersey, and Philly."

"The distribution isn't the problem," Timothy Porter announces with gratuitous sarcasm, clasping his thick fingers together atop the shiny black table. "We don't need to know where the letters came from. After all, that would be like solving a crime." The fifty-five-year-old shakes his head a bit, as if to wave off the stupidity of this entire exercise. "Is there any way to keep them from applying these prison tats?" He asks with sincerity, sitting up straight in the black, ergonomic office chair, and showing off his six-foot-five-inch stature.

"I don't think we can deny their First Amendment rights just based on a letter." Jensen responds with an incredulous expression, as if wondering whether anyone in the room understands how laws are enforced. "Also, they're already in prison so-"

"This isn't just a letter goddammit!" Walter interrupts with passion, his voice breaking at the end of the sentence, prompting him to take a drink of water. "...This is an act of terrorism!" The sixty-seven-year-old declares, pointing his right index finger into the air and slamming a drinking glass onto the table with his left hand.

After a moment of silence, Walter relaxes his arm, allowing it to drape across his belly, adjoined to his other hand. The other attendees seem stunned at how Walter can go from extreme rage to tranquil calm in a split-second. He looks peaceful, sitting like a gentleman in his black suit with innocent tufts of white hair combed across his scalp, concealing a small bald spot.

"Look, President Richter, I've been around for a long time, and I know how things work." Walter continues his rant in a patronizing tone, pointing his right index finger at the president. "Three presidents before you all came to my apartment on Park Avenue, hat in hand, asking for campaign contributions. Well, those contributions were not free then, and they sure as hell aren't free now! Keeping America safe means protecting America's wealth...which also means protecting America's wealthy. It is your job, as Commander in Chief, to declare these documents an act of terrorism." The elderly man finishes his statement with a bit of contempt, lowering his finger and allowing his body to relax.

"I don't agree with that, Walter." Timothy Porter responds with a soured expression. "If we blow this up in the media, it might become 'a thing' for millions of people. Don't you see that the whole concept with these letters is to create an easy way for people to show their solidarity against capitalism? If we give them the news coverage, then the author of this letter will get exactly what he wants – ten thousand insane people swinging for our heads. No, we need to be smart about this, gentlemen."

"Yeah, let's not throw gas on the fire." President Richter agrees with executive grace, ensuring that he makes eye contact with the hands that feed him. "Don't be discouraged that we can't get a handle on this just yet. Remember that I have over thirty thousand agents listening to phone calls and watching social media. If someone starts trending with the acronym TMH, then we'll know where to pounce."

"That's fine!" Walter states in a pouty fashion, his large face turning red as he folds his arms. "But make sure you understand that this isn't just a letter, Richter. It's an idea, and ideas are just as dangerous as the people who start believing in them."

"Agreed, Walter," President Richter acknowledges with thinning patience, exhibiting his adaptability. "But I want to ensure that you all understand how serious this threat is, and why we called a meeting. Although there are some things we don't know, here's what we do know." The president finishes by raising his right hand toward his colleague from the CIA, allowing him to elaborate the finer points.

"Right, well we know that..." Director Jensen pauses for a moment, having not been immediately prepared to present these details. "...The letter was written by someone of academic tenure, based on the collegiate nuances." He reads from his notes aloud, looking up every few seconds to observe the level of engagement in the other attendees. "They tried to hide their style by 'dumbing it down' – think Mark Twain meets gangster rap. Further, they have knowledge of the underground, and have recently obtained a mailing list of convicted felons that are all violent offenders. Beyond that, each offender has strong connections to people outside of the prison system. So they're not just plotting a revolution; they're doing so by dual proxy. Our best bet with this is to beef up your security and to alert anyone with a substantial amount of wealth to report any suspicious activity. We'll also watch for stockpiling of arms approaching the November 5th date mentioned in the letter, unless that's a ruse. Regardless of their plan, if one exists, it's important to destroy the idea, and the people involved. Because they won't quit until all of you have lost your lives or your tremendous wealth. That's why we're creating an intelligence network centered on protecting the wealthiest Americans."

"It's about darn time you did something to take care of us!" Walter agrees with enthusiastic pride, slapping his hand down on the table in support of this agenda. "We're the backbone of America, not these people who are whining about losing their jobs to robots."

"Should we get Earl involved in this?" Timothy Porter suggests, looking around the room as if surprised not to see his fellow bear.

"Earl? Are you out of your mind, Porter!?" Walter conveys with unfiltered disgust. "Didn't you see the news the other day? Earl was almost killed by this young kid, and then he just turns around and gives him a job...a good job!"

"What about Jacob?" Porter says aloud, trying to think of more allies to help strengthen their position.

"Good God! Jacob is worse than his old man was five years ago!" Walter berates his friend with feverish passion. "He's probably the reason these letters have been circulating. If half of what I've heard about that kid is true, it would be like adding Adolf Hitler to a summit on government reform. No, let's leave The Calbraws out of this one. Earl used to be on our side, but now he's turned into Mother Theresa, sacrificing profits so that people can have jobs and a better...quality of life. I heard he's even been quoting from that new book Ethical Wealth, or some such nonsense."

"It sounds like garbage." Porter agrees with disgust. "What kind of Kool-Aid are they serving out of that book?"

"It's by some physicist...claims that the highest billable rate per hour, regardless of position, is five hundred dollars," Walter recalls with a look of frustration and dismay. "The author believes that a man can only work three thousand hours a year, at a maximum of five hundred dollars an hour. He says that an ethically wealthy person should limit their income to one-point-nine million dollars a year. The average lifespan is seventy-eight years. He says that no man can claim to have made more than one hundred and fifty million dollars in his lifetime, adjusted for inflation every year."

"That's a bunch of bullshit!" Porter erupts with righteous indignation. "How the hell can someone live on such a small piece of the pie? I'd have to budget the fuel consumption of my jet, stop paying my wife her five million a month, and probably wouldn't have anything leftover for investments. He's a damn socialist!"

"They're trying to kill Wall Street – I tell you. The world is going to hell." Walter surmises with a distant stare, looking exhausted and concerned. "The working class thinks that they are the backbone of America, when in reality, they're just a liability! Without people like us to keep them organized and competitive, they'd fall down in the dirt like a bunch of sheep. I'm tired of people saying that the dollar is weak because we took too much out of the 'piggy bank,' and didn't give any back."

"Hell yeah, my company is worth eighty-five billion dollars," Porter announces with defensive pride. "Are you telling me that I deserve less than two percent of the gross? That's total crap! Who would get the rest? My engineers? My project managers? My district managers? None of them would have a job without me! Sure, they made their contributions, and they got paid for their time, but I GET THE BIG MONEY! We take the risks and get the biggest piece of the pie!"

"I'm just curious," Director Jensen interrupts with unrestrained tenacity, "what you'd need that much money for, and the purpose that it serves?"

President Richter puts his right hand on Jensen's left bicep and gives him a rigid look, signaling that he is out of line. Lee Jensen gazes at the president with surprise, showing a grimace of betrayal to his friend.

"YOU'RE A DAMN COMMUNIST!" Walter shouts with intense hatred, flailing his arms like a young boy who has been instructed to go to bed early. "What do we need the money for? None of your damn business! This country was founded on the principles of making money and free enterprise. If some kid in Brooklyn can come up with an idea that will beat my supply chain, then he's welcome to do so, but we're not sharing OUR DAMN MONEY with anyone! Not you! Not the working poor...not these people with their so-called mental and physical disabilities. Not even our employees! That's what the government is there to do – all the economic hand-holding. And if the government runs out of money, then these people can starve for all I care! There's a viable solution to your unemployment and global warming problems...pissant! Death!" Walter finishes with a red face, breathing heavily and displaying raw emotion, like an old king defending his title.

"How can we trust a guy like this, Mr. President?" Porter asserts with a horrified expression, observing Director Jensen with compulsive suspicion. "How do we know that he didn't write this letter? I can't trust a CIA director that is going to promote class warfare just because I'm doing a billion times better than the other guy. Sucks for him! Good for me! Deal with it!" He half-shouts with a wicked fury, staring at Director Jensen as if he were just caught leaving his daughter's bedroom. "You go ahead and have your pity party," Porter continues as he gets to his feet and walks to the door. "But when it comes time for us to go to war, Mr. President, we'll make sure that your hands are tied. Do you remember that little amendment we agreed upon in 2019, where any act of war must go through Congress AND The National Business Council? Don't expect any votes in your favor. In the meantime, you would be best served to keep us safe, and your mouths shut."

Porter exits the conference room with dramatic flair, followed closely by Walter and the other three billionaires. After the heavy, steel door is slammed shut, President Richter and Director Jensen sit in silence for a moment. They contemplate the ramifications of everything that just took place.

"You do know that their money," President Richter begins with slumped shoulders and tired eyes, "is basically their religion, right? They don't call it the almighty dollar for nothing, Jensen."

"Right, Mr. President, but if we keep suffocating the people who actually work for a living, then the dollar won't be worth a dime." Director Jensen states with humble pride as he gets to his feet. "I swore to protect this country from its enemies...but lately, I'm confused as to who will protect us from The National Business Council."

"I know that, Lee, but I need their help getting reelected in three years," President Richter admits in a sober tone of voice. "After that, we can think about taking care of the rest of America. Money wins elections, and without it, you'll have someone with far less scruples in this chair. Let's be patient. This country has been through worse."

"Whatever you say, Sir." Jensen obeys with reluctance, "But for the record, this country has never defaulted on its debt with the world before. I would consider that the greatest threat to our national security is fifty-five years of people not paying their share of the taxes. Our national debt is going to lead us into a global fire sale."

Lee Jensen gets to his feet, nods to the president, and walks out of the conference room with hasty stoicism. President Richter looks down at his reflection on the carbon fiber surface of the table. He wonders when the office of the president became one that prompted such callous disrespect. The upbeat Puerto Rican gazes out the window with a horrifying epiphany. His insight is that the power of a nation relies heavily on its initiative to manage debt. He knows that solvency is vital to prevent foreign powers from gaining the upper hand.

THE CARVER HOME – HARLEM, NEW YORK

'This is where my son's reckoning begins,' Kelvin thinks to himself as he smokes a cheap cigar amidst a half-dozen dangerous men. He focuses on the miniscule details of their plan, going over important documents atop his small kitchen table with a new band of colleagues. To Kelvin's immediate left sits 'Billy Harmony,' also known as Bill Jayden. The man looks chic and confident in his simple duds, projecting an attitude of righteous street justice. His gray cashmere sweater and blue jeans help to accentuate Billy's balance between nobility and decadence.

Kelvin strokes his well-groomed beard and mustache. The tow truck driver reflects on his past adventures with Billy, and the mixed feelings that surface therein. He remembers their late teenage years and early twenties. It was a period when the nights would begin with drinking and fighting, and end with vandalism or jail time.

The young man smiles with radiance as he recalls a moment of comedic gold from their troubled youth. During one of their many attempts to please local gang members, they had set up a makeshift machine gun. The magazine was filled with harmless 'bullets' that were laced with strontium nitrate and magnesium. When the authorities showed up to make an arrest, the young men aimed the fake machine gun at their police car, snapped it into a fixed position, and set it to fire automatically. The resulting barrage of false gunfire rained down red balls of flame on the police vehicle, causing the officers to call for backup and vacate the area. Kelvin grins with immense satisfaction, filled with pride from his first memory of standing up to authority. His father had taught him almost nothing but science from the time he was a boy, carrying on the tradition of the Carver name. This act of defiance was the first adventure in his life, empowering him to avoid jail and dictating the actions of several adults.

"What about the mortgage payment, Kelvin?" Christina beckons from the hallway with a bit of urgency, showing respect to her husband for the first time in days. "I know you wanted to quit the repo business, but are we gonna' make enough to survive?"

"Mrs. Carver, your mortgage payment is covered for the whole year." Billy Harmony states with a regal smile, turning to wink at the young housewife with brotherly affection. "Now that Kelvin is back in business with us, y'all are gonna' be movin' on up in the world." The charismatic gangster announces with a cautious look toward Kelvin, waiting for his affirmation.

"You won't be wanting for anything now." A large, muscular man echoes from his position at Kelvin's right, his wide frame fitting snugly between the cheap kitchen table and a small chair that is pushed back to the wall.

"I'll be wanting to hold my son again," Christina replies without hesitation. "No amount of money or success...can replace Geo."

This statement sends the room into an awkward silence, with everyone waiting for Kelvin to reply. The grieving mother stares at the back of Kelvin's head for a moment. She feels guilty for the first time at the extra pain that he was forced to bear – by her vengeful temper. After a brief pause, Christina turns on her heel, feeling out of place. Her black cocktail dress and starlet hairdo no longer feel right. They are another means of punishing her husband by enticing his eager friends.

"I held him," Kelvin states in a strong voice, feeling his confidence rising at the thought of having the support of his wife. "I held him...right in front of that security gate." The woeful father turns to face his wife with an expression of sincere regret. "I watched him turn blue as their security guard told me to go to the second floor...so the rich people could enjoy their lunch. I held our son in my arms and raced up two flights of stairs, watching him die..."

Christina puts her hands over her mouth as tears begin to flow from her eyes. She shakes her head back and forth, never having bothered to hear Kelvin's side of the story. The room is silent in the most reverent manner, and everyone seems to know that the slightest movement would be disrespectful. After a brief pause, Christina marches over to her husband and wraps her arms around him. She gives him an embrace that is heartfelt and overdue.

"I held him in my arms," Kelvin repeats through tears of sorrow and redemption, gripping Christina's loving forearms as if they are a life preserver in his sea of despair.

"I know you did, sweetheart." She replies, kissing her husband on the top of his head, and rocking him in her arms. "A world that is cold enough to sit back and watch our son die...is no world for an honest man." Christina releases Kelvin's torso and takes two steps backward, realizing that she is still standing in a room filled with anxious wolves. "What they did to my son, they did to me. They've been suffocating us all for a long time, but this is too much. When they have no respect for the lives of our children, they don't deserve to feel safe. They shouldn't feel secure in their beds at night; not while my insides are torn apart from the loss of my baby. They shouldn't feel safe eating their meals, driving their cars or foolin' around with their women. I want them to know that we are people and to remember that every time they pass by a cemetery."

Christina looks around the room at the drowsy, yet inspired faces of the thugs that Kelvin has brought into their lives. As her eyes meet theirs, the conflicted mother feels somewhat satisfied and terrified.

"We'll get 'em, baby," Kelvin says with passionate affirmation, turning his head to the right as his wife slips out of the room. "How are we doing on funding?" He asks without hesitation, turning to face Billy Harmony. "Did we lock down the distribution chain in this neighborhood?"

"We've had...a little problem getting The Dragonfly to cooperate." Billy Harmony announces with a bit of frustration, stroking his clean-shaven head that is glistening beneath the cheap kitchen lighting. "He doesn't feel the need for a partnership, and says that he likes America the way it is – poor and easy to exploit."

"Well, that's too damn bad for The Dragonfly then." Kelvin asserts with a hardened stare, shifting his weight to display the strength of his resolve. "I'll deal with The Dragonfly tomorrow. What about our white friend with the deep pockets, James Levinson? Is he gonna' contribute to the cause?" The passionate father asks with impatience.

"Look, Kelvin, we said that we could bankroll you on this deal." Herb Phillips, the large man at his right states impulsively, scratching his massive elbow just below a tattoo of a hornet's nest. "Billy's got money. I've got money, and we've got six strong thugs ready to help us any minute of any day. What else do you want?" The gangster asks in a disappointed tone, looking across the kitchen at his partner as he lets his large hands flop down hard on the table.

"We need millions of dollars; not thousands," Kelvin announces, clasping his hands together as he leans forward and looks down at the plans. "This is war, gentlemen, and I know you don't like to do anything halfway – neither do I. We need thousands of pounds of chemicals. I want communications equipment, weapons, mobile lights, first aid equipment, spies, and a medical team that is off the radar. I also need building schematics, city plans, and internal corporate documentation."

"Jesus, Kelvin, what are you planning to do?" Billy Harmony inquires with discomfort, twisting a bit in his chair. "We'd all still like to get back to our families when this is over. I never told you that we'd go all in-"

"I'll go all in!" A confident voice interrupts with passion from the back of the room.

The men turn their attention to their eldest colleague, who is leaning against the wall in the hallway near the front of the kitchen. Barry Brinley stands with his feet flat against the tiled floor, resting his backside against the smooth, white wall of the small hallway. He looks approachable and happy, yet tough and formidable despite his full head of gray hair. Barry's eyes are hawkish, and his face is attractive for a man in his late fifties. His intensity and quick wit are often the heart and soul of their group, leaving the two leaders scrambling to keep up and save face.

"What kind of lives will our families have if we continue to let these people sell America down the river?" Barry challenges with a grand hand gesture, showing off the toned muscles of his biceps. "There are a lot of 'Uncle Tom' thinkers out there, and if you believe that slavery ended in the 19th Century, then you don't know your history. My daddy saw the writing on the wall when the stock market became a major part of our culture. He said, 'that is a bunch of men who make money off the labor of other men. It's nothin' more than slavery under a different name. You may disagree with me now, son, but you won't when the masters come to claim their prize.'"

Kelvin smirks a bit at Barry's wild declaration that slavery is alive and well in the 21st Century. Despite the man's odd position and sometimes laughable conclusions, his heart is in the right place. He smiles and nods toward Barry, thanking him for his contribution and vote of confidence.

"Gentlemen, what we're doing here is dangerous. It's going to be the most dangerous and least profitable thing you've ever done." Kelvin announces with honest tenacity. "Nobody has to come along. This fight is not something we're doing for ourselves; it's something we're doing for future generations. The land of opportunity has been robbed, and over fifty percent of our people have been shut out into the cold. They've hit us where it hurts, so we're going to hit them where it hurts. If you look at the power dynamic, you'll see that they are using news organizations that they own. The congressmen have been bought, and massive distribution centers keep their profits flowing."

"So which one are we gonna' hit first?" Barry asks with optimism, running his fingers gently across his gray hair as he blinks his eyes.

"We're going to hit them all!" Kelvin proclaims with his right fist raised in the air, shaking it powerfully to display his intense purpose. "I already have some people in play on the west side, and we'll get more firepower in the next few days. By the time the ashes are put out on the last fire, these powerful men will realize...we're not as weak as they thought."

"You're out of your damn mind, Kelvin." Billy Harmony emotes without hesitation, wiping his forehead with his right hand. "Are you sure this is gonna' work? I mean these people have billions of dollars. They're the 'ballers' of Wall Street, Kelvin. How do you know that we're not just cutting one head off of a snake that has hundreds more?"

"Because we're not going for the head, Billy," Kelvin says as he stares vacantly through his kitchen window. "We're gonna' hammer the body. I can't go into more detail. Nobody should be involved in every aspect of this other than me, but things are changing, my brothers. Mark my words, things are gonna' change."
X. War of the Songbird

"Imagine if you can your inner child realizing that he or she can dominate the lives of other people. You wake up one day, and all of your jokes are funny. Every idea that you have is brilliant, and people hang onto your every word. It's as though the knowledge that you have enough money to change their lives. Or rather, to complete their lives, causes them to gather at the edge of the animal enclosure, looking at you with soft eyes as though your hand is full of grain.

Then you wake up another day, and your wife is gone. You aren't the same man that you were before the money. Everything is a bland tapestry of elite designs and back patting. It was at that point in my life when I decided to become sober, and started to read more about happenings around the world. In my brief perusal of those global issues, I found that a fifteen-dollar bottle of antibiotics could save a mother's life. This concept touched me deeply, knowing that so little of my money could give a child back their parent. It restored a sacred tenet of life. So that's what started this whole charity concert series, and the reason I've decided to give back to the world. I gave my hardworking employees a forty percent increase, much to the chagrin of our board members.

I don't proclaim to know everything, or to be a saint, but I have learned that life does not boil down to endless profits. Life improves if we help one another to get through this journey, despite our differences and past wrongdoings."

– **Earl Calbraw, during an interview with** Entertainment Weekly **for his global charity concert series.**

"Thank you so much, Mr. Calbraw!" A young man emotes with enthusiasm, displaying a genuine blue-collar innocence in his eyes. "Before this program, my family... We didn't know what we were going to do! I had a tooth rotting out of my head, and my heart was in danger of bacterial infection. My ears were building up with fluid, and I was having these horrible fevers every night. All I needed was a few hundred dollars to visit a doctor, and this raise you gave us – THANK YOU SO MUCH!" The twenty-seven-year-old reaches for Earl with his arms outstretched, ready to give him a grateful bear hug.

Earl's humble warehouse employee seems dignified and incorruptible. He is wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a black T-shirt. They are covered with an orange and white, plaid, button-down shirt that hangs around his body. As Earl accepts his embrace, the man's weathered face seems endearing, and his soft blue eyes reflect as much. This embrace fills Earl with strength. He admires the man's short-cropped dark hair that rounds out his Norwegian features.

Celeste Marie smiles with warmth from the center of her body that she has not felt in years. Her throat becomes a cavalcade of withheld tears as the young singer observes this loving embrace between Earl and one of his employees. The old bear looks amazing with his gray hair slicked-back, and though he carries some extra weight in his abdomen, it does all the more to make him look distinguished. This moment is fleeting and real; a confession of employee hardship and the welcoming arms of his generous benefactor. Both men stand on even ground, with all eyes upon them, as if time has slowed down for the majesty of their bond. Earl grips the man with fatherly pride, his soft sweater and black jeans, making him appear very 'of the people,' despite his expensive shoes.

Howard sits to Earl's immediate right, wearing a black, designer suit. His outfit is so lavish, it almost undermines what his partner is trying to accomplish with the humanitarian fundraiser. The two business partners and the young singer are seated at a small banquet table in a rented venue at Pier 36. There are over ninety tables in the large room, and it evokes an ambiance of homeliness, with towering windows stretching to the ceiling. It also features a glowing, oversized fireplace, and exquisite burgundy carpeting. Each table is round and draped in an immaculate white topper with eight placements. There are tall wineglasses at each placement with butterfly place cards resting atop the rims. The name of each guest has been hand scribed in brilliant calligraphy, and rich black ink, on the left wing of every butterfly place card.

Celeste looks to her left, watching the stagehands putting everything together in the auditorium with compressed esteem. Although the party is in a room reserved for corporate events, the adjacent auditorium is visible. This opening allows guests with VIP passes to view the show from their dinner tables. The event is building an excitement within Celeste that breeds a healthy anxiety and eagerness to start performing. She sits at Earl's left, daydreaming about how she will dance around the stage, and what types of moves she wants to pull off during the event. The young woman is dressed in an elegant, floor-length royal blue gown, and her hairstyle is brilliant. It sparkles with a bit of gloss, which helps to accentuate the sheen on her face. Celeste glances at Earl's sweater as he finishes greeting a group of guests. She feels fortunate in deciding to tone down her look, avoiding the cleavage glitter altogether.

"You can drop that phony smile, Marie," Earl growls somewhat, concealing his apparent anger and waving to more guests as they pour in through the banquet room doors. "I know that you've been spending time with Jacob!" He adds with a fierce glance toward her as his guests make their way past the table.

"Jacob is your son-" Celeste begins to protest, taken aback by his interest in her personal life.

"My son!?" Earl interrupts with a gaze of superiority, rolling his eyes at the young redhead. "Did you know about the clause in your contract that prohibits you from having romantic relationships with my friends and relatives?" The frustrated billionaire continues in a threatening tone.

"We're concerned about our investment in you." Howard reinforces with a detached stare, leaning closer to Celeste. "It seems that your relationship with Jacob, whatever its nature, is an act of betrayal of Mr. Calbraw's and my trust."

Celeste can feel her bottom lip beginning to tremble, but she forces herself to maintain composure. The young woman wants to ensure that the two men don't feel empowered. She sits up straight and rolls her shoulders, twisting her neck as her wild orange hair caresses her bare skin.

"How long have you been following me?" Celeste asks with a devious smile, demonstrating that she isn't about to be bowled over like a clueless party girl. "Oh, wait! I forgot that you don't actually do things for yourselves. Let me rephrase... How long have your people been following me?" She asks in a disenchanted fashion, wishing to remain friendly despite the intrusion.

"We don't actually do things ourselves?" Earl repeats with a lamenting candor, turning to his business partner and shaking his head, before returning his gaze to Celeste. "Look at that concert hall, Celeste! Think about the fact that twenty thousand people will hear your voice, and enjoy your music. Do you remember what types of venues you played before we met?"

"If you could even call them venues..." Howard says with raised eyebrows, shaking his head.

"Yeah, right?" Earl stops for a moment, nodding to Howard in solidarity. "We took you out of the slums and brought you into a new world of possibilities. I have put your name out to the world, and basically screamed to them that you are worth their time. But all of that can go away – quickly!" He states with a hushed, fundamentalist-like gaze, threatening her by lowering his eyebrows somewhat.

"What is it with you and your son? I-" She begins to protest, but is immediately silenced by the two men.

"Look, I know that you think you're doing the right thing, trying to repair my relationship with Jacob." Earl interrupts, holding up his left palm in her face to signal silence. "But you need to know that my son doesn't care for you. Any feelings that you think he has are just a means for him to damage me, and my efforts to be a better person."

"It's true, Celeste," Howard says in a soothing tone, smiling at her for the first time of the evening. "I've watched this battle between father and son for years. Jacob's hatred for Earl has almost put our company on the verge of collapse."

"What has he done?" Celeste asks with wide eyes, ashamed of herself for following their lead in the conversation. "I mean, if you tell me what he's done that's so terrible, then I'll be able to make a mature and informed decision. At least give me that." She finishes with a warm smile, attempting to charm Earl out of his obvious demeanor of malcontent.

"Well, he's convinced girls not to perform concert dates," Earl replies immediately, feeling more relaxed by her cooperation. "He's gotten them pregnant a few months before the tour. A few of my dancers were so strung out on drugs; I had to rescind their contracts and send them packing." The entrepreneur announces with contempt, breathing outward through his nose like a tormented buffalo ready to stampede. "But I suppose the most horrifying thing is...I don't know what Jacob is capable of doing. This rebellion all came about with some simple pranks - at first. I'd flush the toilet, and the shower would fill. Now that his mother is gone, he's not the same person. My son has become a wild man; someone engulfed in rage, and driven by spite. It's extremely hostile, Celeste; you don't want to get into the middle of this battle."

GERALD'S PENTHOUSE – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Jacob sits atop a large, white windowsill in Gerald's master bedroom, staring down at the city in haunted disappointment. He is clad in a pair of expensive, black jeans, coupled with a purple muscle shirt, and a thick, black leather belt. His hair is blown here there by the frosty breeze that is entering from the half-opened window.

The young man exhales with anxious disdain, fondling a cigar in the fingers of his right hand, and playing with a black Zippo Lighter in his left. He listens to the conversation between his father and Celeste with growing interest. Jacob ignores that the frequent eavesdropping of Calbraw Senior's conversations is leaving him with fresh wounds.

"This is the same old bullshit and drama that my father has been selling for years," Jacob says into his microphone, shivering a bit in the cold as a stiff breeze hits him from the window. "I've never gotten anyone pregnant; at least not to the point where they actually had a baby. The dancers were already strung out on drugs; all I did was provide them with the money to buy more. As for the rest, he's just trying to scare you."

Jacob places his right palm against his forehead, allowing the butt of the cigar to rest on the center of his bangs. The glowing tip pokes out from between his fingers, releasing smoke into the room.

"Look, sweetheart, I've gotta' get back to the poker game." The young man finally admits to Celeste through her earpiece. "Tell my father that you promise never to see me again. When the concert ends tonight, why don't you go to the east garage in the underground parking? My car will be waiting for you there. If you don't show up...I understand. Have a great concert, my dear. I'll be dreaming about you, with my eyes open."

The young man turns off his earpiece with a defeated gaze. His father's words drive through him like flaming daggers. He takes a deep breath to relieve his inner torment, and gathers his composure before returning to Gerald's poker game.

PIER 36 VIP PARKING STRUCTURE – NEW YORK

Celeste steps out into the east parking garage with a symphony of silent pride. Her high heels click on the cold cement, echoing her presence to the world. She is wearing a sexy, white designer dress that is so form-fitting, it would have been inappropriate at the humanitarian dinner. The young singer's neck is adorned with a strand of pinkish pearls, and her body is covered in a full-length coat made from Lynx fur. The cold is a bit much as it enters the bottom of the coat, caressing her stocking-covered legs with unwelcome, icy wisps. A small, white leather purse dangles from a thin strap atop her right shoulder.

She smiles with accomplished satisfaction, strutting through the empty structure, reserved only for VIPs. The smile grows wider as Celeste recalls her performance, just moments ago, in front of over twenty thousand screaming fans. It was a magical show, and the New York crowd was all the more accepting of her than they had been at previous venues. When she sang about 'Forty-Ninth Street Firefighters,' and 'The Devil You Dated,' many of the young women in the audience seemed touched and connected to the music. She recalls one shining moment, when her body bent low toward the stage with a microphone, and her voice boomed ethereal over the crowd. It was among the most awesome of spectacles that a performer could ever dream to witness. Her backup dancers were in tight formation; the crowd was engaged at fever pitch, and the lighting was as majestic as one would want.

Celeste stops walking when she realizes that Jacob's car is not there to pick her up as he had promised. She sighs through her nose, watching a bit of steam hang for a half-second in the chilly air. As she raises her head, the young woman notices a few subtle lights leading up the ramp toward the street. Although this amphitheater is new to her, she doesn't remember having seen running lights in the floor when visiting the venue earlier. Her curiosity escalates further when she notices that more lights are appearing in the distance. There is a new, luminous little spot on the floor every few seconds.

Celeste twists her head to the right, appearing more than modestly beautiful with her face in full makeup. The radiant redhead steps forward, eyeing the lights as they continue to appear. When she reaches the first of the mysterious, glowing objects, her hand darts down toward the cement, and she bends at the knees to examine it closer. Her face is soon illuminated with the delight of a child in a magical new playground. The glowing object on the floor is a Fire Rose: a new product available to men or women wishing to woo their beloved. She picks the lengthy object up from the floor, looking first at its stem with the familiar lithium-ion battery attached to the water reservoir. As she straightens her body, the athletic diva raises the flower toward her face. Celeste gazes in awe at the brilliant, fiber-optic lights, blooming from its center out to the edge of each petal. The effect is hypnotic as she holds it in her hand, getting nostalgic feelings of romance from the scent of the rose petals.

The tenacious singer licks her upper lip for a moment, before bringing forth a brilliant smile of unabashed flattery. Her legs begin to march across the cement in pursuit of more Fire Roses, knowing that her admirer will soon appear somewhere along the path. Celeste doubles her speed as she notices that the pathway of illuminated flowers is almost out of sight. She stops every twenty to thirty feet, picking up a new Fire Rose and bundling them together in a gorgeous arrangement. Her heart is swelling with the anticipation of a powerful, romantic adventure. Despite all the warning signs, she is determined to know where this path leads. The woman is moving with the passion of someone on a mission, trying to find her love through a maze of dark concrete. She is unafraid of the dangers that might lie a few hundred yards ahead...or even a few days.

The pale, yellow lighting and cement floors of the parking garage are coming to an end as Celeste spies the security office of the VIP area. There is a large, wrought iron gate to allow vehicle access and another gate for pedestrian passage. A young security guard stands near the pedestrian gate. He is holding it open with his right hand, gesturing with his left for Celeste to pass through to the street. The sight of this young man's gesture takes a bit of the dangerous edge off for Celeste; nonetheless, she is intrigued that the path continues out onto the streets of New York. The young singer smiles at the nineteen-year-old security guard. She passes him by, sharing a moment of elation with the young man, expressed by an exhilarated shrug of her shoulders.

When she exits the gate, Celeste finds herself amongst a group of pedestrians. Most of them walk and mind their business while others stop to observe the chivalrous gesture, marked with a trail of Fire Roses. She finally spots Jacob just fifty feet away from her on the sidewalk. He is crouched in an adorable pose, holding his right index finger to his lips and clutching a Fire Rose with his left hand. The young entrepreneur is clad in a long, black trench coat with designer shoes and a trendy pair of black jeans. His winning smile immediately warms the young woman's heart in the freezing night air. He winks at her with devious intent, signaling that he has something amazing planned. There are two men standing behind Jacob, each with a leather quiver slung over their right shoulder. The brown, leather quivers are stained an almost walnut shade. Celeste can see the lights of several Fire Roses blooming from within each quiver.

The smitten singer returns Jacob's smile, and as if in response, he gets to his feet. He walks backward with the two large men escorting him. Every five feet, Jacob reaches back to a quiver and snatches a Fire Rose, which he tosses to one side or the other. Celeste bites her bottom lip in feminine ecstasy, feeling a rapture of desire as she follows along the path of the gorgeous, blooming flowers. They make their way up the street briskly, and to the young woman's surprise, only two of the expensive flowers are stolen by onlookers. She shakes off the theft with warm persistence, following Jacob and his gentlemen along the stretch of freezing sidewalk, in search of his romantic surprise.

When she has gathered over twenty roses, Celeste spots a white carriage that is old-fashioned and looks to be straight out of a production of Cinderella. The young woman cannot contain her excitement as she scoops up the remaining roses on her way to the white, horse-drawn conveyance.

Jacob awaits the young beauty with a mischievous smile. His right knee is planted on the sidewalk while he holds the carriage door open for his date to climb inside. As Celeste approaches, she begins to speak, but the young man silences her by putting his index finger to his lips. He gestures for her to step up into the elaborate passenger area. Celeste curtsies a bit and snickers at herself, deciding to enter the carriage with her glowing flowers like a proper diva.

When she reaches the padded rear seat of the spacious carriage, Celeste is enamored by the entire scene. The seats are upholstered with a soft, red fabric that feels divine to the touch. There is warmth inside the carriage; a welcome addition that causes her to giggle. As her firm rear end bounces on the royal gold and red seat, she gazes out the windows with eyes of wonder. The driver of their carriage is wearing a large top hat and an old-fashioned gray uniform. Their carriage is being drawn by a white Clydesdale to complete the fairytale look. It appears more fantastic than those she has seen on television and in movies.

Jacob bids farewell to his comrades that escorted him across the sidewalk, and then turns his attention to the lively singer inside the carriage. He leaps up onto the sturdy iron step, and the carriage leans a bit to the right as he enters, taking a seat opposite Celeste and closing the door behind him. Several people on the sidewalk stop to applaud the young couple for a moment, having watched their progress from the parking garage to this romantic destination. Celeste and Jacob wave to them with enamored smiles and the driver snaps the reins, signaling the horse to pull away from the curb and out into traffic. The Clydesdale begins an impressive march over the freezing asphalt, moving the carriage along at a cozy speed.

Inside the passenger area, Celeste is ablaze with lust. Part of her wants to tear Jacob's clothes off right away, but the logical side of her puts on the proverbial brakes. She hears a pair of electric heaters come to life as the carriage picks up speed and smiles at her date with a curious expression. The interior of the carriage is fancy and modern, while the exterior appears Victorian. It has large, decorative windows, and extravagantly painted surfaces. Jacob scoops a bottle of already breathing champagne out of an ice reservoir to his right. He uses it to fill a tall, fluted glass, which he passes to Celeste, ensuring that their eyes meet.

"Thank you!" She says with a spoiled grin, clutching the fine crystal with her left hand as she holds the bundle of Fire Roses with her right forearm.

Jacob doesn't respond, but emits a smirk of enjoyment, stopping to pour himself a glass of champagne as well. When the glass is full, he returns the bottle to the ice with a brisk movement and raises his glass toward the beauty before him. Celeste lays down the glowing flowers and her purse on the seat to her right, and then raises her glass as well.

"To a tremendous performance and a magical evening!" Jacob evokes with refined pride, tapping his glass against hers in a toast of an evening well began.

"So where are we going?" Celeste asks with eager anticipation, lighting up with another magical smile as she takes a sip of the champagne.

"We are going to blindfold you...about a block before we get where we're going." Jacob says with a subtle smile, winking at her playfully. "But don't worry, I think you'll love what I've put together."

"If your father finds out about this, I'll be-" Celeste begins with a bit of concern, watching Jacob put his hand out to calm her.

"My father already knows about us. That's why he's so shaken." Jacob states, interrupting her with a fearless gaze. "Don't worry about his threats. Those twenty thousand fans were screaming for your voice, not his. It would be in poor taste for him to disappoint them."

"Yeah, I don't get what his damn problem is," Celeste admits with a frustrated sigh, "I mean you're his only son. What..? Why would he..? Let's just enjoy our night." The young woman says finally, noticing a hint of discomfort in Jacob and decides to relax. "Nobody owns me! I'm not a damn dog!"

"That's right!" Jacob announces with a grin. "You're a bitch...a bad bitch!" He emphasizes with raised eyebrows, referencing one of the songs that she performed in the amphitheater earlier in the evening.

"Yep, I'm a bad bitch!" The young Bostonian states with fervent authority, feeling alive and full of renegade energy. "Let's go full throttle on this town. If we survive, then that's just a chance to do it all over again!"

They smile at one another after this statement and drink their champagne down with rebellious intent. Jacob pours another glass of champagne as the hooves of the Clydesdale carries them forward, marching toward the evening of a lifetime. While the romance hangs in the atmosphere, Jacob produces a gray blindfold from his left jacket pocket, flicking it rapidly to make it unfurrow like a magician. Celeste smiles as he drapes the soft, gray cloth over her eyes, tying it off at the back of her head.

Once the singer's eyes are covered, Jacob leans forward with a lamenting scowl, his face no longer adoring and gentle, but malicious and cold. The young man's pupils are glazed over in an unsettling white color, and his blue eyes penetrate her with self-righteous purpose. Jacob's nose is only a half-inch away from the tip of her delicate, feminine nose, and he turns his head slowly, as if mounted on a swivel. The sadistic billionaire envisions his elbow smashing against Celeste's nose and breaking the bones therein. Jacob fantasizes about slamming her face until her high cheekbones are crushed. He can feel his breathing becoming intense and his heart rate increasing as the forbidden images of violence streak through his mind. Jacob smiles like a sickly jackal, imagining how it would feel to strike her with an empty champagne bottle.

"You're really quiet," Celeste announces with an innocent giggle. "You wouldn't dare falling asleep on me while my eyes are covered, would you?" She finishes with an endearing smirk, still caught up in the ambiance of the ride.

Jacob is overcome by a desire to smash the singer's toes by stomping on her feet with the heels of his shoes. The rage explodes upwards from his center in wave after wave of destructive desire. He ponders bending her fingers backward and breaking them.

"We have to eliminate the pawns, and the queen will be exposed," Jacob announces in an unusually deep voice, staring at the center of Celeste's throat with destructive intent.

"What!?" Celeste asks with more than a little confusion. "Look, dude, I'm still a Bostonian, and you need to put the brakes on, okay? Let's just have fun tonight, and we'll see where that takes us."

She loosens the blindfold and pulls it upward around her bright, orange bangs, gazing with distrust at the man opposite her. Celeste is amazed to see Jacob curled up on his right side, staring out the window with his arms folded. There are droplets of sweat glistening within the delicate strands of his short, black and gold hair. She knows by the rapid sinking and swelling of his chest beneath his folded arms that his breathing is labored. This behavior causes the singer to shrink back into the opposite corner of the carriage. Celeste smashes her Fire Roses as she strains to distance herself from Jacob.

"What the hell is going on with you!?" She demands, bringing her legs up near her chest in a protective pose while covering herself with the long fur coat.

"You know the medication that says 'don't take with alcohol?'" Jacob begins with an innocent wink. "Well, I took two different prescriptions, and I shouldn't be drinking. Don't worry, this won't ruin our evening, I just need a minute." He reassures her with a guilty stare, focusing on his knees to prevent further disorientation.

"Well, just so you know..." Celeste says in a sober and cautious tone as she unties the blindfold and lets it drop to the floor. "If you're going to say creepy shit like that, whether you're kidding or not, the blindfold ain't gonna' happen. As a matter of fact, if you're not feelin' better in fifteen minutes, then I'll just get a cab back to my hotel." The young redhead emphasizes by giving Jacob a stern look, reminding him that a girl from the neighborhood 'can't easily be done wrong.'

"Just give me a minute," Jacob replies with an outstretched hand, urging his date to continue for a while longer. "I promise that if you skip what's coming next, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. In fact, if you walk through the door, and aren't blown away, then we can walk away and never speak again." He says with complete sincerity, showing that he is ready to be real for the rest of the evening.

"It better be awesome," Celeste states with a smirk and a wink, "because with the night I've already had onstage, you'll need to pull off a romantic comedy – times two."

Jacob finds himself under a bit of unexpected pressure from this statement. His anxiety attack is dissipating, and he tries to convince himself that he is in control of his mind and body. The young man looks at the bottle of champagne, wondering if his father has finally taken their battle up a notch. He begins to tremble at the thought of psychotropic drugs being introduced into his system, never knowing when Calbraw Senior will finally decide that it is game over. In spite of all these thoughts, he manages a genuine smile for his suspicious date.

THE GREEN BRICK ROAD IRISH PUB – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Celeste is blushing when they arrive at a cozy Manhattan pub that has a Bostonian theme. The young woman bites her lower lip for a moment and decides to hide her excitement. She gives Jacob the demure smile of a leading lady, showing him that he must try harder. Jacob steps out of the carriage and offers his elbow to her in true gentile fashion. The young woman places her hand within the loop of his arm, and they proceed toward the oversized wooden doors of the pub.

When they reach the front doors, Celeste can hear lively, Celtic music blaring through the thick, rough wood. A bonafide Irish guard stands between them and the pub, wearing a striped white shirt, coveralls, and a wool flat cap. The young man is muscular and seems like the owners chose him more for his looks than his combat skills. When the couple is within inches of him, he brings up his hands in a 'Fighting Irish' boxing stance. Though he immediately shrugs off this false aggression and steps aside, opening the door on the right.

The music goes silent as the door opens, and Jacob gestures for Celeste to enter. She feigns a lack of interest for a moment, even going as far as to shrug her shoulders, but Jacob insists, peering at her like a wounded puppy. Without realizing what she's doing, the young woman bites her lip again, intrigued by what her mysterious, young gentleman caller has to offer. She takes a deep breath, feeling her heartbeat accelerate, wishing to know what the surprise is just a few feet inside of the decorative door. At first her steps are cautious, but she refuses to make anything less than a spectacular entrance and decides to enter the building with a radiant smile.

"SURPRISE!" A group of enthusiastic people shouts to the young woman, almost causing her to trip on the cobblestones within the pub.

Celeste looks around the cavernous place at several figures from the music industry and many of her friends from high school. She turns toward Jacob with a devilish grin, realizing that the night is about to get much better.

"I figured that you could use a proper New York after party," Jacob says with a subtle wink and a shy smile.

Celeste responds by pulling him close to her and giving him a passionate kiss with a strong embrace. Her high school friends hoot and holler in front of them as though they haven't aged a day. When they finish their heated kiss, Celeste turns to the group with a look of deep embarrassment and elation. She begins to embrace each of her friends, anticipating one of the best evenings of her life.

JACOB'S LUXURY CONDO – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Jacob awakens with his hands and feet compressed hard against the luminous white walls of his condo. He relaxes his arms a bit and feels his body shift downward. The young man abruptly tightens his body again to remain safe. As his vision clears, he sees the hardwood flooring of his penthouse almost fifteen feet below him. His body is bare, save for a pair of boxer shorts that he was wearing during the end of his date with Celeste. Drops of sweat are flowing from the side of his head, dripping to the floor in a militant fashion. They seem like army ants following a scent trail.

"What the fuck am I doing up here!?" Jacob exclaims with a gasp, straining from the effort of keeping himself from falling to the floor.

Although his body temperature is high, he feels the bite of cold air throughout the condo. It digs into his muscles as if they are being massaged by frigid, dead fingers. His arms and legs are trembling from intensive overuse of the muscles, and he knows that his body will soon be on the floor. Jacob peers down to where the vaulted hallway ceiling ends just four feet below him. He presses harder with his right hand, hoping to stabilize his body while shifting his left hand downward on the wall. The strain in his muscles becomes more intense at this new angle. This forces him to reverse the procedure immediately, returning to the top of the hallway.

"Oh shit!" Jacob exclaims, realizing that his journey to the floor won't be earned without a sacrifice.

He looks at his hands for a few seconds, and then down toward his ankles, trying to determine which he can afford to break.

"Celeste!" Jacob calls out, remembering that his date should still be in the bedroom. "CELESTE! WAKE UP!" He reiterates with immediate urgency, noticing that his hands and feet are slipping along the surface.

"What do you need?" The young woman asks impatiently, still half-asleep in the other room.

"Help me get down...I...I need something to break my fall!" He states with growing tension in his voice, watching his hands and feet slipping down the walls.

"Yeah, okay...sounds good." His drunken date replies from her slumber, refusing to get out of bed in spite of the urgency in his voice.

'Hands or feet?' Jacob thinks as he releases his grip on the walls, feeling himself dropping to the indelicate surface. When his body reaches the edge of the ceiling, his arms and legs spring back outward. This action resounds with a violent thud that nearly breaks through the walls. Jacob is shocked to see that he is again suspended above the floor. His left hand is dripping blood as the impact tore the skin open somewhat. To his dismay, he feels his hands release from the wall in front of him. He then kicks the wall behind him with both feet, now hovering only ten feet above the floor. Jacob leans backward in midair as his face just misses the edge of the ceiling. He braces for a painful impact that might break one of his ankles.

His body drops another foot, and the young man reaches out with his left hand like a powerful ape. During his descent, he grabs the decorative railing that protrudes from the kitchen. Jacob notices that the muscles in his back and abdomen are taught. They are strained almost to their maximum capacity to allow for this maneuver. In a final dismount, he releases his grip on the railing, kicks off from the wall, and lands stealthily onto his feet, barely making a sound.

When his feet are planted on a solid surface, Jacob kneels down in pain, still having problems with his strained muscles. The young man's body trembles in the frigid condo, and he kneels all the way down to kiss the floor. A small puddle of sweat is forming around his feet. The intense efforts and adrenaline have forced his body into emergency cooling mode. He bolts upright with a shiver, gazing toward the vaulted ceiling with intrigue and suspicion. Jacob wonders how he had climbed such a sheer surface without any rope or handholds. His mind continues to ponder this feat as he makes his way back to the thermostat. When he reaches out to change the temperature, Jacob notices smudges of blood on the white face of the unit, and on the stainless steel slider. The young man lets out a snort of annoyance, discovering that the temperature has been set once again down to forty-five degrees. With the flick of his wrist, he changes the temperature back to seventy degrees, ignoring the sticky bits of blood. The heater responds with an immediate groan, as if it were a guard waking up after being caught sleeping while on duty.

Jacob steps away from the thermostat, staring once again at the vaulted ceiling where he was hovering just moments ago. He turns his head sideways for a moment, confused as to how he could have climbed to such a height, and gotten into that position from a nearly impossible angle.

"It's too cold!" Celeste confirms from her position on the bed, speaking halfway through her pillow, still refusing to get up in the early morning. "Get back in here and warm me up!" She says playfully, sounding a bit more alert.

Jacob places his palm on his forehead, and it becomes drenched with sweat when he moves his head back and forth. There is so much sweat on his hand that it begins to drip toward his eyes, and he is forced to move it away from his face. The salty moisture on his fingers gives Jacob an idea, and he uses the sweat from his brow to clean the blood off of the thermostat. Under normal circumstances, he would choose a more proper form of cleanup. Though with exhaustion setting in, and the stress of not understanding his nocturnal exercises, Jacob decides to focus on resting. When the thermostat is clean, he wipes the remaining sweat and blood onto his boxer shorts. The tired young man then shuffles back into the bedroom where Celeste is resting.

"Hey, you..." Celeste begins in an endearing voice, trying to be cute with her eyes halfway opened. "Get back in bed with me." The sleepy redhead reaches toward Jacob, sitting upright in the bed, and the young man detects the faintest squeak of air being released from behind her.

Jacob's eyes widen for a moment, feeling that this could be the worst possible time for his date to become overly comfortable. After a few seconds of contemplation, he decides to hold his breath and climbs into bed with Celeste. Jacob elects to forgo any judgments after his recent session of sleep acrobatics. With a platonic smile that borders on romance, he slides up next to the talented diva, lying on his left side with his right arm around her abdomen.

"So tell me about your mother." Celeste inquires in her somewhat drunken state. "I was always told that the best boyfriends are the guys that have a good rel-lish...rel-ash...relationship with their mother."

"That's the last thing I want to talk about right now," Jacob replies with an icy stare, feeling uncomfortable with the question, and the lingering cold in the condo.

"Did you know that personal growth-" Celeste stops speaking to adjust her left shoulder on the pillow somewhat. "Did you know personal growth means that the last thing you want to talk about, is the first thing you should?" She waits for a response, sensing his frigidness toward the subject, despite her intoxication. "Well, then just tell me about some of the good things that happened. Tell me about when you were happy with her." The young woman states, not wishing to sleep until she hears more about the man that was intimate with her just a few hours ago.

Jacob's defense for questions of this type is typically airtight. Though after the episode in the hallway, the young man is willing to try almost anything to stabilize himself.

"We used to attend church together." He says after a short pause, watching Celeste with caution for any signs of judgment.

"Ah, that's sweet." The young singer responds as she wraps Jacob's hand tighter around her abdomen. "You went to church with mom to learn about being a good boy."

"We went to a catholic church." He says with a haunted stare, feeling surprised at how comforting her arm feels wrapped around his. "It was just outside of Manhattan, away from Dad and his business bullshit. Back then, he wasn't Earl Calbraw, savior of the city. He was a vicious and selfish drunk. Anyway, she'd spend a lot of time getting us dressed." Jacob stops speaking, immediately realizing his mistake.

"But you don't have any brothers or sisters." Celeste declares through her fading alcoholic haze, becoming clearer as every minute passes.

"No, I don't." He agrees with concern, looking back up toward the vaulted ceiling and the now infamous hallway. "She made sure that I looked perfect, down to the finest detail. We spent hours getting ready, and the traffic on the way over took another hour or more to get there. But when we got to church, she lit up inside, became a renewed woman; someone with hope and pride. During the week, my father would beat her down, but on Sunday she would find a way to shed her skin, and become this amazing person. I remember confessing some of my sins in the confessionals, but at that point, I hadn't done much of anything."

"Is the church still nearby?" Celeste interrupts, snagging the opportunity to speak as Jacob pauses for reflection.

"It burned down," Jacob admits in a somber tone.

"JESUS CHRIST!" She exclaims with buzzed frustration, attempting to slap her forehead with her left hand, but hitting her nose instead. "Do you have any stories that don't end with something morbid? We had a dog, but he ran away to join the circus. We bought a gerbil, but it didn't like my dad's Jewish lawyer. We won the lottery, but my parents became-" Celeste stops herself from speaking, realizing that her final joke would become a flaming arrow that she could never put back into her quiver.

"Yeah, we won the lottery...so to speak," Jacob replies, feeling a bit wounded and amused. "But you're right, there are some positive stories."

"Is the church still there?" Celeste asks, clutching his hand in a silent apology.

"Yeah, but it's a mess from hell. I don't want to go there now to see it-" He stops speaking as his drunken counterpart decides to interrupt.

"Why don't you rebuild it?" Celeste suggests with a charming grin. "I mean...unless you don't have the money." She finishes this last sentence with a snicker, as though it were the funniest thing ever said in the history of mankind.

"Yeah, I could do that," Jacob says with a warm embrace, feeling inspired and alive by his new companion. "Let's get some sleep; I'm exhausted." He suggests despite his sudden elation, feeling the warmth of the furnace finally restoring the room to its proper temperature.

"Okay," Celeste replies with her eyes already closed. "Let's just see if we can make this work...without burning it down."

The young couple soon falls asleep in peace, feeling relaxed and rejuvenated from a long night of play.

When Jacob awakens the next morning, his head is pounding with a severe headache, caused by a hangover. The room seems too bright, and his body aches with every movement as he rolls over to check the time. The alarm clock displays 11:45 in bright green numbers. Jacob stares blankly at the empty side of the bed, recollecting that Celeste was next to him a few hours ago.

Although there are many aches and pains from his late night exercise regimen, he gets up from the bed and stumbles into the bathroom for a quick shower.

After his shower, Jacob gets dressed into some casual clothing, choosing an outfit that doesn't constrict his swollen arms and legs. He hears sobbing coming from the living room area of his condo and decides to investigate. When he emerges from the bedroom, the young man recognizes his new girlfriend sitting on the sofa.

"What's wrong?" Jacob asks with suspicion, noticing that Celeste is sitting on the couch with her knees tucked to her chest in a protective posture.

"Your father is...a piece of shit!" She states with conviction, feeling guilty as the words leave her lips.

"I've known that for years-" Jacob begins, but is immediately silenced as Celeste holds her right palm up toward his face.

The young redhead is wearing his button-down dress shirt from the night before, and her bare legs look amazing despite the lack of a tan. Celeste begins to weep, feeling destroyed in the same manner that Jacob had on so many occasions – at the pleasure of his father. She is clutching a cellular phone in her left hand, holding it against her shin, with her forearm wrapped around her leg.

Jacob approaches the sofa, appearing dashing in a white compression shirt and white jeans with a black leather belt. He attempts to pry the cellular phone from her hand, but she resists vehemently, as though the information on the screen contains part of her soul. After a bit of aggressive wrangling, Jacob procures the phone from her, and he uses the button on the side to illuminate the screen. There is a text message open that was sent from a contact labeled E. Calbraw. The message reads as follows:

'8:15 am: Celeste, I'm sorry to do this, but we'll have to rescind our contract with you, based on the clause that we discussed in a dinner earlier this week. Howard and I feel that it's best for you to move on with your career and that doing so will be easier since we've pushed you along. While we respect your level of talent and commitment, I cannot have someone failing me on such a tight schedule. Although you were scheduled to play a second venue tonight in New York, we've arranged for another talent to replace you. The show will be airing online as a live broadcast, and you can watch it through the subscriber of your choosing. We will introduce our new talent to the press shortly before showtime, and I encourage you to watch with an open mind. My partner and the board of directors have decided that it's time to terminate our relationship, and allow you to find your own way in the industry. Please accept my sincerest gratitude for all your passion and hard work. I hope that you continue to do work in the spirit of charity and wish you the best in your endeavors. –Earl.'

"Are you going to watch the show?" Jacob asks with a mellow gaze.

"MY CAREER just went up in flames, and you want me to watch my replacement!?" Celeste snaps with raw passion, rolling her left hand into a tight fist. "What the hell is wrong with you? One Calbraw fires me through text message, and the other one can't wait to see the PAIN IN MY FACE, when I see my replacement onstage. Does that about sum it up for you? It must be really nice to have billions of dollars, and to wipe your ass with hundred-dollar bills as you shit on the lives of others. What is wrong with you..? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?" The young singer shouts, throwing her arms in the air as she looks down at the floor in shame.

"Let's just watch it," Jacob says, putting his hand out with the palm facing downward, waiting for her to scream again.

Celeste gives him a murderous look, but the rage is mixed with tears that stream in sleek lines over her prominent cheekbones. She wipes away a tear from the right side of her face and closes her eyes, waiting to hear his proposal.

"Let's just watch it like a couple of adults." He begins with care, putting both hands up as if to halt an unstoppable train. "We'll watch the performance together because we both know that you're going to watch it at some point. We'll watch it together-" Jacob repeats, finding himself interrupted again by the fuming beauty.

"For what!?" Celeste asks, showing a deep suspicion for her new lover. "What is this supposed to accomplish for me!?" She demands as the veins begin to bulge in her lean neck.

"To show him that he can't win!" Jacob says with a sudden brightness in his eyes. "I've been doing it my whole life. We take the cards that he has dealt us, and we spin this in our favor. We enjoy our day and finish the night with rebellion and smiles." The young man says with a broad grin.

Celeste gazes at the floor for a moment, feeling helpless and a bit vulnerable. She doesn't want to become Jacob's dependent slave. Though, his charm is contagious, and she decides to go forward with optimism.

"Okay, I'll watch." She agrees finally, slapping her knees with both hands. "But first I need a little bit of alone time in the bathroom, and enough time to make a few phone calls. I need to vent...even if I will be acting like an adult later." She relays with poise, staring Jacob down with her discerning eyes.

"Sure, go ahead and vent," Jacob states with an optimistic gaze. "We'll get through this...I promise that when we're done, you'll have another reason to smile." He winks at her with confidence, not expecting a response. "Take your space in the bathroom, and I'll work on my new project for a while."

"What new project?" Celeste asks in a more civil tone, looking around the room for any clues.

"I'm going to rebuild the church, and dedicate it to my mother." Jacob beams with an expression of satisfaction.

"That's awesome!" She says with relief, knowing that he has been stuck on this subject for some time. "Now you can finally say goodbye to her-"

"DON'T SAY THAT!" Jacob shouts, glaring at her with a prowess that is cold and predatory. "THERE'S A SEVENTY-THREE PERCENT CHANCE THAT SHE'S STILL ALIVE!" He finishes in an unsavory tone, staring into Celeste's eyes as if she just killed his mother.

"Okay..." Celeste says, deciding to be sensitive to his pain; if for nothing other than survival. "It looks like we've both had a bad day. Why don't I just leave?" She suggests, raising her eyebrows to indicate that he has crossed the line.

"Celeste, I'm sorry," Jacob says with immediate remorse, "there are just some things that I'm not willing to accept. Try to understand...you saw your mother last night. What if last night was the only time, and you never knew...for twelve years?" He looks at her with affection; his hands balled up in non-threatening fists, dangling just in front of his stomach.

"You go deal with your shit, and I'll go deal with mine." She orders with authoritative radiance. "If you're lucky, then I'll still be here when you're done. If not, then you need to know that these weird outbursts have creeped me out, and I decided to take the high road." She nods an affirmation and makes her way toward the bathroom, not waiting for a response from her host.

Jacob watches her walk toward the restroom at the far end of the condo, and then turns his attention to the vaulted ceiling in the hallway. Something inside of him is signaling that it is time to deal with the loss of his mother, or risk a far worse situation. He twists his head to the right, terrified and confused. Jacob wonders how he wound up in the 'Superman' pose between two walls that begin eleven feet off of the floor. Upon closer inspection, there is no discernable path to climb that high. After a moment of contemplation, he decides to put a pin in the mystery and makes his way to his office at the back corner of the condo.

Over the next few hours, Jacob researches the church that he and his mother used to attend, pulling up images and news stories. During this time, he hears Celeste making phone calls to family and friends. She steps into the kitchen for refreshments, and then returns to the bathroom for privacy. At one point, she lets loose a torrent of profanity that causes Jacob to chuckle. He places his right hand on his forehead, shaking it from side to side.

The young man focuses on the clock at the bottom right of his computer screen. He takes a mental note that his father will be introducing Celeste's replacement in less than ten minutes. Jacob skitters over his research of the old church building, wondering if he has missed any important details. His digital notepad displays the current owner's name and property address. It also has other information relevant to fire damage of the church, along with the size of the grounds that it occupies.

Jacob pulls up an Internet browser with a sudden feeling of nostalgia, deciding to type in the words of his mother's poem. They are the last words he remembers her saying before their final 'I love you' to one another. The young man inputs the verses: 'I rolled a snowball down a hill. It became a restless toddler.' He then presses the enter key and watches the search results appear with fascination. At first, a smile forms on his masculine face, satisfied that there are a few matches from her online memorial and obituary. However, as he scrolls down the page, Jacob identifies a new result that wasn't there a few weeks ago.

His fingers seem to go numb as he clicks to a web page for the Alain L Locke Elementary School. The page loads to a simple website with vibrant colors. As Jacob scrolls down, he sees a feature on Geo Carver and his poem 'The Snowball Lesson.' Jacob leans forward with extreme fascination and jealousy, staring at the picture of a young, African-American boy.

He begins to read from the page and becomes nauseated, wondering how the unpublished verses of his mother's poem were exposed to this child. The poem is a copy of her work verbatim: 'I rolled a snowball down a hill. It became a restless toddler. It became a monster's will. I rolled a snowball down a hill. It became a noble snowman. It became a water pail.' Jacob is certain that the final three verses were never known to anyone other than him and his father. His mind is reeling with renewed pain, gazing with fascination at Geo's young face, terrified and excited by what secrets the young man might have. He is relieved and anxious, feeling himself regressing into a state of childhood lessons and trauma.

"How did you get a copy of my mother's poem, little man?" Jacob inquires aloud with a wild smirk, tapping at the screen where the boy's picture is displayed.

"Jacob, are we going to watch this together?" Celeste calls out from the living room in a mature and relaxed tone, exhibiting her intent to see this through like an adult.

"I'll be right there." He replies with a gentle voice, but his face is a display of irritation, not wishing to be torn away from such a vital discovery.

Jacob pulls up his notes on the computer, recording the details from the web page, and copying the link itself. He then locks the computer screen with a few keystrokes, breathes out with a heavy sigh, and stands upright, pushing the black, leather swivel chair out of his way. The young man pauses for a moment, contemplating the importance of this new information. He gives the computer screen one last longing glance, deciding that he cannot miss this opportunity to bond with Celeste or the theatrics of his father's latest ruse.

When Jacob enters the living room, he notices that Celeste has taken a seat at the center of his sofa. She has a remote control for the television clutched in her right hand. The pouty redhead is now wearing her dress from the previous evening, having indulged a shower while Jacob was doing his research.

"Her name is Phelony!" Celeste begins, glaring with disgust and tracking Jacob with her eyes as he moves across the hardwood flooring to sit next to her on the sofa. "The bitch's name is Phelony!" She emphasizes again, her posture defiant and rigid, like a lioness getting ready to pounce on an unwitting intruder. "It's a concert for charity, and your dad has the balls to pull out a skank named Phelony."

Jacob smiles and places his hand on her knee, feeling empathetic toward his new lover during her first experience of betrayal by Calbraw Senior. He looks up at the large, LCD screen to see Phelony approaching the stage from her trailer. The black platform has a fantastic sheen, although the outdoor setting somewhat diminishes this effect. In spite of his reservations for Earl, Jacob cannot help but admire the planning and execution of this outdoor concert in Central Park. There is a crowd of over ten thousand rowdy fans, many of them showing up to see Celeste Marie. In the background, there are several banners lining a makeshift security fence. Each banner represents a corporate sponsor of the charity event, and there are over a dozen.

A forty-year-old announcer approaches the microphone at the center of the stage, eliciting the cheers of a few eager fans. He is tall and thin with light brown hair and dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. It is an unusually warm winter afternoon for New York, just enough above freezing to stay comfortable in the right clothing.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer begins with youthful charisma, admiring the decadence of the atmosphere, "due to personal issues, Celeste Marie will not be performing today." He pauses for the obligatory boos from the crowd and raises his hand in a bargaining fashion. "But we have a much more robust talent from the musical underground, and we hope you'll enjoy her no-nonsense stylings. Please give it up for the radiant beauty and amazing talents of Phelony!" The announcer extends both of his arms to their apex, bringing up the enthusiasm of the crowd with this grand gesture as Phelony makes her way onto the stage.

"Due to personal issues!?" Celeste denounces with wounded austerity. "They make it sound like I got my period!" She folds her arms in a show of malcontent, focusing on the new star with a hatred that Jacob hasn't seen since he dated the mayor's daughter.

CALBRAW CHARITIES MUSIC FESTIVAL – CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK

Earl watches with exhilaration from stage left as his magnificent songbird emerges into the proverbial spotlight. Phelony is a true bad girl with the voice of an angel. This fresh new talent is a woman of Indian descent, at only nineteen years of age. The singer has never performed for an audience this large or had much exposure on the Internet. She is dressed in a throwback gown of puffy, white ruffles that has been modified to show off her legs and bare midsection. The right side of the dress drapes down to her ankles, while leaving her left leg exposed all the way up to a black, leather thong. There has been a section cut away in the front to show off the singer's magnificent stomach muscles and the bulbous bottoms of her moderate breasts. The cutaway section ends directly beneath each arm, giving the dress a full back with the bottom left corner of the gown missing altogether.

Raw tension is festering in Jacob's penthouse condo as the freshman couple watches the singer take the stage on his massive LCD display.

"An Indian girl!?" Celeste remarks with a frown, allowing her mouth to open in shock. "She's not wearing any makeup. How tacky is that? Where does your father find these skanks?" Her rant continues with deified hatred toward the young star, recalling that she was one of the hottest performers in music just hours ago.

Jacob watches Celeste with amusement, making a poor attempt to hide his satisfaction in witnessing her pouty outbursts. He decides to put his arm around the infuriated beauty, leaning closer to her body so that she cannot gauge his expression.

Phelony takes her place at center stage, looking rather plain and short in her daring new gown. Though, the young woman displays a fierceness in her eyes that seems promising. She steps up to the microphone with grace, wrapping her slender fingers around the base as though she were born to sing.

Earl stands next to the stage in his long, black wool trench coat from Armani, and a matching pair of black dress pants. In lieu of hiding his identity, he is wearing a festive green scarf, a black beret, and a pair of cheap, dark sunglasses. Every ounce of his being is ready burst with joy, anticipating the first notes of music. He watches the crowd with trepidation, knowing that his son could damn this event at any second.

Earl glances toward the hidden tree stand positions of his faithful snipers and guardians. This presence makes him feel a bit more secure in the knowledge that any potential attackers won't survive for long. The billionaire lets out a snort as he thinks about Celeste, but then a smirk forms on his clean-shaven face. Behind the sunglasses, Earl is gazing at Phelony with more than just pride. For the first time since his charity events have begun, he has been able to outfox his son. By leading him into sexual rendezvous with a less talented singer, he kept his true talent protected. Regardless of his concerns, Earl elects to cast them all aside. He expresses deep satisfaction as the first notes of Phelony's song 'Transformation' begin to play.

"I wasn't the girl! I wasn't the woman!" Phelony sings with a high alto voice that carries majestically over the crowd, commanding respect with each note.

As she begins her performance, two characters dressed in black uniforms make their way onto the stage in front of the singer. These figures are clothed from head to toe in such generic outfits; one can barely tell whether they are male or female.

"I was living life...in the desert of the night. I was fighting with myself...over why...I'm always right. And in that moment...in that instant...I became a bolder creation. I took a hard look! I took a fierce look! I chose a transformation."

In the living room of Jacob's condo, Celeste is staring with wide eyes at the amazing talent displayed on his television. She is leaning all the way forward, refusing to believe the magic that is entering her ears, in perfect clarity, through the digital sound system.

"She's pretty good," Jacob admits in a dry tone, speaking cautiously with his left arm wrapped around Celeste.

"SHE'S FUCKING AMAZING!" The young woman erupts as she casts his arm off of her shoulder. "There's no way your father just found this girl in New York overnight. It must have taken months to scout someone this incredible, but why would he bother signing me to a contract?" Celeste turns to look at Jacob, but his stare is deadlocked on the display before them, refusing to return her gaze.

At the left side of the stage, Earl continues to enjoy the concert with increasing confidence. He sees that the crowd is responding positively to his precious new talent, and it seems that she is gaining adoring fans by the minute. Her voice carries over the audience with an electric passion that is peaceful, alive, and sensual. This moment has been almost three years in the making since Jacob destroyed his last star through drugs and manipulation. He continues to smile, knowing that Phelony has drug screening every three days. If anyone comes within fifty feet of her hotel room with paraphernalia, they will be arrested.

Phelony has reached the chorus of her debut song, and the crowd lets out a unanimous cheer. The two figures exit stage left with small, black bags of supplies in hand. True to the words of her song, Phelony has transformed for the audience. She is now in full makeup with a temporary tattoo of a mighty Phoenix painted on her stomach. Her face bears an amazing sheen of gloss and glitter as she sings about coming of age and transformation. She seems bolder and more feminine, as though the makeup changed her physically.

"Don't be a baby, it's just a transformation. Go ahead and be jealous. Go ahead and be angry. It's okay if you're a little horny. I'm the right one for you. I'm the lady to please you. So don't be an infant. Don't be a control freak... It's just my primal communication... It's just a transformation." Phelony delivers her chorus lines with emphatic sexuality, dancing in a seductive march and keeping her eyes locked on the crowd.

Earl begins to clap with the rest of the audience as his bold new singer lets her inner power spring forth, showing a range of vocals that many don't possess. A few seconds pass, and the smile fades from Earl's face as he realizes that Phelony just missed the audible queue to start another set of lines. He looks up at her face and notices that the teenage singer is pale and beginning to sweat as though she just ran a marathon. Although the vibrant background music continues, the crowd soon begins to notice that something is off.

"Keep singing! You're doing great!" A drunken young woman shouts from her position near the stage.

In a moment of panic, Earl signals toward his security team, suspecting that someone must have poisoned his young performer. He looks up in confirmation of these fears, seeing that the microphone is dangling in Phelony's right hand. The teenage musician is staring off into space, her small brown eyes looking almost lifeless.

"Goddamn you, Jacob!" Earl exclaims at the height of his panic, gesturing with haste for the security team to attend to his singer.

The living room of Jacob's penthouse condo has gone silent as the new couple watches the talented singer lose her poise. Jacob wears a cocky smirk of vindication, while Celeste is covering her mouth with her right hand. She is shocked by this sudden change of events and disturbed by the pale look on Phelony's face.

"I'm so sorry!" Phelony erupts in a fit of tears, as a torrent of diarrhea emerges from beneath the leather thong, dripping onto the stage in offensive, earth-tone splotches.

The young performer begins to weep and covers her face as security guards hurry to escort her off of the stage. Celeste is staring wide-eyed at the screen with both hands on her knees, afraid to move or blink.

"That was...horrifying." Jacob concludes with a hint of adolescent laughter. "Oh, wow! Phelony just lost her shit!" He says with a chuckle, gazing at Celeste with amorous eyes.

"Did you do this!?" Celeste insinuates, pointing her right index finger toward his chest. "Did you do this to her!?" She asks again, turning her head to one side, allowing a few fiery red locks of her hair to drape lazily forward. "OH MY GOD, JACOB!" The young woman exclaims when her lover doesn't deny the allegation. "I don't even know who you are," Celeste admits with a stunned expression, getting to her feet as she moves to the opposite side of the room, folding her arms across her chest. "You just ruined her career. Whether you did it for me or not; that isn't an issue. You're a goddamn monster!"

"Now hold on!" Jacob replies, holding his left hand up with the palm facing his girlfriend. "I knew what my dad was planning to do to you. I expanded my surveillance of his offices and found out that he was using you as a decoy, so that he could launch this girl's career. I knew that he was going to use you, the way he did my mother, and the way he does everyone else!" He erupts with passion, rising to his feet with a stare that is half empathetic and otherwise vengeful.

"Do you think this makes me feel good?" She asks as tears begin to flow from her twitching eyelids. "Your father ended my career this morning, and he did it just to get back at you. No, wait! That's not right!" Celeste stops and holds up her right index finger, indicating that she has more to say. "He scouted me and hired me, for the sole purpose of getting BACK AT YOU! I CAN'T BELIEVE THE ARROGANCE OF THIS FAMILY! YOU ARE THE WORST OF THE WORST!"

"Your career isn't over," Jacob states with a business-like stare, showing flashes of empathy. "Do you remember the poker game that I was at yesterday?" He asks with sincerity, raising his eyebrows to indicate good news.

"Yeah, what happened at your poker game?" Celeste demands in a callous tone, placing both hands on her hips and staring out through the balcony window.

"I backed the CEO of my dad's music company into a corner...because he had some huge losses." Jacob begins, stepping closer to Celeste in a careful manner. "Two of the men at that table should've never been there, and I cleaned them out. I played them like the foolish greedy children that they really are. Then, when Mitchell was begging me to give him his life back, I secured the rights to your contract, and several others, including hers." He finishes by pointing at his television screen, and the stage where Phelony was standing, now the feature of a breaking news story.

Celeste shakes her head at this convoluted gesture of love from a deeply troubled young man. She feels like the owner of a cat that refuses to stop bringing her dead mice to win her approval.

"You and your father...destroyed two people...for fun." She says in a powerful display of emotion as more tears come forth. "Why do you people, in your big ass corporations, think that the idea of you owning our careers is so liberating? Why would you tell me that you secured my contract, and then just assume that it would make us closer? I don't fucking want to be owned by a guy that I'm dating...or anyone else." She proclaims in a mighty voice, rolling her petite hands into fists and crossing them over her chest in a self-embrace.

"Americans LOVE to be owned." Jacob responds with slithering tenacity, weighing her through his eyes as though negotiating for property. "People love to be owned, and they celebrate their CEOs and billionaires with lustful satisfaction. Because for ninety-nine percent of the population...all they want to be...is us!" He conveys with a sudden blush of self-adornment, raising both of his hands in the air to display a gesture of lordship.

"Why don't you shove my contract up your ass?" Celeste states defiantly, smiling with the unbridled austerity of a bold Bostonian. "Because...that's the only pleasure you're ever gonna' get from me!" The young woman turns on her heel towards the bedroom, stomping across the hardwood to retrieve her purse, phone, and other belongings.

Jacob watches her walk past with a narcissistic demeanor, trying to show that she should use caution when speaking to him. He tilts his head toward the floor, pondering the possibility of letting her brave the dangers of Manhattan in her underwear, but decides against this impulse. The young man exhales slowly, letting his anger go as she darts past him on her way to the front door. When she turns to say goodbye, he struts toward his office at the rear of the condo, pretending that she doesn't matter, and never did.

Celeste closes her eyes as this last social cigar burn from Jacob smolders into her nervous system. Although it is painful to end things without a goodbye, she pushes this feeling down within herself. The young singer then struts out the front door in much the same manner as her uncivil host.

CALBRAW CHARITIES MUSIC FESTIVAL – CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK

Earl is weeping at the center of the nearly unoccupied event in Central Park, having sent his entire staff home. He shakes his head with burning outrage, recalling how disheveled Jacob had made his young singer appear.

Every drop of feces from her costume was as ugly and rich as the tainted blood that has stirred their relationship these past twelve years. From the day that Jacob lost his mother forward, he has never offered an olive branch to his father. The billionaire feels squeamish now, recalling how he promised Phelony that she would be a star. He and Chamberlain had spent months seeking her out in Asia; a woman whose voice could sooth and inspire. They had planned for her to be a tour de force in the industry. Earl wanted an injection of hope and humanity for those in need and a boost of self-confidence for those in doubt.

The elder Calbraw hasn't the slightest idea on whom the blame should lie. He feels somewhat responsible for his ruse with Jacob, something that was evidently not planned well enough. He looks down at the muddy, dead grass that surrounds the stage. There are news reporters covering the story from a distance, behind his security team and the barricades that are still in place. Earl tries with all his mental power to find a way back from this for his young talent, but he soon concludes that the damage is irreparable. In a society that is heavy-handed about lip-synching, the advent of bowels emptied onstage compares to an assault on Americana itself – at least in terms of pop culture. Earl breathes out, feeling his hands shake with hatred for the first time in almost five years. He considers the possibility of dispatching his only son, and the consequences that may follow.
XI. Sin Screening – Salvation Resurrected

The old church appears majestic in the brilliant, fading beams of dusk. Despite the rather extensive fire damage, its exterior seems enchanting. It looks like a monument of fabled architecture, wrapped in the decadent black of a raven's feathers. These intricate black feathers are places where the fire scorched brick and concrete. A bitter reminder of how hot the four-alarm fire had burned.

Jacob gazes at this beloved treasure from his past with sentimental memories that are pushing to the surface from the back of his mind. For some odd reason, the young man is forced to restrain a volley of tears that are eagerly awaiting release. He recalls that his mother had brought him here almost every week, dressed in their finest Sunday clothing, and ready to pay homage to God. Although Calbraw Senior failed to make the journey most weekends, it was always a better experience when he didn't bother. The middle-aged billionaire had been drunk on too many occasions, and he seemed to mock everything that Jacob's mother held sacred.

The passionate entrepreneur takes a few steps forward, and then begins to circle the property to the right. Jacob wants to take in every aspect of this once glorious place. He feels the cold sting of loss mixed with the warmth of nostalgia and hope. Before the church burned, his life was full of love and stability. He had a parent who taught him the distinction between good and evil; a place to confess his darkest secrets, and to pray for his grandest dreams.

Although the memory doesn't seem accurate, Jacob could almost swear that the church burned right around the time that his mother was abducted. It seemed that God had every intention of ensuring that the young man had nothing left for which to hope.

"So what do you think?" The general contractor asks with restrained impatience, having stood behind Jacob in silence for almost thirty minutes. "Do you want to go inside?" He adds with a bit of optimism, as if seeing the charred guts of the building will make the project seem less daunting.

Javier watches Jacob for a moment, wondering what his fascination is with such an old religious building. He is especially curious since the man likely has more vices than honorable aspirations. The skilled contractor is in his early fifties, a Hispanic man with a full head of curly, gray hair. He wears a black leather jacket that covers a fancy yellow suit with a black tie, and his feet sport a pair of black running shoes. As one of the most demanded contractors in Manhattan, Javier has adapted himself to bending rules and meeting deadlines. Thus, his crews experience working conditions that haven't existed since construction of The Hoover Dam. With his army of undocumented workers, he can push projects to a level that would impress the pharaohs of ancient Egypt, especially for the price. Although the man has a growing belly, his workers have debated whether it is due to guilt or the significant commissions that he takes from each project to remain discreet. There are rumors that he runs a faction of The Faceless Red. Their purpose is to dispose of bodies when workers are injured beyond the boundaries of inexpensive medical care.

"Can you get it done in three weeks?" Jacob inquires without turning to face the contractor, his eyes still fixed on the burned building.

"Three weeks!?" The bloated, Hispanic man exclaims with a playful chuckle, grabbing at his leather coat in the cold breeze. "Are you joking?"

"I'll give you a two million dollar bonus for finishing the reconstruction in three weeks," Jacob states with reinforced pride. "If you can have this church up and running in three weeks time, I will award you two million dollars." The young man repeats with a bit more detail, emphasizing to the contractor that he is serious.

"Reconstruction of a burned building is dangerous," Javier says as he performs calculations in his head; not wanting to turn down Jacob's offer. "The integrity of the structure may be compromised; it could crumble and crush my crew." The older man declares as he wipes the side of his head, displaying a bit of doubt.

"That's my offer," Jacob states with an unflinching stare, focusing on the building as if envisioning it for what it could be, rather than what it has become. "If you can't make the deadline, then you'll just get your normal rate. I'll pay for three crews working around the clock. In fact, I'd like to see two confessionals up and working by next weekend. Also, if you can make the structure stable enough for us to hold mass by then; that would be fantastic." He asserts, turning to face Javier with a magnanimous stare, feeling his inner ambition taking the lead for the first time in weeks.

"Wait, you want to hold a church service and have confessions in an unstable structure by next weekend?" The cautious contractor inquires with alarm, gazing into Jacob's eyes as though he is looking for proof of sanity. "There's no way that we're going to get a permit from the city inspector to hold mass in a building this flimsy. There's a ton of work to do here, Jacob." Javier proclaims, showing that he values the lives of citizens, especially those who can afford lawsuits, outweighing his desire for wealth.

"There's a million dollars in it for you, if you can have one of the rooms stable enough to hold mass by next Sunday. I'm not saying that it has to be done, but if you can do it, then you could make up to three million on this project." Jacob proposes with a smirk of longtime business savvy as he offers his right hand to the contractor.

"I guess, man." Javier agrees with visible reservations, shaking Jacob's powerful hand to accept the deal. "But you're responsible for the city inspector. If I do my part, and the inspection fails, then I still get my bonus." He says with a winning smile, releasing Jacob's hand, trying to avoid contact with the young man as though he is poisonous.

"Yep," Jacob replies with a dogmatic smile that melts away from his face as quickly as it forms, "I'll handle the city inspector. We won't have any issues there. Oh, and one more thing...there's some audio and video equipment that I want installed as soon as you can make it happen."

"Is that legal?" Javier replies with a bit of concern, immediately realizing how idiotic this statement must sound. "I mean, are you going to have any backlash with recording people while they're confessing in church?" The middle-aged man says with a bewildered expression, showing that he believes superstitions from his homeland of Mexico.

"Don't worry about the law, Javier; you're not my attorney." Jacob snaps back with a raucous tone that shows his offense at this suggestion. "For your information, nobody is going to be touching kids in my church. If my security team finds out that we've brought on some pervert..."

"You'll turn his balls into a continental breakfast." Javier jests with a hearty smile, feeling better about their agreement as they talk further. "Look, I know you, man, and if you catch some guy messing with kids in here...don't tell me what you did to him. I don't need those types of nightmares." He winks at Jacob and begins to laugh, allowing the mood to reach a more platonic level.

"Then we'll get started right away?" Jacob asks with authority, holding up his right fist for Javier to bump him.

"I'll get some guys in here to setup tonight!" The determined contractor states with a fist bump that is immediately followed by a thumbs-up. "We'll get you a project update by Friday to let you know about church service," Javier says as he walks back to his green Ford Explorer.

Within a few seconds, Javier's vehicle exits the abandoned parking lot, leaving Jacob standing in the shadow of the majestic structure from his youth. Rays of sunlight caress the building in waves of invisible warmth. Jacob cannot help but compare this burnt structure to how his heart felt when he realized that his mother was gone. They had so many happy times in this building, away from his father, and it was one of the few places where his mother could be herself. Jacob also swoons at the idea of having access to the private confessions of others. Although he attended church, the principles never stuck. Unlike those hammered in by his father's demanding education requirements. In this regard, since the confessions are not sacred to him, the young man feels it is only fair to satisfy his curiosity. The confessions are a delicious reward for rebuilding an important part of the community.

"I'm going to rebuild it for you, mom. Celeste was right; this shouldn't remain as an abandoned building." Jacob announces to the heavens, feeling his throat contracting as his eyes begin to well up with emotion. "I'll make this the best church in Manhattan, and everyone who comes here will get to learn about you and what you stood for in life. I love you, mom!" The young entrepreneur says aloud, feeling foolish as the words leave his mouth, but needing to say them nonetheless.

THE DRAGONFLY

The projects in downtown Brooklyn are littered with their typical garbage on a warm winter day, leaving the ground muddy and unkempt. Kelvin makes his way across the grounds with an unsinkable swagger, wearing a black hoodie and tight, faded jeans. Billy Harmony brings up the rear with a similar swagger. He keeps the movements of his shoulders in rhythm with the side to side swaying motion of Kelvin's gray, solar backpack. The two men swipe at the mud with their sneakers like a pair of mountain lions stalking the city streets. They traverse across the filthy grounds, passing half-melted piles of snow, turned black by the carbon fumes of the city. Several people elect to vacate the park, knowing that something wicked has arrived.

At the far corner of the park, on a solitary bench, The Dragonfly awaits his guests with a bright, white smile. This brilliant luster has been gifted to him by the suffering of hundreds in his community. The twenty-five-year-old breathes in the muggy, repulsive air, taking in the foulness of earth that has unthawed for the first time in months. He spits with malcontent at a red candy wrapper on the ground nearby, watching it twitch despite being clenched in a curl of thick mud.

The Dragonfly is wearing his distinctive green sunglasses, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the afternoon sun as he perches atop the park bench. The infamous drug dealer sits with his backside on the upper curve of the rotting wood and his sneakers planted on the seat. Although the bench is unremarkable to the rest of the world, it is crucial to those in this Brooklyn neighborhood. It serves as a place of judgment, relief from unwritten debts or a release from life itself.

"Well, Jesus be praised!" The Dragonfly announces as he recognizes Kelvin, pulling back on his thick cornrows with a bit of modest preening. "You fuckin' dug up a relic, didn't you, Harmony?" He asks with an abrasive dissidence, flexing his powerful abdominal muscles beneath a Walter Payton jersey. "Is that Kelvin Carver, the great grandson of George Washington Carver? My God, I thought you was done with the thug game, but here you are. What it be? Sometimes you feel like a nut, tow truck driver?" The Dragonfly snorts with a bit of satisfaction at the sound of his own voice, looking off to the left as the two men approach him from the right.

Kelvin is immediately fuming with rage at The Dragonfly's joke about his dead son. He feels a bit defenseless at the knowledge that news of a nut allergy could have traveled this far. After a moment of reflection, Kelvin elects to power down his temper. He surmises that The Dragonfly has come well-prepared for this meeting.

"That's right, alter boy," The Dragonfly says with a broad grin, scratching his right leg through a pair of black Nike sweatpants. "You don't get to where I am without knowin' what's goin' on in this city. I hear that you want to start a war with the rich people; go all 1776 and shit. The problem with that is...The Faceless Red have also heard."

Kelvin stops walking just ten feet from where The Dragonfly sits, watching him with haunted eyes. He is shocked that his people would betray him so completely. Billy Harmony steps forward and places his right hand on Kelvin's shoulder to reassure him, exhibiting a calm gaze that urges his friend to remember how the game is played.

"The Faceless Red?" Kelvin asks with a smirk. "So you're going to start off with threats? That's funny; I heard The Dragonfly ain't afraid of nothin'." He spouts off confidently, turning his head to one side.

"The Dragonfly ain't afraid of nothin' – that already be dealt with." The young man replies with a stoic expression, jutting his chin out a bit. "The fools who keep their problems in escrow, are the fools that get buried...with interest." He finishes with poetic finesse, reaching down to grab a half-empty bottle of red Gatorade from the bench.

"So I hear you like the world that the rich man has created for our people?" Kelvin asks with a callous demeanor, staring through The Dragonfly with intense resolve. "How long do you think that's gonna' last? How long can millions of people bleed out for five hundred rich fools?"

"Ain't my problem!" The Dragonfly answers with a bitter stare, keeping his head level with Kelvin as he speaks. "The way I see it, the middle class brought this on themselves. They was too busy with their lives to see Congress ripping 'em off. Too occupied to know the backdoor deals that was happenin' every other day. Shit...I knew it was comin', and I put myself in a position to enjoy the fallout. My boys and I are sittin' on a couple million in guns and gold. That's all that's gonna' matter when the shit hits the fan...guns and gold." He unscrews the cap from his Gatorade and chugs its contents, rolling his shoulders forward in a macho fashion as he tosses the bottle behind him with the rest of the garbage.

"You'd betray your country for guns and gold?" Kelvin asks, shaking his head in disapproval. "So what happens when our military is finally broke? Do you think that Russia and China will just let you keep your guns...and gold? What about Mexico? When the border collapses, you'll see hundreds of armed men crossing into the states. They will lead armies funded by the drug cartels. Do you think that they want competition?"

"That ain't gonna' happen!" The Dragonfly declares with frustration as he spits out a ball of red phlegm near Kelvin's feet. "It's never happened in the history of this country, and it won't happen in the next ten years."

"I'm bored with you, Dragonfly." Kelvin asserts as he raises his right hand, clutching a curious, long wand, fashioned from copper. "It's time for you to learn the hard way, boy." He compresses the base of the wand for a few seconds and a stream of light brown liquid shoots across the number thirty-four on The Dragonfly's jersey.

"What the fuck is that!?" The young thug cries out in alarm, watching in horror as the hot brown liquid sticks to his clothing.

"DON'T TOUCH IT!" Kelvin exclaims immediately, watching the young man reach for the brown smears of beeswax that are covering his jersey and portions of his sweatpants. "That's hot wax mixed with sulfuric acid, and it's eating through your clothing. When it gets through the fabric, it will begin to eat through your skin, leaving you with some nasty scars."

Three men begin to approach the park bench from various directions, sprinting at top speed. They are dressed in loose-fitting gangster clothing, and each of them carries a large caliber, semi-automatic pistol.

"STAY THE FUCK BACK!" The Dragonfly calls out to his men, holding out his palms in the air. "How do I get this shit off of me!?" He asks in a state of panic, terrified at the thought of being disfigured.

"You need to strip," Kelvin says with a wicked smile, feeling that stating the obvious only amplifies his power over the young thug.

Without another thought, The Dragonfly removes his jersey and undershirt. This exposure displays an impressive six-pack of abdominal muscles. He then dances out of his sweatpants, allowing his pistol to drop in the mud with the rest of the filth. The young man's legs are equally toned, and the two men notice scars where bullets have penetrated his flesh.

"Now if I fire this shit on you again, you'll be disfigured for life," Kelvin states without reservation. "People won't be calling you The Dragonfly anymore. You'll be the jackal, or maybe even...The Faceless Red."

"What do you want, Carver!?" The Dragonfly asks with frustration, gazing at the wand as if some evil gargoyle is lording over him.

"I want a partnership," Kelvin says with certainty, watching the young man shiver in a blue thong, shoes, and sunglasses. "We need someone who is smart and reliable – with his ear to the ground. I need a young man who can warn me when the train is coming. There will be a lot of spoils in this war, and I can make sure you get a piece. Or, with the swipe of my hand, I can turn you into a horror story for the kids that walk these streets."

"Jesus, Carver! You don't know shit about leadership, do you?" The Dragonfly asks with self-righteous fury, feeling vulnerable yet intrigued, regardless of the circumstances. "You've got a deal, Carver, but if The Faceless Red come lookin' for your ass...I don't know you! No matter how crazy or smart you think you are, those motherfuckers will take you apart. They're like a pack of wolves." He says with caution, allowing his stomach muscles to relax.

"Agreed," Kelvin says with a nod and a smile, turning toward Billy Harmony as they begin to depart. "I hope you're ready for war, Dragonfly, because I'm about to start some shit!"

"Obviously!" The young man retorts, shaking his head. "Yo, Jerome, give me your fuckin' hoodie, my ass is freezin' over here."

"Do you want us to go after them?" Casey asks with a hateful gaze, watching the two older men as they leave the park.

"Death is already walkin' with Kelvin and his friends," The Dragonfly states in an ominous tone. "I believe in karma, and whoever let his little boy die; that motherfucker about to have a bad year. Let him be for now; maybe this can work to our advantage. A fool in love with revenge don't give a shit about money."
XII. The Indifference of Plato

"Jesus, Howard, The Empire State Building at midnight!?" Earl whispers with excitement as he moves across the large stones, over a path that leads to the observation deck of the massive structure. "Is there anywhere else that we could have met, like maybe one of the office buildings that we own?" He asks with an irritable growl, stomping a bit to warm his leg muscles as he goes.

"This is the only place I could think of that wasn't under surveillance," Howard says, keeping his hands on the steel bars of the safety enclosure as he gazes down at New York City. "We have some things to discuss – as partners." The stout businessman conveys with a bit of hesitation.

Earl is somewhat intrigued; having not seen Howard behaving this way since he told him that he was getting married. The aged bear takes a moment to size up his longtime friend, wondering what obtuse conversation awaits him. He notices that his partner has a small black bag slung over his right shoulder, and it appears to be a camera or laptop case. The black fabric is sturdy and smooth, common for protecting digital objects. Earl steps over to where Howard is standing, glancing around the area to see if anyone else is with them.

"There's nobody else here," Plato says immediately, continuing to stare at the city lights with his fingers gripping the cold steel. "Edward put up a 'closed for repairs' sign, and we have all the time in the world, or at least until eight in the morning."

Howard is dressed in a lavish burgundy coat that combines the faded look of leather with the familiar comfort of silk. The subdued billionaire is wearing a pair of brown driving gloves and has on a pair of white running shoes. Earl is lacking in style, dressed in a pair of Lucky brand jeans with casual tennis shoes. His torso is wrapped in a fiery, button-down shirt – all at the suggestion of his newest singing talent.

"Is your new mommy dressing you?" Plato asks with a half-smile, looking at his elderly partner as though his clothing were stolen and replaced by middle-school students.

"She's just a friend. We help each other through shit." Earl quips with a wry distaste for his partner's attitude. "Is that what you brought me here to talk about; my sex life?" He demands with an indignant gaze, turning right to face his colleague as he raises his eyebrows.

"Nope. It's going to be far more uncomfortable..." Plato says with a flat cynicism, indicating that Earl has done something to wound him.

"Is this about my having a drink?" Earl surmises after a short pause.

"There you go!" Plato emotes with a broad smile, turning to face his partner for the first time. "Your drinking...is a serious liability. I don't care if you had one shot or twenty; it's still just as damaging to the firm." Howard states in a gruff voice, exhibiting his intent to stand his ground on this issue.

"I had one drink with a woman, and I spent all night with her," Earl admits with a sudden feeling of betrayal. "By the way, is there anyone who isn't watching me!? If it's not the news media, then it's you or Jacob, or God knows who else. This is a joke! I've been trying to turn things around, but Jacob won't let his mother's death go! It's...a serious frustration to raise your son, hoping that he will be an example of your greatest success. By the way, why didn't you ask me if I was okay when I almost got stabbed the other day? That's a very human thing to do."

"Your drinking...is a problem," Plato repeats with a snide disposition, turning his face away from Earl in disgust. "You are not acting like yourself. Your thoughts are jumbled and compulsive... I'm not going to budge on this issue. We have a clause in our partnership-"

"I'm aware of the fucking clause!" Earl half-shouts, feeling exhausted at this continued attack by one of his oldest and dearest friends. "If my drinking becomes an issue, or causes damage to the company, then I'll relinquish all of my remaining shares. I wrote that clause for you, and for your peace of mind."

"WELL, I DON'T HAVE PEACE OF MIND, EARL!" Howard shouts with the fierceness of a wounded jungle cat. "I haven't had peace of mind because I've had to clean up after your bullshit for so long. There were so many years where I held my breath and waited for you to topple our organization. I got so tired of watching the unnecessary risks, but I understood – that without your risks, combined with my realistic approach, there would be no company growth. So, yes, I do respect you as a leader, and an innovator, but I WILL NEVER RESPECT OR ACCEPT YOU...as a drunk."

"Where the hell is this coming from, Plato?" Earl asks with unmistakable concern. "I had one drink, and I've not had another for twenty-four hours. I'm clean and sober, so what's the issue?"

"You're not sober; not unless you had a head injury on the way over here. The issue is with you talking about having Jacob killed!" Howard exclaims with severe disdain. "If I know that you're thinking about having Jacob killed, then guess what – the entire community knows. Further, if Jacob finds out that you're trying to have him wiped, imagine the wrath that will come down on both of us. We don't need a brutal and expensive family feud! I will not allow you to play God with the company that I helped to build. DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?" Plato shouts, moving his head closer to Earl to show off the ferociousness in his eyes.

"He ruined her career!" Earl states in a helpless rage, feeling his jaw quiver from the amount of anger that is flowing through him.

"It doesn't matter..." Plato states with a wise stare as he reaches under his right arm and produces a digital tablet from its case. "Why don't you watch this surveillance video? Then we'll see who is allowed to judge whom."

"What's on this!?" Earl asks with immediate fury. "Is this blackmail? I swear to God, Plato, if you try to blackmail me after how hard I've fought to clean up my act-"

"It's not blackmail," Howard reassures his partner with deadpan delivery, admiring how fast Earl can descend into such a juvenile state. "That video shows how badly greed can poison someone. It's a window into the part of you that is more of a beast, and less of a man."

"I'm scared..." Earl states with hesitation as he takes the tablet from his partner, shaking in the chilly breeze.

"Whatever this turns into, I'll stand by your side, as long as you give up the drinking," Plato says with a sober expression, placing his left hand on his friend's shoulder. "Besides, it's better if you're scared; at least under these circumstances."

The tablet begins to shake in conjunction with the trembling of Earl's arms, which are cradling it like a cursed object. He looks at his partner one last time, and then presses the play button, trying to calm his stomach as the video begins. His first indication of horrible news is the timestamp of the security footage, which shows 1:30 am on December 6th, 2013. The video depicts Earl and his wife, Shannonbie Calbraw, in a heated argument about his drinking, where she threatened to take Jacob away from him.

"What the hell is this, Plato!?" Earl demands with a grimace, glancing at his partner with distrust. "I remember this night. She argued with me about my drinking and threatened to leave and take Jacob away. Then I passed out, and the next morning she was gone." His throat convulses a bit as he retells this story, feeling himself getting sick within the prisonesque confines of the observation platform.

"Keep watching." Plato murmurs under the biting chill of the easterly winds that are whipping over the face of the massive building, causing it to shift under their feet.

Earl looks at his partner for a moment in a state of rage. He feels like tossing the tablet over the protective fence, and beating his colleague to the cement for staging this immoral meeting. When these feelings begin to surface, he hears himself speaking on the tablet, but no one else is in the room. The confused entrepreneur gazes down at the video in his hands, focused on what is taking place.

"Yeah, I've...got mark for you," a younger incarnation of Earl Calbraw states from behind a large desk in his home office. "No, I'm not drunk, or under the 'fluence." He answers immediately, shaking his head with his feet propped up on the desk, displaying a tailored pinstripe suit and black, Italian leather shoes. "Her name is Shannonbie Calbraw, and I want the bitch gone!" The drunken businessman mutters with a gaze of steel, spitting his words out like an angry toddler. "What do you mean 'how do I want it done?' Am I ordering goddamn Chinese food here!? Just get it done! Okay, okay. No, that makes sense... No, I don't want it to be painless... Make sure she suffers, the way she has made me suffer... No, I don't want her to be found...ever! Yes, I can confirm that I'm not drunk or under the influence... Jesus! It costs that much!? Okay, just get it done. No, we'll never speak again after this... Okay, I'll make the transfer now...'bye!"

Earl's hands have been shaking with uncontrollable shock for the past few seconds, and he finally drops the digital tablet onto the stones beneath his feet. The widowed billionaire lets out a suppressed cry from deep inside of himself, feeling all his good intentions stripped away by this hellish vision of the past. He drops to his knees in shame, wanting to get low; wishing in some illogical way that he could force himself to be crushed under the foundation of the building in an instant. The distraught entrepreneur gets down lower onto his hands and knees, trying to grip the cement as if hoping to wake himself from the horrors of this moment. He raises his head and looks up at the blackness of the sky. The protective mesh of steel that surrounds the observation platform, now feels more like a camp in Nazi Germany. The hysterical man barely notices when Howard grips his left arm and helps him back onto his feet, trying to ease the pain.

"I...I killed my wife...I KILLED MY WIFE!" Earl shouts to the city, feeling unclean all over and wishing for the sweet reprieve of death. "I told them...I told them to hurt her. I asked them to make her suffer." He acknowledges as bits of saliva pour from his lips, making the skin on his face feel that much colder.

"Yes you did, Earl. Yes you did." Plato agrees, holding his trembling partner closer, having restrained his desire to suffocate the man on many occasions. "I've known for a long time, and I've hated you for it ever since I found out. But business is business, and I found a way to work past it."

"Business is business?" Earl repeats with a sarcastic expression of lunacy. "This is not business; I took Jacob's mother from him...stole my wife away from myself. I had no idea..." He begins to weep again, feeling like the world is spinning beneath his feet and hoping for an earthquake to split open the city and swallow him.

"It was the alcohol, Earl...and it was your power and influence," Howard says with a few tears of his own, expressing genuine empathy for his partner. "We aren't just people who can make small mistakes, and get over them. When a normal person rocks the boat, you might see a ripple or two in the water. But when we rock the boat, Earl, other people come running from every direction to help us tip it over. You got angry-"

"I want to die!" Earl pleads in sorrow, not listening to anything that Plato has said. "How did I even get the number for a hitman, being that drunk, and at that time of night?" He inquires with a fresh introspection, cautiously observing Howard's reaction.

"It was the X-Card that you carried in your wallet as a joke," Plato says defiantly, feeling exhausted at the continued accusations of his partner. "Do you remember the X-Card, and how you used to flash it at other men during parties and events? It was a red card with a black phone number that would allow you to rid yourself of your wife at any hour of any day. People laughed. Everyone thought it was a joke, but I knew it was the real deal. Unfortunately, you were so damn drunk all the time – you managed to tell half of the brokers and CEOs in the city about that card. When we were young, Earl, we were so concerned about preserving our wealth that we set up a service...to expedite the murder of our wives – if necessary."

"Jesus Christ, Howard! That was real? I never thought it was serious." Earl replies, shaking his head in disbelief as he searches his partner's face for signs of falseness.

"IT WAS REAL!" Plato shouts with authority, as if trying to wake his partner from a nightmare. "The cards were real. The numbers were real, and the damned fence that sold us the service was definitely real. That weekend was scary as hell. We flew to Mexico, and met these guys, but you were so high on coke..." Howard shakes his head as more tears emerge, surprised by the freedom that is coming forth from the release of this heavy burden. "We flew to Mexico. Our guys gave them the money and came back with the cards. We never saw anyone's faces, but it was clear that these bastards deal in murder, and they are good at what they do."

"I need a drink...I NEED A FUCKING DRINK!" Earl exclaims, his arms shaking as he grips Plato's coat with the desperation of a beggar. "How the hell could you tell me something so awful, and then expect me not to have a drink to ease the pain?" He leans forward as more tears spring forth from his eyes in the frosty winds of the unforgiving New York winter.

"You can't drink!" Plato declares with a steadfast and deadly stare. "We both know what your drinking did to your family. I'm not going to risk what it could do to mine." Howard grips Earl by the arm and shakes him violently from side to side. "DO YOU HEAR ME!? NO MORE DRINKING! I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL END YOUR LEGACY! IF YOU DON'T TOE THE LINE, THEN I WILL CRUSH YOU!" He finishes with a powerful voice as he stops shaking his partner, and gives him a warm embrace. "You're my brother, and I'll help you through this, but if you show one ounce of weakness, I'll break you!"

Earl nods in agreement, feeling the warmth of his friend's embrace as the first sign of life since this awful emptiness began. The two men soon separate from one another in the darkness, and Plato dutifully wipes the dust from Earl's jeans and shirt, attending to him like a little brother.

"Go get some rest," Plato says, patting his friend delicately on the back. "I'll destroy this and all the other copies." He declares as he notices that Earl is looking down at the tablet. "Just go home and get some sleep. It will all be better with time. I know a therapist that can help you to pull through."

Earl waves to his friend, not wishing to thank him or even speak, despite feeling grateful on some level. His insides are churning like an oil well that is ready to burst forth its prehistoric payload. He watches his feet and the ridiculous white shoes as they pass over the inlayed stones, detecting that he lost some part of his mind this evening – or at least his soul. The billionaire moves slowly at first and then quickens his pace, needing to be as far away from his partner as possible. Within a few seconds, he disappears into the shelter of The Empire State Building.

Howard takes a moment to dust off his clothing and reaches down to retrieve the digital tablet from the stones. He rises to his full height, placing the shiny, silver device in the black bag that is slung over his shoulder. Although the cold is causing him to tremble, Plato turns back toward the city and again places his hands on the chilled steel bars. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, feeling ashamed on so many levels, and fortunate on many others.

After a few minutes of silence, a young, black security guard approaches Howard on the observation deck. He is clad in the standard black uniform that is equipped with a radio, flashlight, Taser, and nightstick. The young man looks around to be certain that no one is watching and steps up to the right of Howard without looking at him.

"Did you get it?" Plato asks with a display of painful stoicism, looking out upon the city with remorseful eyes.

"Yep, it's clear as day. You can hear him say that he killed his wife, and admit that he had a drink." The security guard replies with a hint of shame.

"Get me two copies. I'll be down in a minute." Plato states without breaking his line of vision with the city.

"No problem." The young man agrees, turning on his heel to vacate the area as instructed.

Plato looks down at the towers that he and Earl have acquired over the past few years, enchanted by the idea of quadrupling his legacy in a single swipe. He shakes his head as the cold begins to overwhelm him, but a smile forms on his weathered face. Within minutes, he will be free of the biting cold, and within days, he will be free of The Calbraws and their chronic drama.
XIII. Sin Screening – Chandler Glenn

"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned." A male voice conveys through a pair of small earphones that are nestled inside Jacob's ears. "It's been about two years since my last confession." The man admits with hesitation, expressing his most intimate secrets to the priest. "I committed adultery on my wife of five years, and don't know if I'll be able to stop." Jacob rocks back and forth in his office chair with perverse glee, listening to the details.

"You need to stop." The priest commands in a soothing voice, exhibiting concern for the middle-aged man. "Adultery is very serious, my son."

"I started...masturbating to this girl that works in our offices." The man blurts out with explosive guilt, causing a smile of delight to form on Jacob's face. "She would wear these sexy dresses, and her backside is...it's amazing, father-"

"Say fifty Hail Marys, and come back to church every Sunday." The priest interrupts with clear disinterest and impatience. "And stop committing adultery with this woman. Her backside is not worth all the suffering and torment in this world and the next."

"Thank you, father!" The man repents in a sincere tone, sounding as though he feels better after unburdening himself.

Jacob laughs as he looks down at the large list of files gathered from the confessionals of his new church. He is delighted by this opportunity to listen to the sins of strangers, which has been a dream of his since he first entered the church as a child. The young man mulls over his growing collection of dirty secrets with adoration, exacerbating the need for exclusivity in all things relating to mankind. He has been labeling each file after listening to them so that his new entertainment collection is properly categorized. With a childlike smirk, he reads the file names, feeling particularly naughty from this taboo invasion of privacy.

"Grandmother has impure thoughts about son-in-law." Jacob recites with a chuckle, twisting a bit in his chair as he continues to read. "Wife stealing money from her wife to buy breasts for a mistress. Young boy is stealing panties from his piano teacher. Young woman fakes issues with her food to avoid paying. Elderly man likes to spit on people at the gym. My solid gold hits!" He exclaims with jubilation, rubbing his hands together in an eager manner as he notices that there are over thirty more files in the collection.

Jacob scans through the playlist and sees that there is one particularly large file, indicative of a long confession. His deviant smile spreads wider with outlandish satisfaction. The young man knows that the longer confessions often contain the juiciest stories. He double-clicks the file and removes his earphones, wanting to hear it through the powerful speakers of his upscale home office.

"Father, I've done it again." A man says immediately, sounding more platonic than formal as if he knows the priest. "I had to do it again, father. There was just no way for me to stop. I'm not sure if these are sins. I feel like I'm helping people."

"You are not helping people, my son." The priest answers in a disturbed voice, hesitating with each word as if there is a bomb sitting on the bench opposite him. "We discussed that in your last confession. I know you feel like you're freeing souls, but what you're doing is not part of God's plan."

"I found a young woman last night." The man's voice begins with excitement, seeming dark and filled with adventure. "She was depressed, and when I spoke to her, she sounded like she wanted to give up. She sounded suicidal, father."

"It's not a sin if she's only contemplating." The priest declares with a dry voice, breathing in discomfort at the tenacity of the young man.

"So I took her, father. I took her out of the streets and went upstate to help her find the truth." He confesses in a hyper voice, his intensity growing with every word.

"No, please," the priest pleads from his position in the confessional. "I don't want to hear the details of the sin, just which of God's laws you broke."

"I took her up to my cabin, father." The formidable stranger states with pride, ignoring the priest's request for a reprieve. "When we got there, it was snowing outside, and I could feel the adrenaline right away – like this was going to be very special. I had my little snow princess, wandering blindly through the freezing night. She was sixteen, father, just old enough to drive."

"What did you do, my son?" The priest asks with a dutiful and soft voice, hoping for a happy ending to this sadistic story.

"I don't know if it was a sin, father," the man begins with impatience, sounding defiant. "I mean you've told me it was a sin in the past, but I don't know if I believe you. If you had been there to see what I saw, I think you would feel different about this whole thing. Anyway, I took her into the woods; she was shaking and crying, wanting to scream for help, but I told her the rules. She knew from the beginning that this was her fault. I took her into the woods, father, and I placed a gag in her mouth, tight enough to muffle almost all of her bitching and whining. I then placed a burlap bag over her head and made it snug with some twine. She was twitching and writhing in the freezing mud, and it was a real labor for me, father. I used my knife to remove her clothing, and I placed it in a garbage bag. She was fighting harder at this point, and I had to punch her in the ribs a few times, but soon enough, she let me do my work."

Jacob sits in the office of his penthouse with his mouth hanging open. The entrepreneur is horrified at the details that are coming through the speakers of his computer. He grips his forehead in shame, wondering if what he is hearing is real, or if the men who installed the audio equipment are messing with him. His breathing has become uneasy, and Jacob's insides are as turbulent as those of the priest that had to hear this firsthand. The young entrepreneur pauses for a moment, wondering if he should continue to listen. He hates himself for this invasion into such a dark world. After careful consideration, he decides to continue playing the file, listening with his hands atop his knees.

"I then used more twine to bind her hands behind her back, making sure it was tight so that her circulation was limited. When I got her stripped down to her underwear, I used my knife to make some long cuts on the backs of her thighs." The twisted voice explains, as though describing a recipe for chocolate cake. "They were nothing special, just superficial flesh wounds. All I needed was enough blood to excite the predators in those woods. Once she was wounded, the young girl was completely panicked. It was perfect, absolutely perfect! She ran through the darkness, smashing her fragile body into trees, and tripping over rocks, doing damage the whole way. I followed her with my night vision goggles, knowing that there were ten miles of forest ahead of us. The snow started to come down faster, and the temperatures dropped. I kept walking behind her, stepping on large sticks, and kicking stones to remind her that I was close. After we had traveled about five hundred yards, she wandered into the river. I watched her flailing there, wondering if the current would take her, but it didn't, father – not this time. She was able to make her way out of the river, shivering like a dying animal, weak and pathetic, undeserving of a life in nature. I followed her for another hundred yards, watching her go through the stages of hypothermia. In the end, it was beautiful. When she reached the final stage of delirium, she thought that I was her father. Before she passed away, she kissed me and told me that she loved me."

Jacob holds his breath during the awkward silence that follows. He hopes that the priest will threaten to call the police, or attempt to subdue the man. The silence continues for over ninety seconds, and Jacob detects that the priest has a great deal of fear for this man. It seems that he has experienced this scenario several times before.

"Are you there, father?" The sinister voice asks, sounding as though some nonverbal contract is being broken. "It was hard for me to find you again when you transferred to a new church. I was disappointed to know that you were trying to get away from me. Your son lives at 1534 Sycamore. Your wife and young daughter are waiting for you to come home tonight... You live at 1745 Green Tree Terrace... Don't you, father? Say it with me...1745 Green Tree Terrace."

"1745 Green Tree Terrace." The priest repeats obediently after his adversary, sounding claustrophobic and horrified. "One hundred Hail Marys, my son. Repent, and may God go with you."

"I'm uncertain that what I did was a sin, father. You keep saying it, but it was nature that killed that girl; not me. I provided the weak fawn to the forest, and the snowstorm took care of the rest. How can they claim to deserve to live in this world if they can't survive in this world? As for you, father, you'll have some penance to do yourself. Next time I come in here, you're going to hear two more stories about my work. You'll listen to every detail, and you will absolve me of my sins – if they really are sins. Goodbye, father." The man says in a semi-friendly tone; sounding disturbed and filled with repressed rage.

Jacob shuts off the recording immediately, staring at his computer screen in astonishment. It has been only a few days since the contractor finished the confessionals. 'This man has already managed to track down and harass an innocent priest,' he thinks to himself. The billionaire places his right hand on his forehead, feeling agitated and staring at nothing. After a moment of reflection, Jacob decides that his power and influence should be enough to stop this monster from doing more damage. He gets to his feet ready to seize the day, looking out at the late afternoon sun. The young man realizes that the priests will still be at the church long enough for him to make some inquiries. Jacob closes his laptop and moves to his bedroom, preparing for an unannounced visit to his newest construction project.

490 RIVERSIDE DRIVE, NEW YORK CITY

The young entrepreneur arrives at his pet church project within thirty minutes of listening to the last recording. He is pleased to see the progress of the construction crews, and the visceral energy with which they approach their tasks. The site is no longer an abandoned building left to rot in the desolation of winter. There are over ten men carrying all manner of building materials into the site. These materials include lumber, concrete, steel, carpeting, and many other assembly pieces. Jacob waxes nostalgic at the revival of his mother's most cherished sanctuary. He feels a degree of peace as he looks upon the profile of the building in the glowing red sunlight. After a short spell of sentimentality, he makes his way through an army of laborers, and into the newly reinforced front doors of the gothic building.

"Hello, my friend, how are you!?" Javier says in a forced greeting with his arms outstretched to either side. "Jacob, I had no idea that you were coming to inspect the site today. Maybe you could have called?"

Jacob steps over to the Hispanic contractor with the subdued confidence of a British spy. His black, Armani suit, red tie, and recently polished Italian leather shoes make him appear intimidating. Javier raises his chin in a cocky manner as he observes the strutting billionaire. The contractor sticks out his chest in response. He shows off the bright yellow colors of his loud suit, complimented by a black tie and matching running shoes.

"I'm not here to put a microscope to your crew," Jacob announces, reaching out with his right hand to greet his colleague. "I need to talk to the priests. Are they still around?" He is forward in his handshake and mannerisms with Javier, looking about the church while talking to the man.

"Yeah, I built them a temporary office next to the new confessionals in the back." Javier begins with a disappointed gaze, releasing Jacob's hand. "The interior structure is still fragile, and we've had a few scares. You shouldn't be in here without a hard hat, cabrón. Anyway, yeah I turned the break room into an office for the priests. We took some of the space from the women's restroom for the confessionals. The lady's room was too big." He relays with a cocky smirk, gesturing toward the rear of the church, hoping that Jacob will leave so they can work in peace.

"Thanks, Javier," Jacob replies dismissively, ignoring the fact that his contractor just called him a bastard in Spanish.

The tall business magnate makes his way through the spacious cathedral of this once glorious church. Its insides are still scarred by fire damage from floor to ceiling. The only evidence of this having been a place of worship is in the shape of the roof. Jacob admires the crews of men that are working on scissor lifts and makeshift scaffolding at the edges of the massive room. Some of them are anchored to the ceiling in harnesses, hovering over thirty feet in the air at the peak of the structure. His vision catches some sparks dropping to the floor from welding torches. He also hears electrical drills and cutting tools, transforming the damaged beams back to load-bearing status.

Jacob steps through a large, heavy door at the rear of the cathedral. He hears the hinges squeak and pop, clearly not having been part of the restoration. Although the wood is new, the hinges are charred and misshapen, causing the man to shake his head. When he reaches the old break room, and what is now a makeshift office for the priests, Jacob is greeted with a restrained smile from Reverend Gordon Schelnick.

The man appears gentle, with a rough and weathered face. Jacob remembers his youthful appearance before he was a church leader, twelve years ago. At the age of thirty-eight, Gordon Schelnick looks the part in his traditional black cloak with white fabric covering his chest. There is a golden crucifix embroidered on the front of the white fabric. Jacob is pleased to see that his tailor adhered to this important detail.

"Mr. Calbraw." The reverend says with an uncomfortable smile, standing up from the oak desk to greet his benefactor. "I had no idea that you were coming in for an inspection today."

"Father Schelnick, it's good see you." Jacob begins with a pensive expression, gazing around the room at the bare concrete walls that still have scorch marks. "It's been a minute, hasn't it?"

"Yes, it certainly has, Jacob." The reverend replies in a nervous manner, appearing as though he is expected to dance or tell jokes for his employer. "I'm so excited that you've decided to restore the church. It feels amazing to watch God's kingdom being resurrected from the ashes, in the footprint of such a horrible tragedy."

"Wait a minute..." Jacob orders with a smirk, holding up his right hand with the index finger pointed at the reverend. "Did you take that quote from a Ground Zero survivor, after the dedication of the site? Have you been rehearsing an ass-kissing session with me, reverend?" He asks, staring the man down with the gaze of a predator.

"I might have, Jacob." The reverend admits with an annoyed glare, rubbing his short, brown hair as his prominent Dutch features allude to mental exhaustion. "It's just been an adjustment getting back into the service of God...and I wanted to say thank you in a way that didn't sound pathetic."

"Are you having trouble sleeping, reverend?" Jacob inquires with sudden interest, wondering if his longtime acquaintance may be the priest who is being harassed by a murderer. "Where are the other priests?"

"Father Orton and Father Miles are out having a smoke in the back," reverend Schelnick states with reluctance, not wanting to be caught trying to deceive his new colleague. "I know that's probably not what you wanted to hear."

"Are any of the priests showing signs of distress?" Jacob suggests, showing his lack of concern for this miniscule vice. "Has anyone confided in you something disturbing about the confessions?"

"Now, Jacob, you know we can't share anything about confessions." The reverend answers, dodging the question as he looks down and to the right at an empty corner of the room. "If someone confesses to a crime, you know we'll report it to the proper authorities."

"Gordon, I'm a busy man." Jacob asserts in a blunt manner. "Who lives at 1745 Green Tree Terrace? It's one of your priests, right?"

Reverend Schelnick's eyes instantly lock onto to Jacob as this information is presented. The man appears betrayed, terrified and angry – uncertain how to respond. He takes a deep breath, thinking through the series of events that have led up to this meeting, continuing to stare at Jacob with conservative fortitude.

"How do you know about him?" The reverend asks cautiously, his lower lip trembling as he appears pale and traumatized. "How could you possibly know, unless you're helping him?"

"I had surveillance equipment installed in the confessionals," Jacob admits with a bit of ironic flair. "Everything said in this church is recorded."

"That is unethical, Jacob! Listening to the sins of men, women, and children; for your own amusement!" The reverend exclaims with an appalled expression. "How dare you use God as just another form of entertainment?"

"Who is he, Gordon?" Jacob demands with a gentle smile, brushing off the accusation.

Reverend Schelnick exhibits the silence of a monk, shaking his head from side to side as he feels the iron grip of Jacob's influence. Although he wishes to conceal this information, he knows it is impossible. A tear begins to stream down his right cheek, signifying a type of personal defeat.

"Your family will be protected," Jacob promises without hesitation, recalling the threats that were issued in the recording. "I'll move you to another part of town tonight; if that's what it takes. We will protect you."

"His name is Chandler Glenn." The reverend blurts out as more tears run down his face, dancing over his weathered skin on their way to the blackened concrete below him. "I'm sure that you know from his name...he's just as rich and powerful as you. So how are you going to protect me?"

"Do you think he did it?" Jacob asks with sudden empathy, fearing what other crimes might have been committed. "Is he getting worse?"

"Jacob, I promise that I won't say a word...not a word to the police." Reverend Schelnick concedes with shaky hands, watching the young man with trepidation. "I've heard things about you. People talk about the women that leave your apartment...and disappear. I promise that I won't say anything about what you and Chandler have done. Just leave my family alone!" He pleads with his hands clasped together as if asking for Jacob's forgiveness.

"I'm not a bad guy," Jacob says aloud, swallowing a bit as he speaks and wondering if he believes himself. "I do some things for business, but I'm not-"

"Look, Jacob, nobody on this side of town wants to cross you. Whatever is going on, it's not my concern." The reverend remits in a comforting tone, his hands shaking from the thought of being on the radar of two murderers. "I understand that you've changed since Shannonbie died, but it's okay. I understand that it was hard, and you did what you had to do."

"I'm not like Chandler, reverend!" Jacob proclaims with a sudden fury, glaring with preemptive wrath at his religious advisor from over a decade ago. "The things people are saying about me are a lie! Don't repeat these lies! I am...a good man." He announces with a face full of regret, noticing that sweat is beginning to form on his brow. "I'm a good man." The distraught entrepreneur repeats, feeling less confident in this statement as it leaves his lips a second time.

"Yes, of course, you are." Reverend Schelnick embellishes with a wide smile and submissive hand gestures, perpetuating the theory that he believes Jacob is not well. "You and Chandler are pillars of this society; men who should be respected. I am so grateful to be doing God's work under your righteous hands. Thank you for choosing me to serve, Jacob, I won't disappoint you!"

Jacob stares with befuddlement at his new religious leader, and his mother's old friend, seeing the terror that his presence is causing the man. 'Have I fallen so far?' He asks himself as he nods to the priest and forces a smile, allowing the man to relax. With a conflicted heart, the young entrepreneur vacates the refurbished offices of the old church. Jacob walks with strength through the cathedral as a sudden burst of hatred wells up within him.

He notices a sledgehammer propped up against a stack of timber on the right side of the work area. Something dark inside of him prompts Jacob to grip the heavy hammer, and he spins like a madman, in a controlled and graceful stroke that ends with abrupt power. The mighty hammer strikes a pyramid of steel beams lying dormant near the outer wall. After the blow, the ensuing noise radiates through the cathedral like the ricochet of a gunshot. He feels the vibrations through the wooden handle. His solid grip absorbs them like electric eels crawling through his nerve endings.

Jacob hears the cry of a man somewhere behind him, and he turns to see a worker drop from the scaffolding, startled by the sound of a hammer smashing into steel. The young Hispanic man falls seventeen feet to the concrete floor of the cathedral, smacking his head on the cement with a horrific, empty sound. The young billionaire feels himself go numb as blood rushes from a concealed wound beneath the man's head.

"Hey, buddy," Javier says gently, stepping over to grab Jacob by his right elbow. "It's okay, man; accidents happen. Let's get you out of here, okay? Just set down the sledgehammer, and we'll get you back to your car." He removes the hammer from Jacob's hands, examining the display of shock on his young face. "Come on, man, we'll get you out of here. This is no problem. He has insurance."

"Did I just..?" Jacob begins to ask, trying to look back at the body, still confused by this new development.

"You're in shock, bro. Let's just get you out of the construction site and back to your car. No, don't look back!" Javier instructs as he rushes Jacob through the front door, almost dragging him by his elbow with the force of a mob thug. "Accidents happen, dude; it's no problem. You're going to get into your car, and we'll turn on the heater, and you'll be just fine. You'll be just fine..." He repeats with a phony disposition, sounding more like a satanic chant than a comforting statement.

Jacob remains in shock as Javier escorts him off of the property with the fierceness of a bar bouncer. He feels confused by the roughness of this treatment, combined with the gentleness of the man's voice. The workers outside have just received the news about their dead colleague. Their terrified faces and Javier's odd behavior make this event terrifying and surreal. Jacob looks back to see the reverend standing outside the front door of the church. He appears to be sad, crossing himself with his hands as he watches Javier escorting Jacob from the church grounds.

"Here you go, buddy," Javier says as he opens the door of Jacob's Mercedes and forces him inside. "There you go, brother. Just start the car and go for a drive. Go for a long, long fucking drive...and don't come back for a few days."

"Did I kill someone!?" Jacob asks in a sudden panic, feeling the leather upholstery soothing him back into reality. "Did I hurt somebody?"

"No, man, he's gonna' be fine! He's got insurance." Javier reassures him with the bedside manner of a sociopath. "Now you just toughen up, amigo, and drive. Don't fuckin' come back here for a few days. You never visited the site, and we never saw you."

Jacob starts the car as Javier slams the door. He watches with discomfort as the contractor puts his hands on his hips and spits at the ground, giving Jacob a look of absolute hatred. After the car pulls away from the construction site, Jacob elects to follow Javier's advice. He allows himself to take a road trip, deciding that denial is the best policy. The young billionaire chooses to focus his energy on Chandler Glenn. Jacob hopes that a good deed will help to placate the guilt that is now surrounding him like enormous, dark storm clouds.

After five minutes of driving, and placing a few phone calls, Jacob is aware of Chandler's evening visit to the Guggenheim Museum. According to Danielle, his assistant at the Club of Hearts, the man is attending an exhibit called 'The Antithesis of Banksy.' Jacob hopes that the information is useful as he acquired it by promising a ten thousand dollar refund for overpayment. Fortunately, Danielle has proven useful in these scenarios where deception and discretion are conjoined in the womb of business.

The black Mercedes rolls along across the asphalt, as Jacob rushes to the world-famous museum on 5th Avenue. There is a sudden vibration atop the center console of his car, and he glances down to see that Celeste Marie is calling his cellular phone. The young man sighs with emphatic distress, wondering if this distraction will be worth the trouble, or if it will lead to more pain. He tries to recall where they left off, deciding that his new lover felt that she was sold into slavery. Despite his triumphant poker game, she thought that he had deceived her by his mishandling of the truth.

"Hello," Jacob answers after pausing for a few rings, sounding optimistic and casual.

"What are you up to?" Celeste asks, speaking like a young woman who is twirling her hair between her fingers.

"I'm headed to an event at the museum." He responds, feeling more relaxed by the faint playfulness of her voice.

"Are you on...a date?" She replies in a coy manner, holding her breath at first, and then laughing in a manner that seems forced. "I mean, it would make sense, you don't want to go out into the public eye looking like the fading bachelor. The lion who can't hunt...the bear that can't fish." Her voice hangs with sarcasm at the rise of each statement, and Jacob can almost see the woman smirking from just the inflection of her speech.

"How about...the hummingbird that couldn't build a nest?" He says with a wicked grin, enjoying his banter with the hardened Bostonian. "Or perhaps...the rabbit that always got a headache before sex?"

"Okay, that's a little below the belt, monsignor." Celeste quips with deliberate enjoyment. "Oh, by the way, I heard about your church, it's all over the news."

Jacob freezes in silence for a few seconds, wondering if she knows about the injured and potentially dead worker.

"Yeah, the church is going great. I'm restoring it the way you said...in honor of my mother." He states, feeling the muscles in his throat expand and contract from the thought of his deceased, beloved parent. "I've got three crews working around the clock. We've already had people going to confession."

"Well, that will be a huge benefit for you, considering the night we had." She relays in a naughty fashion, conveying unrelenting mystery in her motives. "But before you go to confess your sins, maybe we can...add a few more."

"Sure, let's get dinner tomorrow." He answers with a cautious gaze, turning his car left onto 5th Avenue. "Then I can confess all the sins I'd like to share with you."

"Sounds good to me, baby," Celeste admits with an upbeat laugh, trying to conceal her doubts, but falling a bit short. "Have a great night, 'bye!"

"'Bye," Jacob replies with a hopeful gaze, hanging up the phone to pay better attention to his driving.

The young entrepreneur wraps his hands around the gray, leather steering wheel, sensing that his new significant other may be trying to run a game on him. He drives faster toward The Guggenheim, trying to clear his mind of the potential ulterior motives of Celeste Marie. After getting through a few traffic lights, Jacob pulls up to the museum in a slow manner. He contemplates whether Celeste is even worth the paper on which her contract was printed.

Jacob gazes at The Guggenheim with reverent affection. He recalls a time when his life resembled the pristine perfection of Frank Lloyd Wright's cylindrical masterpiece. This moment of reflection is short-lived, however, as he notices that time is running out to catch Chandler at the new exhibit. Jacob drives the Mercedes into a paid parking facility and walks for half a block until he reaches the iconic entrance of the building.

Within the circular walls of The Guggenheim Museum, Jacob senses his childhood creeping back to the surface. The majesty of the lobby forces him to pay homage to the spectacle of a glass ceiling high above the museum patrons. His eyes then trace down to the cement ramp that is wrapped around the center of the structure. It rises layer upon layer, allowing guests to traverse from floor to floor in a communal fashion. The billionaire admires the overlapping, interlocking circles of bare, composite flooring beneath him. Although the beauty of the interior almost puts him into a trance, he forces himself to move.

He ascends the ramp with a hungry gaze, inspiring queer reactions from the otherwise calm patrons that he bolts past. Jacob soon identifies the exhibit that Chandler is rumored to be perusing, based on his calendar entries for the day. With a quick snap of his hand, he removes the cellular phone from his left pocket. Jacob then presses the screen to display a picture from Chandler Glenn's website. It depicts a normal, everyday entrepreneur on the 'about us' page.

The photo appears to be recent, but none of the captions give any grounds to the credibility of that assumption. Chandler is a tall, muscular man of European descent, looking sporty in a black compression shirt and matching slacks. His somewhat scruffy beard alludes to the fact that he is the CEO, and thus must not abide by company dress codes. Though, his hair has been shaved into a tight square around his pale, chiseled face.

Jacob holds up his phone as he steps into the exhibit, watching for his adversary. He immediately notices a tall, bearded man standing at the left of a prefabricated wall that features three paintings. When he looks at the picture on his cellular phone, and back at the actual person, Jacob notices how uncanny of a match the clothing is to the image. The only real difference between the two is that Chandler is wearing a black jacket and brown leather shoes for his Guggenheim visit. Jacob moves toward the thirty-two-year-old, keeping his eyes fixed on the paintings and observing his prey in silence.

"Jacob Calbraw?" Chandler asks with a devilish grin, noticing a young man approaching from his right.

"Mr. Glenn," Jacob replies with a self-assured smile, wiping the side of his mouth with his right hand before offering it to Chandler. "How is your day going? Are you enjoying the art?"

"The day is great," Chandler replies with a phony smile, darting his eyes back and forth to take in Jacob's face as the two men shake hands. "The art is uninspired; not a total waste of time, but not worthy of The Guggenheim. What brings you over here in such a rush? I'm sure it's not a check for ten grand."

"Hardly," Jacob answers with a moderate smirk, trying to retain the upper hand. "No, I was hoping to speak with you in private." He adds in a blunt fashion, staring through Chandler with his best dominating posture.

"Do you know what I like about this art, though?" Chandler inquires with brisk finesse, ignoring Jacob's attempt at intimidation. "The artists have chosen a side. They are not living in the gray areas. I mean, here we have a boy that resembles Oliver Twist, but he's twenty-five-years-old, which is fitting for this lackluster generation. Then he's standing here with his arms outstretched, begging for more cash, even though he has piles of cash behind him, and wads of it overflowing from his pockets. So, like this boy, I have loads of cash, but unlike this boy, I don't have my hands out...yet here you are." He states in a disturbed manner, stroking his beard as he watches Jacob.

"Here I am..." Jacob echoes with a gaze of confusion, causing a painful wound to his ego. "We have a mutual acquaintance...being one Reverend Gordon Schelnick." He announces with a hardened stare, focusing on Chandler's eyes with an expression that projects superiority.

Chandler straightens his body, visibly bothered by the use of this name in his presence. His face displays a failed stoicism that cannot hide the panic within him.

"Well, you're not going to tell anybody, right?" He surmises with a friendly gaze, seeming to come more from the realm of reasoning than pleading. "I mean...if you told people around here; what would they say? What would they think of me?" Chandler becomes more dramatic in his tone, bursting into spirited laughter and disrupting the art aficionados in his proximity.

Jacob lowers his shoulders and steps back a bit, raising his head to gain clarity as he relaxes his assertive posture.

"I've been screwing with that priest's head for years!" Chandler exclaims, tilting his head to one side and showing that Jacob's words have wounded him. "At first, I started telling him things that I'd made up, just to see what the punishment was for various sins. As a young man, and not that it's any of your business, Calbraw; I was very interested in adult authority. I wanted to know what would happen when you were bad – really bad. So I confessed to being really bad, and found out what punishment The Catholic Church would hand down. I did this on everything from lying, all the way down to murder. It's an old habit that doesn't require the attention of...a Calbraw."

"I listened to the recording!" Jacob admits, wishing immediately that the words hadn't escaped his mouth. "It sounded real to me!"

"Recording!?" Chandler asks with an incredulous stare, marveling at the boldness of his new adversary. "Look, the Calbraw family has so many skeletons in their closet; they barely have a place to put their designer shoes. Besides, you have no proof that any of those confessions had to do with actual crimes. They're just embellishments of things that I read on CNN. So congratulations, Jacob, you've attempted to indict someone for trying to exercise his right to free speech and his freedom of religion." He finishes with gusto, shaking his head from side to side at the younger man.

"Look, I need you to stop harassing my colleague," Jacob demands with a firm stare, exhibiting body language that appears limp and uncertain. "The bottom line is that I installed the surveillance equipment because I don't want any child molesters having free reign in my church. Understand!? Now, are you going to leave my guy alone, or do we need to put this to The Faceless Red?" He finishes with an assertive flair, taking a step forward with his right foot so that Chandler's face is adjacent to his own.

"Jesus Christ, Calbraw!" Chandler reciprocates with his right arm outstretched and the palm facing forward. "Let's not pull The Faceless Red card out of our asses just yet. Your guy was duped into believing that he was in danger, and it added some excitement to his life. Now his faithful dog is here for me... Why are you here, Jacob? Are we holding court in the F. L. Wright building now? Should we box a few rounds?" He asks, rolling his right hand into a fist and pulling it close to his chest with little effort.

For an instant, Jacob feels enticed by this offer to fight, and his hands begin to tremble, as though they have a hunger for battle. His newly sculpted body is so enriched with testosterone that a lack of sex must be tempting him to indulge in other ways.

"Jacob, I'm not the heavy that you think I am." Chandler submits with a sincere smile. "If you want to know my sins, then why don't you come with me tonight? I mean, I have to assume that if you've come this far, you're going to follow me. So we may as well just enjoy the experience together." He offers with a compelling expression, showing off a boyish need to share in his adventures.

"Where are you going?" Jacob responds with authority, brushing off the invitation as just another ruse by the savvy developer. "And why would I be interested?"

"Calbraw, you've got this deadness in your eyes, and it's something that I used to have...something I overcame." Chandler states with pride, placing his right hand on his chest. "I've been developing commercial real estate for almost ten years, but I realized something a while ago that is important. You can't have a strong, sturdy building unless the foundation beneath it has integrity. I discovered that nature dictates the rules of our lives, and when we try to go outside of nature's brilliant system, we become less than human. Now that I live in nature, I'm free, and if you want to know what I'm talking about, then you'll need to join me tonight." He insists in a charming fashion, forming an instant bond between himself and Jacob with his impassioned brown eyes.

"I'll meet you somewhere," Jacob begins with a cautious stare, sizing Chandler up for signs of malice, "but if anything is off in the least, then I'm gone..."

"You won't regret this, Calbraw," Chandler replies with a wink and a voracious grin. "Meet me at Bridge Park in Brooklyn, on the boardwalk, and I'll show you how easy it is to get that deadness out of your eyes."

"Bridge Park is unincorporated now. Are you out of your mind?" Jacob asks immediately, watching Chandler's face with distrust. "Going there at this time of night won't take the deadness out of anyone's eyes. The locals are more likely to make us permanently dead." He declares in an aggressive manner, folding his arms across his chest.

"It doesn't matter if you're there or not, Jake," Chandler taunts with a smile, "but if you want to know my sins; this will be your only chance. Besides, you're a young guy that's in shape, and you seem to know how to take care of yourself."

"I may or may not be there." Jacob responds with a shrug, feeling the need to separate himself from Chandler's neatly spun web. "Regardless of what happens tonight, I need the reverend left alone. Are we on the same page there?" He demands pensively, raising his eyebrows at his companion with a silent, yet visceral threat to his safety.

"We're on the same page, Jacob." Chandler agrees in a more formal tone, showing off a full set of artificially whitened teeth. "I hope to see you there tonight."

Jacob elects not to respond, but gives Chandler a half-hearted handshake. When their hands interlock, Jacob feels the pressure in the grip of a man trying to make a point. He sees something foreboding in the wealthy developer's gaze, something that has been missing from his own eyes for a long while.

After almost an hour of traffic on FDR Drive, Jacob arrives at Bridge Park in Unincorporated Brooklyn, driving his Mercedes through the lawless streets. He notices that the juxtaposition of a luxury car next to the rusted junk of Brooklyn is like a jet parked near covered wagons. Jacob sees the faces of young criminals that dominate the area. They spring to life in the windows of their lean-to cardboard shacks. Their eyes spy his fancy car as if it were left for them as a late Christmas gift.

His gaze shifts away from the shacks down to the muddy patches of snow that have been heavily trafficked over the past few days. Jacob reaches for his glove compartment to retrieve a pistol, but restrains himself immediately. The young man feels optimistic and calm about the unknown circumstances that he will soon face. He lowers his hand away from the glove compartment and sits back in his seat at peace. Jacob wonders if this feeling is misplaced guilt from the incident at the cathedral or just a sincere desire for adventure.

A pair of headlights flashes to Jacob's left and a black, 1998 Porsche 911 drives forward. It parks in a gentle fashion next to the driver side of his Mercedes. Chandler exits from the driver door of the Porsche with a winning smile. His attire is almost the same as it was earlier, save for the black suit jacket that he was wearing at the museum.

"You made it! I'm impressed." Chandler praises with an annoying thumbs-up, flashing and a self-indulgent, cheesy smile. "Come and join me, the fun is about to start." He states with steam exiting his mouth and nostrils, making his way to the trunk at the front of the small car.

Jacob exits his Mercedes with a spirit akin to an American eagle, barely noticing his apparent immunity to fear at a time when fear would be healthy. His eyes follow Chandler with great care as the tall, muscular developer retrieves a large, black, leather duffel bag from the trunk of the Porsche.

"What's that?" Jacob demands with a curious stare, flinching a bit as Chandler slams shut the trunk of the car.

"This...is a surprise, but since we're on uneven ground already, I'll just say that you can't have a party without party favors." Chandler gloats, exhibiting a powerful swagger.

"I need to know more than that..." Jacob insists with his eyes glazed over in mistrust. "There's no way in hell I'm traveling through this part of town until I know what's up. We're in a war zone here, Chandler." He affirms his point with poise, waiting for the clandestine developer to give up his secrets.

"Sure, just walk with me for a bit, and I'll take you through each step." Chandler offers in a fatherly tone, making his way toward the boardwalk at the far end of the park. "Don't worry; nobody is going to die." He adds with a sad clown expression when he notices that Jacob isn't moving.

Jacob watches his peculiar companion with more than a little uncertainty. He knows that Chandler's plans rarely end with someone else having the advantage. After a brief measure of the dangers, he again feels an unusual calm. The young man shrugs with hearty tenacity, deciding to walk with Chandler into the park.

As the two men traverse the cement path toward the boardwalk, their movements are being tracked by over a dozen figures crouching in the shadows. Jacob has a difficult time making out how many thugs are stalking them, and he watches the steam of his subdued breath in the cold. The young man feels no fear.

"So what's the plan, Chandler?" Jacob requests scornfully, feeling the chilly February weather biting at his skin in the rigid shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. "I drove down here, parked my car in a shitty spot, and now we're walking...to do what?"

"RUN!" Chandler shouts with sudden urgency as he begins to sprint across the cement path toward the boardwalk.

This response stuns Jacob, but he immediately follows Chandler. He gallops through the darkness behind the man with his teeth clenched. His eyes follow the bag in Chandler's right hand, determined to find out what lies inside. The figures in the shadows seem to be multiplying and getting closer with each passing moment. Jacob notices that his body has already released adrenaline. Despite the painful sting that the cold cement delivers to his bones, the young man does not slow down. He quickens his pace, trying to outrun Chandler. Though, in his efforts to watch the approaching horde, and to plot a path through the obstacles in the park, he realizes that going too fast is just as treacherous as not moving. Jacob hears the sound of glass breaking and doesn't bother to glance back at his Mercedes, accepting that it is now lost to this lawless part of town. The unincorporated area of Brooklyn has been cut from the city budget, leaving it devoid of law enforcement.

"Isn't this fun!?" Chandler calls out despite his heavy breathing, sounding like a teenager that just committed a minor theft. "I used to jog in this park every day before I made my fortune. There are quite a few wrong turns that you can make if you're not paying attention."

"You better have a damn army in that bag, Chandler, or they're going to be digging our bones out of The East River a thousand years from now." Jacob surmises with sporadic breaths, feeling strong, despite not having gone to gym for several days.

"This looks good," Chandler announces as he maneuvers to the front of Jacob and drops to one knee.

"What the fuck!?" Jacob exclaims, watching the man block his progress, which forces him to collide with Chandler's back and sends his body sprawling onto the cement.

Jacob puts up both of his hands to prevent severe injury to his face, rolling into the fall with ease. He experiences small lacerations on his hands from the jagged ice and rough cement. Though it is the final impact of his body slamming the ground that brings on the most pain. The young man comes to a halt in the prone position on the cold concrete slabs, raising his head long enough to watch Chandler race past him.

"You better hustle, Calbraw," Chandler calls back to him like a twisted football coach, "it's time to get that deadness out of your eyes."

Jacob glances around with concern, watching the shadowy figures descending upon him from all angles. He jumps to his feet without an instant of hesitation and picks up speed with a fresh hatred for his new acquaintance. Chandler is now over twenty-five feet ahead of him and manages to pull away with ease, as though he were holding back when they first began their run. Regardless of the ground he has gained, Chandler is weighed down by his leather duffel bag, and Jacob is in much better shape, stalking him with the iron grit of vengeance. However, as Chandler stops to make a sharp left turn, Jacob is bewildered, wondering if he has been duped again by the madman. He sprints forward, attempting to follow the deceiver, but the swarm of thieves and murderers is already upon him. They force Jacob to stay at the center of the concrete path. The young billionaire gazes across the park toward the city. He notices that Chandler's shortcut likely bisects with the same path on which he is currently traveling.

As the minions of criminals continue their pursuit, Jacob senses that something is off with this entire scenario. 'How could so many men and women be swarming me, and none of them catch up?' He thinks to himself, now looking closer at the rows of benches that line either side of the path. His intuition picks up something peculiar, but it takes him a moment to recognize the shapes through the wood slats of the park benches.

"What the hell!?" Jacob exclaims, noticing that there are dozens of figures concealed behind the benches, and the path before him is coated in a sheet of slick ice. "They boxed me in – like a damn rat!"

With his rapid foot speed and the poor traction of his Italian leather shoes, Jacob can do nothing but maintain his balance. He slides across the ice toward the benches at his left. The young man tightens his abs and holds his arms outward to keep from falling backward. As he nears the benches, an entire group of criminals reaches over the top of them, grabbing his body around the torso. Jacob panics as he senses the strength of the crowd. A group of average people working together to capture him feels like being tugged by a monster truck. He detects them pulling him off of his feet, as though a giant beast were devouring him whole. With a spark of inspiration, Jacob swings his head backward, slamming it into someone's face. He then contorts his body toward the bench, wrapping his legs under the seat, and throwing his right elbow at another member of the crowd. This erratic swinging motion startles the thieves, and they release their grip long enough for him to bounce back onto his feet.

Jacob finds himself back on the ice. He realizes that returning to the solid footing of the bare cement is not an option. There are dozens of criminals marching toward him from that direction. To his left, there is still more than twenty feet of ice, and he cannot afford a fall. One brave thief leaps over the benches and lunges toward him. Jacob aggressively grips the young man's shirt, using his body for balance as he shuffles forward. In his haste, the determined criminal trips over his own feet, and falls backward to an instant concussion on the ice. Not being one to pass up an opportunity, Jacob steps hard on the young man's breast bone and shoulder, using them to launch himself up onto the park benches. He then runs across the seats of the benches, striking people in the face who try to grab him from the left, while avoiding a fall to the ice at his right.

Within seconds, he reaches the higher grade on the pavement where the ice didn't form. Jacob leaps down from the benches, feeling like a sixteen-year-old with two hearts pumping inside of his body. Another thief approaches from his left as he scales up the trail; this one holding a knife in his right hand and growling like a soldier.

"YOU TOOK MY MERCEDES!" Jacob shouts boldly, swinging with his left fist in a ferocious wallop that connects on the man's right jaw.

The punch is deadly, and the thirty-one-year-old thief hits the pavement so hard that he seems to bounce. Although the young entrepreneur is excited by this spectacle, there is no time to stop and admire his work. Jacob sprints toward the edge of the park, following the same path where Chandler took his auspicious shortcut. He is amazed at how much his speed and strength have increased, never in his life having felt so powerful. His body is like a combination of Muhammad Ali's speed and strength, coupled with the raw toughness of Emmitt Smith. He feels the mental acuity of Stephen Hawking, orchestrated into perfectly timed thoughts and actions. The world appears different through Jacob's eyes now, much simpler, and far less threatening. It is as though he has evolved from being a big fish, into a massive shark.

With his primal style of running, Jacob outpaces every thief in the park, dodging around obstacles or jumping over them as he goes. For the perpetrators, it often seems like they are trying to capture an Olympic athlete that is toying with them for sport.

When Jacob exits the park, he notices that Chandler is standing near the corner of a building in the distance. A smile forms on the tenacious developer's face when he makes eye contact with Jacob, and he rolls around to his right, disappearing behind a large, tan brick building. The young entrepreneur snarls and blows air out of his nostrils, surmising that Chandler is still playing games.

Jacob pursues his nemesis with unbridled contempt. He forces his legs to move faster as he twists and turns through a maze of alleys, dancing to Chandler's tune with each step. The group of criminals has not given up chase either, seeming angered by Jacob's violent actions in the park. After a few blocks, Jacob fears that he has lost Chandler and considers backtracking. He twists his head left and right, attempting to find signs that someone has run through the area. The young man comes to a juncture at the end of an alley with two paths. Jacob holds his breath, feeling the pressure of dozens of criminals almost at his heels. He does not know where Chandler is heading, or what might be his endgame.

"Jacob, I'm over here." A voice whispers from the alley, just beyond the corner of the building where it juts out at eye level. "Jacob, I'm right here!" The voice calls out again in obvious frustration.

Jacob puts his back against the brick wall, and strafes left, watching for any hint of more trickery. After taking a few steps, he emerges into a larger space to see Chandler standing before him with a submachine gun. Since the barrel is pointed in his direction, Jacob can only smile. He admires the cunning developer for besting him in such a short time.

"Get ready to open fire," Chandler orders with intense urgency, tossing the weapon to the younger man. "This one is yours; it's ready to shoot." He adds, speaking with excitement, like a boy that just opened his favorite toy train set.

"I'm not going to slaughter a bunch of people...for fun!" Jacob protests, looking down at the deadly weapon in awe. "What the hell were you thinking!?"

"They're rubber bullets, Jacob," Chandler explains with a smile, speaking to him like a buddy on a fishing boat. "No one is going to die, but a lot of people are going to be in pain."

Jacob shakes his head, watching Chandler reach into the duffel bag with weary eyes. He looks down at the weapon in his hand, and then back at the large man before him who is now holding a similar weapon.

"You don't believe me?" Chandler asks with an irritated scowl. "They're rubber bullets, Jacob, and if you don't fire when that crowd comes around the corner, then we're going to be overrun. It will take both of us to repel them."

"How many of these did you bring?" Jacob inquires with amazement, seeing that the duffel bag still has something solid within its folds.

"I have several different toys in there." The developer replies with a smirk. "These just happen to be appropriate for our situation."

Their conversation cuts short as they hear the sound of feet pounding the pavement from a few yards away. Jacob clutches the unfamiliar weapon in his hands, hoping that his aim will be effective and that Chandler is not lying about the type of ammunition. He sighs with concern, wondering if the man at his left is trying to entrap him in a series of murders to shield him from future prosecution. In a moment of clarity, Jacob elects to fire a short burst into the bricks of the alley from whence he came. He watches with approval as a few rubber bullets bounce off of the heavy stones. They do not leave the marks that would be created by live ammunition.

"Very clever, Calbraw." Chandler beams with childish delight. "It looks like we have some trust issues. We'll probably want to work on those."

Before Jacob can respond, a swarm of thieves pours out from the alley, advancing in their direction. He and Chandler open fire on the group, refusing to show mercy to the ragtag thugs of Unincorporated Brooklyn. Jacob cannot help but laugh as he watches the men and women grabbing at various parts of their bodies. The criminals each feel the debilitating sting of the safety-minded, high-velocity ammunition. When the men have each emptied a single clip, the group of young people begins their retreat, moaning and groaning their way back to the safety of the park. Some of them slip and fall in the icy alleyway, and others are injured enough to need help from their friends. Chandler displays a broad smile, staring in wonder at the power he holds in his hands. He glances upward only to watch the wounded get carried off the frozen battlefield of asphalt and garbage. After a few seconds, a police siren sounds, and the two men look at one another in bewilderment.

"I thought there was no police coverage in Unincorporated Brooklyn?" Jacob asks with a stare of confusion.

"Well, it's either a real cop that is working for free during his time off," Chandler begins with a distant stare, contemplating his next move. "Or more likely, these guys have stolen a police car and are going to use it to their advantage. Either way, we need to get the hell out of here."

Chandler begins to run through the maze of alleys with Jacob in tow, and they watch the streets with caution as they move through various open areas. After a few blocks, they hear several more police cars approaching. The two men find themselves trapped between the thugs in the park and officers on the hunt.

"This warehouse is abandoned," Chandler says, pointing to the gas main near their feet.

"How do you know that?" Jacob says with scrutiny, feeling as though he shouldn't be here; trapped between the law and the lawless. "We're going to be in deep shit if they catch us with these weapons." He adds with urgency, looking down at the small, black assault weapon in his grasp.

"The gas main is off; there's no way anybody is going to be in this building without heat. Let's just go inside the warehouse and wait for them to leave." Chandler declares with a look of excitement, enjoying the elements of danger and uncertainty. "I think we can get in at that door on the corner."

When they reach the steel door of the large building, Chandler uses the butt of his gun to break the padlock. He then pushes the door open, gesturing for Jacob to enter first. The younger man holds up his middle finger in Chandler's face, and walks around him in a manner that is uncomfortably close, clutching the duffel bag. Chandler smiles a bit and juts out his chin as he follows Jacob into the building, closing the heavy steel door behind them.

The abandoned factory is a fortress of darkness and freezing temperatures. Jacob feels himself shiver as he and Chandler walk past several conveyor belts, and broken down machines, stripped of their parts. There is enough moonlight in the production area to view the dilapidated machinery; a once deep shade of forest green, now rusted out from various leaks in the roof.

The two men stop to place their weapons in the bag and take in their new surroundings. Chandler notices a dark, empty space at the far side of the production area that bears the outline of another steel door. There is an exit sign above the door that they can barely see through the blackness. The older man gestures for Jacob to follow him as he takes out his cellular phone and uses it to light the way. They avoid a few oddball obstacles as they move toward the space, stepping over abandoned beds and indoor fire pits.

When they reach the dark, empty room, both men gaze upon the steel door in hopes of a quick escape, but the sound of police sirens seems to be approaching from that direction. Chandler turns off the light from the screen of his phone, leaving the two men in total blackness. Jacob looks around the room for a moment. He sees nothing but bare walls and what appears to be a series of old employee lockers near the far end of the space.

"Life is brutal, Jacob." Chandler manages finally after a long silence between the two men. "Do you think we're the first people to do things like this? You couldn't be that naïve."

"I've done some horrible things, but there was a line that I never crossed." Jacob serves back with pride, imagining Chandler's face turning vulgar with hatred for his pretentious nature. "Yes, I've crossed the line, but I wish-"

"That you hadn't!?" Chandler again exfoliates Jacob's phony attempt at communication, determined to make him see his true self through brute force logic. "I gladly crossed that line – left it far behind... We aren't men designed for lines. Call it brain chemistry; a lack of oxytocin – if you want. Or write it up as men forced to do terrible things to overcome the challenges in their lives. Regardless of your version of the truth, the reality is that we chose a path. Regular people call it crossing the line, because, in their mind, it's a one-time act of unspeakable behavior, but you and I know better. That first step across the line leads to a long path of lines to cross, on a downhill grade, where the next line becomes easier to leave behind."

There are blaring sirens and sounds of police cars that rush around the corner of the vacant building, forcing both men to tense for a moment. They can't see one another in the darkness, but Jacob can imagine his companion's dark clothing, and tall, muscular body. Jacob wonders if Chandler is considering killing him here, attempting to tie off anything that might expose him to the normal world. As he ponders this, Jacob smells the foul air of the old production line around them. There are containers filled with solvent that is leaching into the ground, and he recalls seeing several bodies of poisoned rats on the bare cement.

"Do you want to know how I first crossed the line?" Chandler asks with relative enjoyment, pausing for a moment, and taking Jacob's silence as an invitation to proceed. "I was coming home from the gym. It was late. The sun had just gone down, and the brilliant hues of a red sunset were still lingering on the horizon. Three men approached me on the top floor of a large parking structure, just outside my little, black Porsche. I was on my way to the airport, leaving the car in long-term parking to enjoy a hedonistic weekend in Jamaica." Chandler stops to clear his throat, his voice echoing slightly in the massive, abandoned building. "There were visions of naked girls from the beaches dancing through my mind. I had no idea that the VIP parking area at the airport would be targeted by thieves, but there they were – three ex-cons with pistols."

"This doesn't sound like a story where you crossed the line." Jacob mutters with disdain, grabbing at a massive bruise on his lower left abdomen and wondering how his body fared against the rough cement.

"No, but it was..." Chandler teases in his arachnid-like manner, enjoying the voyeuristic ambiance of his exploits as never before. "I looked at the biggest of the three men; a bald Samoan called Ricky, and told him that my Porsche was only worth a hundred grand. He listened with more interest when I explained that a wealthy friend of mine was out of town, and he left me the keys to his luxury penthouse. After a bit of talking, the three of them agreed to ride in my Porsche to the penthouse. That's where I promised to deliver a piece of estate jewelry valued at over two million dollars. I recall the excitement that I felt getting behind the wheel of my Porsche that summer, knowing that the penthouse and jewelry didn't exist."

"So you're in a Porsche with three criminals?" Jacob surmises in a tepid manner, hoping that Chandler can hear the boredom in his voice. "I still don't see how you crossed the line."

"I'm coming to that point if you'll allow me!" Chandler emotes with visceral intent, lunging toward his younger counterpart in the darkness and retreating to finish his recount of the events. "We took Cross Bay Boulevard, and I was keeping my speed below the limit, so they would relax. I kept talking about the money and the value of-"

'You are a passive fool!' A voice booms from within Jacob's body, forcing him to lean forward in the darkness.

'What?' Jacob thinks to himself, feeling his heart racing faster than it was several minutes before, when the criminal horde was in pursuit.

'Why would you listen to this strutting phallus? His motives are as obvious as the ending of this boring story, to which we are both being subjected.' The deep voice replies with dismay and a murderous urgency.

'I'm giving him the benefit of-' Jacob's thoughts are immediately assaulted by another rant, even more furious than the last.

'By the stare of Pythius, you are false unto yourself. My young, fragile Jacob; you are afraid of this man. You believe him to be a killer; a murderer who has mastered the nuances of darkness. You are holding us back, and for what? The cackling of a whelp!? I have seen jackals with more sinew in their jawbones.' The fearsome voice continues, booming from within his mind in a manner that leaves Jacob's left hand trembling.

'Who are you?' Jacob interjects, between the rampant thoughts of disgust that are bursting to the surface of his consciousness.

'I am Thretch.' The dark voice answers with ambiguous pride.

'Am I losing it?' Jacob begins a thought but is instantly interrupted.

'No, you are not going mad.' Thretch affirms before Jacob can finish his thought. 'Though, if I have to listen to one more contrived serving of watery feces from your companion, we may well both be daft before morning. I have hearkened to arrogant fools for thousands of years. They all sing the same tune and expel their cowardly woes... Before I break their body. He will tell you of his clever plan to abandon the car, leaving the men trapped inside. You will then be required to hold back your vomit as the fool explains how he dispatched them while they were wounded and bleeding. This is not a story worthy of my ears. I am going to slumber, lest I end your companion before his mouth makes another sound!'

"So at this point, I have them trapped with the Porsche upside down," Chandler continues with enthusiasm in the darkness. "And they had no idea that there was such a steep drop-off behind those shrubs, right? And this is where things got interesting. Here my hundred-thousand-dollar car is toppled ass-over-teakettle – in Joey's garden. That was when I got up from the cement, and made my way to where they landed. My body was so sore from the impact; it just hurt all over. I hung down from the concrete wall and dropped into the flower bed. After a quick search, I found a shovel leaning against the corner of the garden, near the hose on the roller. I ran over and grabbed the shovel, and then used it to disfigure each of those bastards. In the end, I just used the tip to open their throats and watched them bleed out... It was intense and so much worse than they deserved."

Chandler waits in the darkness for a response from Jacob, knowing that the horrors of his tale have likely shocked the younger man into a state of panic. He feels awkward, and somewhat suffocated in the silence, having never before shared this story with anyone. After a few more seconds, Chandler becomes uneasy and retrieves his cellular phone from a side pocket, hoping to use the backlit display to see his comrade.

"So what do you think?" Chandler asks with a worried gaze, shining the light from his cell phone toward Jacob. "I crossed the line, right?"

Chandler is surprised to see that there is nothing in front of him, even when he takes a few careful steps forward.

"Ephialtes of Trachis!" A deep voice explodes from Jacob's lungs into Chandler's left ear.

The stout developer barely has time for this sound to register before a powerful ridge-hand strikes his windpipe. He starts to gasp as the internal tissues and saliva from within his trachea are immediately compacted and released. Before he can react, Jacob moves forward like a man possessed, twisting Chandler's arm behind his back, and snapping it at the elbow. The young developer cries out from this horrific twisting of his limbs, drowning in overwhelming pain, and callous betrayal. He then detects his forehead being pulled back in the grip of Jacob's strong fingers. Chandler feels his body stretching over his adversary's left shoulder.

Now that Chandler's neck is exposed, Jacob holds his forehead with his right hand and uses his left forearm to compress his vulnerable throat against his shoulder. In one fluid motion, Jacob drops to one knee and grapples Chandler's head. He then flips his body stomach-first onto the concrete with mighty force, snapping his neck midair.

'And that is justice...' Thretch announces from within Jacob's mind, allowing him to regain control of his body.

Jacob peers down toward the motionless mass of his new friend, imagining what his final pose looks like, but not wishing to see it through the darkness. A shiver of sickness wells up from within him as he considers his sanity. He can hear the ancient monster thinking in the back of his mind, enjoying Jacob's reaction to this bold display of brutality. The young billionaire holds his hands against his face, suddenly aware that his new mentor and confidant are no more. Jacob begins to tremble, feeling alone as he recalls the creature's recent hijacking of his body.

The frigid, empty warehouse may as well be the inside of his stomach during this moment. Jacob remembers with unflinching clarity, the sound of his friend's neck breaking. He bites his bottom lip, reflecting on how the monster contorted his body with such a malicious, hulking presence. Thretch used every ounce of his strength, stretching each part of him to its limit. As his breathing escalates, he can hear the demon laughing within him. Jacob knows without question that it has no reservations about abusing his body – like a driver prone to madness, pushing a delicate car to its physiological limits. Thretch has shown Jacob, in one swift motion, that he cares naught for his safety or the life that the young man has built for himself.
XIV. Life is Brutal

"You get much action in that wheelchair, Coal Train?" Kelvin asks with a slight smirk, leaning back in the comfy kitchen chair to enjoy a fresh cigar.

"I get the backsides slappin' – it does all right," Danny 'Coal Train' Fillmore replies with a smile, tapping some ash from the end of his cigar as he reminisces with his old friend. "You see that mold up there?" He digresses with a mundane stare, looking up at the ceiling in disappointment, and expressing frail mortality. "It's been like that for a while. My little sister's in the hospital now, but...I don't think it even needed to get that bad."

Kelvin peers up at the foul ceiling in the small kitchen, shaking his head as he inspects the nuances of brown rot mixed with black and green mold. His expression turns to empathy as he looks into Coal Train's eyes, noticing the same defeated stare that he had at his son's funeral. The young, African-American man is easy to overlook through the eyes of an unaware pedestrian. Kelvin knows the strength and bravery of his longtime friend – wheelchair or not. In his youth, Danny had been the natural leader of their group; a charismatic lady's man with a sound mind and an even sharper wit. His upper body is well-defined, which is obvious beneath his plain white T-shirt. Although he is only thirty-two-years-old, his long beard and intense stare give him the appearance of a man in his late thirties.

"Do you remember when we used to tag buildings together?" Kelvin inquires with a dry smile, waiting for his friend to detach from the sorrow. "It was down in Brooklyn when we had the cops-"

"Yeah, yeah," Coal Train replies with a grin, interrupting Kelvin with excitement as he ignores the mold, and laughs with adolescent glee. "I watched ya'll tie those flashlights to the dogs. You told us how the stabilizers needed to be on the sides so that it looked like we were carryin' them."

"Hell yeah! That was a good night. Who was that fool you wanted to be like? Was his name Binky?" Kelvin deadpans with wild eyes, enjoying the immediate anger that is displayed on his friend's face.

"His name is Banksy...and you know that. The dude was my hero – is my hero. Kelvin, stop messin' with me!" Coal Train says with a playful swipe of his right hand. "Don't make me shove this cigar up your butt. Then we'll see who they be callin' Coal Train."

Kelvin erupts in hearty laughter, watching his gut shake beneath his bright yellow, button-down shirt. He takes another hit off of the fantastic Cuban Cigar, wondering how Danny can afford such luxuries during times like these. He watches the smoke rising from between his fingers for a few seconds, and decides that it is time to talk business. Kelvin rubs his fingers on his black slacks, puffing on the cigar again as he contemplates his next statement.

"The devil's in your head again, ain't he?" Coal Train asks with a victorious smile, showing that he still knows how to read his friend after all these years. "What do you need me to do, Kelvin?"

"How good are you with a pistol?" Kelvin asks, expressing a serious demeanor that causes his friend to experience a chill. "I'm putting together an army, and...we're gonna' set things right. We're gonna' set things right in the neighborhood; once and for all." He repeats with a bit of shame in his voice, knocking more ash off the tip of his cigar into the small, black ashtray.

"So you figure that I ain't got nothin' to live for, and neither do you?" Danny asks with an irritated stare as he puts out his cigar in the ashtray, and taps it toward the middle of the table. "What does Christina think of all this?"

The younger man places his hands together with the fingertips pointing forward, resting his lips on the tip of his thumbs. Coal Train gazes at the small tiles on his kitchen floor, the stains in his ceiling, and the tiny, polyurethane table that he and Kelvin are using for their ashtrays. He contemplates this proposal for a moment, feeling the guilt pass through him for crimes that he may commit in the future.

"So you want me to kill somebody, and that will earn my sister her life?" Danny ascertains immediately, appearing a bit disheartened by his friend's request. "You want me to kill somebody to avenge your son, but you're pretending to do it for our people? I don't know if I should shoot you myself, or give you applause for being a bigger jackass than you ever were."

Kelvin looks down at the cheap table, not bothering to confirm what his friend knows already. He extinguishes his cigar in the ashtray as well, knowing that the flames of their friendship will be gone forever after such an offensive request. The remaining smoke lingers in the air like the dark stink of Kelvin's ambitions to murder powerful men. Despite his callous position, Kelvin's insides are trembling with fear. It is not a fear of having the worst happen to him, but the fear of how far he is willing to go on this journey.

"I don't know what to say, man. How did you figure that this was gonna' cheer me up?" Coal Train asks with a disappointed grimace, recalling the pain that was brought into his life from a gang shooting that left him crippled. "Did you ever read about The Civil War, Kelvin? ...Hundreds of thousands of men blowin' each other to bits...to get a law passed. They say that the war started because of a book called Uncle Tom's Cabin. It exposed slavery for bein' the nasty evil that it had become. Now I look back on that time in history, and I hear boys whisperin' that you've written your own 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' – for the animals on the inside." Danny pauses and looks at his friend for a moment, waiting for him to reject this claim. "I hear that you're givin' them a roadmap for revolution, and puttin' our brothers and sisters on the front lines. Why would you do that, Kelvin? Why would you think that our people, especially here in New York, need more pain?"

"We're already on the front lines," Kelvin replies with a chilling stare, gesturing with the tip of his beard to the mold on the ceiling. "Your sister is a victim in this war of opportunity, and if you can be a patriot...then I can be one too." He states with a voice of genuine compassion, feeling the death of their friendship narrowing his view of the world.

"You know what, Kelvin? It's possible for a black man to do anything; I truly believe that." Coal Train says with a glint of hope in his eyes, looking majestic and inspired, watching his friend nod in agreement. "I even believe that it's possible for a black man to become part of the evil that he is lookin' to destroy. How do you expect to dip your hands in the filth of this society for a few years, and think none of that is gonna' wash up on you? Once you dip your hands in the filth, my friend, there's not much room to turn back."

"The filth has dipped itself in me...into my heart." Kelvin conveys with a degree of arrogance, turning his head away from his friend for a moment.

"Well, I agree that Geo is dead, but I don't agree that rich people killed him," Danny replies, trying to revive his friend from a stubborn position of revenge. "You should've had a backup pen for that boy if you really loved him. I'm sorry, brother, but it has to be said..."

"The wheels are in motion." Kelvin responds with tears bursting from his eyes, feeling stung by the tough love of his friend. "If we had more money, I could have bought several of those pens. If we had a better quality of life...then my son..." He stops speaking, feeling lost and wounded; a passionate man on the verge of collapse by the vision of his own design. "The security guard wouldn't let me through the dividers to the first aid station because I looked black and poor." He argues with bitterness, feeling the cold air of the home penetrating through his thick slacks.

"So what, Kelvin!" Danny objects with a shameful stare. "If you were white and poor, they probably would have stopped you too. They just thought that you were trying to-"

"Hurt the rich people!" Kelvin concludes with a lively tone as he pounds his right fist hard on the surface of the table, feeling it vibrate somewhat. "My little boy was turning blue, Danny! You can't fake that! Are you telling me that it was okay for them to deny me medical care because I might have a weapon, or I might want to steal something? They weren't even supposed to be in that area. It was being used because the guys in the suites had invited too many of their friends! How is this any different from your sister and the mold!?" He demands as his hands begin to tremble with rage. "How can they justify shitting on our lives so that their brokers and CEOs can have golden cell phones and offshore bank accounts? What do we get for our hard labor? WHAT DO WE GET, DANNY!? We get a dead son and a half-dead little sister... And you want to talk about Uncle Tom's Cabin? The stock market is the new form of slavery. They didn't make it illegal, Coal Train; they just made it legal for everyone. We are an equal opportunity destroyer of dreams. I'm tired of it! I'm done with it! The infant mortality rate in Brooklyn is through the roof; almost as bad as a third-world country. When we tell these people about it, they just laugh and say that it's the government's problem."

"Maybe it is, Kelvin," Danny admits with some hesitation, feeling unnerved at the passion his friend is displaying for such a violent undertaking. "Maybe the government should do their part, but now you sound like Barry, squawkin' 'bout the stock market bein' slavery. You never believed that, Kelvin. Your whole life you've been laughin' at guys that pound they chest and say that. Now you're just lettin' go of your own beliefs so that all the radical, crazy thugs will follow your lead!"

"BULLSHIT!" Kelvin answers with another slam of his fist on the small table. "I've never worked for a poor man, Coal Train. Have you ever heard that saying? Well, the man I work for sets my hours, and he sets my wages. What happens when he decides to cut my wages, and increase my hours so that he can take more off of my table, and GIVE IT TO HIS ASSHOLE FRIENDS!?"

Danny puts his hands up with the palms facing outward in a defensive posture, trying to show Kelvin that he has heard enough. After a brief pause, Coal Train folds his powerful arms over his chest, looking up at the mold with the sadness that he exhibited earlier.

"If I do one...then my little sister is good, and ya'll get rid of the mold?" Danny asks finally, feeling obligated to save her life by any means available to him, even if he disagrees with the motivations. "Am I gonna' get caught, Kelvin? This wheelchair is enough of a prison; I can't stand being in a prison within a prison." He emphasizes with a bold gleam in his eyes, watching his friend cautiously.

"The gun will disappear from your hand right after you fire the shot, and we'll have it wrapped up when you do." Kelvin conveys with a bit of shame, feeling hurt by his friend's lack of support. "After the gun disappears, it will be destroyed within seconds. Nobody will have a clue that it was you."

"What about video cameras?" Danny inquires with genuine concern, leaning forward a bit in his wheelchair. "Last I recall...there were a lot of video cameras on Park Avenue."

"We're gonna' send someone in to destroy them right before we get started. Even with a video camera, all they're going to see is a guy in a wheelchair reading his newspaper. You'll leave without any suspicion, and another selfish bastard will be removed from the earth."

"Let's do it!" Coal Train agrees with a defeated gaze, looking up at the mold as if it will soon be growing over his soul. "You just make sure that my sister comes back in full health. I want her to have a great childhood; not this poverty bullshit!"

"I understand." Kelvin acknowledges as he gets up from his chair to conclude their business. "This will go smooth, and I'll do right by your family, Coal Train. I promise!"

Kelvin steps across the floor with his right hand outstretched, but Danny shakes his head and gestures with his left index finger toward the front door. The two men lower their heads for a moment, avoiding eye contact with restrained agony. After a short pause, Kelvin makes his way to the front door, maintaining a shimmer of confidence that his friend will come around to his way of thinking.

"Oh, and Kelvin," Danny begins with a cold stare, "don't call me Coal Train anymore. Only my true friends can call me that."

"No problem, Danny. No problem." Kelvin acknowledges as he steps to the front door, knowing that his friend is forever gone from him, due to the cheap price tag that was just placed on his life.
XV. Exculpation

Earl stands by the side of the Steese Highway in Fairbanks, Alaska, surveying the land to the north that leads to the Yukon River. He is clad in a light brown, flannel shirt with long sleeves, which is coupled with a brown, wool parka. Even with the hood of the parka covering his head, he can feel the chilly bite of the February weather. He moves his gloved hands along the ridge, staring far into the distance. The billionaire traces a possible route for his next charity event. It is tentatively known as The Northern Lights Daredevil Race. His legs feel warm in a brown pair of heavy snow pants, and his feet are kept comfortable by thick, waterproof boots.

He breathes out the fine afternoon air of winter, enjoying the sight of the exhaled carbon dioxide. Earl begins to feel robust and healthy amidst the calm of nature, and he glances to his left at Creamer's Field. The old barn is white and sturdy, just modern enough for comfort. Though it looks isolated on the grounds that are covered in snow and bare brush.

"I love you, Alaska. Don't ever change." Earl says to the vast wilderness, looking upon it like an old lover that he rarely visits, reminded of her majestic beauty in the cradle of the northern hemisphere.

He lowers his head as recent memories from New York begin to resurface. His ongoing feud with Jacob, the destruction of Phelony's career, and the abduction of his wife – sealed by his own hand. Earl's lower jaw begins to tremble at the thought of Shannonbie being taken from their home in the early morning. Their ten-year-old son saw the kidnapping, crying and screaming, according to the kitchen staff. Three men entered the home with ease, each of them carrying a shotgun, and removed Mrs. Calbraw from the master bedroom.

"I'm so sorry; my dear Shannonbie...it wasn't what I wanted." Earl lowers his head in shame and closes his eyes, giving his wife a moment of silence and hoping that the men didn't follow his orders completely. "I guess...I just can't break away from my past." He admits solemnly to himself, wiping away the tears.

Earl turns toward the south and watches for two of his employees, Johnny, and Scott, to emerge from the local market. The two men accompanied him to Fairbanks in the guise of a security detail, but neither of them is qualified to fight with as much as a toothpick.

"Excuse me, Sir." A woman calls out in a thick Irish accent from the right side of Earl's peripheral vision, waving a bit with her gloved right hand. "Are you Earl Calbraw?"

After a brief pause, Earl pans his head to the right, watching the middle-aged woman and her male companion with scrutiny. The two are wearing matching navy blue, synthetic parkas, and similar pairs of tan hiking boots. They would be dressed the same, but the woman opted for snow pants, and her husband chose to wear black jeans.

"Who wants to know?" Earl asks in a gruff voice, winking at the pair as he attempts to recover from the doldrums of his memories. "Yes, I am he." The tall billionaire states with a gracious smile, feeling sophisticated and proud to be recognized at the top of the earth.

"Can we get a picture with ya' then?" She asks with a smile of adoration, expanding her pale face to show off the wrinkles of premature aging. "I mean if you're not too busy."

"Ah, hell, I'm never too busy for the good people of Alaska," Earl replies in a charismatic tone, feeling like a politician with his unfortunate choice of words. "Do you have your camera?" He asks with a friendly smirk, looking upon the strangers as they approach closer.

"Sure do." The woman says, revealing a small, silver digital camera from the left pocket of her parka. "We'd like to get a shot with Creamer's Field in the background if that's all right with you. Then people will know you were really 'ere." She says, gesturing toward the white barn to the west.

Earl glosses over his prejudice toward the couple as a natural reaction to their ragged appearance. They look to be in their late forties, and their hair is stringy and out of place, each having dark circles beneath their eyes from insomnia. The woman is of Irish descent, with long brunette hair and dark brown eyes. Her partner appears to be of Korean ancestry with brown eyes, thinning hair, and thick, frameless eyeglasses.

"Yeah, I think we can do that," Earl states with a forced smile, glancing about the area in search of his employees, knowing that a haphazard security detail is better than none.

"All right!" The woman beams with excitement as she passes the camera to her husband. "Let's just go over 'ere closer to the field." She instructs with enthusiasm, rubbing her gloves together as they step toward the iconic barn. "So what ya' doin' up here in Fairbanks? Are ya' lookin' to buy some land?"

"Nope, I'm planning a daredevil race up on the ice of the Yukon River," Earl says with a proud grin, walking over the brush and snow to a position in front of the barn. "My wife and I-" He stops speaking for a moment, suddenly filled with sorrow and regret. "My family and I used to come up here all the time, and I needed to run this charity event, so I thought Alaska would be a great place."

"You do charity then, huh?" The woman asks with an odd expression, glaring at Earl as though he were a brown bear claiming to be a devout vegan. "It's a good tax write-off that, isn't it? I imagine that your broker boys love the watcha' call 'em - dual benefits?"

"Yeah, the fabulous broker boys," Earl answers in a cheeky fashion, uncertain that the worn-down Alaskans will understand the reference. "Hey, why don't we stop here, I need to make sure that my guys can still find me... Don't want to be too far back from the highway." He says with an uneasy feeling, turning to look at the thin husband who seems reverent and distant.

"Sounds good, love!" The Irish woman proclaims, turning to face her husband as she takes a position next to Earl. "We're ready when you are, hon. Do ya' have the barn in the background then?"

The exhausted Korean nods with annoyance, holding the camera out steadily in front of him as he snaps a few photos. Earl does his best to smile in spite of the woman's heavy body odor that has enveloped him. He watches the frail Korean taking pictures absently, as though he is doing a survey of natural gas dig sites.

"Good enough?" Earl surmises with a cordial grin, holding out his right hand for the woman to shake.

"Not quite, Mr. Calbraw." The woman announces with a bitter sneer, folding her arms across her flat chest. "You see, we know who you are, because we read an article today that you were comin' to pay us a visit. It said somethin' about this new race you were cookin' up since your singer shit herself... Now I think it's your turn to shit yourself."

The Korean man immediately tucks the camera away with his left hand and produces a .22-caliber pistol from his right pocket. He aims it at Earl's head, shaking somewhat, and appearing as though he is full of doubt and remorse. Earl raises his lengthy arms into the air, maintaining a non-threatening posture.

"Do you remember The Frozen Trail of Tears, Mr. Calbraw?" The woman inquires with a deliberate and fierce tone, stepping across the snowy field to join her husband. "I'm sure ya' do. It was your doin', after all... You see, we had two sons... Two wonderful baby boys, right up 'ere in this beautiful country. Everything was goin' good; we had plenty of work, and the boys were becomin' fine boys. But then somethin' happened to the economy. Somebody used their wealth and influence to create a shortage of medical supplies and food so that they could jack up the prices. It was a rough winter that, especially here in Fairbanks. Our two little boys starved right 'ere in the wilderness. We were hopin' to starve with 'em, but apparently adults last a bit longer... Just enough to live with the pain. We have hardly slept these past few years, Mr. Calbraw, and life has been...tasteless. But then we read this article on the Internet, and it was like a gift from God, tellin' us exactly where you'd be today."

"This doesn't have to happen." Earl pleads, appealing to the woman with his soft blue eyes. "I've been working hard to make amends...to clean up my life. It was our board of directors that made those decisions."

"Fair enough," the woman begins with a sober and flushed expression, rubbing her eyes from long-term insomnia. "I suppose everyone deserves a chance at redemption. What's the name of yonder cemetery?" She asks with a hateful gaze, pointing toward a parcel of land to the southeast.

"I don't know," Earl replies, observing her facial expression and movements with caution. "Fairbanks Cemetery?" He says finally after a moment of contemplation, hoping that the couple just wants to teach him a lesson.

"Nope! Wrong!" She exclaims with wicked satisfaction, scratching the side of her nose with an arrogant smile. "That's Birch Hill Cemetery, and it's where my babies are buried. I just thought you'd like to admire your work before you die! Go ahead, Sam, finish him off." The woman orders immediately, turning away from Earl to watch the road.

"I can't..." The Korean man says in defeat, letting the pistol droop toward the ground. "It doesn't feel the way I thought it would feel, sweetheart. It feels...ugly...filthy. I don't want to shoot him like a dog." He lowers the pistol all the way, lining it up with his right thigh muscle as tears begin to stream down his face. "I miss the boys too, but this isn't-"

The Irish woman snatches the pistol from her husband's hand and shoves him hard in the chest, sending him backward into the snow. She raises the handgun with her right arm and aims toward Earl, showing deep despair as she fires five rounds at the entrepreneur.

Earl watches the small flash at the end of the barrel, realizing in a surreal manner that this is a moment of impending mortality. He looks at the woman's haggard face with empathy, accepting the wrath of his deeds with humble disappointment. The first bullet grazes his left hand, burning and tearing the flesh on the side of his thumb, causing searing pain. Two more bullets strike the right side of his chest, penetrating his lung and forcing the large man to drop onto his backside. Another bullet just misses his right arm and the final shot lands deep in the snow, a foot to the right of the last.

"Let's go, Sam!" The woman declares with an anxious whisper, darting across the snow to help her husband up from the ground. "We need to get to the woods!"

When he gets to his feet, the Korean man has no color in his face, and he nods at his murderous wife with acceptance, following her lead as they vacate the area. After a few steps, he turns back to look at Earl, and mouths the words 'I'm sorry,' before disappearing with his wife into the trees.

"Oh my God! Did you see that, Johnny? They just shot Earl!" The familiar voice of Scott carries across the otherwise quiet field, enhanced by the natural acoustics of the wilderness. "They just...shot him, and took off..."

"Who shot him!?" Johnny asks in a horrified voice. "We need to get him to the hospital!"

Earl listens to his employees from their position near the rental car on the highway. Although he is struggling to breathe, the elderly billionaire feels confident that help will soon arrive. He imagines the two men standing near the car, dialing a cellular phone to rouse emergency responders.

"Wait a minute!" Scott exclaims, sounding as though he has a better idea. "What if we don't get him to the hospital?"

"If we don't get him to the hospital, he'll die!" Johnny proclaims with a bit of anger, unimpressed by the foolhardy nature of his colleague. "C'mon let's go!"

"No, wait, we need to think this through," Scott suggests in an unsavory manner. "He's probably not going to make it anyway."

"Well, that doesn't matter; we need to get him to a hospital." Johnny maintains in a bitter tone, sounding alarmed by the callous nature of his coworker.

"What the hell are you talking about, Johnny; you tried to stab him last month. That's how you got this job..." Scott fires back in an irritated tone, sounding pessimistic.

Earl lies on his back in the cold snow of the field, his body resting in the bosom of the frigid earth, matching with ominous symmetry the comments made by his employees. He finds it odd that the sting of their tentative betrayal hits the center of his gut with more intensity than any bullet ever could. The terrified billionaire continues to listen, fighting for every breath while his employees hold court at the edge of the highway.

"What are you sayin', Scott?" Johnny asks in shock. "Are you sayin' we should just leave him here? I can't do that. I promised that I wouldn't harm him."

"Yeah, and you didn't harm him!" Scott emphasizes with a plea of reason. "You didn't harm him, and I didn't, but there he lies...halfway to other side...or closer."

"I can't do that, man!" Johnny insists with urgency, sounding paternal in his determination to help Earl. "Not helping someone to survive is just like murder, right?"

"Is it..?" Scott proposes with an optimistic tone. "I don't think so... Look, we both know what this guy has done in his life. Yeah, he's been better lately, but he's only a few drinks away from turning back into 'that guy' again. When he was on his power trip seven years ago, we both lost people. One of my cousins died during The Frozen Trail, and it was painful for their family. So, what I'm saying is that this probably happened for a reason, and now we just need to let it run its course."

"How does that make us any different from him?" Johnny states with blatant offense. "You can't just let a man die like an animal, no matter what he's done..."

"You were gonna' kill him last month, and now he's out there dyin' on his own." Scott clarifies with self-righteous passion. "What if...and I'm just floating this. What if we just walk away for ten minutes, and if he's alive when we get back, then we'll take him to the hospital? If he's dead...it was just meant to be."

"Ten minutes?" Johnny asks, letting an uneasy sigh escape his body as he considers the consequences.

"Yeah, ten minutes for your dead mother and ten more for your father." Scott offers in a sly manner. "It's not like you're killing him at that point. He definitely owes you something for taking your parents away... For taking your childhood away. Just give it twenty minutes. Nobody knows that we were here. If we come back and he's still alive, then we'll get him to the hospital. What do you think?"

"I don't know...maybe." Johnny submits slowly, still harboring a sincere conflict about betraying the position with which he was entrusted. "Just twenty minutes?"

"Just twenty minutes," Scott answers with a degree of impatience. "Then we'll come back and take him to the hospital."

"Okay, maybe. I'm not sure." Johnny replies in rapid succession, shifting his emotions like tectonic plates in an earthquake.

"Let's just go for twenty minutes...and then we'll come back." Scott says in a dominant manner; his voice filled with passion and sincerity.

Earl has never felt more alone in his life. He listens for Johnny to object, hoping that just one more word in the conversation can turn everything around. But the objection never comes. As the minutes pass, he wrestles with the acceptance of his own end, weeping openly at the knowledge that nobody came to his defense. His breathing has become shallow, and Earl can feel fluid building up in his right lung. Blood now spurts from his mouth every few seconds as he fights to breathe. He is confused and petrified by the likelihood of dying under the beautiful Alaskan sky – in broad daylight.

"I love you, Jacob," Earl announces to the bright sky above, his voice weakened by the suffocating injury. "I love you, Jacob. I'm sorry, Shannonbie. I'm so sorry..."
XVI. Emancipation

Danny 'Coal Train' Fillmore rolls his wheelchair southbound across the busy sidewalk near the corner of 700 Park Avenue in Manhattan. The young, African-American man detects a lot of sideways glances from those surrounding him, due in part to his long beard and well-sculpted upper body. He is clad in black sweatpants, a white Nike brand golf hat, and a blue New York Knicks jersey. The early morning sun is forgiving enough to make the cold bearable. Danny shivers each time he finds himself in a long shadow, forcing his wheelchair to move faster as he thinks about his younger sister.

'Two months ago she was fine.' Danny testifies to himself, his wheelchair seemingly on autopilot as he maneuvers amidst the hips and buttocks of a diverse crowd. The young man breathes in shallow gasps, unaware of how the stress of these memories is affecting his body.

He recalls the first time that little Deidra approached him with a bad cough, sounding like she had the flu. After a few days, her coughing escalated to wheezing and shortness of breath. By the time they got her to the hospital, she had scar tissue in her lungs, and the doctors had diagnosed it as irreversible. Danny remembers staring at the doctor's lips when the man told him about the scar tissue and potential long-term effects on her life. 'She may not be able to run again,' the doctor had admitted, 'we think that at least forty percent of her lung capacity is gone.' His hands begin to tremble when these memories resurface, and Danny halts his wheelchair. He puts on the brake in the middle of the sidewalk, much to the irritation of those attempting to walk past.

Danny looks upon the wide concrete slabs before him, enjoying the simple grooves and ridges created by years of snow removal and weathering. Though his mood darkens when he glances toward his lap. There is a folded newspaper concealing a .22-caliber pistol with a suppressor, fashioned just last night on a drill press. Danny had watched with great interest as Kelvin took measurements, and drilled out long slivers of metal from the cylinder caps. It all started with the steel tube of a heavy-duty flashlight. The tube matched up with an end cap bearing an opening of the same caliber as the ammunition. They then used a tap and die set to add threading to the front of the barrel and end of the flashlight, marrying the two by screwing them together. A drill press completed the last step, creating small notches in the sides for air to escape in a reverse flow.

Danny breathes in the frosty air with a sudden feeling of doubt. He realizes that regardless who his comrades are; it is still his job to pull the trigger. The assassin observes a steel ring in the bottom of the pistol and looks upward at the roof of the building to his right. There is a custom rig on the roof, fitted with a suppressed lawnmower engine. When he is in position, a fishing line will descend from the building with a small metal clasp at the end. His first goal is to secure the fishing line to the loop at the butt of the pistol. Once Danny has shot his target, he will tug on the line, engaging a makeshift clutch and causing the lawnmower engine to reel in the pistol at 5,000 RPMs. The murder weapon will then disappear from his hands into the sky. It will be caught by a heavy-duty fishing pole and stored away for permanent destruction at a later date.

"Yo, where's my line? It's already past the time when this dude is supposed to be headin' to the stock exchange." Danny demands through a small Bluetooth earpiece at the right side of his head. "What do you mean the lawnmower won't start in this cold? Okay, okay... No, forget about that...Kelvin wants to use his toys to save the day, but I'm just gonna' do this old school. Yeah...well shut up, I need to concentrate."

Gerald Lemar steps out from the tinted, black glass doors of his luxury apartment building. The investor is wearing frameless Ray-Ban sunglasses, a black beret, and a matching full-length wool coat. He glances at his Rolex watch, immediately frustrated by the knowledge that he will be twenty minutes late for the opening bell at the stock exchange. His designer shoes slip a bit on the concrete in front of the building, and he scrambles to gain his balance. Once he has regained solid footing, he raises his gloved left hand toward the building and extends his middle finger. This celebration is short-lived as the chilly air of the early February morning has crept intrusively beneath the folds of his coat.

In his wheelchair, just ten feet from the doors of the apartment building, Danny has a hard time identifying his target. The man is wearing a beret and sunglasses, which hide his wide eyes and a distinctive pattern of baldness with V-shaped portions of short hair. Danny looks closely at a photo from the newspaper article in his hands. It features a young woman who had been hit and killed by a limousine only a few days ago. The story displays a profile image of Gerald Lemar's face with a bulbous, balding head, and eyes set far apart.

Danny's hands begin to tremble when he notices that the man is moving toward the street, neglecting to take his usual path to a limousine around the corner. The young assassin feels panicked, noticing that his target is moving farther away from him, instead of walking toward the wheelchair. This scenario presents a serious issue as there are several pedestrians in the way, making it impossible to get a clean shot. To his surprise, Danny watches the man raise his right hand toward a cab that is approaching from over thirty feet away. Coal Train exhales a heavy puff of winter steam from his mouth, thinking how to compensate for this issue.

"YO, MR. LEMAR! YO, MR. LEMAR!" He calls out like a street vendor, waving his left index finger in a friendly manner, and gripping the pistol with his right hand beneath the folds of wet newspaper.

The callous billionaire turns to see a young, African-American man hailing him from the confines of a wheelchair. He immediately marches forward with his right index finger raised, scowling at Danny and showing off his polished teeth.

"What the hell are you people doing on my side of town!?" Gerald laments with fury, stepping toward the young man with brazen disgust. "Can't you just stay and rot on your side of town? Do I need to call in The Faceless Red to give you a push?"

"Hey, asshole...you remember the woman that you hit wit' your car at the smoke shop?" Danny declares with a deadly and patriotic stare. "She was from my side of town."

The young assassin pulls up a pistol from beneath his newspaper and points it at the investment banker. At first, Gerald seems confused by the flashlight at the end of the barrel. Though his mouth opens in genuine surprise when he sees the young man wrap his index finger around the trigger.

Danny fires three times into Gerald's chest, feeling blood saturate his clothing and exposed skin. Gerald jerks upright as the bullets enter his body. He reaches out toward Danny as if to beg for help, falling to his knees in front of the wheelchair, and then rolling into a ball on the sidewalk. Danny drops the murder weapon onto the concrete next to the body. He is already certain that jail time awaits him with the blood spatter on his clothing and powder burns on his hands. Those who saw the crime are standing around the billionaire in shock. They scald Danny with their downward glances and shake their heads from side to side.

"Occupy Cemetery, bitch!" Danny announces with a proud smile, branding the name of his cause to the witnesses as police sirens begin to blare from several blocks away. "My sister is dyin' in the hospital from black mold poisoning; 'cause guys like this need to have they gold-plated cell phones. People come first! Profits come later! People come first! Profits come later!" He chants vigorously, wishing to bask in the moment as much as possible before the police arrive to take away the remaining years of his youth.

This victory is bittersweet for Danny, and he realizes it more as the sound of sirens close in on his position. His gut feels empty now, save for a building rage that he has for Kelvin, and the brutal deed that the man asked him to commit in the name of God. 'This ain't right...it doesn't feel right.' Danny thinks to himself as he places his hands in his lap, waiting for the authorities with a look of despair.

BROADWAY – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

The chilly sidewalk feels hollow underfoot as Jacob walks aimlessly through the crowd. He grips the back of his head with his right hand as if it were struck by a blunt object. His left hand trembles every few seconds, which has been recurring since he broke Chandler's neck the previous night. He breathes in uneasy gasps, citing the proximity of the crowd as the source of this unexpected panic. Though he knows that the truth is far darker than he wants to believe.

The young man raises his eyes upward, looking at the sky with grief and confusion. He never knew how the news of his father's death would impact his life. It has been less than an hour since the emails came pouring in from would-be friends and colleagues. Some have wished him well, but many are scheming to get their hands on part of his father's assets.

'I am drowning in my own sickness.' Jacob thinks to himself in a state of sorrow, remembering the tailspin that led him down to the Broadway sidewalk from his luxury condo. He is wearing a gaudy red, Hawaiian, button-down shirt, black slacks, and white basketball sneakers. His hair is a mass of twisted blonde and brown locks. It flips here and there in the wind as he wrestles with the renewed pain of his dead mother, and the recent demise of his father. Jacob passes through the crowd of strangers, lamenting their judgmental stares at his unkempt hair and mismatched clothing.

'You were always drowning – far removed from a man of steadfast ambition.' Thretch proclaims with vigor from deep within Jacob's mind.

When the demon speaks to him, Jacob notices that the twitching in his left hand worsens, as if the presence of the creature has undesired side effects. Jacob shakes his head from side to side, refusing to believe that there is something else occupying his body. He concludes that recent stressful events have led him to manifest this invisible foe: his way of coping with loss.

'Watching you lie to yourself has become tedious!' Thretch growls a bit louder, refusing to be ignored by his host. 'I am part of your body! I know your every thought and memory! You cannot escape me...for I am you.'

"This doesn't make any sense!" Jacob replies to the mysterious being in a rigid defense of his sanity; barely realizing that he is talking to himself on the street.

'I am not here to coddle you, fragile man.' Thretch replies in a tone that is further emphasized by the chill of the easterly breeze, blowing across Jacob's face. 'If I am with you, then you are not innocent. If I am with you, then your soul is forfeit. These things I know to be certain. I have known...for thousands of years.'

"Right...my father just died, and I killed a man last night," Jacob begins sarcastically. "But the fact that I am hearing voices is perfectly normal – just the will of God." He closes his mouth abruptly, realizing that he is speaking to a crowd on the street, and several faces are now peering at him with suspicion. "I'm rehearsing for a play." The young entrepreneur reassures the strangers that have stopped to stare at him, as though a mentally incompetent man is a tourist attraction.

'Last night? That was not murder. It was courtesy!' Thretch argues with ferocity, sounding like a bear that roars into Jacob's left ear and disappears into the background, only to reappear and shout into his other ear. 'I have listened to your cries for too long, Jacob! From the time I occupied this weak and fatty body, I have heard nothing of your desire to achieve or grow. Your obsession with your mother and father is as pretentious and inane as a teenage boy coveting girls. You MUST STOP this wretched cascade of thoughts, or there will be pain. I will damage your body, lest you drive me mad with your cackling infancy!'

Jacob trembles at the personification of his guilt, hearing the demon's voice rage and wane, seeming organic on a level that is surreal. He is astounded by the powerful banter that is taking place inside of his head. The billionaire realizes that Thretch, whether imaginary or not, is wounded by negative or self-defeating thoughts. Jacob wonders if this is a way for his mind to deal with so much tragedy, and the terrible crimes that he has committed these past few months.

'I am not your imagination, fool!' Thretch replies as an immediate response to his thoughts. 'What is taking place in your mind is not private... Not to me...never to me. Did you notice the twitching of your left hand? I have been with you for some time now, building up my strength, stretching myself to occupy your body. Must I show you the permanence of my tenure? Let go of your body, and I shall carry you forward.'

Jacob glances down at the severe twitching in his left hand, realizing that he appears to have cerebral palsy. This tic causes him to look away in disgust, attempting to gain better control of his extremities. After a few seconds, he smiles at the madness of the moment, allowing himself to go limp and gazing down at the sidewalk with the promise of a painful fall. His body hangs in the air for a second, and tips slightly forward before he finds himself completely upright again. Jacob watches with amazement as the presence inside of him takes over his body, like a passenger gripping the wheel of a car.

Thretch moves Jacob's body along like a mighty colossus, confident, wise, and with extraordinary power. From within his flesh, the young billionaire feels unprecedented freedom, horrified and intrigued by the depth of this experience. Every muscle in his body is used to its maximum potential, and he is outpacing the crowd with raw determination and longer strides. Jacob can access the demon's thoughts, seeing various civilizations and characters from ages past. Within the mind of Thretch, he loses himself on a journey of human retrospect, watching the creature betray and deceive people over thousands of years. The massive volume of memories is much like a historical library of humor, heartbreak, violence and triumph.

Although accessing these memories is fascinating, it is often interrupted by the conscious thoughts of Thretch. The depth of planning and innovation that take place within the demon are shocking. Jacob knows that he cannot hide his fear or enjoyment from Thretch. He confirms this in a type of shared emotion, sensing the creature enjoying his reactions to what is taking place. This experience is both thrilling and daunting for the young man.

'You LOVE stalking the streets with me!' The demon conveys to him internally. 'Look at all these people, and their reckless impotence of thought; how easily I could break them... And much easier to deceive them. They appear miniscule to you now, smaller than they did in comparison to your wealth.'

Jacob's cellular phone begins to ring from the front pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, and he almost trips over himself when taking back control of his body. He is amazed by the raw tension of his muscles and joints, just after a few seconds of Thretch being in control of his movements. On the display of the phone, it shows that Celeste Marie is calling, and Jacob answers with a bit of hesitation, much to the dissent of his new companion.

"Are you okay!?" Celeste asks without bothering to greet her lover, sounding panicked and afraid.

"Yeah, I just went for a walk," Jacob mutters, bracing himself for more condolences regarding his dead father. "It's really weird knowing that he's gone, but I'm still trying to wrap my head around it."

"No, I'm not talking about your father," Celeste replies with increased urgency in her voice. "What are you doing out walking the streets? Have you seen the news? They've been killing billionaires today. Six wealthy men have been shot in New York just over the past few hours."

"No shit!?" Jacob asks with a feeling of betrayal and instant mortality, gazing at the people that surround him on the sidewalk like a pack of ravenous dogs. "Was my father one of the six?"

"I'm not sure, Jacob." Celeste states with genuine empathy, sounding warm and a bit motherly. "They have some poor-quality video of a few suspects up in Fairbanks, but the FBI hasn't announced anything else. I'm so sorry that he's gone. I know that you had your differences, and it was hard to get along, but my prayers are with you."

Jacob stops listening to Celeste as he traverses across the pavement in a more sober and delicate manner. He notices an upscale pizza restaurant to his right and decides to enter the glass doors of the building. The young man feels a need to shelter himself from the crowded streets of Manhattan. Jacob looks around the restaurant, almost sickened by the perfect glow of the polished black and gray flooring. Each table is equipped with a television and earphones, allowing wealthy patrons to watch stock prices or browse the Internet. He observes a sign that reads 'seat yourself,' which is a common theme in the world of the upper class. Celeste continues speaking through his cellular phone as he tunes her out like a bad morning show on the radio. Jacob chooses a seat close to the front windows of the establishment and steps forward to occupy that table.

"So I don't know what the pattern is, but people are reporting that the shooters may be handicapped." Celeste finishes a thought, waiting for Jacob to respond, persistent in treating him like a fatherless puppy.

"Look, I need to go," Jacob says with urgency, feeling the gray leather seat taking him in like an abandoned child. "I've got to sort through some things. Thanks for the warning. I'll call you later." He hangs up the phone before she can say anything, staring at the television screen and not wanting to accept any of these revelations.

"Can I help you, Sir?" A beautiful blonde waitress asks as she approaches the table wearing a short black skirt, white, button-down blouse, and black stockings. "Do you want to start with a Latte?" She asks with a bright smile that emerges from her pouty red lips.

Jacob looks upon the young woman with lustful energy, realizing that she could have been a professional model were it not for her short stature. His eyes peruse her delicate, young skin like a lion sizing up a fresh kill. She responds to his raw desire by licking her upper lip, showing instant shyness after her display of lust.

"Yeah, I'll have a Latte, and two large slices of pepperoni pizza," Jacob states with a vacant stare, barely acknowledging that he has ordered food. "Make sure the pizza slices are extra hot – right out of the oven." He adds with authority, grabbing the young woman's delicate wrist and stroking her bare skin.

"Oh yeah, it'll be hot." The young waitress promises, enjoying the warmth and aggression of his commanding touch. "We'll get it up for you right away, Sir."

Jacob squirms in his seat as he releases her arm, enjoying the hunger with which she conducts her intimate affairs. He watches her rear end with a deep level of satisfaction, feeling his brain releasing a tiny amount of endorphins just from the pleasing shape of her body. A smile forms across his chiseled jaw when he notices an exaggerated sway in her hips. The young man realizes that she not only wants him to look, but it would be a shame for him to look elsewhere.

'You are a silly little ape of a man.' Thretch announces from the back of his mind, unimpressed by Jacob's lack of discipline. 'Do you believe that I will allow you to shove that animal fat into your face?'

'She's not an animal.' Jacob quips in response, feeling superior and alive in the promising heat of so much youthful desire. 'But she does have some amazing fat.'

'How impressive that you have chosen an escape from your daddy, and all the pain I can feel you holding back – like a hurricane ready to collapse the levy.' The demon deadpans with a taunting and authoritative presence.

Jacob gazes out the front window of the pizza restaurant, ignoring Thretch and his ambivalent take on the world. He watches the various strangers as they walk past, wondering how many of them would like to kill him due to his affluence. His body feels excited and alive, but his mind is numb, electing to remain unaffected by the events of the day. He turns away from the street, and glances at the television, feeling immediately foolish for doing so. There is a breaking news story about the recent murders of several billionaires in New York.

Although the images have no context without sound, Jacob can make out some of the faces on the display. His mind is forced back to reality when he glimpses his friend Gerald Lemar. Jacob watches with his mouth agape, knowing for the first time how close this new attack on the wealthy has come to his doorstep. After a few seconds, an image of his father is displayed on the screen, and he looks away, unable to accept that his old man is gone.

'You do not know whether to feel joy or dismay.' Thretch reports in an annoying fashion from the back of his mind, forcing him to accept emotions when they develop as if Jacob is being waterboarded by his conscience. 'The loss of your mother has left you a broken man these many years.' The demon admits with his coarse brand of empathy, seeming a bit less aggressive. 'I will help you to unveil the men responsible for her death... Oh, but you cannot believe that she has died? What a useless way to live your life – hiding from the cold, dark corners of the world.'

"Here you are." The waitress announces, seeming to appear from nowhere as she sets down a plate with two large slices of pizza, and a mug of steaming coffee in front of Jacob. "Be careful, it's hot!" The young blonde exclaims as she brushes her hair aside and smiles at him.

"Thank you," Jacob replies immediately, trying to hide that he has lost interest in a sexual rendezvous. "I'll enjoy every inch of it."

The young blonde snickers as she walks away from the table, unimpressed by his unfortunate misuse of bisexual innuendo. Despite her snarky attitude, she dismisses her pre-judgment and gives the young man a seductive look as she struts toward the kitchen.

'You should not indulge in such things.' Thretch warns from the confines of Jacob's mind, following the young man's gaze toward the plate of molten cheese and tomato sauce on a thin crust.

Jacob ignores the scorn of his new companion, using both hands to lift one of the large slices of pizza from the plate. The saliva in his mouth begins to build as the young man brings the warm food closer to his face.

An instant burst of energy erupts through Jacob's body and his arms lurch upward. He smashes the pizza into his face, covering it in grease, tomato sauce, and wet pieces of crust. To his astonishment, he feels himself leaping upward from the table as the hot pastry is pressed hard against his flesh. He also detects glass shattering around him, and is terrified when his body is hurled through the large window at the front of the restaurant.

The young man lands hard on the cement, feeling jagged pieces of glass cutting into his body. His hands continue to mash the slice of pizza into his face, rubbing it all over in a humiliating lesson of self-restraint. After a few seconds, Jacob regains control of his hands and removes the slice of pizza from his face. His body aches immediately from the impact on the concrete, and his mind is hazy from a minor concussion. The cold winds around him serve as an instant reminder of the punishment that was just handed down by his mysterious companion. He reaches down with his right hand toward his left thigh, finding a two-inch piece of glass protruding from the back of his leg, just above the knee. Jacob removes the glass without a second thought, feeling blood spurt onto his hand as he frees himself of the foreign object.

"YOU CRAZY SONOFABITCH!" The young, blonde waitress calls out from within the restaurant. "I'm going to call the police!"

After this threat is issued, Jacob is amazed by the speed at which he finds himself returning to a standing position. He works through the pain without needing any time to recover, and bounces back to his feet with the spry limberness of a veteran athlete. The young woman screams and disappears into the restaurant, horrified by the fact that her crazy customer seems unfazed by his brutal fall. The young billionaire notices that his cellular phone flew out of his pocket, and it now lies amidst a cluster of broken glass on the cold concrete. He reaches down and retrieves the phone from the cement slab, checking to ensure it is still working, before placing it back into his pocket.

Jacob makes his way to the curb and removes a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, ignoring the stares of onlookers who have stopped to gawk at him on the sidewalk. Although the group of New Yorkers has likely seen almost everything in their lives, he assumes that many of them haven't witnessed anything like this for some time. The young man uses the hundred-dollar bill to hail a cab and is not surprised to have his offer immediately accepted. Despite the throbbing pain in his back and head, Jacob is amused when he sees two cabs fighting to pick him up at the curb. The closest cab wins the battle, forcing the loser to honk his horn several times in blatant disapproval.

The winning cab pulls up next to Jacob like an old friend, moving forward to whisk him away from the blowback of this unfortunate incident. The young man enters the cab with the smile of a notorious gangster, and despite the foolish circumstances that led him to this point; he feels a sense of adventure in his life.

"Where are you headin'?" The Saudi Arabian cab driver asks with a smile as he takes the hundred-dollar bill from Jacob.

"Just drive," Jacob answers with a sneer of pain as his back touches the cool vinyl of the poorly padded seats. "Just drive. I've got plenty of money."

"You've got it." The cab driver says with a smile and gentle affection from his soft brown eyes.

Jacob retrieves the cellular phone from his pocket, looking at the scratched screen with a defeated and sober expression. He realizes that Thretch has more than just an opinion on how he conducts himself. His facial expression twists somewhat with immediate concern, noticing that Javier has been trying to call him almost every hour for more than a day. The young man stretches out in the cab, allowing his blood to drip on the seats from the open wound in his leg. He uses his list of contacts to find Javier's number and places a call to his faithful contractor.

"Where have you been, cabrón?" Javier demands as soon as the call is connected.

Jacob considers making a witty reference to jumping from the window of a pizza parlor, but is far too annoyed for such useless pleasantries.

"Around." He answers with a tired stare, waiting for Javier to deliver his news.

"Look, dude, my guys found something here at the church, and I think you need to come down and take a look." Javier rattles off, seeming as if he is holding a boiling pot of lobsters that refuse to die.

"Oh, God!" Jacob states with immediate irritation, feeling a headache coming on from the concussion. "Just tell me what you found."

"I'm sorry, dude, but you need to come down here." Javier insists with brazen confidence. "I'll be here for a few hours. We can't talk about it over the phone, but it's something you'll want to see; I'm a hundred percent certain."

"Okay." Jacob concedes with resentment, immediately curious by what Javier may have discovered. "I'm in a cab right now. I'll see you soon, 'bye... Take me to 490 Riverside Drive." He orders the cab driver with a reverent stare, both excited and alarmed by this news from his contractor.

ONE LIBERATION COMPOUND – RUTHERFORD, NEW JERSEY

A few tears roll down Billy Harmony's face as he wrestles with the news of Coal Train getting captured by the police. The thirty-five-year-old stands rigid within the cold, emptiness of a warehouse. It is a place that his men have been using for training and coordination of their rebellious efforts. The warehouse was previously used for chopping stolen cars and moving drug shipments. Though at the request of Kelvin, Billy had it converted into a training facility and communications hub. The twenty-thousand-square-foot space has three separate sections. One area is reserved for training, another has been cordoned off for meetings, and the third houses various chemicals and other scientific weapons.

Kelvin sits at a large desk next to Billy, staring at a small, black cellular phone atop the metal surface, near a stack of papers. His demeanor is calmer than that of Billy, yet his long arms are folded across his abdomen in a display of disapproval. There is a major contrast in the attitudes and appearances of the leaders that occupy this small fortification. Kelvin is wearing a black hoodie and white cargo pants with a pair of light brown, steel toed work boots. While Billy is dressed in expensive blue jeans, a white turtleneck sweater, and a shiny pair of black, designer shoes. He also sports a thin gold necklace that stands out against the sweater, and his ears are adorned with diamond stud piercings.

"I can't believe they got Coal Train," Billy states with empathy, staring at the rows of empty steel folding chairs that are lined up behind the steel desk. "We can't let our boy do twenty years, Kelvin. You told him that this was going to be easy."

Kelvin regards his colleague with distaste, gazing upon Billy's outfit like a judgmental father. The tow truck driver is forlorn from the unprofessionalism of his club attire. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, electing not to express the many thoughts that are emerging from his mind. Kelvin takes a moment to clear his head of a barrage of insults and looks upon his new partner in crime, smiling with deep affection.

"We had a plan that would keep Danny out of jail, but he decided to run things a different way," Kelvin concludes with a devious rhetoric, turning right in his chair to face Billy. "For some reason, he decided that what we're doing here is bigger than him. Maybe he knows that life will be better for his sister because of what he did today."

"Now, that's some bullshit right there!" Billy says with disgust, shaking his head from side to side, and holding out his right hand toward Kelvin as if gripping an invisible football. "This is all about your son. We all know what gets you up in the morning... What motivates you to do your 'thing' – is that little boy. So don't be talkin' about Coal Train like he was some damn radical dude, lookin' to even the score with the government. We put it out there. We offered him a deal that would save his sister's life, and just like you're doin' this for your little boy; he's doin' it for a little girl." He says, staring hard into Kelvin's eyes, commanding respect with austerity and wisdom.

"Why are you doing this, Billy?" Kelvin asks with a similar intensity, despite the movement of his Adam's apple, denoting an internal conflict. "You could be out doin' drug deals, stealin' cars, and makin' all kinds of cash. You could walk down to the strip club right now to your favorite dancer, make it rain, and invite her back to a luxury hotel-"

"I don't think I like your judgmental tone, motherfucker!" Billy interrupts with outrage, grabbing the back of his neck to suppress the anger and senses that his friend is trying to manipulate him. "Be careful when you pull out those balls, Kelvin. Don't forget that family man balls only go so far in my world...and you are in my world!" He threatens, flexing his biceps as he sticks out his chest with authoritative ease. "I wonder what that 'sumbitch' looked like when Coal Train shot him." The seasoned gangster announces with a winning smile, electing to change the mood in the cold, empty office.

"Yeah," Kelvin agrees with a sudden chuckle of satisfaction, feeling the tension dissipate. "I'll bet he was like 'I'll write you a check if you don't shoot.'"

"Would you like some stock options?" Billy adds with a hearty laugh, showing his softer side. "Why don't you tell me what projects you're from, and I'll donate a park – in your honor."

Both men enjoy a laugh, looking down at the floor with guilty ambition as they celebrate the victory of their friend. After this hearty moment, Kelvin glances at the map on the desk before him, studying the areas they attacked during the past few hours. Billy follows his gaze with fundamentalist satisfaction, his expression turning from enjoyment to stoicism.

"How did we do today?" Billy asks after a moment of silence, hoping that his aggressive investment of one hundred thousand dollars has made an impact.

"They burned down five out of twelve distribution centers...last time I got the report." Kelvin announces with mixed feelings, clasping his hands together over the map as he tips his head to the right in a curious fashion. "We've taken out a few billionaires today, but not as many as I wanted. Their security is tight. Their cars have better armor than the presidential limo, and a lot of these fuckers don't come out in broad daylight very often." He scratches his lower lip with the incisors of his upper jaw, pondering the next logical step in this risky campaign. "It's like trying to step on cockroaches made of carbon fiber."

Billy raises his eyebrows at this last statement, unaware of the relevance or humor therein. He looks at Kelvin with confidence and distrust, wondering if his friend will be a driving force of salvation or a wrecking ball of self-destruction.

"How much money did they lose from burning down the distribution centers?" Billy inquires with a reassuring smile, attempting to reassert his partner's focus.

"Millions!" Kelvin says with a proud stare, jutting out his chin and looking vibrant despite his graying beard. "They lost millions, and they'll lose millions more."

"Good," Billy states with a nod of approval. "How long until we can execute our next step? If the cockroaches were hard to smash today, then they'll be even harder to find tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know," Kelvin admits with a bit of doubt, reaching toward the far corner of the desk to slide a spiral notebook closer to him. "I know that this guy Earl Calbraw died in Alaska yesterday. He had a lot of investors – over fifty billion dollars in assets. I'm sure they'll be meeting to divvy up his money. We just need to find out where the next board meeting will be held."

"Great," Billy says with emphatic approval. "We'll get some guys on the ground to find out when and where. Then we can get with The Dragonfly, and hit them hard!"

"Nah, man, I've got another angle that I'm working with The Dragonfly." Kelvin declares with a sinister smirk. "What I need is some big money from James Levinson to bring us into their world."

"Levinson is a damn nut!" Billy advises with streetwise sarcasm. "That boy had his dog frozen because he thinks that his neighbors poisoned the bitch. He doesn't live in the zip code of reality, if you know what I'm sayin'. Hell, I've heard he doesn't even live on the same planet as we do." He asserts, scratching the back of his neck beneath the comfy sweater.

"He may be perfect for us then." Kelvin insists with a bit of arrogance, attempting to hide his condescending nature from Billy. "I can tell him if the neighbors killed his dog or not...on the condition that he agrees to meet with us."

"What are you doin' with The Dragonfly?" Billy asks, sensing that Kelvin is avoiding disclosing the details of interactions with one of his biggest competitors. "Yeah, I can get a meeting with Levinson; just make sure you bring your crazy repellent."

"The Dragonfly is my 'Plan C' if it all falls apart," Kelvin admits with a smile as he visualizes James Levinson trying to summon dead pharaohs or Chinese conquerors. "I think James' insanity can be a huge advantage. Besides, anybody that's going to fund a rebellion like this...has to have a few nuts rolling around loose in his skull."

"What happened to 'Plan B?'" Billy redirects with tired eyes, twisting his head left and right until his neck makes a few popping sounds. "I thought this first day went well. Did we take down that guy in Alaska? What was his name, Merle?"

"Nah, man, we didn't have anything to do with that; it was just an extra bonus," Kelvin admits with a dry smirk. "Although...it could have been someone who got the TMH tattoo. Maybe some thug decided to take action on his own. And 'Plan B?' It's nothing to worry about. I knew that our first steps would change the battlefield; now we just need to make those changes work to our advantage."

490 RIVERSIDE DRIVE, NEW YORK

Jacob exits a yellow cab in front of his mother's favorite church, gazing upon it with unusual affection in light of his father's recent passing. He notices that the construction workers of Javier's crew have turned their backs to him, having recognized his face the moment he got out of the car. There is a silent love and hate relationship at play as the men continue their tasks. They appreciate the money that the work is providing, but not the man being served thereby. Jacob walks among them like a ghost, noticing that none of them wish to greet him as they had done before the tragic accident.

He enters through the large double doors of the church, enjoying the signs of progress despite his chilly reception. The interior of the building is beginning to look more like a cathedral. Its beautification is taking shape, effectively erasing almost all signs that a fire took place. Although the outside remains scarred by the intensity of what must have been a four-alarm blaze, the interior brings Jacob back to his childhood. With polished hardwoods and grand structures reaching into the open space, the church is ready to have its day in the light.

"Jesus, brother, are you in the witness protection program now?" Javier asks as he approaches Jacob from the far right of the cathedral, waving off a few of his workers and signaling for them to continue their tasks. "What's with the Hawaiian shirt, man? You look almost homeless."

"The church is coming along nicely." Jacob declares with a rigid demeanor, ignoring the remarks about his clothing. "It looks like you're right on schedule. How long until we can hold mass in here?"

Javier moves until he is standing immediately next to Jacob, his bright yellow suit and black tie make the two men appear mismatched beyond all recognition. He clasps his right hand over his left and stares down at his shiny, black leather shoes, waiting in silence for Jacob to lean closer to him.

"What's going on?" Jacob whispers after reading Javier's body language.

"Let me show you." The chubby Hispanic man says with wide eyes, placing his hand in the center of Jacob's back as he leads him up to the front of the cathedral.

The two men take a silent stroll to the stage where the priest usually stands to address his congregation. They ascend the stairs at the right, and Jacob cannot help but admire the workmanship of Javier's men. He enjoys the feel of the firm bamboo hardwood reconstruction beneath him. To Jacob's dismay, the stage is covered in red velvet and looks more like a gentlemen's club from the 1970s than a modern church pulpit. When they reach the top of the stairs, Javier gestures toward a ten-foot by ten-foot, heavy-duty, tan canvas tarp that is covering something near the back of the stage. Jacob steps forward, kneels down, and peels back a corner of the tarp, revealing a series of bones that have been laid out in rows. He pulls the tarp further back, and notices two skulls beneath the fabric, each cracked and somewhat dusty, despite having been recently moved.

"Where did these come from?" Jacob asks with renewed discomfort, glancing around the area to see if the answer is obvious.

"My guys were finishing the repair work and discovered a crawl space at the highest peak of the roof," Javier says, clutching his suit, as though the bones could infect him with death through osmosis. "There are four or five people here. Two of them are young children." The ambitious contractor reports, pursing his lips together in discomfort at the subject of death.

"Were there any indications as to how they died?" Jacob inquires, knowing that the question is likely as foolish as the circumstances. "I mean, did you see any markings or holes in the bones?" He restates with intelligence, feeling better about the simplicity of this question.

"I don't do bones, my friend," Javier says with a shrug. "I'd hate to give you the wrong information by guessing. But I figured you might know someone who can look them over, and find out what happened." He suggests with a polite smile, displaying a surprising respect for the dead.

"I'm sure I can find someone," Jacob confirms with a nod. "Can you keep them safe until I can get someone to come in here?"

"Yeah, yeah, no problem." Javier replies in an almost dismissive tone, showing that there is something else on his mind. "There's one other thing. If you remember our little 'accident' from the other day, it will cost five hundred thousand dollars to make that go away."

"Did he die?" The young billionaire asks with a look of shame. "Is he okay?"

"Not so much." Javier states in a shameful fashion, bowing his head toward the red velvet flooring. "His family will need some comforts...if we want to avoid questions."

"I'll do five fifty," Jacob answers with generous pride, placing his left hand on Javier's shoulder to comfort him. "Then they can give him an amazing funeral."

Javier shakes his head, not wishing to look Jacob in the face. After a short pause, Jacob holds out his hand, and Javier shakes it, looking at his eyes, but not really connecting with the man.

"Thanks, Javier," Jacob says with mild appreciation as he pulls out his cellular phone and begins to dial. "Hey, Danielle, I need a special favor from you; one that requires your discretion... Yes, it will involve our friends at the NYPD, but this is a bit different. I need an anthropologist who can examine some bones, and find out what happened to them. Yep, a bone expert...forensics...exactly. Okay, thanks for your help. Have them call my private line when you get the information. We'll need one hundred percent discretion on this. Yep, the standard non-disclosure agreements... Okay, thanks, 'bye."
XVII. Lost Forewords

"I will not yield to a man with a mighty heart; for his might may be derived from crushing the hearts of other men. So fortuitous is this opportunity that we have to strengthen the hearts of others. I yield to the man with a heart of sorrow; for his suffering is not an indictment of weakness, but a display of honor. Whosoever hangs their head in shame at their own misfortune, despite their failed attempts at prosperity, is truly of the people. We have become a nation of theory; a society of garbled scrutiny. The painful shorthand in this day-to-day gibberish screams one message... We no longer care for one another." **-Earl Calbraw, from his dissertation** The Eve of a New American Dream **.**

"I know not what I like; moreover, I like that which challenges me to change. By that same logic, I like that which I dislike – that forces me to become a better man." **–George Washington Carver III, from his posthumous journal.**

"There is only one road to follow. It goes toward the light. Those who cross the road; one way or the other, never make it out of the shadows." **–Kelvin Carver, citing a betrayal in his life.**

A fire alarm is blaring with high-pitched chirps and alternating horns in the offices on the seventy-eighth floor of the Hudson, Calbraw & Calbraw building. Howard 'Plato' Hudson is enjoying the flicker of the flames that are growing higher with every moment in a deluxe corner office near the top floor of his skyscraper. His arms are folded across his chest as he observes the burning documents within the rubber trash can. Howard feels righteous as the smoke rolls upward at the ceiling, seeking oxygen from the ventilation system. The open door of his office is soon occupied by the horrified faces of his somewhat dedicated employees.

"HOWARD! HOWARD!" George Gincorlo, a Hispanic man from the legal department shouts, snapping his fingers at the absent CEO. "HOWARD, THERE'S A FIRE IN YOUR OFFICE!"

"WHAT?" Howard shouts back with a twisted half-smile, pretending that everything is just fine. "OH, THERE'S A FIRE IN MY OFFICE!? WELL, LET ME GET RIGHT ON THAT!" He deadpans with a look of disgust, gesturing with his right hand, before turning toward a decorative, brown leather swivel chair on the opposite side of his desk.

"GOD! Someone get a fire extinguisher!" The Hispanic attorney shouts from his position at the center of a growing group of bystanders. "I don't know what's happening... He's pissed off at the world. Let's just put out the fire."

Within a few seconds, a young intern swaggers into the room, bearing the gaze of a hero. He uses a small extinguisher to put out the flames in the garbage can. Howard clasps his hands together as he watches sticky foam and soot moving atop every remaining copy of his partner's dissertation The Eve of a New American Dream. His gaze turns to hatred as the young, white intern celebrates putting out the fire by raising the extinguisher high into the air. Plato glares at the young man's curly hair and cheap eyeglasses, feeling the wrath of his dead partner flowing through his veins. The group of employees outside of the office sounds off their approval with applause. There are a few cheers as they stare wildly at Howard, and the somewhat melted trash can.

"Bravo... BRAVO!" Howard shouts, slamming his right hand down on the desk and using it to slide everything but his phone off of the right side. "We've got us a real hero in the office today! Where were you...the other day, I mean?" He demands in a devious voice, taking attention away from the smashed computer and notebooks that were shoved to the floor.

"Where was I for what, sir?" The skinny intern asks, turning to face Plato with apologetic eyes and dropping the fire extinguisher near his feet.

"Where were you, son..? WHEN MY PARTNER OF OVER TWENTY YEARS WAS DYING!?" Howard laments with judicious eyes, pivoting to scowl at the crowd in the doorway of his office. "Yesterday was the time for heroes... Now there are none. So unless you're gonna' paint some 'happy little trees' as your next trick, you better get out of my office! GET OUT!"

Howard shouts at the intern with visceral fury, pointing toward the doorframe with a shaky right finger as his body begins to tremble. Within seconds, almost the entire crowd disperses; moving away as quickly as it appeared, each member seeming shaken by this chain of events. The middle-aged Hispanic attorney remains steadfast. He observes his boss with cautious eyes as though Howard is in need of adult supervision.

"What the hell do you want, Jose?" Plato demands with his right fist held high in the air. "You gonna' sue me for lighting a fire in a trash can? Huh!? What, the people who killed my parents could have their own trash fires, but old Howard can't have one in his office? Can't I choose how to commemorate the death of my partner? Is that okay with you, Jose!? Do I have your impotent stare of approval?"

"My name is George..." The attorney replies with an even stare, standing in the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest. "Are you done with your temper tantrum in here? Because...if safety is going to be an issue in my place of employment, then I'd like to prepare ahead of time."

"Haha," Howard laughs with mild amusement, staring at his employee as though he is lining up a bowling ball on the center pin. "I suppose safety is going to be a recurring issue. But no matter, I'm more than happy to reward the people for the humility and grace with which they treated my enduring partner. I'm glad you stuck around, Jose-"

"GEORGE!" The passionate attorney shouts, watching his employer with disdain. "It's George with a fucking G!"

"Fine, Jose with a G...whatever!" Plato responds with contempt, placing his hands on his hips. "I'll allow you to make a few announcements around the company... Because, as it turns out, I'm not feeling anywhere near as generous as my late business associate. So, let's get started, shall we?" The distraught CEO says, motioning to his sides with both hands before returning them back to his hips. "First, I want to cancel the Work at Home Moms program."

"Are you kidding!?" George asks with a sudden pale expression, watching Plato in surreal disbelief. "That will put over ten thousand women out of work in the middle of winter."

"Yes!" Plato states with fervent authority, clenching his right hand into a fist as he looks more through his associate than at him. "Moms out of work during the winter do tend to have fewer children. I feel like I'm already helping our overpopulated society. Next, I want you to cancel the charity concert series, close down the homeless shelters and turn Secondhand Goods into a for profit business. Can you handle all that, Jose?" Howard gazes upon the younger man as though he were responsible for Earl's death up in Alaska, and twists his head with the anger of a scorned carnivore. "Oh, by the way, I'll leave it up to you to let employees know that we're reversing their forty percent increase that Earl shoved down our throats. Anyone who doesn't like the new policy can leave. Now that my partner is dead, I only need half the revenue to succeed, so if half of them want to walk out, then I say enjoy the cold."

"Are you serious about this, Plato?" George inquires with wide eyes and a repulsed frown, appearing as though he may empty the contents of his stomach at any moment. "You're going to hurt a lot of good people, and for what?"

"What is that I hear?" Howard asks sarcastically, placing his right hand close to his ear with the palm cupped as if to capture sound. "There's a ghost asking if I'm serious. He sounds like he's trying to be my daddy. Now what would give this pathetic man the impression that I need a daddy? Does he think, perhaps, that my daddy just died? Or maybe he thinks he'll be the one friend who 'tells it like it is,' and delivers me a spiritual revival. Then I can dance around the city and empty my pockets for the poor, screaming with joy at the top of my lungs... MY PARTNER IS DEAD, BOY! And all the programs that he dreamt up during his career are dead too. But now that you've pissed me off, I'm going to do right by you; one last time, in honor of my friend. We'll announce in the company newsletter that the forty percent increase is gone. Then I'll name you as the employee of the month, and we'll give you a two hundred percent increase. Does that sound fair to you?"

"You can't do that to me!" George proclaims with immediate nausea, placing his right hand on his forehead. "They'll murder me on the subway to work. They'll attack my house out of spite."

"And you love them so much..." Plato redirects with a wicked stare, making his point to the senior legal advisor in unsavory servings of wrath. "You have a choice, George. Go out and give them the news, get your picture published in the newsletter and accept my generous offer... Or quit. It doesn't matter to me. I've already won! I have enough money to live out my dreams a hundred times over. ...So get to submitting that memo to the entire company. In half an hour, I want to see that memo sent out...or your resignation. That WILL be all!" Howard lowers his head, showing his colleague that he is not playing games.

George closes his eyes in a moment of shame and disgust, backing away from the unpredictable businessman and pondering the terrible burden laid at his feet. His stomach is brewing with the premature panic and despair that will be caused by his company-wide memo, or shortly after the announcement of his resignation. Although he is intelligent enough to know that Plato is trying to make him hate the poor, every ounce of his body is crying for justice. He shakes his head in defeat after a moment of contemplation, finally accepting that Howard will get his way once again as he has done most of his life.

Howard stares at the scorched remains of his late partner's philosophical works in the somewhat melted rubber garbage can. He wonders for a moment if he would have succumbed to toxic fumes from the rubber, had the fire been allowed to continue. The disillusioned billionaire feels unusually vulnerable without his savvy and cunning partner. His office seems like a prison now; a shrine of his intuition. It is decorated with trinkets from decades of erratic pursuits, and awards as generic and coated with plastic as the people who gave them.

The phone rings from his private line and he looks down at the caller ID screen, reading the name on the display with familiar disgust. He doesn't want to talk with anyone at the moment, and the person calling is even further down the list of people with whom he has become disenchanted.

"What do you want!?" Plato asks in a reprimanding tone, growling into the receiver as he takes the call. "Are you in the market for more money now that Earl is gone..?"

"Fuck you, Howard!" Scott 'The Giant' Ortiz berates in a bold fashion, sounding as though he is rolling up his sleeves to fight. "Did you know that your asshole partner's son has bankrupted me in just a few weeks? No, I guess you wouldn't know that because you haven't been returning my calls!"

"How can I help?" Howard replies with a soothing voice, immediately concealing his feelings of agony and switching back into pure business mode. "I've got a shit storm on my hands here-"

"YOU HAVE A SHIT STORM!?" The Giant interrupts with primal dissidence, sounding wounded and unyielding. "I've been living on a couch at a friend's house... Because Jacob seized my assets and turned them over to my wife. She's filed for a restraining order, and now that she has MY MONEY, the judge is accommodating her every demand."

"Scott, I had no idea that Jacob was planning-" Howard begins before a litany of bombastic phrases from The Giant dominate the conversation.

"Howard, you guys really screwed up this time!" The Giant proclaims with rich hatred, neglecting to hold back any amount of dissatisfaction. "Wasn't it you who taught me that knowledge is power? The kind of knowledge that makes a man want to...say...hunt you to the ends of the earth? Why are you doing this to me? Do you think I've been greedy? Have my terms been too steep for your rich damned blood?"

"Look, Scott, you don't need to panic," Plato answers in a serene tone of voice, massaging the air with his right hand as if manipulating some rare and delicate flower. "Just tell me where you are, and I'll get fifty thousand dollars delivered to your front door."

"No, we're not gonna' play that way, Plato!" The Giant responds with a voice of forked attrition. "I'll get a message to you with the terms, but for now, nobody is going to know where I am. That's how I'll be able to stay alive."

"Okay, okay, fair enough." Howard agrees with a tactful voice, smiling as though he has something bitter on his tongue. "What do you want?"

"I'll send someone to you with terms for a temporary care package." The Giant orders with a reptilian sense of entitlement. "Then we'll arrange a meeting so that I can get mine. If Jacob puts any more pressure on me, then I'm going to spill the beans on what happened with Earl Calbraw – all those years ago. I'm sure you'd rather not deal with the wrath of the public on this one."

"No problem," Plato says, trying to retain some glimmer of control in the conversation. "Send your courier, and I'll make sure that the care package is in place."

"I have insurance, Plato," The Giant begins with tremendous caution in his voice, "and if you take me out-"

"Then everything gets leaked to the press immediately." Plato interrupts with cynicism. "Yeah, this isn't the first time I've had to pay someone to stay quiet on behalf of my partner. Just do me a favor and agree not to tarnish his name."

"Hey, if my cup is running over, and my table is full, then I don't need to tarnish anything...for you or the board." The Giant agrees in a twisted fashion. "We'll be in touch this evening. Goodbye, Plato."

Howard slams the phone down on his desk and places his hands on his hips, staring out the window at the whipping winds and biting cold of New York in February. His gaze seems to age him as the stress of trying to contain Earl's death, and maintain a position of power in the community, are becoming a challenge.

"For every great bounty that a man begets, the vultures will come to claim their share." He says aloud, quoting his late partner.

RED EYE FOR A RIB EYE STEAKHOUSE – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Jacob watches his left hand twitching now and then; a sign that Thretch still inhabits his body, remaining a powerful and relatively unknown friend or foe. On any other night, the young man wouldn't be happier to occupy a table at this premier steakhouse inside of One World Trade Center. At a distance of over fifteen hundred feet off of the ground, his table overlooks the vibrant cityscape and sophisticated charm of Manhattan. The table is draped with a white satin topper and has been adorned with every lavish drink, and garnishment one could want. Jacob glances down at the amenities afforded to guests of the restaurant and bar, including a pool that is just twenty feet below the ledge where he is seated. Farther back into the space below him resides a music lounge with a grand piano and a billiards room; all integrated into one area.

The young billionaire is clad in a black Armani suit, worn more out of respect for his father, than as a magnet for young women in the area. He places his well-manicured hands on either side of his face, lining up the tip of each little finger with his eyebrows. Jacob forces himself to stare at the attractive women in the pool, bouncing and frolicking to get the attention of men in the area. Despite his openness to the comfort of their bodies, he cannot manage any feeling other than emptiness. After realizing that the atmosphere won't change his feelings, he slinks back into the black leather chair. Jacob rubs his right hand through his short-cropped blonde and brown hair, thinking about the past few days.

He looks at a bottle of Crystal nestled in a small pile of crushed ice within a stainless steel ice bucket, having no desire for the comfort that the drink would afford him. There is a plate of lean grilled steak, broiled chicken and fresh vegetables before him. They are all approved items on his new companion's list of things Jacob is allowed to eat. With a concerted effort, he has managed to eat about one-third of the portion that he needs. However, the food reminds him of his mother and father; family lunches and dinners that were rare, but sacred to him as a boy.

'You desire the company of your mother and father.' Thretch declares through Jacob's moment of reflection and longing.

'I came up here to be alone.' Jacob replies to the demon, expressing that his mind is already filled with exhaustion and confusion, almost begging the creature to leave him to his own devices.

'You are never alone, Calbraw. Your deeds have seen to that.' Thretch replies in his typical obtuse manner, mixing judgment with facts.

'Well misery loves company, doesn't it?' Jacob asserts sarcastically, electing to pour himself a glass of Crystal.

'Misery loves company? You daft fool! Misery loves nothing!' Thretch explodes with rage at the stupidity of this American anecdote.

A series of cheers erupts from a table just off to Jacob's left. He looks to see Azure Manchego, the reigning MMA Heavyweight Champion of the World, celebrating with a few of his trainers and a group of attractive women. The sculpted Brazilian man bears a long ponytail and is wearing a black compression shirt that shows off his abdominal and pectoral muscles. His black Under Armour pants have a glamorous sheen and provide plenty of leg room for comfortable movement.

'You admire this man?' Thretch gathers from Jacob's reaction to the fighter. 'You covet his strength and hostility. His achievements have made him a legend in your eyes, and you feel that he is unstoppable.'

"He is the fiercest fighter in the world," Jacob says aloud, enjoying the gnawing frustration of his counterpart as he conveys the news. "There hasn't been a man alive that could defeat him in the past five years."

'That is not possible.' Thretch surmises with a radical opposition to the man's title. 'Five years without defeat. They must only allow him to fight weak men.'

"No, the contest is open to anyone who is able to fight him," Jacob informs his malevolent companion with satisfaction, speaking to the empty seats that surround him. "In fact, he will only fight the strongest and most skilled men because he doesn't want to kill an unprepared fighter."

'Shall we challenge him?' Thretch asks with youthful excitement, lighting up portions of Jacob's mind with the sweet anticipation of battle.

'He's the world champion. Are you out of your mind!?' Jacob internalizes with subliminal fear, doubting the credibility of the creature within him.

'I have been out of my mind for six thousand years.' Thretch resonates with dry wit, expressing dissatisfaction at Jacob's self-doubt. 'Let me take over your body, and I will challenge him.'

"No," Jacob says aloud to the empty balcony and VIP seating area. "Not only is he dangerous, but his security team would tear us apart."

'What does it matter?' The creature teases with building levity. 'You are already so eager to join mommy and daddy in the grave. Why not do it with glory? Why not die like a man?'

Jacob doesn't respond immediately, but after a bit of consideration, allows his body to go limp. He releases the hold on his shoulders, back, and abdominal muscles. Within one second, his body jolts back to life, like a balloon being filled with potent and volatile gas. His muscles cause him to rise effortlessly from the table. Thretch snatches the butter knife from his napkin, using Jacob's right hand to place the steel utensil in the rear pocket of his suit.

The demon then proceeds to move Jacob's body through the restaurant like an alpha male in a pride of lions. Every stride seems stronger than the last, and each muscle is filled with electric energy and sinewy might. Jacob is enjoying the ride, and although he has faith in the strength and wisdom of his companion, a slice of humble pie served up from a world champion MMA fighter has its appeal. After all the posturing and insults, arrogance and bragging, it is finally time for the demon to enjoy the taste of his foot.

'You forget yourself, Calbraw.' Thretch announces from the front of Jacob's mind as he navigates the restaurant to where Azure and his entourage are seated. 'I can hear your every thought, and the scheming nature of your character is childish. Shall I remind you that I have died hundreds of deaths? Drowning. Torture. Plague. Fire. Infection. Starvation. Freezing. Dehydration. Just as you have enjoyed the taste of every item on the menu of this place, I have suffered the entire palate of injustice that this world has to offer. Do not for a moment believe that you have bested me in any way. For as you are a child in my eyes, your suffering will be a measured response to the lack of respect that you have shown your elder. I am a purveyor that you shall learn to want, but I caution you on your thoughts of betrayal. At any moment, when you are not mentally present, I can take control of your body. Each night when you fall asleep, your life belongs to me. So if you wish for a sampling of nightmares that will bend your mind to the edge of sanity, then by all means, continue your adolescent scheming. Otherwise, learn to enjoy the spoils of a powerful benefactor. I am Thretch. I am you, and you are no longer!'

Thretch approaches Azure at the end of the long table like an adoring fan, smiling in a charming way, as though he wants an autograph.

"Hey there, buddy, how you doin'?" Azure asks in a magnanimous greeting, raising his water glass with his left hand toward Jacob as he approaches the table.

The subtle lighting displays Azure's tanned face, and his olive complexion is almost flawless, save for a small scar just below his left eye. With a warm smile, the celebrated fighter extends his right hand toward Jacob, seeming annoyed at the idea of ignoring his guests, but wanting to be civilized. The twenty-six-year-old fighter sets down his glass of water and turns toward Jacob, sizing him up with a bit of suspicion. Thretch reaches out with Jacob's right hand, gripping Azure's outstretched hand in a fierce greeting. He then retrieves the butter knife from Jacob's back pocket with his left hand and uses it to poke the fighter hard in the back of the head.

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" The fighter demands with a look of betrayal, immediately grabbing the backside of his head with his left hand.

Thretch releases his grip on the man's hand and takes a few steps backward, casting the butter knife down defiantly onto the white oak flooring. He locks his eyes on Azure with a stare of extreme hatred and strips off Jacob's suit jacket, casting it to the floor in a whipping motion. The demon maintains his gaze of attrition as he removes Jacob's black tie, leaving only the white, button-down dress shirt and black slacks.

"WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM!?" A large security guard demands as he gets up from the table to approach Jacob in the dining area.

Amidst the empty tables on a slow night in the restaurant, there is plenty of space for a brawl. Thretch reaches out with Jacob's left hand and turns his palm upward. He gestures for Azure to join him by waving his four fingers in a recurring motion, silently taunting the fighter.

"Marcel, it's okay." The fighter says to his security guard, gesturing for him to sit back down as he inspects his head for blood, and finds tiny droplets on his fingers. "If he wants his ass kicked, then he's come to right place."

"Excuse me, Mr. Calbraw, but you can't go around assaulting our guests." Don Alemon, the maître d' of the restaurant states, stepping up to Jacob with an index finger pointed at his face.

Without hesitation, Thretch jabs the young man in the throat with lightning reflexes, watching him choke and drop to his knees with shameless enjoyment. Jacob is immediately tormented by the sight of a man who he considers to be a friend, now lying on the floor in severe pain.

"If you expose your throat to a warrior, you may as well cut it yourself," Thretch announces to the room, speaking with a deeper and more authoritative voice than Jacob.

"It doesn't take a warrior to hurt an innocent restaurant manager!" Azure states with fervent pride, rising from his seat to approach Jacob in the empty portion of the dining area. "You're a bad guy, aren't you? Just cold, empty, and useless. Well, I'm gonna' give you the beating of a lifetime, and when you're in the hospital, maybe you'll think twice about crapping on people." The fearless fighter states in a light Brazilian accent with disgust, raising his hands into a defensive position.

"Holy shit! Azure is gonna' fight!" A young man calls out from his position near the bar, over fifty feet away. "Hey guys, Azure Manchego is gonna' fight some dude in the dining room!" The young man and his friends begin to make their way toward the dining area while the news of the fight spreads through the entire establishment.

"Yo, let me back you up, Azure," Marcel states with growing anxiety as he jumps up from his position at the table. "This dude might be one of those crazies that has a gun." The young black man presents with a powerful body, having biceps much larger than his employer, and reaching for a pistol concealed under his long, gray shirt.

"Take a seat, Marcel." Azure says, waving him off with the humble pride of a noble warrior. "Some men grow up knowing that other people deserve respect." He turns his attention to Jacob, staring him down with dramatic intensity. "Others need to be taught."

'You wanted me to receive a beating?' Thretch asks Jacob internally, mocking him with sadistic flair. 'Now you can fulfill your promise.'

The demon releases his control of Jacob's body, almost allowing him to fall flat on the floor. Jacob reaches out to a table to stabilize himself, shocked that his companion is abandoning him at such a critical moment.

"Are you ready, asshole, or have you had too much to drink?" Azure asks with ferocity as he steps closer to Jacob, getting ready to strike.

Jacob feels a sickness in the core of his bowels, watching this situation develop in a frenzy of surreal movements and gestures. He is now standing before one of the most skilled fighters on the planet, having only a few years of jujitsu training to help him fend off the impending attack. His palms are starting to sweat from the anxiety of the moment, and the crowd that is forming around the two men is making this seem like a nightmare. Before he can absorb the reality of the situation, his longtime hero fires his right fist into Jacob's throat. Azure then follows up with a blow to his stomach, sending him to the floor on his knees. The young billionaire feels like a lamb left to be slaughtered, completely shocked at the raw power exhibited by the MMA fighter. He detects saliva trapped in his throat as the muscles convulse from the blow and begins to choke, feeling nothing but moisture entering his airway. Jacob's stomach is also experiencing spasms from the pain. He realizes that the combination was executed to enhance the gagging effect in his throat.

'Thretch!' Jacob cries out within himself, trying to muster the help of his new companion. 'Thretch, help me!' He says in terror, feeling the Brazilian bull of a man looming over him for more punishment.

'Do something bold.' Thretch orders from the back of his mind. 'Do something worthy of a man, and I shall help you.'

Jacob protects his throat, realizing that he need only demonstrate a fraction of bravery to gain the assistance of the demon. He stumbles to his feet, and maneuvers around the table to his right, putting the large piece of furniture between himself and his attacker. There are immediate boos from the crowd of spectators, and to Jacob's delight, a team of bouncers from the bar of the restaurant is approaching the area. However, Don Alemon, the maître d' waves them off, holding his throat as he enjoys the vengeance that is being delivered on his behalf. Jacob lets out a sigh of frustration, knowing that, with one rapid jab to a small man's throat, Thretch has put him in an impossible situation of mob justice.

"What's wrong, big warrior?" Azure taunts from his position at the opposite end of the table. "Didn't you just say how stupid it is to expose your throat in a fight? How does that feel?"

Jacob uses his right hand to slide a leather, swivel back chair away from the table, trying to anticipate Azure's next move. In a showing of explosive power, the young Brazilian fighter grabs the table with both hands and tips it out of the way. He then charges forward, and Jacob slides a chair into his path. The fighter isn't shaken by the obstacle and places his knees on the seat of the chair as he moves with it, delivering a powerful blow to the left side of Jacob's face. Azure's right hand lands with a sickening sound on Jacob's face, immediately cutting the skin underneath his eye and forcing him back onto the floor.

The young entrepreneur flails in the air, grabbing at the tablecloth in vain as his body smacks the hardwood with another gut-wrenching thud. Azure watches his opponent hit the floor with righteousness and deep satisfaction. He skates on the chair for a half-second, before letting it tumble to the floor, using his muscular legs to regain balance.

"I can do this all night, momma's boy!" Azure exclaims, feeling the electric energy of the mob around him, unaware of how accurately his insult damaged his opponent. "Are you ready to give up? You're bleeding now." He states in a peace offering, no longer wanting to send the unskilled fighter to the hospital.

"I'll give you ten million dollars if you can beat me!" Jacob announces from his position on the floor.

"Excuse me?" Azure says with a bit of laughter. "Did you just call me out from a knockdown? Where the hell are you gonna' get ten million dollars, boy? Look, this dude doesn't need to fight, he needs a mental hospital."

"He's good for it," Don Alemon announces from his position at the center of the mob, marveling at Jacob with confusion. "This is Jacob Calbraw; he's worth over four billion dollars. He's good for the money."

"Shit! He's gonna' sue me." Azure says, waving off the challenge with his right hand. "Let's end this while it's still self-defense."

"NO!" Jacob demands with masculine dignity, pulling himself up from the floor to speak with the championship fighter. "IF YOU CAN BEAT ME TONIGHT, I'LL GIVE YOU TEN MILLION DOLLARS."

"You're an eccentric dumbass." Azure replies with the distress of a responsible celebrity, attempting to protect his image. "Take your self-destructive ass home and get sober. Leave the fighting to the professionals, and stop hitting innocent people."

"Does somebody have a video camera?" Jacob demands from the crowd, wiping the blood from his left eye as a dozen people volunteer the use of their phones. "Okay, I want you to record this. Go ahead and start now... I am Jacob Calbraw, and I attest that I am of sound mind and body. Tonight I am challenging Azure Manchego to a fight, and if he is the winner of said fight, then I will reward him with ten million dollars to the account of his choosing. I also hold harmless, Azure Manchego, his associates, and any of his business entities or partners, in the event that I am injured during this fight. Mr. Manchego is in no way liable whether criminal or civil, if I am to sustain an injury during this fight. I also hold harmless the restaurant Red Eye for a Rib Rye Steakhouse, in the event that I am injured. This includes but is not limited to, management and ownership of the establishment. I, Jacob Calbraw, being of sound mind and body, agree to this fight, regardless of any physical or emotional damage that I might sustain. In the event that I win the fight, Mr. Manchego will get nothing." He finishes his legal disclosure with poise and unmistakable commitment, staring the MMA fighter down like a silverback gorilla.

"Are we good with that, Ted?" Azure inquires of his attorney, who is seated near his security guards at the opposite end of the table.

"Yeah, as long as he's willing to compensate the restaurant for any damages; I don't want to be on the hook for that." The attorney replies, pondering any other potential areas of liability. "Make sure nobody in the crowd gets hurt, or it's your ass."

"Okay, everybody keep a safe distance. I don't want you getting hurt." Azure states coolly, now posturing for the cameras like a superhero.

Members of the crowd reach out from the shadows and remove the tables and chairs from within the circle, creating a wide space for this rare event. Jacob stands tall and extends his hands out to either side of his body with the palms upward, as if he is preparing for a sobriety test. With absolute confidence, he lets his body go limp, and feels the extraordinary power as Thretch inhabits him once again. The ancient demon sticks out his jaw at the championship MMA fighter, moving Jacob's body sideways like a powerful ape.

A sense of fear enters Azure when he notices the amazing difference in body language that is being exhibited by the pitiful fighter. He regards the young man with a newfound sense of respect, wondering if he will present even the slightest challenge. The crowd also seems to notice a remarkable change in the way that Jacob is conducting himself. He has taken on the appearance of a grand rival; an evil adversary that is as unyielding as he is fearless.

When he is satisfied by the ambiance of the crowd, Thretch attacks Azure with a guttural cry that sickens and mystifies everyone around him. The demon dances forward with his hands outstretched, moving them hypnotically in opposing circles. Azure takes a stance to protect his face and abdomen, but the demon stomps mightily toward his feet. At first, Thretch pounces once with his right foot, but then begins to motion more with his hands. He stomps three times in succession, forcing his opponent to move backward and avoid an injury to his toes.

"What the fuck is this!?" Azure asks in confusion, watching the unorthodox fighting style with disdain. "Are we fighting or doing The Mexican Hat Dance?"

Jacob listens to the strategic thoughts conveyed by Thretch as the fight develops. He sees how the creature treats a man's fingers and toes like pawns. Since every fighter does a poor job of protecting their fingers and toes, the demon has adapted his fighting style to break the body from the outside inward. Just as in a game of chess, the fingers are the pawns; the arms and legs are the rooks and knights. The heart and lungs are the queen and bishops, and the throat is the king.

The young billionaire observes with admiration as Thretch tempts Azure into punching the right side of his face. As the fighter swings his left fist, Thretch twists away from the punch, only allowing slight contact of the fist with Jacob's face. He then traps the extended arm for a second by gripping the wrist with his left hand, and breaks the index finger with his right. The moment Thretch feels the small bone snap; he strafes to the left, and uses his right ankle to stomp on the man's toes, before moving into a position behind him.

Azure cries out from the cruel pain of this injury, feeling unfairly damaged by an inferior opponent. Despite the pain, he spins to face the young billionaire, feeling uneasy at the level of satisfaction displayed by his adversary. He looks at his dislocated finger with horror, detecting the familiar raw throbbing of a broken bone. His right foot hurts as well, but the toes have only been bruised by Jacob's aggressive stomping.

Thretch stomps three more times toward Azure's feet, neglecting to protect Jacob's face. However, the championship fighter now recognizes the pattern and refuses to take the bait. He keeps his fingers and toes away from Jacob, circling to find a proper angle at which to strike the young man. Thretch moves in closer, allowing the MMA fighter to set him up for a combination. He watches the fake left punch and isn't fooled by a second fake, having dealt with them on so many occasions. When the demon sees the fighter's right hand move, he drops to his knees and delivers a powerful left elbow to the top of Azure's left thigh muscle.

Azure swings with his right arm and hits nothing as Jacob drops to his knees, and he feels the sting of an elbow impacting his leg. This pain causes him to pause in retracting his right arm, and Thretch leaps back to his feet, fiercely grappling the arm, and using it to tow his opponent to the floor. Azure now finds himself falling towards the hardwood with the billionaire. Jacob looks at him with empty eyes as he reaches back with his left hand and dislocates Azure's right index finger. The championship MMA fighter feels broken at an innocent level, never having seen such cowardice and cunning in an opponent. As he sustains another severe injury, the young man feels cold inside, as though he is battling a machine instead of a man.

When the two men hit the floor, Thretch uses Jacob's legs to catapult Azure off of him. The championship MMA fighter is thrust onto his back with broken fingers on both of his hands. Thretch leaps to his feet with a countenance of destruction, moving in on the vulnerable man like a merciless spider. He uses Jacob's legs to stomp on the man's calf and thigh muscles, making his way up the body systematically as he delivers more pain. When he is standing over Azure's rib cage, Jacob realizes that Thretch plans to drop on the man's chest. He wants to use Jacob's knees and crush his heart, or in his words, 'destroy the queen.' Jacob seizes control of his body before the demon can execute this move. There is a torrent of fear that runs through him at the slight bending of his knees just before he regains control.

"Get the hell away from my fighter!" Marcel shouts, plowing through the stunned crowd with his muscular biceps. "You get away from that man, or I'll break your damn neck!"

Jacob heeds the man's warning, and steps to the right, backing instinctively away from Azure's entourage. Everyone at the MMA fighter's table has now risen to their feet, and they are glaring at Jacob, many of them with their arms folded across their chests. The crowd continues to record the event on their phones, seeming callous to the plight of the defeated MMA champion.

"You're a horrible person!" Azure manages to shout through the pain, holding his hands in the air to avoid bumping them against anything. "There's something evil in you! There's something not right!" He laments from his position on the floor, allowing his bodyguard to cradle his head in his hands.

Jacob breathes in deeply, feeling a hollow sadness inside of himself for injuring a genuinely good man. He decides to flee the scene, unable to deal with the reality of what he is becoming. As he makes his way out of the restaurant, Jacob hears the laughter of his companion at the back of his mind. It somehow signifies that much of him, whether voluntary or otherwise, has been gifted to this creature. The bouncers make no effort to restrain him, either due to witnessing his ability to inflict pain or through a type of silent respect. The security team backs away from their positions, pretending not to see Jacob as he makes his way to the elevators.

JACOB'S LUXURY CONDO – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Jacob senses panic as he steps into his condo, denying that the evil inside of him will be a lifelong companion. He moves forward sluggishly to the kitchen, feeling pain in his face, throat, and stomach from the blows that Azure delivered. With a quick twist, he turns on the stylish faucet, allowing the warm water to saturate and cleanse his hands. After a moment, he uses both hands to scoop the water up onto his face, washing off the blood and sweat after an odd night of disturbing activities. When his face is clean, Jacob retrieves a towel from the black and copper colored travertine tiles on his kitchen countertop. As he is drying his face, the young man notices a video disc on his kitchen table. There is text scribbled atop the disc that reads: 'Shannonbie Calbraw.'

Jacob doesn't move an inch as he exams the disc from afar. He listens for signs that anyone else is in his condo, but doesn't hear anything. With shaky hands, he moves forward and retrieves the disc from the table, clutching it to his chest like a stuffed animal. The young man feels as though his every nerve has been exposed during these past forty-eight hours, sensing that his body is about to shut down for a few hours of sleep. He lies down on the sofa with the disc in his arms, terrified to learn anything more during this hellish time of his life. The young man begins to breathe in heavy gasps, feeling panicked at the idea that Thretch will take over his body the moment that he falls asleep.

"I wanted to be a hero," Jacob says aloud as he clutches the disc closer to his chest, vowing to himself that he will check its contents in the morning. "I rolled a snowball down a hill. It became a restless toddler. It became-" The young man feels himself drifting off to sleep, and despite an attempt to stay awake, his consciousness soon fades.

Thretch gazes up at the ceiling in a state of betrayal, feeling as he has many times throughout history – hated and misunderstood. He comes to the same conclusion with Jacob as he has many other young men in this position. The only way to temper them in the strength of his image is to forge them through the fires of suffering.
XVIII. Sin Screening – Darker Comforts

PRESENT DAY

Jacob flees deeper into the wickedly frigid city, twisting his way through a maze of failed commercial projects. His mind is overburdened by the turbulent rancor of the demon within him; an ideology so toxic, it carries a nuclear wake throughout his soul. Thretch has abandoned his young host, electing to observe Jacob's progress with reticent indifference. The creature is fostering a sense of acrimony within the terrified billionaire.

Here at the perimeter of Unincorporated Brooklyn, New York, the young man is aghast with a premonition of Nicodemus cutting him down with his massive knife. The mysterious Israeli is only a few steps behind him, having fallen on the ice several times during a relentless and passionate pursuit. Jacob can feel his body becoming weaker as the cold night drags on, noticing that an evening of brawling has left him with a poor range of motion. The heroin in his blood is not favoring his efforts to escape. Although it dulls the pain of his injuries, it also makes his thoughts slow and memory fuzzy. This forces him to focus twice as hard to navigate safely through the streets.

'Who is this man!?' Jacob demands of Thretch, hoping to glean some information that will help him to survive. 'Why is he trying to kill us?'

'You are a dead man, Calbraw.' Thretch replies in a solemn tone from the back of Jacob's mind. 'Why pester yourself with the details? You will soon be walking in the same fields as your father. Nicodemus has found us...'

"I thought you were a great soldier?" Jacob asks as he dodges another swipe of Nicodemus' large, black knife, sprinting around a large delivery truck parked at the side of the road. "You always assume that I'm a coward when I want to quit. Why are you quitting now? Are you afraid of an old man in a turban?" He asks through labored breaths, forcing his body to continue in the crisp and penetrating air.

'Fearing Nicodemus is wisdom.' Thretch states in defiance, his anger building, like a shark that has detected something flailing in the water. 'I have suffered the bite of his blade many times.'

'Thretch, this isn't a time to let go!' Jacob demands as he moves from the street to the sidewalk, noticing that his adversary is gaining ground despite the maneuvers. 'You're a soldier. I'm almost half his age; we can beat him.'

Thretch does not respond, and Jacob hears a sudden drumming of footsteps on the sidewalk behind him, as though the murderous Israeli heard his thoughts. He is shocked to observe Nicodemus running past him as though he were standing still. Jacob watches with trepidation as the nimble man runs atop patches of bare concrete to his right.

'You are going to meet his knife.' Thretch proclaims with certainty, sending a deeper chill through his host than the lonely shadows of winter ever could. 'He has already beaten you.'

Jacob begins to scan his surroundings, attempting to understand why Thretch is so accepting of his demise. There are no signs of trouble on the streets, only a thin layer of ice that melted somewhat during the day from the warmth of the February sun. Jacob observes the path immediately at his front, where Nicodemus has taken the lead. He is approaching a snowbank at the street corner with all his strength. The young billionaire looks down at the sidewalk before him, barely seeing anything due to the long, dark shadow of a nearby building. Though, a small glint of reflected light seems to skip across the surface of the concrete, when viewed from the proper angle.

"Oh shit!" Jacob exclaims with youthful regret, noticing that he is barreling across a large, slick patch of ice.

Nicodemus dives over a mound of snow that was deposited by a snowplow earlier in the week. His black jeans and matching turtleneck sweater make him appear stealthy amidst the deep darkness, beneath the broken lights of the city streets. Jacob sees the man's head appear above the snowbank and watches him rest his hands atop its curved surface, waiting with his large, black knife. Nicodemus has the appearance of a noble mongoose that is prepared to bite the throat of a snake in its garden. In the pale glow of the sparse lighting, his eyes seem small and black behind his rimless eyeglasses, and his heavy breaths give him the appearance of an ancient dragon. The man's pointy beard has streaks of gray, and something about his black turban makes this moment feel otherworldly in a menacing fashion. Jacob peers to his left for an escape route toward the street, but there is a row of snow-covered cars blocking his path, parked almost bumper to bumper.

"YOU'RE A COWARD, THRETCH!" Jacob screams to the emptiness of the streets, realizing that his body may soon be sliding straight into the large knife of his pursuer.

The young man allows himself to drop toward the cement. He hopes that the demon inside of him will take control, and by some work of luck or genius, have the desire to avoid a fatal stab wound. Thretch wrenches Jacob's body backward to the ground, forcing him to slam his shoulders on the concrete as he reaches out and grabs the rear tire of a parked car. Jacob feels his head smack the ice with brute force, a direct result of an aggressive reversal of momentum. His body immediately stops progressing when Thretch grips the tire treads. This action causes his legs to wrap around the tire at an angle, wedging half of his body beneath a tan Cadillac. Jacob detects a hot and stinging pain atop his index and middle fingers, along with the warm saturation of fresh blood. Thretch realizes that the tire treads have ripped off two of Jacob's fingernails. He ignores the raw, burning sensation, deciding to focus on the rear passenger window of the Cadillac.

Nicodemus leaps over the snowbank with the confidence of a limber jaguar, navigating the thick ice to engage his prey. Thretch reaches up to the steel door handle of the Cadillac and uses it to pull Jacob's body out from under the car to a standing position. He then wraps his hands around the door handle and raises Jacob's shoulders, tipping his head back away from the window. Jacob is struck with the terror and acceptance of his face soon crashing through the glass. Thretch then forces the top of his head into the window with the temerity of a martial arts instructor, as if breaking a stack of bricks. The glass shatters and the center drops out, but Thretch is also forced to execute a swimming motion. He uses both of Jacob's arms to clear a path by pushing the glass aside and drags himself into the vehicle.

A sharp pain radiates from the top of Jacob's head just above his brow, where it hit the glass. Thretch slides his body onto the rear leather seat of the car interior, noticing lacerations all over his arms from the glass. While Jacob's first instinct is to recover from the pain, the demon forces him to keep moving. He grabs at the front seat with pragmatic urgency. Thretch drags his host through the space between the passenger and driver seats to the front of the car.

Jacob feels the car shift in the rear as Nicodemus dives onto the back seat through the broken window, following his every move. Thretch opens the driver door and scrambles out of the vehicle, inspired to move faster by the closeness of his longtime enemy. When he is free of the car, Thretch slams the door shut, using his legs to brace himself against the door handle to prevent it from opening. He guards the front and rear doors, waiting to kick one of them shut if Nicodemus tries to escape. There is a sudden sound of breaking glass as the pommel of Nicodemus' large knife smashes through the rear driver window.

Thretch moves Jacob's body across the street, and back into the shadows. He knows that he has gained enough ground on his attacker to have a fighting chance. Jacob's body is now a tapestry of injury, like a tree that has had branches cut away to prevent it from toppling over. He is both grateful and enraged for his new companion, feeling betrayed at the knowledge of the kidnapped little girl. There are also physical reminders of a bar fight that left him wounded and slumbering – on what could have been the nastiest floor in all of Brooklyn.

'Your pain gives me joy.' The demon admits as he races across the asphalt toward a series of apartment complexes, advancing away from the abandoned commercial district. 'Should you choose to speak hastily of me again, I will demonstrate which of us is more cowardly. I have not died hundreds of deaths to be labeled a coward by a terrified child!'

'Why did you kidnap the girl!?' Jacob demands with increased passion, feeling on edge with the amount of pain that his body is reporting. 'How much time does she have in that steel bin?'

'The girl is possibly frozen by now.' Thretch boasts in a demonstration of his nocturnal power over Jacob. 'I recall your last thought before going to sleep; you wanted to be a hero.'

"So you kidnapped a little girl!?" Jacob exclaims in outrage beneath the tall, brown tenant buildings that rise a hundred feet into the sky on either side of him. "You thought that might make me look heroic? Why did you load me up with drugs? I feel like my heart is going to explode!"

'One cannot be a hero without difficulty.' Thretch bemuses his young host with his typical form of ancient arrogance, speaking like an elder to a dim-witted child. 'If you are displeased with the bounties I sow, then perhaps you should not plant the seeds.'

"Why is Nicodemus trying to kill us?" Jacob inquires aloud, approaching a group of Hispanic teens seated on the wide steps leading up to one of the apartment buildings. "How does he even know where you are?"

'I am thrust upon you like a queen among ants.' Thretch explains, increasing his pace as he bolts toward the open door at the top the stairs, where the young men sit. 'Nicodemus knows my scent from the moment I enter your body. If I am living a life of horror and despair, he lets me alone, but if I enter a life of prosperity, he pursues me unto my death.'

"What's up, whizzy big pimpin'?" One of the young men asks Jacob in a drunken slur, staring in awe at his stained polo shirt and cargo pants. "Did ya' party too hard tonight, homes? That's a'ight, so did we..." The young man explains further, holding up a bottle of beer in a spirited salute to the aggressive stranger.

'Who is he?' Jacob asks, ignoring the happy drunks on the stairs, yet marveling at their expressions when Thretch blitzes past them like a pro football player.

'He is the guardian of Christ's body.' Thretch states, expressing annoyance at the many novice questions from his young companion. 'With Joseph at his side, he washed the body, and they placed it in a cave for three days.'

Thretch uses Jacob's right arm to slam the heavy front door of the tenant complex shut, and it locks automatically behind him. As he enters the dimly lit hallway, the creature begins to pound on one door after another, trying to rouse sleeping tenants and gain access to an apartment. He wanders through the halls, smacking on doors like a clumsy polar bear in search of a seal beneath the ice.

'Why would he need to guard the body?' Jacob deduces immediately, witnessing the demon's reign of terror on the ground floor of the apartment complex. 'He's already dead. The damage is done.'

'There was a terrible earthquake after Christ died.' Thretch informs Jacob with a determined stare, watching for doors to open in the hallway. 'The Romans were terrified that his body still lay in their city, and they ordered it burned. Nicodemus fought them off for three days. There were none that survived...their attempts to enter the crypt of his lord.'

'So he's part of your punishment?' Jacob ascertains, imparting the knowledge that the demon has conveyed. 'He's your parole officer from hell...making sure your sentence is hard enough.'

'Nicodemus is not of hell. That proves nothing!' Thretch retorts with amusement, watching a door open fifteen feet from where Jacob is standing. 'How would you know if madness had taken you? This could all be in your mind!'

"Why are you making so much noise, dickwagon!?" A young woman half-shouts, opening her apartment door until the security chain is taught. "I'm not gonna' be able to sleep for hours now!"

Thretch rumbles forward across the carpet, ignoring the lingering pain in Jacob's extremities and making the most of his raggedy appearance. He immediately kicks the apartment door below the handle as the occupant attempts to slam it shut. The chain snaps from its bolt on the doorframe. This break sends the woman flying through her entryway and forces her heavy, round bum to smack the floor. Thretch moves Jacob's body rigorously over the cheap, brown carpeting, and into the kitchen. He then twists his head toward a set of kitchen knives within a block of stained oak.

When he reaches for the knives, Thretch hears the terrible scream of an infant coming from the next room and pulls his hand away. Jacob is stunned when the demon abandons the knives, stepping through the sour apartment toward the child's bedroom. He is further shocked when the creature picks up the baby with his right hand, and cradles it against his shoulder. The infant is clad in a blue onesie with the face of a brown bear embroidered onto the front, which feels soft to the touch.

"LET GO OF HIM!" The young woman shouts, approaching Jacob from behind with her blonde ponytail swaying in a fit of terror and rage.

Thretch turns on his heel and jabs the woman in the throat with Jacob's left hand. He then exits the apartment, leaving the frightened mother to choke and grasp her neck on the filthy carpeting of the entryway floor.

'What the hell are you doing, Thretch!?' Jacob demands from his subconscious. 'How is a baby going to help us more than a knife!?'

'Nicodemus is a servant of God.' Thretch clarifies with pride, moving at double his normal walking speed through the narrow hallway. 'The body of Christ lives in his followers, and Nicodemus walks the earth to protect the body.' The demon conveys with building anxiety, climbing the stairs to the second-floor landing. 'As we are forfeit souls, it is his pleasure to deny us any form of peace or quarter.' Jacob notices that they are moving toward a window that precedes a fire escape on the second-floor landing. 'He will hunt us until the age of men reaches its dusk.'

Thretch sets the baby on the badly worn carpet and uses both of Jacob's hands to remove the fire seal, unlocking the window. He then slides the old, heavy window upward, feeling chips of white paint flake away from his fingernails. A fire alarm immediately blares throughout the building, creating a deafening sound that forces its way through the musty apartment complex. With a rapid swipe of Jacob's right hand, Thretch retrieves the baby from the carpet, glancing through the window into the darkness of the Brooklyn alleyway. He then turns in the opposite direction, noticing that Nicodemus is approaching from the bottom of the stairs. The bold Israeli is brandishing his knife with a sickly smile, having pierced several hosts of Thretch with fatal wounds throughout history. Jacob feels Thretch preparing to throw the baby and takes back control of his body, clutching the delicate little boy in his arms.

'Cast the child out the window!' Thretch orders with urgency, attempting to convince Jacob that this is the only option.

'What the hell is wrong with you!?' Jacob rails in protest, purporting a foul sense of disdain for his new companion. 'We can't do that!'

'Nicodemus is a servant of God.' Thretch says with urgency, observing how fast the fearless killer is ascending the stairs. 'He will not let an innocent child die. Cast the child out the window...or perish on his knife!'

Jacob looks down at the sad, adorable face of the baby that couldn't be more than three months old, and his hands begin to tremble with conflicted rage. His brow starts to perspire, and his stomach is churning with the sins of his fathers and those of his darkest ancestors. Nicodemus is approaching faster, closing the remaining five feet between himself and Jacob. A black hunting knife is raised in his right hand while his left seems prepared to protect the baby boy.

'CAST THE CHILD OUT THE WINDOW!' Thretch erupts from the back of Jacob's mind, preparing for death in his own way as he has done many times in the past.

The insanity of this moment grapples the young entrepreneur with guilt, causing his knees to shake. He cannot fathom how a good man like Nicodemus would force him into such a singular dilemma. The small bundle of consequences in his arms begins to cry out, mimicking Jacob's protests at this shameful plight. The young man clears his head completely and turns somewhat, squatting toward the carpet. He then bounces at the knees, using both hands to heave the baby toward the alley. The child flies into the air, heading toward the wooden bottom of the open window, but loses enough momentum to clear the window frame. Nicodemus sprints wildly past Jacob, using his knife to swipe at the young billionaire one last time as he thunders past. The knife opens a deep wound in the palm of Jacob's left hand, causing him to wince and retract it immediately. He drops to his knees on the cheap carpeting, watching Nicodemus burst through the open window. The fierce man stumbles a bit, continuing to the fire escape outside of the building. He then catches the baby with a mighty leap over the railing of the fire escape. Nicodemus cradles the boy tightly to his shoulder as he falls into the darkness of the alley.

After a few seconds, there is a terrible scream of anguish from the alleyway. Nicodemus lands on his ankles, breaking bones and straining muscles upon impact with the rough asphalt. Jacob darts immediately through the open window, peering over the edge of the fire escape. He sees his enemy incapacitated, clutching the baby to his chest like a veteran soldier. When he notices Nicodemus' twisted right ankle, Jacob turns away in revulsion. This sight makes him feel dark and horrid all over; just as he did when the laborer fell to his death at the church.

'He is vulnerable!' Thretch declares with excitement. 'Let's finish him! He won't return for another generation!'

'No! We're going to rescue that little girl!' Jacob commands without reservation, knowing that he still holds some control over his companion. 'We're leaving here before the police arrive, and I'm getting a cab so that we can return the girl to her family!'

Thretch stares downward into the alley like a cat, wishing his master would allow him to eat the bird with a broken wing. Jacob ignores his companion's desires, turning toward the stairs, and exiting the building amidst a group of residents who were awakened by the fire alarm.

"Where's my baby!?" The young mother half-shouts, peeling through the crowd with her hands as though they were crowbars. "Where's my baby, you bastard!?"

Jacob sees the blonde woman in better lighting. Her pink pajamas do nothing to reduce the fierceness of her gaze as she forces herself up the stairs toward him. He turns immediately back to the window and ducks through it to the fire escape, descending the ladder with the angry mother in tow. When they reach the street, the woman is stopped by the sight of her child, which she immediately snatches from the arms of Nicodemus. Jacob moves across the asphalt toward the front corner of the apartment complex. He glances back one last time at Nicodemus, and the ancient warrior glares at him with a promise of death, gripping his broken legs in the purest anguish of winter.

GARFIELD PLACE AND PROSPECT PARK WEST – BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

Jacob steps out of a cab at the almost deserted intersection of Prospect Park West and Garfield Place. He gazes to his left at the entrance of the park, which appears as haunting as a cemetery with the secrets hidden there. Ever since he left the seedy bar, Jacob has been visualizing this childhood play area. It is where his mother and father would spend their afternoons, at a time when they were still happy. Now the park is frozen over, showcasing trees burdened with heavy snowfalls. There are ice formations on every inch of symmetry that rises up to create its vast street profile. The cement pathway appears lonely and damming on this chaotic winter night. It has gothic bricks lining each side, and trees hovering overhead, threatening to dump their snowy payloads on pedestrians.

'Where did you bury her?' Jacob asks the demon immediately, wanting to rescue the girl as soon as possible.

'It is not far.' Thretch replies solemnly, giving Jacob a chill that radiates from his feet up to his pelvis. 'You should know this place. It was your memories that led me here.'

Jacob begins to jog along the somewhat slippery path in the darkness, watching the shadows of trees create exotic shapes on the ground below. There is only a sliver of moonlight guiding him as he traverses the park to an area where his mother and father had a major fight, which ended in their separation.

'Why are you so afraid of Nicodemus?' Jacob demands with a sneer, taunting Thretch defiantly as he makes his way to a vast clearing. 'Is he a better warrior than you? How many times has he killed you over the years? I hope it was a lot because burying this little girl alive...is the stuff of nightmares.'

Thretch refuses to respond, and Jacob's anger toward him grows as he spots a patch of half-inch gravel, which seems to have been recently dug up by someone. When he reaches the center of the clearing, Jacob surveys the area; not wishing to waste any time digging in the wrong place. He notices a shovel in the snow, just fourteen feet from where he is standing, and assumes that he will find the girl close to that spot.

'Is this where you buried her?' Jacob inquires with urgency, breathing out heavy gasps of cold steam from the exertion of his recent jog down the cement pathway. 'Where did you bury her, Thretch?' He looks around the surface of the gravel, guessing that it covers almost fifty square feet at the center of the clearing, taking the shape of an oval. "Goddammit! I'm not playing games here!" He adds aloud in panicked frustration, enraged that his companion won't help him to locate the girl. "WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE, THRETCH!?" He shouts to the entire park, allowing his voice to carry where it will. "WHERE!?"

Jacob tilts his head from side to side, feeling somewhat dizzy with anxiety as he examines the large oval of gravel with meticulous intent. He checks for footprints in the snow, but it isn't deep enough for him to see where someone walked in this area since the gravel absorbed most of the moisture. There appear to be over a dozen sections of ground that have been dug up recently in this area, and not one of them looks different from the others. The young billionaire reaches down and grabs the shovel, deciding that he need only dig two feet down into the center of each section. At that point, his shovel will hit the top of the metal container in which she was buried. He elects to forgo lamenting his silent companion and focuses on the memory of that horrified little face disappearing beneath the earth.

The shovel feels cold and dead in his hands; a stark reminder of what could become of the innocent young girl – if he cannot find her in time. Jacob's left hand is wrapped in a piece of cloth that he tore from the back of his shirt, and he uses it to protect the gash that was ripped open by Nicodemus. His right hand is bare against the rough wood of the shovel, and Jacob realizes that the task of digging up the little girl will come with some pain. He ignores this fact and plunges the shovel hard into the first loose patch of gravel before him. However, the rocks seem to have frozen together over the past few hours, and breaking them apart takes a lot of effort and strength. He digs down two feet, sweating as though it were ninety degrees outside, rather than twenty-five. When he doesn't find anything at two feet, the young man digs down to three feet, moving just enough gravel to find the steel bin.

Jacob feels a bit of despair set in when the first dig doesn't produce a living girl. He steps over to the next patch of recently disturbed ground, his nostrils flaring in disgust. After another five minutes of digging in the second patch of gravel, Jacob again finds himself three feet below the surface, and still there is no girl to be found. Despite the warmth of his clothing, the cold is beginning to affect him. Jacob shivers thoroughly during this task, knowing that hypothermia is a possibility.

"Where is she, Thretch?' Jacob requests again, hoping that the demon has not stopped speaking to him. "Where is she!?" He demands, pausing for a response before hanging his head and moving to the next section of gravel.

The young man begins to dig with increased passion, moving from one area to the next like a psychotic construction worker. He makes good time with his rage, digging each center out twice as fast as the first two that he attempted. After twenty minutes of constant strain and overworked extremities, Jacob raises his head. He realizes that he has examined ten out of the twelve recently disturbed plots. The anger that he has for the demon is as hot and corrosive as the ground beneath his feet is cold and numbing. He stumbles over to the eleventh hole, now feeling pain in his joints, knowing that the first stage of hypothermia is upon him.

Jacob looks menacingly at the plot of ground beneath his feet, pretending that the gravel at its center is Thretch's cold, dark beating heart. He stabs at the earth, swearing that he almost saw it move once or twice. In the midst of his fantasy, he soon feels relief with all the gravel removed, exhibiting three feet of empty space like all the others. He closes his eyes with immense exhaustion, feeling every drop of his blood cooling down, and his entire body shaking as though he were getting bitten by snakes. Jacob drags the shovel to the last plot of ground and sticks the steel mouth into the center with authoritative strength. After over thirty minutes of hard labor in the cold weather, his vision is spotty, and nothing seems to be real. The young man forces his muscles to continue, moving gravel as though his mother were trapped beneath his feet.

"I'm coming for you, mom!" Jacob states in a hazy fashion, barely able to keep his eyes open with the growing effects of the cold. "I'll get you out of there." He says in a shaky voice, feeling his right hand slip and deliver what must be his fifteenth sliver of the night.

After a great deal of strain, he looks down at the hole, realizing that only one foot of gravel has been removed. Jacob blows out a wisp of steam and rests his head atop the handle of the shovel, allowing droplets of sweat to flow over the sleeves of his shirt. He reflects on his memory of the girl being sealed under the earth alive and uses it to his advantage, enticing his anger to the surface for one last hard effort. Jacob digs into the gravel like a madman, moving the icy rocks with efficiency and poise, as though this were an Olympic event. However, after removing more than three feet of the frozen clusters of rock, there is still no girl to be found.

"Where is she, Thretch!?" Jacob insists with a look of hatred and disapproval that is rarely seen in daily life. "WHERE IS THE LITTLE GIRL!?" He finally explodes, tossing the shovel fifteen feet to his left, as it repays him with another sliver.

'Give me full control of your body.' Thretch finally responds after forty-five minutes have passed. 'If you give me control, I will show you where she is...'

Jacob shakes his head immediately, knowing that whatever the monster inside of him is requesting; it cannot be good. He begins to scout the area again, searching for signs of an abduction, and trying to recall details of what the surface of the earth looked like before the steel bin was covered.

'It does not matter.' Thretch announces after a long silence. 'It has been hours since she was put beneath the ground; I am certain that she is frozen.'

"Don't tell me that," Jacob whispers, feeling his knees sink to the frozen gravel, without realizing that he is collapsing. "DON'T TELL ME THAT!" He screams as his voice cracks in the cold, dry air, feeling as though the breeze just cut his throat with its invasive, transparent fingers. "Just tell me where she is; maybe I can get her to the hospital, and they can save her... I won't give you control of my body. Do you hear me? It will be a cold day in hell before I ever give you control!"

Thretch begins cackle at the back of Jacob's mind, enjoying the horror and powerlessness that his young host is feeling. His laughter continues to build until it becomes an unrestricted barrage of mockery.

'My dear Jacob,' Thretch begins with a sobering tone, sounding more reasonable than taunting, 'she is not buried here. In truth, the girl is not buried at all... There is a house on Garfield Place where I was able to buy heroin, and they were happy to take her...as their guest.'

Jacob rises to his feet immediately with the news of this outrageous deception and begins to jog toward the townhomes that line Garfield Place.

'Why are you doing this to me?' Jacob asks as the icy bite of winter now seems to penetrate his clothing with ease. 'Are you here to torment me? Is this a punishment?'

'Jacob, I am here to serve you.' Thretch replies in a sickeningly warm fashion, speaking far outside of his typical temperament. 'Give me full control of your body, and I will rescue the girl right now.'

'No, I obviously can't trust you with anything.' Jacob answers internally, feeling too exhausted to speak aloud. 'Just tell me which house you left her at, or I'll end this life for both of us...'

'I do not care for your threats.' The creature replies with a sullen tone. 'The building will be at your right. It is the only hideous, black and brown home on the street. I will return the girl to her family...if you accept my offer.'

'I don't need you to find her family.' Jacob states as he leaves the park, crossing feverishly over Prospect Park West to the corner of Garfield Place. 'By the way, what did you bury over there?' He asks with sudden curiosity. 'It's obvious that you hid something under that gravel. What was it?'

In his usual state of defiance, Thretch refuses to answer, leaving the young man to ponder in silence. After a few minutes of jogging in the frigid cold, Jacob finds the three-story townhouse where the girl was abandoned. It is an awful, black and brown building with badly chipped paint and an unkempt appearance.

"What are you doing back here?" A man's voice calls out from the shadows within a nook of bricks, atop the concrete of the front porch.

Jacob squints in the darkness, trying to make out a face, but in the sparse moonlight he can see only broad shapes and colors. There is a smooth red glow at the tip of a solitary cigar that moves in the shadows.

"Answer my question, Calbraw." The man orders with the throaty fierceness of a longtime smoker. "When you left here a few hours ago, you told us that if you came back...it would mean trouble." He steps forward into the light, revealing the powerful six-foot-four-inch frame of an Italian drug dealer. "So are you playing games with us, or what?" The dealer ashes his cigar on the porch with his right index finger and runs his left hand through his short, oily black hair.

"I left someone here last time, and I need to take her back," Jacob announces from his position at the center of the sidewalk, in front of the cement stairs.

"Kenny, we've got a problem!" The Italian drug dealer calls out to a man within the house.

There is a short pause, and soon Jacob hears the sound of footsteps, followed by the movement of a heavy wooden door. The screen door opens, and a five-foot-eleven-inch man appears. He shows off his mixed Caucasian and Italian features in a pair of faded, black jeans and a white tank top. The shorter Italian has black tattoos running up and down his arms, featuring everything from mythical creatures to the common everyday rat. Jacob has only a moment to examine the tattoos since the pump shotgun that the man is clutching near his chest bears greater significance.

"So, Calbraw..." The drug dealer begins, snorting as he speaks and showing signs that he is under the influence of something very potent. "You're back for some drama! Why don't you come inside and we'll sort this shit out?"

"Nah, that's cool, I just need to pick up my little girl-" Jacob deflects immediately, but is cut off by his adversary.

"But you don't have a little girl, do you?" Kenny whispers in a voice filled with passion and tension, pointing the shotgun downward at the stairs, and then back at Jacob. "You had a little girl earlier, and then you paid us to adopt her. So why don't you come inside, so that we can work this out, huh?" He says in a friendly manner, pulling the shotgun back so that the barrel is pointing in the air.

"Okay," Jacob says after a long pause, preferring a simple renegotiation of terms over a lifetime of regret.

"Anthony, why don't you help Calbraw inside, and I'll be with you in a minute?" Kenny requests from the taller drug dealer, wiping a bit of sweat from the side of his head. "You can get warm for a minute, and I'll be back to talk business." He adds with a wink and a smile, opening the flimsy screen door as he steps inside past the thick, walnut door.

"Come on inside, everything's cozy," Anthony suggests with an outstretched left hand as he flicks away his cigar. "The girl was watching TV with us most of the night, and she finally fell asleep long enough for me to enjoy a smoke."

Jacob makes his way up the cement stairs and through the open doors of the home. He watches for any ulterior schemes that may be developing within the mysterious domicile. When he steps inside to the chipped and faded hardwood flooring, the place seems familiar and is not very accommodating. A single seventy-inch, high-definition television hangs on the wall, showing images with crisp realism. The light of the television is producing most of the ambiance in the home. There are several dark corners used for accounting, weighing products, and secure storage. These shadowy corners are littered in small round tables with scales on them, large floor safes, and spiral notebooks with assorted pens.

There is a carpeted staircase in front of Jacob, and he is startled by a sound from the second-floor landing. He looks upward to see Kenny carrying the little blonde girl against his shoulder, moving her away from him.

"SONOFABITCH!" Jacob explodes, rushing up the stairs in a desperate attempt to protect the seven-year-old.

"WAIT A MINUTE, CALBRAW!" Anthony shouts, pulling back the hammer of a pistol as he slams the heavy walnut door closed behind him. "We need to talk without you being in the same room with the girl." The man explains in a calmer voice as he watches Jacob freeze at the middle of the staircase. "Now that you're up there, just keep going to the attic on the third floor. And don't move too fast, unless you can beat a forty-five slug...and his friends."

"What are you doing with her?" Jacob inquires as he walks up the stairs with his palms facing forward and hands level to his elbows.

"We're doing what you asked us to do, Calbraw," Anthony states, annoyed by the redundant nature of his captive's actions. "We're taking care of her. Have you seriously forgotten this already? It's only been like four or five hours." Anthony says with exhaustion, as they make a right turn at the second floor, to ascend another set of stairs.

When he reaches the second floor, Jacob looks around, trying to get a glimpse of Kenny or the little girl, but they are not there. He notices an open bathroom door with a man urinating shamelessly in full view of everyone else in the home. This man has a thick crew cut of blonde hair, and he wears a gold chain atop a black T-shirt. He is clad in tan cargo shorts and a pair of dirty, white tube socks, seeming to have been inside the home all day.

Unlike the downstairs area, the second floor of the townhouse is carpeted, and both of the bedroom doors are shut, leaving Jacob to guess at the location of the girl. With a brief grunt of frustration and pain, he climbs the stairs to the attic on the third floor, trudging with more exhaustion than he has known in a long while.

"Go ahead and have a seat on Vinnie's footlocker," Anthony suggests, pointing to a small, black storage trunk near the middle of the room. "Or you can sit on the couch, but I wouldn't recommend it. Vinnie has had a few girls up here, and some of them didn't have any teeth – if you know what I'm-"

"WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM!?" Kenny interrupts as he explodes into the attic from the staircase, pointing his right index finger at Jacob as the pump shotgun dangles from his left hand. "You come over here – what...five hours ago, and ask us to hook you up with heroin. Then you drop off this kid and transfer fifty grand into my account so that I can take care of her. Then, and this is where it gets weird, you tell us that if you come back here; not to give you the girl, because you're piece of shit, and she'll get hurt. So what's the story on you, anyway? Are you completely mental? I didn't think you were serious when you said all this shit to me earlier." The young drug dealer says frantically, pacing back and forth across the baseboards with electric vigor. "I mean, look at you!" He continues; not waiting for a reply from Jacob. "Your eye is almost swollen shut. You've got bruises, cuts, and blood all over your body. Ya' look like a guy who just survived World War III. So now you show up at my house, just like you TOLD ME, and you want to take the girl...looking like shit, the way you do?" He finishes with a baffled expression, placing his right hand on his forehead with the thumb and index fingers extended.

"Look, I don't know what I said to you earlier." Jacob pleads, trying to reason with them, feeling the welcoming warmth of the house easing the pain in his muscles. "I'm sure it sounds crazy, but she needs to go back home to her family."

Both drug dealers begin to laugh, gazing with amusement at the bloody, tattered mess that sits atop the footlocker before them. Jacob looks at the floor in shame, realizing that his appearance must be that of an uncontrollable smack addict.

"I would ask if you're high," Kenny states with a deep amount of joy, placing his hand over the middle of his chest. "But I can already see by looking into your pupils that you are high. I mean...not just college boy high; you're really high. I bet you're not feeling much pain, and the cold doesn't seem too bad. Jesus, Calbraw, thanks for the laughs, but you have to leave now, and don't come back..."

"Look, I'm not leaving the girl with you." Jacob asserts with a bold stare, using the tried and true tactics from so many of his Wall Street meetings. "You're a drug dealer, for God's sake!"

"I'm a drug dealer!?" Kenny asks incredulously, cupping his right hand and slamming it against his chest. "I'm a drug dealer!? You're a drug addict! And there's no way you're leaving this house with that girl. I don't trust you to walk my dog; the way you look."

"That's unacceptable." Jacob retorts, reverting to the language that he uses to leverage bankers on a daily basis.

"Well, too fuckin' bad, Calbraw!" Anthony says with outrage, relinquishing his blue-collar charm for the ruggedness of a street thug. "The man has spoken. You're not fit to take care of the girl. So we'll call you a cab, and you can take your sorry ass back to Manhattan to sober up."

"The girl can't go home now; she knows too much about this place," Kenny adds with a sinister stare, seeming betrayed and filled with confusion. "She's gonna' be our little drug mule. The cops will never suspect a little white girl."

"I have friends in the NYPD," Jacob states with a fierce stare, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. "If that girl isn't home with her family by morning, I'll make each of you disappear! Hell, we'll seize your house and auction it off while we're at it."

"Oh God, you shouldn't have said that, dude," Anthony says, shaking his head as if staring at a condemned man. "You really shouldn't have threatened to end us."

"Go get your bat!" Kenny snaps at Anthony, forcing him to stop speaking. "Go get your bat! Let's make this quick!" He repeats, snapping his fingers and staring down at the floor with the rage of a scorned criminal. "What the fuck are you doing, Calbraw!?" He erupts immediately as Anthony descends the stairs, expressing a dire frustration for this entire series of events. "I mean, you've always been real careful getting your scores from other dealers. That's right, don't look at me that way, I know who you are... I just don't know what the fuck you're up to..." He relays with sincere regret, placing his right hand against his throat as if these circumstances are an assault on his core principles. "We have rules in this world! You know that!" He states with passion, stomping his right foot and holding out his fist, like a young child forced to make a responsible choice.

"The girl doesn't belong here," Jacob says in a calm voice, trying to reason with the drug dealer as a businessman.

"Well, that's not your problem anymore!" Kenny says in dismay, gesturing toward Anthony, who has ascended the stairs, carrying a metal baseball bat. "She's part of our operation now."

"I saw you bring the bat up here," Vinnie says, emerging from the staircase and scratching the front of his cargo shorts as he steps forward. "Are we taking somebody down tonight? Oh shit, dude, it looks like we are!" He adds with enthusiasm, rolling his hands into tight fists before clapping them together in the air. "I'm gonna' enjoy this. Beat his ass, Anthony!" The vivacious drug dealer says as he folds his arms, stepping to the far corner of the room for a better view.

"Make it quick!" Kenny agrees as he nods to Anthony, and then walks to the filthy sofa, taking a seat facing the wall. "I hate this part!" He admits, placing his face in his right hand, and leaning forward with the shotgun still dangling from his left.

"Get on your knees over here, and I'll finish you quick." Anthony offers with mixed emotions, also showing regret for what must be done. "If you don't get on your knees, then I'll start with your knees."

"Thretch, I need your help," Jacob says aloud as he gets to his feet, watching the blonde drug dealer snicker at him from the corner of the room. "We need to get through this in one piece."

"Who the fuck is he talking to!?" Kenny asks from the sofa, turning a bit to his right, and receiving nothing but a shrug in return from Anthony. "Just get it over with. He's obviously a couple grams short of an ounce." The drug dealer says with disgust, covering his eyes again and turning away.

"Get on your knees, crazy," Anthony orders immediately, gesturing with a nod of his head toward the floor. "I'll put a stop to every one of those voices in your head."

'Give me full control of your body and I will rescue the girl.' Thretch instructs as Jacob goes down on one knee in front of Anthony.

"You have full control," Jacob affirms with defeat in his eyes, allowing his body to go limp as Anthony raises the baseball bat over his head.

"Yeah, we know..." Anthony replies with a laugh, trying to suppress his feelings of empathy for their wealthy victim.

Thretch comes to life inside of Jacob as a manifestation of pure adrenaline. He straightens his back and uses his fists to deliver ferocious punches to the baseboards of the attic. One by one the boards snap beneath Anthony's feet, and his mouth opens in shock as the floor seems to disintegrate below him. The demon uses Jacob's right hand to snatch away the metal baseball bat in midair, and the drug dealer plummets through the floor to the carpet ten feet below him.

Thretch then spins gracefully with the bat, using all of Jacob's strength to bring it over his shoulder in a downward motion at Kenny's head. The drug dealer is turned halfway around on the sofa, just glimpsing his colleague disappearing through the floor. He clutches the shotgun tightly and tries to spin around to fire on Jacob, but the bat connects with the top of his head before he can think to take aim. This singular strike emits a terrible thud that ends with a slight squishing sound. It produces a long spurt of blood that travels over eight feet to the opposite wall.

"Holy shit!" Vinnie exclaims in awe; his face now pale and stuck in an expression of shock. "You're one of those crazy people... And I mean really crazy, like, gorilla strong and psychotic."

Thretch uses Jacob's body to vault over the sofa with ease, landing on the opposite side of the room where he can engage the third drug dealer. He dangles the baseball bat close to the baseboards and glares at Vinnie with menacing blue eyes. Vinnie gazes at Jacob with a sudden tenacity and produces a .45-caliber, semi-automatic pistol from the waistband of his cargo shorts.

When Thretch identifies the pistol in Vinnie's hand, he glances over Jacob's shoulder. The demon shuffles sideways and leaps backward with vigor onto the sofa. Jacob feels a warm squish from the blood-soaked cushions beneath him as Thretch uses his body to knock the sofa over. Once the sofa is down, he continues to roll in a reverse somersault, dropping straight through the floorboards where Anthony fell moments ago.

Vinnie lowers his weapon in stunned silence, observing the stealth and agility of his adversary with sincere respect. He looks at the battered body of Kenny for a moment, now splayed on the floor behind the toppled sofa with all his limbs akimbo. This scene is surreal, reminding Vinnie of his mortality, and he is forced to turn away, as the sight is too gruesome.

Jacob feels his body crash face first into a cedar dresser within a second-floor bedroom of the home. His right hand is still gripping the metal baseball bat, which causes it to wedge uncomfortably between his chest and the hard wood of the dresser. Thretch immediately corrects the distribution of his weight. This action allows him to roll sideways off of the dresser, and onto the soft, eggshell-colored shag carpet. The demon twists Jacob's head to the left, noticing that Anthony is standing only four feet away. He is clutching the back of his head from taking the same fall through the floor, gazing up at the broken plaster.

The tall drug dealer is looking at Jacob with surprise and irritation, realizing that he has to engage him. Though the sight of the baseball bat causes him to hesitate. Thretch makes quick work of his feeblemindedness and lunges forward. He uses the large head of the baseball bat to ram Anthony in the chest above his heart. The man drops onto his back, gasping for air and clutching his pectoral area. This struggle doesn't last long as Thretch continues his forward momentum. He tramples Anthony's body and drops his left knee onto the drug dealer's exposed throat. Jacob feels the sickening crack of a neck breaking under his knee, but the inner celebration of his companion is fouler still. After Anthony's neck snaps, Thretch rolls into a somersault and back onto his feet, continuing forward like an exiled wolf hunting his pack.

'Men who leave their throats exposed should never speak ill of anyone!' Thretch growls, moving menacingly forward.

The house dances around Jacob in a blur with the creature in command of his body. Thretch is moving fast in celebration of his latest kill. Although the demon is enjoying himself, Jacob cannot ignore the pain that is penetrating through the comfort of the heroin. The warmth of the townhouse seems to have promoted more swelling, and his left eye is almost closed from multiple blows sustained during the night. Through all the exhaustion and throbbing, Jacob notices that Thretch has descended the stairs to the main floor. He soon finds himself exiting the home out of the front door.

'You agreed to rescue the girl!' Jacob manages when he feels the familiar bite of the night air.

'I am doing as agreed – a task much simpler if completed alive!' Thretch snarls back in his explosive manner, cautioning Jacob to observe in silence. 'A man who twice allowed himself to be cornered on the ice should not make assumptions.' The creature deadpans with authoritative zeal, further cementing his position of control over the body.

Vinnie descends the staircase to the second-floor landing, looking around for Anthony or Jacob. He has his compact, black pistol at the ready, with the hammer cocked, and a round in the chamber. As he reaches the second-floor landing, a cold breeze brushes across his skin, and he peers down to the bottom of the staircase, noticing that the front door is open.

"SONOFABITCH!" Vinnie shouts in a cry of retribution, barreling down the stairs with his pistol leading the way, checking his left and right flanks as he goes.

The savvy drug dealer emerges onto the front porch, poised to fire at the slightest movement. His eyes trace along the frozen walkway that precedes the porch, following it all the way out to the public sidewalk, and the street. There is a savage emptiness in the early morning darkness of the city, and as each chilly breath enters his lungs, the young man feels closer to death. Something moves in the yard, just beyond his line of vision, and he focuses on that spot, confused that it made a sound like a child's footstep. Within just two seconds of the first sound, Vinnie feels something heavy slam into the back of his head. It bursts apart upon impact, and he detects frozen crystals of compacted snow on the nape of his neck.

Thretch kicks off of the wall from the nook, dropping next to the young drug dealer on the porch like a church gargoyle sprung to life. He places his back against the young man's left shoulder and reaches with Jacob's right hand for Vinnie's throat. The demon then hoists him over his shoulder, whilst snapping his neck. Jacob cringes again at the intense cracking of bones, and the violent shaking of extremities that follows, before the body goes limp.

Thretch rolls Vinnie's body into a prone position behind the layers of concrete blocks, and a black, wrought iron railing that surrounds the porch. He then steps back inside of the home and closes the front door, eyeing the interior suspiciously for more foes. After a few minutes of searching the home, Thretch finds a frightened seven-year-old girl. The men left her on the floor of a dirty bedroom, clutching her knees to her chest in the shadow of a queen-sized bed. She is clad in a small denim jacket, green sweater, pink jeans, and a pair of Hello Kitty snow boots. The girl begins to cry when Jacob enters the room, and the young billionaire feels sick inside at being part of a childhood trauma.

"Do you remember me, Angie?" Thretch asks aloud in a far deeper voice than that of Jacob.

The girl nods her head, and tears begin to roll in glowing lines down her cheeks, emphasizing a heartbroken expression.

"If you remain quiet; you will soon see your mother." The demon suggests, watching the child with suspicion and austerity. "Understand?"

Angie nods her head in despair, horrified to look into Jacob's eyes. This interaction is not the first time she has endured the ferociousness of Thretch's raucous mannerisms. Jacob observes this interaction with disappointment. He attempts to take control, but is powerless to do anything other than witness the events. He wants to comfort the traumatized child and smolders over the idea that his companion is enjoying his anxiety.

Thretch extends Jacob's right hand to the young girl, and her face twists to extreme discomfort. Though she finally rises from the floor, allowing him to carry her on his shoulder. The creature searches the home until he finds a set of car keys on the kitchen counter, near a few drug scales and a brown, cardboard pizza box. The young girl sobs with her belly pressed against his right shoulder, her golden hair bouncing against the dried blood on Jacob's face. Within his own body, Jacob is squirming at the way Thretch is handling the young girl, knowing that she is being traumatized by the second. He attempts to communicate to his companion the effects of a child being carted around by a stinky, bloody kidnapper in the middle of the night. However, Thretch doesn't heed his warning and seems to be sending Jacob a message – more than just taunting him.

Thretch ventures outside with the keys in his left hand and the little girl on his right shoulder. There are two sports cars parked in front of the townhouse; one a black Chevrolet Corvette, and the other a gray Nissan Altima. The keys do not fit the Altima, which is positioned in front of the Corvette, with its tires next to the curb. Thretch walks to the other car, opens the door, and robotically places the little girl into the passenger seat. He takes the driver seat next to her and slams the door shut. The creature then turns the key in the ignition, puts the car in gear, and pulls out onto the street like a madman.

'Are you taking her home?' Jacob asks, disgusted that the girl is not wearing her safety belt.

'I know not where she lives.' Thretch replies with animosity, shifting the car into higher gears until he is doing over twice the speed limit.

'Let's take her to the police station near my penthouse in Manhattan.' Jacob suggests in an empty manner. 'There are men who work for me at that precinct. I'll tell you where to turn.'

'You can have one more night with your woman.' Thretch announces, ignoring Jacob's request as he speeds around corners, causing his passenger to turn pale and grip the seat beneath her. 'I will not serve two masters.'

'Are you saying that I can never have a girlfriend!?' Jacob protests immediately, wondering why this interaction came about. 'I need women in my life, Thretch.'

'You can have women.' The creature agrees as he maneuvers the car toward The Brooklyn Bridge. 'You can have women, but your time with them must be short! You can have one more night with your woman. Too often, your thoughts dwell on her.'

'What if I decided to keep seeing her?' Jacob threatens in a cocky fashion, refusing to give up control over his love life.

'Then I shall drive her away.' Thretch proclaims without hesitation, sending a sobering message through the fading euphoria of the heroin. 'If she will not go away, then I shall end her.' He states with the callous intent of a park ranger, as if describing the premise of completing a mercy killing.

Jacob knows that the demon is serious, and his heart begins to race with what might become of Celeste if he disobeys. The young man decides to put it out of his mind, electing to focus instead on returning the young girl to the police.
XIX. The N Word

"Why are you having such a hard time with this, Kelvin? Nocturne is a good plan." Barry proposes with candor, scratching the gray hair at the back of his head. "When you're trying to wipe out a bunch of hornets, isn't it better to blow out the whole nest?" He adds with passion, showing off his aged, yet attractive face in the bright white garage of James Levinson's home.

Kelvin looks sideways at the older man with fading patience, feeling jealous that Barry is wearing a fine black suit and cranberry colored tie. This ensemble contrasts vividly against Kelvin's oil change duds. His hands are wrist deep in the body of a dead cocker spaniel, seeking samples from the stomach and intestines to determine the cause of death. The smell of the dead animal is nauseating, and the overheated garage with its poor ventilation, is not helping the situation. Kelvin is wearing a gray shirt and a cheap pair of faded jeans. His outfit is sporting small stains from the spaniel's fluids and holes from moths that ate away at it in storage.

James Levinson sits on the hood of his M Class Mercedes, talking to Billy Harmony, The Dragonfly, and Herb Phillips. The men are awaiting the results of a necropsy that Kelvin is performing on Levinson's dog. For a wealthy man, James is as eccentric as they come, having lost his place in humanity long ago as a second-generation billionaire. He is an attractive thirty-eight-year-old with wide eyes and mixed Caucasian and African features. Although detached from the world, his childish way of seeing things has made him a powerful ally to the poor. The man is dressed in a black, button-down shirt that features solid gold buttons and bright yellow dress pants with solid silver buttons. This flashy spending causes many to question his practicality.

"So do you think they poisoned him, guys?" James inquires with an innocent smile, gazing upon the three men that stand flat-footed on the garage floor opposite him. "Do you think they killed my little Joe Rogan for barking too loud?" He emotes with deep sadness, staring at the dog, and kicking with his legs dangling just above the epoxy-sealed floor of the large garage.

The Dragonfly snickers immediately, his trademark green sunglasses doing little to conceal his amusement. He tightens his powerful abs beneath a vintage Emmitt Smith jersey and runs the fingers of his right hand across his cornrows. The dauntless thug attempts to gain some self-control, so as not to offend the childlike billionaire. Their would-be benefactor displays a wounded face. James watches The Dragonfly with embarrassment and an awkward sense of propriety.

"I think we'll find out soon." Billy Harmony states with smooth confidence, glancing at The Dragonfly with a warning in his eyes. "Kelvin's good at finding out whodunit, and if we do know that your neighbors poisoned the dog, then we'll help you kick that ass."

"Hell yeah, let's kick that ass!" James Levinson exclaims, holding up the fist of his scrawny right arm.

The Dragonfly snickers again, trying to contain his laughter, but it comes out in spasmodic bursts and snorts. Billy Harmony and Herb Phillips both turn to look upon their new companion with implications of severe doubt.

"Look, man, I'm sorry," The Dragonfly begins, holding up his right hand to the billionaire with his palm facing outward. "But I've got these crazy allergies that affect my breathing."

"Do you know what you're doin'?" Barry whispers to Kelvin in a cold tone, eyeing his actions with deep suspicion. "I don't mean with this stiff ass 'Lassie' right here, but do you know what you're doin' as a leader?" He challenges with his arms folded across his chest, gesturing toward the dead dog, and then to the group of men near the Mercedes.

Kelvin continues to work in silence, using a plastic slide and eyedropper from a gram stain kit to show a false positive for poison. He dips a strip of red litmus paper into an alkaline solution of water and battery acid, watching with a smile as the saturated portion turns blue from the high pH levels.

"So what does that tell us?" Barry asks with a gentle and natural curiosity as he looks at the discolored strip of litmus paper, backing off from his aggressive stance. "Did somebody rub out the dog?"

"What it tells us," Kelvin begins in a whisper with a slight smirk, trying to maintain his composure, "is that battery acid is acidic. But this slide over here tells us...that there are healthy bacteria in the dog's colon."

"You bastard!" Barry responds in a whisper, his face glowing with amusement. "Are you seriously faking the results so that we can get paid!? What if he goes all 'postal' and decides to massacre his neighbors?"

"Really!?" Kelvin asks sarcastically, placing his hands on his hips in disbelief. "You've spent all morning trying to convince me that we need to attack a gated community, and 'wipe out five members of the nest.' Now you're getting high and mighty about one neighbor? What the hell is with you lately, Barry? I know you were sick when we started the first round of assaults, and that's fine. But don't come in here acting like a war veteran who knows more about leadership than the rest of us!" He establishes his dominance with an uncompromising stare, moving his head from side to side in an animated fashion. "Look, brother, I don't have time to perform a full necropsy; that shit takes weeks. This is a waste of my time, so let's tell him what he wants to hear. The dog was poisoned, and we need to get paid." The scientist says, holding up the index and middle fingers of his right hand to better illustrate what he considers important.

On the opposite end of the garage, near the silver Mercedes, Herb Phillips is losing his patience. For a big man who dressed in a large blue sweatshirt, and a pair of black overalls, the heat in the garage and smell of a dead animal are becoming unbearable. He grips the suspenders on his chest with both hands, watching Billy Harmony hatch schemes of revenge with an excitable James Levinson. The angry thug feels ashamed by the whole situation, witnessing his longtime friend sell the idea of vengeance like lemonade on a street corner. Barry is clad in a bright white suit with a black tie, and a silver dress shirt, which explains why his brow is sweating as he talks shop with James.

"So where we at!?" Herb requests with a fierce stare, his eyes demanding fast action from his friends as the room falls silent. "What's up with the dog, Kelvin? Did they poison that dude?"

"Yeah, did they poison my Joe Rogan?" James echoes with a compulsive desire to know the truth, hopping down from his Mercedes to approach Kelvin and Barry near the south door of the garage.

"Yes, I'm afraid they did," Kelvin states with a tongue-in-cheek form of sorrow. "Watch when I dip this red paper in a container filled with trace amounts of your dog's saliva." He holds the glass of alkaline solution in his right hand and uses his other hand to dip a red strip of litmus paper into the fluid. "You see that? When the strip turns from red to blue, it means that there was poison."

James puts both of his hands over his mouth as his eyes go wide with terror. He steps closer to the glass of fluid, watching it for a few seconds with a demeanor of betrayal.

"I have one more test result for you to verify." Kelvin continues, realizing that James is too distraught to speak. "Come and look into this microscope that has a slide with your dog's blood." He gestures to a workbench at his right, leading James to a microscope surrounded by vials of colored fluids and various glass containers for sampling. "Now, what you'll see in this slide are healthy red blood cells mixed with violet-stained cells." The young man explains as James leans over the eyepiece of the microscope, his mouth opening wide in silent confirmation of what Kelvin has told him. "What you're looking at is called crystal-violet, which attaches itself to poisons like arsenic and cyanide. While I can't tell you exactly which poison was used without a centrifuge, I can confirm that it's a gram-positive result for poison."

Barry places his forehead against the palm of his right hand, shaking his head with an equal amount of guilt and silent laughter.

"Oh my God!" James states with a shocked expression, pulling his face away from the microscope as he looks at Kelvin. "Thank you so much!" He says with great affection, surprising Kelvin with a warm embrace, like a little brother.

Kelvin is over a foot taller than the five-foot-one-inch billionaire, making the hug appear more like a photo with Santa Claus. His colleagues all smile with approval, suppressing their laughter as they celebrate this victory.

"I'm going to champion your cause," James confirms as he releases Kelvin from his embrace and takes a few steps backward. "I'll give you ten million dollars to finance your fight, and to show my asshole neighbor that killing Joe Rogan was a huge mistake!"

"That will be wonderful," Kelvin says gracefully, smiling at his wealthy friend with the genuine eyes of a father. "You've done a great thing for America, and as for your neighbor, he'll never bother you or your dogs again." He turns to gauge the reactions of his colleagues, glimpsing a grave expression of warning that has formed on Barry's face. "Now, we can't buy what we need directly because Homeland Security will be on us before we can put the credit card back into our wallet. So we'll need to buy things that other people want, and barter for the supplies that we need. That will make this whole deal untraceable, which will protect us...and James. Let's hear it for James!"

The youthful billionaire holds his hands upward like an evangelical preacher, as the group of men provide him with an obligatory round of applause. Herb makes quick work of the applause and places his hands back on his suspenders. He stares at the dead dog on the workbench, wondering if their ambitions will lead them to the same end.

JACOB'S PENTHOUSE – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

"I'm so sorry about your father, Jacob," Howard says through the phone, pausing with respect. "I know you had your battles, but in the end, he was trying to do the right thing."

"Yeah, you said that already," Jacob replies with a stern voice, listening to the thoughts of Thretch as he talks with his father's old partner. "Do we know how those people found out where he was going?"

"Jacob, let the police and the FBI handle the details." Plato deflects with a reassuring tone. "At least we know who pulled that trigger; that's a small comfort for me."

"Uh-huh." Jacob manages with a callous disposition, unable to recall that he and Howard ever had anything in common. "Guess I'll just make up my own mind on that issue...since it was my father."

"Well, Jacob, do whatever you need to get through this difficult time," Plato states, attempting to conceal his disappointment. "Listen, I don't want to keep you long, but we have a board meeting coming up. The goal is to pay respect to your father and to make some decisions on the future of the company."

"My sources tell me that you've already been making decisions on the future of the company," Jacob replies, leaning forward at his desk and staring at the opposite wall with wild eyes. "I know that you've shut down the working moms program that my father created, and you killed all of his charity efforts."

"Killed is such an ugly word, Jacob." Howard teases with a bit of sarcasm, immediately regretting his poor taste. "Let's just say that those programs are under evaluation...for the immediate future."

"Okay, let's just say that then," Jacob answers with vicious tenacity, feeling revolted by Plato's incessant pandering. "I agree with you though; killed is an ugly word."

"Jacob, have you spoken to The Giant this week?" Plato inquires with the delicate concern of a would-be friend. "He has a video disc that you may...well, how can I be tactful here?"

"Just spit it out, Plato! For God's sake, I'm not ten anymore." Jacob prompts the older man with frustration, letting his left hand drop to the glass surface of his desk while clutching the cellular phone in his right.

"If you get a video disc from The Giant, please give me a call so that I can watch it with you." Howard offers, speaking with what sounds like genuine empathy. "Or if you don't want to watch it with me, then make sure someone like Celeste is there with you."

"What the hell are you talking about, Plato!?" Jacob demands with sudden urgency, feeling his body tense with anxiety. "Is this about my mother!? What's on the video disc!?"

"Have you ever heard of The X-Card?" Howard asks with a voice of caution. "If you get your hands on the video disc, then I can tell you more."

"The X-Card!?" Jacob explodes with bitter outrage. "Are you telling me that my mother was taken out by The X-Card service? ...That bullshit myth guys are always joking about in the locker rooms at country clubs? I don't believe you!" He says with tears springing from the corners of his eyes. "I don't fucking believe you, Plato!"

"I can't say anything more over the phone," Howard remarks with discomfort, sounding a bit panicked. "If you get a video disc from The Giant, please give me a call...I can spare you some pain."

"Thanks, Plato," Jacob says dismissively, wanting to get off the phone and feeling agony at the premise of his mother being assassinated. "We'll talk later." He adds in a curt fashion, hanging up before Howard can reply.

Jacob holds the phone in front of his face and searches the address book for a familiar number. He pauses with exacerbated grief and waits for his employee to answer.

"Danielle, it's Jacob." He begins in a professional tone, taking great care to treat his assistant with respect. "Doing good, and you? Magnificent! Well, I'm heading into a meeting, but I need you to help me locate The Giant. Yeah, that asshole... No, just set up a meeting for any time or place that he wants... No, it's nothing to worry about, just a bit of caution... Thanks, Danielle. By the way, if you get this meeting scheduled today, then I'll pay for your next trip to Ireland... Okay, it's a deal. Thank you!" The young entrepreneur hangs up the phone and slams it on his desk with vigor, appearing pale and irritable in the afternoon sun.

"What happened to the video disc, Thretch!?" Jacob demands aloud in his office as he rolls his right hand into a fist, and covers it delicately with his left.

'You should not address me in this manner, Jacob.' Thretch replies with a turbulent warning, leaving Jacob feeling shaken by his brooding rage.

"I just want to find my mother." Jacob pleads to the creature, hoping that there is enough integrity within the demon to rally for his cause.

Jacob stands up out of his chair with a sudden burst of tension, placing both of his hands flat upon the desk. His bright orange, silk tie swings like a pendulum in front of his black button-down dress shirt. After a moment of silence, he straightens his body, placing his hands on his hips. Jacob gasps toward the ceiling for air at the thought of his mother's murder. The black leather belt and gray, pinstripe slacks suddenly feel too tight around his waist, despite an extra inch of room from recent weight loss.

Jacob gazes upon a bottle of Grey Goose Vodka atop the right corner of his desk. The young man contemplates the relief that could soon be flowing through his bloodstream. He reaches for the vodka without another thought. The billionaire stretches his right arm toward the beautiful, clear bottle, as if grabbing for a life preserver in an ocean of grief. Though when his hand clasps the neck of the bottle, he notices an involuntary jerk from his right arm. Jacob then spins in a clockwise circle, swinging the bottle toward a display case in the rear right corner of the office. His hand opens at the apex of the swinging motion. This release sends the bottle crashing through the glass doors of a walnut display case, which contains awards from his various achievements. The bottle hits against a glossy, black and gold plaque with cherry wood backing; an award he received for earning his first billion dollars.

'Your despair is useless.' Thretch chides with righteous wisdom, expressing pride in having destroyed the bottle of alcohol. 'A man does not hide from his agony. You have been gifted a powerful knowledge that could free you of your despair, and yet, you choose to imbibe the fermented rot of unwanted crops. I give you control of your body one of every three days, and you wish to waste this time in a drunken caldron of fear... If you cannot be a soldier, then I shall force you to become one. I cannot suffer the advent of a mind gone sour, bludgeoning my thoughts with constant nonsense. You will learn to use your agony; not as a battering ram at the gates of your heart, but as a weapon to raise your enemies to the ground. Know this, young Jacob... While my forfeit soul is with you; you shall never drink in despair. We will hunt the men causing the sorrow, and when their bodies lie broken at your feet, then you can have your foolish drink.'

Jacob stares at the broken glass that has littered the floor in front of his display case, noticing that the vodka has washed over much of the area at the base of the unit. He is haunted by the thoughts of Thretch, realizing that his body will only be under his control once every three days; like a vile timeshare, in an already overcrowded mind. He rubs his upper teeth against his lower lip, trying to understand why the creature is so adamant about giving him control for even a fraction of the time. After a bit of contemplation, the young entrepreneur smiles with a wicked display of his teeth. He realizes that Thretch is terrified of his host descending into madness, and thus, must help to maintain his mental health.

'Your scheming is ill-advised.' The demon warns immediately, reminding Jacob that he can hear all of his thoughts. 'Nothing in your mind or body is hidden from me. Should you choose to become my enemy; then I shall be the ultimate instrument of your demise. For what better way to destroy a man, than by looking into his greatest fears, and allowing him to awaken, bathed in the gnawing filth of his nightmares? We are a communion, young Calbraw, and should you, or I decide to fight for this body, it will end in the recursive reckoning of a mind gone insane. I did not choose you, nor you I, but we are forfeit souls that must keep a balance, should we hope to achieve anything.'

"What do you mean forfeit soul!?" Jacob asks with a sudden chill of fear that billows through his body from his core. "Why would my soul be forfeit?"

Thretch does not respond, and Jacob begins to look around the office in a state of panic. He grabs at the back of his head, wondering why he was chosen to host such a fierce creature, or if he has lost his mind altogether. The demon moves him forward unexpectedly, taking several steps as if to tell Jacob that the idea is not worth discussing. The billionaire concedes to the will of his companion and begins to prepare for a drive in the city. He reflects with deep suspicion on the boy who had plagiarized his mother's unpublished work, and elects to start there.

KELVIN'S HOME – HARLEM, NEW YORK

Christina Carver sits at a cheap, polyurethane table in the small kitchen of her lonely New York home. She is sipping a cup of coffee and poring over a series of papers that were sent to her by Kelvin's smooth talking courier the previous night. The young woman was feeling spiritual this morning. As a result, her head is adorned with a vibrant orange, brown, yellow, and green head scarf, folded in the tradition of the motherland. This look is further accentuated by a matching Kente Skirt set, giving her the appearance of a bonafide modern African woman. She has been dressing more moderately as of late, having found new affection for her husband, electing not to punish him by tantalizing his friends.

There is a sudden and aggressive knocking on the front door. Christina gasps immediately, feeling like the incriminating documents before her may as well be packages of drugs. She sets the documents on the table and rises from her chair, being cautious of her fragile back, and moving a few inches at a time as she gets to her feet. Within seconds, there is a far louder banging sound from the sturdy front door, seeming more urgent, and on the verge of violence. The young woman steps through the hallway toward the dimly lit entryway of her home. Her inner voice proclaims that whatever is behind this aggressive knocking cannot be good. Christina wonders if her husband has been hurt, captured, or killed during his dogmatic crusade to avenge Geo. She breathes in with instant denial; not wanting to believe that anything else has gone wrong in her life. With a great deal of poise, Christina undoes the top deadbolt and twists the faded steel door handle, feeling the latch release from the doorframe.

The door explodes inward with tremendous power, sending Christina's body into the corner of the wall, where the entryway and hallway meet. She grabs at her spine and cries out in horrible pain, sensing that her delicate discs have been injured, resulting in a scorching dose of agony. Her head scarf has been knocked off by the impact with the wall, and as Christina attempts to massage the muscles in her back, she notices that a young, white man has entered her home.

"Where is your son!?" Jacob growls at the young woman, watching her right hand clutching her lower back as she glares at him with intense pain and horrified eyes. "Where is your son!? I need to speak to him!" He demands, moving closer to her face; the pupils of his blue eyes appearing to be overlaid in a type of white material.

"Who are you!?" The young woman inquires, strafing backward through the hallway toward the kitchen.

Jacob twists his body in a fit of rage, swinging the front door closed behind him. He then maneuvers menacingly toward the young woman, his orange, silk tie swinging in front of his shirt like a pendulum. Christina recognizes the young man, and he seems more like a wealthy Satan in person than in his photo, which is currently atop her kitchen table. She moves hastily toward the kitchen, knowing that this man cannot see their maps or images of the men they have been targeting. All these items are on display in the kitchen, and certain areas of the master bedroom.

Jacob catches up to the women with his powerful strides, entering a small kitchen with a cheap polyurethane table and a few scrawny, vinyl-covered chairs. He watches her feet slip on the small, white tiles as she scrambles toward the table with dutiful intent. The woman knocks over a cup of coffee, spilling it all over a series of documents that are laid out on the hard surface of the table. She then swipes quickly with her right hand, sending most of the saturated documents to the floor.

Jacob grips her lower left abdomen and thrusts her petite body to the ground, sending her tumbling over a kitchen chair. Christina loses her balance from the aggressive shove, clipping the table with her left shoulder as she drops to the floor on her knees. A series of tears begin to form in the helpless housewife's eyes, emerging with the instant, white-hot pain that is now pulsating through her spinal column. The bells of suffering are going off in her mind much like the alarms of a submarine that is reaching crush depth.

Jacob gets down on his right knee next to the woman, looking upon her body as though she were responsible for his mother's death. She attempts to turn her face away, but he grabs her delicate jaw with his right hand, and twists it vigorously back toward him.

"Your son had a copy of my mother's poem." Jacob accuses immediately; not bothering to give the suffering mother any context for his inquiry.

"What the hell do you mean!?" Christina cries out in a helpless fashion, her extremities shaking as she endeavors to deal with the physical agony and terror.

"I rolled a snowball down a hill." Jacob recites, bringing his face closer to the young woman. "It became a restless toddler. It became a monster's will."

"I rolled a snowball down a hill." She responds immediately through the tears, sensing that the young man has paused for her to complete the poem. "It became a noble snowman. It became a water pail..."

Jacob releases her jaw, moving away to give Christina some space. The young man feels the resurgent sting of his mother's death, and the vindication of getting to the truth. He notices that this poem also seems to cause pain for the young woman, and she is now gazing at the floor. The mother appears grief-stricken between surges of raw, physical pain.

"I need to speak to your son," Jacob states after a few seconds of silence, utilizing a smoother tone of voice.

"My son is dead!" Christina says in defeat, closing her eyes as if the words are far too painful to speak aloud. "My son is dead, and his father probably will be too."

"How did your son know that poem?" Jacob demands with more urgency, sensing that the truth may be slipping away. "Where did he hear that poem? I NEED YOU TO REMEMBER!" He growls with haste, certain that the answers lie somewhere within the small New York home.

"A few months ago," Christina begins through shallow breaths, doing all that she can to compartmentalize the pain. "My husband towed a limousine that was owned by this short, white guy. That night, I was in the hospital with back problems, and Kelvin had to take our son Geo with him in the tow truck."

"What did your son tell you?" Jacob prompts from his position on the floor, watching the woman like an ancient oracle and hanging onto to every word.

"The man was crying and said it was the first time he had been towed in twelve years." Christina manages finally, after a horrendous wave of pain once again ravages her spine. "He was wearing thick glasses and reading the poem from an index card. Geo said that he was crying a little bit each time he read the verses. He kept mentioning a woman and saying he was sorry that they crashed. It didn't make sense, because when my husband towed him, they were just broke down."

"The Giant!" Jacob exclaims as he climbs to his feet in the small kitchen, sliding a bit on the various documents that have been scattered about. "The Giant had my mother killed..." He announces in a disturbed tone, looking pale and deeply wounded.

Christina observes the broken billionaire with empathy, despite the pain that his actions have caused. She can identify the strain of loss and torment on his young face, noting a spastic twitching in his left hand. It is the same expression that she has seen in the mirror each morning since Geo died.

"I need to go!" Jacob says, grabbing at the ridge of his brow as he maneuvers toward the front door of the home.

"I think that's wise." Christina states to her empty kitchen, moving so that she can lie prone on the scattered papers and cold, sticky coffee. "You're gonna' pay for this...you abusive bastard."

Jacob is overcome by a sudden shiver of guilt, realizing that his father may not have been responsible for his mother's death. He steps through the entryway and out of the home like a ghost, wandering down the street past the taxi that brought him to this place. His mind is ablaze with relentless new possibilities, wondering what would motivate The Giant to kill his mother. After a few minutes of contemplation, he retrieves the cellular phone from his left pocket and uses the list of contacts to dial Danielle's phone number.

"Hello, Danielle. What's the good word?" Jacob asks with fresh hope in his eyes, reaching into his right pocket and feeling his wallet with his free hand.

"Hello, boss," Danielle begins in her typical flirtatious manner. "I think you owe me a trip to Ireland, because I just scheduled a meeting that will have your penis Dublin."

"Okay." He replies in a flat tone, somewhat irritated by her poor taste, and the recycled joke. "So you got a meeting with The Giant? Where and when?"

"He wants to meet at Coney Island in an hour." She beams with radiant pride, showing off an unrepressed need for constant affirmation.

"That's fantastic, Danielle," Jacob says with a softer voice, feeling the need to encourage her loyalty. "Why don't you pack your bags, because you're going to Ireland?" He quips with a slight cringe, displeased by the off-topic sexual banter that will likely follow.

"Oh, my fun bags be packed already, cap'n." She replies in a female pirate voice with a bit of laughter. "By the way, have you heard from Stephanie Keyes lately? She hasn't been returning my calls, but she did use our plane ticket, and checked into the room that we reserved at The Hilton."

"Stephanie Keyes?" Jacob asks, staring at the gloomy streets of the Harlem neighborhood.

"The forensic scientist that you asked me to hire – to examine some bones." Danielle responds in a somewhat snarky fashion, as if telling her boss to pay better attention. "I've tried calling her several times these past few days, and she hasn't responded. What would you like me to do?"

"If we're paying for the hotel room, then you should be able to get in-"

"And see if she's there." Danielle interrupts impatiently, finishing Jacob's sentence. "Okay, no problem, I'll head over there right now."

"Hey, Danielle, before you go; where did The Giant want to meet at Coney Island?" Jacob asks, feeling empowered at the potential closure that could come from this meeting.

"He said that you shouldn't try to find him; he'll find you," Danielle answers as the sound of her high heels echoes through the data center at the Club of Hearts. "I'll call you regarding Stephanie. Thanks for the trip to Ireland! Talk to you soon, 'kay, 'bye."

"Goodbye," Jacob says, hanging up his phone and hoping that the one person who can give him answers is not out partying on his dime.

CONEY ISLAND – BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

The faded planks of the Coney Island Boardwalk seem more like a representation of a gallows that took Jacob's childhood. He recalls heated arguments that took place between his parents here, another wonderful landmark on their path to marital destruction. The planks are a rough, wet mass of exposed timber, awaiting the next hurricane to howl across their weathered surface.

Jacob sees The Giant sitting alone on the third bench up from the street, just as indicated in a recent text message. He gazes across the barren emptiness of the landscape that is Coney Island in winter. The billionaire notes a few brave souls that have ventured out, pretending that the chilly air is not bothering them. Jacob approaches the bench with steadfast dignity, stepping around to where The Giant can see him, and raising his arms to show that he comes in peace.

Scott 'The Giant' Ortiz sits with his arms folded across his chest. The investment banker watches Jacob with a sideways stare, reminiscent of a wild animal being approached by a man for the first time. He raises his balding head, peering at his guest through a pair of old, thick eyeglasses. After a quick inspection of Jacob's person, he nods with a slight smile for the young man to have a seat at his right. Jacob obliges this offer, sitting at the edge of the bench with his elbows on his knees, and staring out at the ocean. He glances to his left, realizing how creepy The Giant seems in his trench coat, sitting with his left leg crossed over his right knee. This posture shows off his cheap, black socks, and some pale, white skin.

"I like to come here...when shit gets real." The Giant announces, staring with sorrow at the heaving waters of the North Atlantic Ocean. "You've bankrupted me, Jacob." He says, shaking his head as the rolls of fat under his chin fold and unfold in succession.

"I'm here to find out what happened to my mother," Jacob mutters, turning left to face the man with a stare of self-righteous incrimination.

"Shannonbie," Scott blurts from his lips, as though a cricket just leaped from them. "What has Howard told you?"

"Everything!" Jacob insists with a false indication of full disclosure.

The Giant begins to laugh; leaning back on the seat next to Jacob. He places his right elbow next to his companion's left shoulder, atop the bench.

"That's bullshit!" The Giant exclaims, twisting his head left and right, and gazing upon the ocean with fascination. "If Plato had told you everything, you wouldn't be here bothering me-"

"I know that you were part of her abduction!" Jacob snaps with haughty flair, turning his body left to engage the wormy trader on his own terms.

"You have no idea...it was worse than that, Jacob," Scott replies in an expression that begins with mild enthusiasm, but ends in sour sulking.

"Did my father tell you to kill her!?" Jacob asks spontaneously, still unwilling to accept that Earl had nothing to do with her death. "Who hated her so much...that she needed to die?"

"Your father loved Shannonbie, Jacob." The Giant proclaims, placing the tips of his fingers together nervously and staring at the wood planks beneath his black, designer shoe. "In fact, it was his powerful love for her – that got her killed."

Jacob waits in silence, sensing a pinched glob of saliva passing down his throat, preempting the painful realities to come. His blue eyes seem soft and innocent as he listens, looking on with a vulnerability that he hasn't exhibited since childhood.

"Your mother was in your father's ear constantly, talking about 'charity this,' and 'community' that." Scott continues in a nervous fashion, somehow forcing the words to emerge, despite every bit of him wanting to withhold them. "After about ten years of pressure from her, Earl decided that it was time to do right by the community. He was going to reduce the personal income of every board member, including himself. This meant less than one hundred and fifty million dollars per investor. Your dad planned to liquidate most of our stocks, without consulting us. He wanted to use them to pay dividends to charitable causes."

The Giant pauses to clear his throat, looking at the beach sands ahead as if they were staging a gritty invasion in his mouth. "We tried to talk Earl down from his position, but he was adamant about going forward. So the board called a meeting without him. It was just a few select members that were each heavily vested, discussing the ramifications of what Earl was proposing. In the end, we decided that Shannonbie had to go...but nobody could agree on how. The board was split on whether to give her a permanent, paid vacation somewhere or to make her disappear altogether..."

"You bastards decided my mother's fate in a goddamn board meeting!?" Jacob exclaims through gritted teeth, gripping the edge of the bench as if to tear off the slats.

"Jacob, please let me finish before you get upset...with me." Scott explains in true cowardly fashion, clambering to his feet, and taking a few steps away from Jacob. "Howard put in a second vote on behalf of Earl to make her disappear. He told us that we would reconvene within seventy-two hours...to make the final decision."

"This sounds like bullshit!" Jacob states with outrage, his face growing redder by the second. "I heard that the providers of The X-Card took my mother out."

"The X-Card was a facade, Jacob," The Giant explains, speaking with the palms of his leather gloves pointed toward his colleague. "I was there that night in Mexico when we hooked your dad up with the card. The guys who sold them that service weren't drug dealers; they were actors hired by Howard. Plato is one hell of a manipulator. Besides, your dad was always drunk; he was easy to fool. In the end, we convinced him that Shannonbie was having an affair with one of our rivals in the plastics manufacturing sector."

"Was that a fucking board decision too!?" Jacob asks through a cloud of repressed rage, standing tall and strutting aggressively toward the smaller man. "You made him think my mother was having an affair? FOR WHAT!?"

"We needed the video for leverage..." Scott replies, staring at the ground as he backs closer to the railing near the beach. "When your dad was told about the affair, he went home drunk and called The X-Card service to have your mom eliminated. Plato was monitoring the number, and he sent a team to abduct her a few hours after Earl made the call. But it didn't work the way Plato hoped because your dad was too damn drunk to remember what he'd done that night."

"What did they do after they took her from the house?" Jacob inquires with building fury, rolling his hands into tight fists in the crisp winter air.

"After we took her from the house-" The Giant's eyes become wide with alarm as he lets this major detail slip, and he begins to slink away from Jacob. "Oh God, I mean...after they took her from the house."

"STOP MOVING!" Jacob growls in a powerful voice as he approaches the small, fat man, and delivers a hefty punch to the center of his gut. "Let me tell you what I think happened... I think you abducted my mother under Howard's orders, and he promised you the lifestyle that you've always wanted. But your limousine broke down, and you had to be towed, so someone else took her from you."

"I...I did. I broke down...well, more of a crash." The Giant manages to say through short gasps of breath, his hands shaking severely. "I'm not very good at driving a limo, but I couldn't have my driver see what we were doing. Your mother was in the seat next to me. She kept reciting this poem over and over again. It was killing me inside to take her away from her family the way we did. When we discussed it in the meeting... It didn't include all the screaming and crying – pleading for her life. I'm...I'm so sorry, Jacob."

"Who picked her up after your limo broke down?" Jacob grabs the sniveling trader and slams him against the railing, using his hands to constrict the man's throat. "WHO KILLED HER!?"

"Rev- Scheln'ck." Scott finally says through his compressed larynx, watching in relief as Jacob releases his grip. "It was Reverend Schelnick." The Giant coughs, doubling over a bit to get more oxygen. "He was the founder of The Faceless Red. Schelnick is the guy that is willing to do anything...for a price."

Jacob steps away from Scott in shock, feeling impotent in his ability to control his own life. He realizes that the bones from the crawlspace of the church likely have a much darker tale. His concern begins to grow for the forensic scientist, who probably met her end at the hands of the most fearsome organization in New York.

"I thought you knew that Schelnick founded The Faceless Red," The Giant says, watching the perturbed expression on Jacob's face with false empathy, in the interest of self-preservation. "That church was his first base of operations...until he went haywire one night, and set the place on fire."

"What did you hope to gain from all this?" Jacob demands in a callous tone, staring with discontent at the trembling trader. "Did you think I would be grateful; that I would shower you with gold? We don't always reward every deed with loads of money. Some deeds...have to be paid in suffering."

"Jacob, please don't hurt me!" The Giant begs, his eyes expelling tears at this unexpected outcome. "I thought this is what you wanted to know... I thought that if I told you what happened, I'd get something in return."

"You're broke, Giant," Jacob replies with a cool stare, gazing through the center of the quivering businessman. "You'll never live a life of luxury again. Anytime you get a rug under your feet, I'll pull it out from under you... Because I know how much you value comfort. There will be very few jobs that are hiring, and your only options will be the hardest forms of manual labor. You'll work twelve-hour days until your back is ready to give out, and when it is, I'll make sure you don't have any relief. You know I can make it happen... I have enough money to ensure that your life is a non-starter, for the rest of your fucking days."

"So you're gonna' let me go?" The Giant asks with a hint of promise in his eyes, watching Jacob intently.

"No, you selfish bastard, you're not leaving this beach alive," Jacob says with a sarcastic smirk, shocked that the man saw himself coming out of this on the winning end. "Either I can break your body from the outside in, right where we stand, or you can go for a swim in the frigid North Atlantic." He watches more tears slide from the corners of his informant's eyes, quietly pleading for a reprieve. "Look, Giant, you can't outrun me; not with that fat ass of yours. You've betrayed my family so badly; there isn't even a word for what you've done! So I recommend that you go for a swim in the ocean... It's cold enough that you'll have hypothermia after a few minutes. That will be far cozier than what I'll do to you here on the land... It's your choice."

The Giant immediately draws a .38-caliber revolver from under the folds of his trench coat, and Jacob slaps it away with little effort. This fresh dose of rage is too much, causing Jacob to punch his adversary in the jaw with his mighty right hand, sending him to the rough planks below them. The small man begins to scream and clutch his broken jaw in agony.

"I thought you'd be grateful!" The Giant says with a horrified plea, peering over his shoulder at the ocean as he cries like a toddler. "Please, Jacob. Please don't do this to me!" He exclaims with both of his hands trembling near his face, rising painfully back to his feet.

"If you want to honor my mother, then go for a swim in the ocean – right now!" Jacob orders with a gaze of psychosis and the dull ambitions of vengeance. "Look, you can stay here and be tortured, or you can go for a swim and never look back... You have ten seconds to decide." The young billionaire reasserts his position by moving closer to The Giant, his fists clenched in a homicidal rage.

After five seconds, The Giant turns and uses both hands to leap clumsily over the railing, falling in a heap on the compacted sand of the beach. He struggles to his feet and looks back at Jacob with a face full of remorse, moving toward the ocean waves like an exiled emperor. Jacob steps closer to the railing, preparing to run after the man if he strays from his path. To his astonishment, The Giant wades neck deep into the murky waters of the ocean and begins to swim against the waves of the freezing surf.

A few small tears are expelled through the corners of Jacob's eyes as he watches the voluntary suicide with mixed feelings. He detects a sense of closure for his mother, but there is a nagging feeling of guilt. A younger and more innocent part of him wishes to go and call the man back to the shore. Though a more vicious component of his soul recalls that night twelve years ago, when his life was forever changed. The Giant swims for over ten minutes in the chilly waters of the wintry ocean and then disappears from Jacob's sight beneath the waves. He thanks Thretch in silence for his suggestion of suicide. When The Giant is dead, Jacob turns toward the road, intent on finding Reverend Schelnick as soon as possible.

490 RIVERSIDE DRIVE, NEW YORK

Snowflakes are descending from the heavens amidst a swath of bright yellow sunlight that stretches through the dark storm clouds over Manhattan. Jacob parks his black BMW 745i in the long, dark shadows at the outer fence of the perimeter, near the grounds of his church. The gothic building glows in iconic glory, showing off centuries of architectural and scientific innovation.

Jacob reaches into his glove compartment for a .45-caliber, semi-automatic pistol. The young man smirks with contempt at the sanctimonious relationship between science and faith. He steps out of the car and tucks his pistol under the waistband of his gray, pinstripe slacks. Three Hispanic construction workers are smoking near the front corner of the church, but they end their joyous conversation upon seeing Jacob.

The young billionaire seems dressed for church. His neatly-pressed, black button-down dress shirt and orange silk tie, give off the impression of devout humbleness. When he enters the massive, solid doors at the front the cathedral, Jacob feels the warm air within, immediately sweeping away the cold of the outside world. His gaze locks onto Reverend Gordon Schelnick, who is sermonizing to a small group of weekday churchgoers. These boring souls have assembled sporadically throughout the restored pews that line the main floor.

Jacob steps forward with a nervous gaze, feeling unexpected anxiety at the thought of killing a man to whom he had confessed his darkest childhood sins. His longtime friend conducts with a righteous stance at the pulpit and this makes Jacob question his ulterior motives. He considers the layers of deception, each having been neatly folded over the years by Howard and The Giant; a rusted spear of wickedness personified.

Jacob admires the path of glossy, black tiles beneath his feet as he walks forward, deep in thought. Every tile is surrounded by gold foil at the edges, and there are identical amethyst stones inlayed into the cores. Each amethyst stone is a rounded rectangle, spanning three inches across, illuminated by bright white lights beneath the floor. He breathes out with subtle satisfaction, captivated by the path of glowing, purple stones that line the walkway, leading up to the pulpit. Although the young man appreciates Javier's work, the effect seems medieval amidst the darkly-stained oak pews. This look is emphasized by the marble walls that stretch high into the cathedral ceiling of the large space.

Jacob bites his upper lip as he listens to the sermon, feeling shame at the absence of due process. Despite these reservations, the young man feels compelled to approach the pulpit.

"Dear God," the reverend continues, staring up at the cavernous ceiling of the cathedral. "What should a man do with so much evil in the world today? Should he be your spear and your scepter, or should he repent and forever live in humble gaiety? There is no greater authority unto this earth likened to you, oh lord, and we beset ourselves to your bosom. I pray for a time when we can rejoin your holy ranks, and rejoice, rejoice at the vision of your kingdom. For it is not a wealthy man who will walk with the lord in the kingdom of heaven, but the humble servant of his glory. A magnate of the light of Christ...that will guide us all out of the corruption of the world, and back into his grace."

The purplish glow of amethyst stones over white lights disappears and reappears underfoot while Jacob makes his way across the tiles toward the reverend. His eyes focus on the red velvet at the rear of the pulpit, where a choir might stand, and he notices that the bones Javier discovered are missing. Jacob's expression shifts as he observes the middle-aged Dutch priest, speaking with dignity and fiery rhetoric. The young entrepreneur looks upon Reverend Schelnick with curiosity, watching his head swivel; a short crop of brown hair making him appear innocent.

"Dear Satan," Reverend Schelnick explodes, gazing down at Jacob as the young man approaches between the pews. "Old Nick, I don't command thee to leave; nor do I call upon thee for anything. Your works of war and your lying tongue have enslaved mankind to murder and steal in your name. You have run a course on this earth... And we hear the neigh of the four horses galloping forth the apocalypse, approaching to do us harm. They will cleanse the world in light of your horrid perversions. I have seen what you have done to your father...I know the darkness of your heart, and the vileness of your works. You shall be stricken from this earth by the hand of the lord, and his mighty vengeance be upon thee, as you burn in a lake of fire!"

"I heard a confession earlier today." Jacob interrupts as he removes the pistol from his waistband, pointing it at the priest's head from only twelve feet away. "A man told me that you killed my mother!" He adds with a threatening stare from his bright blue eyes, taking only two more steps before stopping near the second row of pews. "He told me that you founded The Faceless Red!"

Reverend Schelnick smiles at Jacob as he watches his approach, attempting to hide the nervous energy that is creeping through his body. His dark brown eyes seem soft and filled with wisdom, almost as though this threat of vengeance has moved him on a deep, emotional level.

"Where is Stephanie Keyes!?" Jacob demands with urgency, hoping that the young woman still has a chance at survival. "She was going to inspect the bones that Javier laid out. Now she's gone...and the bones are too." He accuses with a radical expression of hatred, gesturing toward the rear of the pulpit with his pistol.

"Mr. Jacob Calbraw..." Reverend Schelnick says with poise and excitement, speaking to the room as though Jacob is not present. "The bones have been sold to a collector, and the woman...her problems are over." The priest emotes with an audacious stare, speaking to his adversary like the host of an upscale art gallery.

Jacob feels a twinge of fear as Thretch begins to reexamine the room around them. He turns to see that the congregation is surrounding him, forming a loose circle of over a dozen people. Two more priests emerge into the cathedral; one of them ambling out of the new confessionals and the other stepping from the offices at the rear of the building.

"Jacob, I'd like to thank you for adding two new members to the group." Reverend Schelnick states with a wide smile, gesturing with his left hand toward a pair of men who are standing at his far right, on the main floor, near the pulpit. "This is Miguel and his cousin Jose. Last time you were here, they saw you hit a steel beam with a sledgehammer, which caused Miguel's brother to fall to his death. After a few hours of religious consult, I was able to convince Miguel that an eye for an eye would be the only appropriate response."

Jacob sees two small Hispanic men walking in his direction from the right. One of them is carrying a pump-action shotgun, staring intensely with his dark brown eyes at the young billionaire. He is dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and a pair of navy blue chinos; attire that is common among the construction crew. The other man displays less intensity, seeming somber in his faded blue jeans and a cheap, brown button-down shirt.

"You have no friends here," Reverend Schelnick announces from his position in the pulpit, watching the crowd surround his prey like a proud father wolf. "I'd like you to meet The Faceless Red." He continues, gesturing to the pretentious churchgoers that are encircling the young entrepreneur. "Howard was gracious enough to let us know that you were coming, but we had little time to prepare." The middle-aged tyrant states with pride, moving to the stairs at the front of the pulpit and descending them to engage Jacob on the main floor of the cathedral.

Reverend Schelnick stares at the young billionaire's scornful face with delight. He clasps his hands together behind his back as he approaches the front pew just to Jacob's right.

"I guess a brief history is in order." The twisted priest suggests with wild eyes, seeming unaware of how he intended this scenario to play out. "Your friend who investigates old bones enjoyed our history – I believe. When I was a young man, I was curious about right and wrong. My parents were not religious, but they had a strong opinion...about karma. There was this bike that the neighbor boy used to ride. It was amazing...I coveted that dirt bike so much. I felt that he was dumber and uglier than me, so I deserved it more, but my parents warned me about karma. They said that if I stole the other kid's bike, karma would come back to haunt me."

Jacob begins to count the bodies that are lining up around him within the rows of pews, and at his front and back, along the walkway of the aisle. He sees all types of faces from many diverse areas of society. Each of them bears the same skeleton tattoo, adorned with a top hat and a rose, on their necks or wrists. By his quick count, he assesses that there are about nine men and five women surrounding him; not including the reverend and his two priests. When he factors in Miguel and his cousin, the young man realizes that he is facing a room filled with almost twenty devout murderers. Jacob keeps the pistol trained on Reverend Schelnick as the man continues to speak. He tightens his muscles and breathes with steady gasps to prepare for battle.

"So I stole the bike!" The reverend states with passion, clutching his right hand into a fist and holding it up in the air. "I stole the bike, and I rode my ass off! I thought that karma was chasing right behind the back wheel of the bike, but nothing happened. Two days went by...and nothing. Two weeks went by...and still nothing. I was terrified that something was off in the universe... So I slammed my sister's head into the coffee table. It was cut open, and badly bleeding. My heart was racing with anticipation...now karma was finally going to get me, but my sister didn't say anything. She told my parents that she fell, and I waited several more weeks for karma to punish me." Reverend Schelnick looks down at the floor and sighs before continuing.

"Over the years, since that incident, I've waited for karma to come along and serve me up to justice." He continues with animosity, rubbing a bit of nervous sweat from his brow. "But karma never came. I talked to as many people about karma as I could, and there was one major consistency: every person, regardless of their religion, said that karma was real. Yet, here I had done terrible things to people, and my life only got better. So, I had to ask myself, why does this force that everyone seems to believe in; not have an effect on me? I mean, clearly the entire world seems to be obsessed with karma. And yet, never in my life, no matter how horrid the deed, have I seen as much as a bad car accident." Reverend Schelnick finishes with brash honesty, shaking his head at Jacob and contemplating how incredible this truth has been in his life.

"In my early twenties," the priest begins, gazing at the floor as if it will help him to remember, "I killed someone for the first time. Just as with the bike...I drove my ass off to get away from the horrible impact of karma, but it never came! And my life got better... So I started doing worse and worse things, waiting for the universe to balance itself out, the way so many had assured me that it would. To this day, after so much torture, murder, and other bizarre, unspeakable acts, I've never had a slap on the wrist from karma... Or God. So I made the assumption that nobody knows what they're talking about. Justice, in the way that we perceived it as children; does not exist. I also noticed that fate seems to favor the wealthy. If you have money, then you are blessed, and if you don't, you are damned. So I started doing these horrible things for money, and was truly blessed. In time, I met others who shared my view of the world, and we began to grow; to create fear amongst the powerful. The bible tells you to fear God, but I don't fear God, and I no longer fear karma. I suppose the only thing there is to fear in this world...are people like us."

'Thretch, I need your help!' Jacob ascertains internally, watching the group tightening their positions around him. 'Get me out of this so I can kill him!'

'If I free you from this, young Calbraw, then you will owe me a mighty debt.' The demon redirects in a bold fashion, demanding payment for this service, despite his love for violence.

'I'll do anything you want.' Jacob concedes as the group closes in on his body, making it seem hard to breathe. 'I'll do whatever you want, I swear; just take care of this!'

'So be it, young Calbraw.' Thretch accepts with a bit of wicked laughter. 'You owe me a mighty debt.'

Jacob releases his body, feeling himself go limp for an instant before the radical creature takes control. His muscles tense up like the drawstrings of so many crossbows. The demon flips the pistol over in his hand, using it as a club with the steel clip pointing forward. Thretch then erupts into a frenzy of elbows, striking at the crowd with deadly intent and spinning Jacob's body toward the weakest point of the circle. Jacob feels his elbows connecting with the faces, chests, and necks of those immediately surrounding him. Thretch dances into a blur of raw, coordinated violence. The creature does not keep his body standing upright, deciding to squat and pivot, making it difficult for the crowd to grapple him. It takes a great deal of energy to maintain this attack, and Jacob feels his body starting to perspire. Thretch uses every muscle to dip and surge within the crowd, doing severe damage to several members of The Faceless Red.

When he reaches the pews at the left, Thretch grabs a middle-aged woman by the right arm. He extends it outward from her body and twists the limb around her back, dislocating it from the socket. Jacob winces as she cries out in anguish, and the creature shoves her in the back, sending her plowing into the center of the group. The mob seems to freeze at the sight of such extraordinary pain, and Thretch uses this moment to break free of them, escaping to the left side of the cathedral.

Three men immediately pursue Jacob to his new position, and Thretch greets each of them with a swift bludgeoning from the pistol. He swings the small steel weapon with tremendous accuracy, catching one man in the throat, another in the eye, and his last assailant three times across the face. Jacob can feel massive amounts of sweat dripping from his pores, flying off of his skin with each powerful blow that Thretch delivers.

A shotgun blast disrupts the cathedral as though God himself just stormed into the fight, whilst cracking open the heavens. Jacob feels some splintered wood dance across his designer shirt. Thretch looks downward, noticing that part of the pew at his left has disappeared, shattered by the pellets of a 12-gauge shotgun. He dives over the pew at his rear, dropping to the floor and finding cover from the shotgun fire, which continues to seek him out amongst the empty seats. There are five more shots in succession and Thretch crawls with the tenacity of a serpent. The demon avoids his prey amidst a shower of wood splinters and other wisps of shotgun fodder.

Miguel takes a moment to reload his shotgun, shoving the shells into the bottom of the weapon. When Thretch recognizes this sound, he explodes onto his feet, sprinting to the right of the cathedral to reengage the group of murderers. He tactfully places the group between himself and the gunman, lashing out at them with aggressive blows from the pistol.

'Why don't you just shoot him!?' Jacob demands from the back of his mind, frustrated that the demon seems to be toying with the group.

Thretch ignores his young companion, attacking the men and women with brutal methods. He smashes heads into pews, breaks limbs, and pistol whips his foes, keeping them between himself and the gunman. Although the group of fanatics is determined, their soft bodies and weak muscles are no contest for the ancient creature, and he soon cuts their numbers down to three. Within minutes, eleven men and women are lying on the floor, dead or injured by their adversary.

Miguel is disturbed at the sight of so much carnage, and he advances with his shotgun, approaching Jacob between the second and third pews. Thretch sees the Hispanic man strafing towards him, and he grabs a male member of The Faceless Red by the throat, towing him to the floor as he squeezes the life from his body. Miguel stops his advance as shots are fired upward from Jacob's pistol between the third and fourth pews. The shots seem to be fired methodically, and as each round sounds off, the main floor becomes slightly darker. There is a repetitive sound of shattering light bulbs, as Thretch targets the huge industrial lights that are illuminating the large space.

After six shots have resounded through the cathedral, Thretch snaps Jacob back to his feet, leaving the strangled man to rest on the floor between the pews. He races toward the right side of the room, keeping his head low. Miguel darts up from the floor and fires his shotgun three times at Jacob's fleeing body, watching it disappear into the darkness at the rear of the cathedral. Jacob feels the explosions of more wood splinters spinning off of his clothing during this act of evasion. The young man watches in awe as large sections of the pews get ripped apart by shotgun pellets. He laments the joy that Thretch feels each time the shots get close to his body, and ignores the fact that the creature perceives his him as just another dying container.

The cathedral has been blessed with darkness by Jacob's pistol. It looks like a hurricane swept across the city, leaving only a few recessed lights to guide those within the building. Reverend Schelnick and his two priests have retreated to the safety of the pulpit, electing to take cover behind the large wooden podium. Only two able-bodied members of The Faceless Red remain and have made their way closer to the pulpit, feeling safer in a group close to the priests. Miguel steps through the center walkway between the pews, hoping for Jacob to appear from any dark corner. His cousin is positioned at the left side of the cathedral, helping him to watch for their adversary.

"Why do you serve this white devil?" Thretch inquires of Miguel in perfect Spanish through the darkness, changing positions after he speaks. "Your brother died of his own hand. What will become of you after this? You will go to prison, and your family will starve through the winter...for this white devil."

"What is he saying?" Reverend Schelnick demands. "I didn't even know the bastard could speak Spanish. Don't listen to him, Miguel; just blow his goddamn head off!" He insists with eager anxiety, cowering behind the pulpit with both priests at his sides.

There is a sudden sound of sprinting as a silhouette emerges at the rear right side of the cathedral. It traverses twenty feet, stops moving, and disappears behind the pews. Miguel traces the figure with his shotgun, anticipating another quick gallop toward the pulpit. He sees movement between the ninth and tenth pews, but can't determine whether it is a shadow or an object. His suspicion is confirmed by the flash of a pistol barrel, and the subsequent airburst that follows.

Miguel ducks down with his shotgun at the center of the walkway, glancing back at his cousin to see if the man is hurt. He looks back at the space between the pews, but the figure has disappeared into the darkness again. On the stage, the priest at the right side of the podium begins to moan in severe pain, and Miguel exhales in relief.

"I could have killed you." Thretch expresses to Miguel in a thick Spanish accent. "Join with me, brother, and I will make you rich. Your family will live like kings for the rest of their days. You have my word. I have spoken to your brother in the land of the dead. He wants you to let him go. He wishes for you to enjoy the life that he cannot."

Miguel feels droplets of sweat flowing across his brow, and his heart is beating rapidly in anticipation of dying. He glances over at his younger cousin, who is now ducking behind a pew in the eleventh row, and the only response he gets is a silhouetted shrug.

"You will honor my brother? You will care for our families?" Miguel asks in desperation, feeling as though survival is his only option.

"Si." Thretch responds coolly, acknowledging that Miguel's terms will be met.

The silhouette emerges from the darkness again, this time on the left side of the pews, and sprints up another ten feet, stopping to hide between the second and third rows. There are several seconds of silence that pass, and the Hispanic construction worker smiles as he recognizes the pattern.

Miguel watches the figure emerge at the center of the pews. The silhouette is using this position to take aim on the priest at the left side of the podium. Miguel points his shotgun at the figure and pauses for a moment, considering the possible outcomes of this battle.

Thretch uses Jacob's long right arm to take aim on the priest at the left of Reverend Schelnick, straining somewhat in the darkness to find the center of his target. After a few seconds of patience, he feels that he has found the center of mass and prepares to fire the pistol. He cocks the hammer and places his finger on the hair-trigger, waiting to ensure that his target is completely within his sights. There is a sudden burst of energy heard from a shotgun, and Thretch pulls Jacob's body to the floor in a swift retreat. Another shot rings through the edgy stillness of the church, and Thretch forces his companion closer to the rocky tiles of the floor.

"They're all yours," Miguel states in English through the blackness, speaking in a strong voice over the residual ring of the gunfire. "Remember your promise to my brother and my family!"

"Gracias!" Thretch exclaims, emerging with confidence from the darkness next to the pulpit.

Thretch peers downward with satisfaction at two members of The Faceless Red that Miguel gunned down on his behalf. He shoots the cowering priest at the left side of the pulpit and ascends the stairs without hesitation. The man moans and slams his right shoulder hard onto the floor. He then rolls onto his back and grabs at his heart in vain. Thretch points the pistol down at Reverend Gordon Schelnick, and the man gets to his feet, looking defeated in the bleak lighting. He stands before his judge and jury with his head hanging to one side, keeping both hands raised with the palms facing Jacob.

"How did Shannonbie Calbraw die?" Thretch demands in a powerful voice, noticing that Jacob is excited at the possibility of justice. "What did you do to her, and where is she buried?" The creature asks in a deep tone, stepping closer to the reverend's silhouette.

"I brought her to this church." Reverend Schelnick answers, realizing that his life is over, and karma has finally caught up with him. "I brought her to this church, and I was going to cut her throat... But I really liked Shannon and couldn't bear to look at her face. So I went and got a mask from my car that I'd used for another job, and I put it on her... Then I took my knife and asked her if she had any last words. She said, 'The world has gone to hell. Damn you for breaking Jacob's heart.' And then I cut her throat... A few days later, Earl Calbraw had an army of private investigators out looking for her. I had the body stored in the crawl space above the attic. There were so many police and hired detectives looking for her...I had to burn it all down. Once we knew that the building was condemned, we decided to leave the bones here, and she remained undisturbed...for years."

Thretch feels a surge of rage and tears from Jacob, immediately following this confession. Within the back of Jacob's mind, the young man is reaching out for the reverend with every ounce of his being. The demon is somewhat surprised to hear the young man's thoughts of retribution and all the cruel things that he wants to do to his mother's killer. Thretch drops the pistol onto the floor of the pulpit, and steps toward the reverend with a pitiful stare. He shows off his impressive strength by gripping the man's throat with both hands, and raising him up from the surface of the platform. Jacob feels satisfied as he watches the man squirm and struggle for air; his face turning a darker shade of blue every second.

Reverend Schelnick begins to hit the tops of Jacob's arms in a plea for mercy. In a bold act of betrayal, Thretch lowers him back to the floor, releasing Jacob's hands from around his throat.

'WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?' Jacob screams at Thretch from the back of his mind, watching the man gasping for air as he drops to the floor. 'HE NEEDS TO DIE! HE MUST DIE! YOU NEED TO FINISH THIS!'

Jacob is further shocked when Thretch helps the man up from the floor and hugs him like a friend.

"You are free to go, brother." Thretch declares as he gives the priest a soothing embrace, allowing Jacob to feel the man's heart beating at over twice the normal rate. "Run to the ends of the earth... And never come back. If I find you again, you will suffer in every manner at my disposal. NOW GO!" The creature thunders, pointing toward a door at his right that leads to the rear exit.

'THRETCH, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?' Jacob screams with pure hatred from the back of his mind. 'WE HAVE TO KILL HIM! HE CUT MY MOTHER'S THROAT! HE CUT MY MOTHER'S THROAT!' The young man repeats in horror, watching with revulsion as the priest smiles at him and pats his right shoulder.

Reverend Schelnick continues to choke somewhat as he sprints toward the office door at the rear of the cathedral. He opens the door with vigor, waving at Jacob with a confused expression, before disappearing into the offices.

'WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?' Jacob demands immediately, shouting with raw agony, incensed by such a perfect opportunity gone sour. 'YOU AGREED TO KILL HIM!'

'No, I agreed to free you of your captors.' Thretch replies with unusual calmness.

'I WANT TO KILL HIM!' Jacob reviles in horrible pain, feeling betrayed by his companion. 'If you leave now, we can catch up and finish him off! Please, Thretch, I want this more than anything in the world!' He pleads to the creature, hoping to gain his allegiance in this matter.

'I know that you want this more than anything.' The demon replies, as though expecting this response. 'But there is something I want, and if you cannot provide it to me, then you shall never have what you want.'

'Thretch, I'll give you whatever you want; just kill him!' Jacob orders, sounding more like an animal than a man.

'No.' The demon replies, staring through the vast space of the dimly lit church in triumph. 'No, I will get what I want first. Tomorrow will be your last night with your woman.' He declares in a selfish manner, waiting for another barrage of protests from the young man. 'After you say goodbye to your woman, then I shall have what I want. You owe me a mighty debt.'

ONE LIBERATION COMPOUND – RUTHERFORD, NEW JERSEY

Kelvin's cellular phone rings for the third time, and he notices that his wife is calling. The young rebel raises his right index finger to the group of men seated before him, and steps over to the corner of the room.

"Hello, baby, is everything okay?" Kelvin asks in a soothing tone. "Whoa, slow down... He showed up at the house today? When!? ...Oh my God! Are you okay!? That...sonofabitch! Are you sure you're okay? What did he want? Did he say anything about us..? Okay, I'll be home soon to check on you. This motherfucker's gonna' pay! ...Love you too, 'bye."

Kelvin steps back toward the group of men and locks eyes with Barry, who is seated off to his right. He places his hands on his hips, panning over the small group of soldiers to display his resolve. Despite his blue jeans and black button-down shirt, Kelvin appears more deadly than casual.

"We're going forward with Nocturne before we attack the Calbraw board meeting." Kelvin asserts in a brazen tone. "Let's hit these bastards where they live!"
XX. Love by Hourglass

"Her throat..." Jacob mutters under his breath as he lies next to Celeste Marie in his king-sized bed.

"What did you say, baby?" Celeste asks with a radiant smile, turning over onto her right side to face Jacob and allowing the comforter to drop away from her chest, exposing her perky, bare breasts.

The young billionaire forces a grin, trying to hide his dismay at the events that took place just thirty hours earlier. He cannot escape an improvised vision of Reverend Schelnick cutting his mother's throat in such a cold-blooded manner. His mind is still spinning on why Thretch would allow an unwholesome man back into the world. The creature had already demonstrated, on many occasions, his ability to kill without the slightest hint of remorse.

'Did he consider the reverend to be some type of demonic brother? Was this another forfeit soul that had a pact with Jacob's unyielding companion?' Jacob thinks to himself, feeling exhausted by all the possibilities. He knows that Thretch did not make the decision impulsively, and is further anguished by being forced to have his last night with Celeste. It has been only a day since his confrontation with the slippery reverend, and The Faceless Red.

"What's up with you, Jake?" The young redhead inquires, massaging the small patch of hair on his chest with her left hand. "Remember, I'm a bad bitch from Boston, and I know when somethin's up."

"It's just been a fuckin' day." He says with a subtle deflection, sitting up to embrace the young beauty and to give her a passionate, loving kiss.

"See..." Celeste begins, breaking away from the tender kiss, before returning to enjoy a bit more. "That's what I'm talkin' about. You're acting like this is your last night on earth. So tell me what's up, baby; I'm here for you." She adds with concern, holding the bottom of his jaw and forcing him to look into her eyes. "I saw the cuts on your arms and the bruises on your legs when I was taking off your pants. Should I be worried?"

"This isn't my last night on earth," Jacob admits with a somber expression, teasing her long locks of red hair with his right index finger. "There's nobody trying to kill me; it's all been handled..."

"Are you sure, baby?" Celeste asks with a contradictory stare, watching him for any signs of manipulation. "We've been talking and making love all night, like you're trying to squeeze twenty years into a few hours. I mean, don't get me wrong, I LOVE the romance, but you have this sadness about you...like a soldier getting ready to leave for war."

"There's nothing to worry about, hon." Jacob remits with immediate shame, forcing himself to enjoy this moment as though it were just another day. "I just...wanted to make up for the way I made you feel after things went south with you and my dad. There's nothing wrong."

"Are you sure?" She asks with deep perception, eyeing his conflicted expression with great interest and concern. "The people who hurt your dad aren't after you, are they?"

"No, you don't need to worry about that, sexy." Jacob declares with a confident smile, gripping her left hand with his right and squeezing it a few times, watching a smile form on his lover's face.

"Cool! Then I'm gonna' get some ice cream and chocolate!" Celeste says with an electric gaze of childish elation. "Why don't you just enjoy the view?" The young redhead suggests as she climbs out of the bed, bending all the way to the floor with her backside facing him.

Jacob feels his heart thumping like the enormous bass drum from Celeste's last performance on stage. He watches her cutesy movements as she grabs his light blue shirt from the floor, and exposes herself to him in the naughtiest fashion.

"What!?" She asks with an innocent smile, standing up straight to fasten the buttons of the blue shirt that is now covering her torso. "I had no idea that you could see EVERYTHING!" She says with a false expression of shock, placing her right hand over her mouth. "I'm going to get a bowl of ice cream. You can have yours served...any...way...you...want!" The beautiful redhead teases with a cocky smile, marching backward out of the room with confidence and charisma.

Jacob shakes his head and feels a genuine smile spread across his face. He is amazed that someone could bring him out of the doldrums so effectively, after such a horrible and life-defining series of events. The young man forces himself out of bed and puts on a pair of boxers and some loose-fitting, navy blue Nike sweatpants. This ritual takes a bit of time and effort, as his entire body is sore from fighting The Faceless Red at the restored church. He wanders to the doorway and peeks his head out, watching the girl as she fumbles around in his kitchen to make herself a snack.

Just thirty feet away, in the large kitchen of the penthouse, Celeste is shaking her bum as she dances back and forth behind the black countertop. Her bright red hair is a wild, tangled mess, and it flips through the air every few seconds as she moves her head about. The young woman has a large silver spoon in her right hand, and she is lip-synching as if the spoon were a microphone, making her way to the refrigerator.

'You need to say your farewells right now!' Thretch demands from the back of Jacob's mind, sensing Jacob's growing love for the young woman. 'I will not serve two masters!'

Jacob closes his eyes, feeling the looming darkness of such a painful task. He reopens his eyes to see the young beauty dancing like a robot with the ice cream in her left hand and the spoon in her right. The young entrepreneur laughs under his breath and shakes his head, feeling more satisfied in this relationship than any of recent memory.

"I'll tell her in the morning." Jacob asserts with a bold stare, speaking to himself as he turns back to face the large bed. "I just need a few hours of sleep next to the woman I love."

He stands in the room for a moment, waiting for Thretch to reply, but the creature doesn't say anything. Jacob feels drained of all his energy and makes his way to the bed. He flops down on his stomach, gripping his pillow between his thumb and four fingers. After a few seconds of blissful silence, the young man descends into a peaceful sleep.

Jacob feels his attention drifting into the elaborate subconscious memories of Thretch. He finds himself occupying a young soldier's body on the beautiful shores of Alexandria, Egypt. There are dozens of ancient ships in the water, and an amazing lighthouse across the majestic harbor. This setting is peaceful and serene, providing the young billionaire with adequate entertainment. It serves as a nice escape as he slumbers, silently enjoying the events that take place.

Thretch awakens within Jacob's body to the musty smells of the young couple's recent fornication. He sneers at the fatty tissue that has developed around Jacob's abdomen, and rises up from the bed, determined to keep his body lean and hard.

Out in the kitchen, Celeste is still dancing here and there, though her movements are more controlled than before as she uses the large spoon to carve out balls of fresh ice cream. The smooth, black tiles of the kitchen floor feel good beneath her feet, and her body is tingling from several intense orgasms. She enjoys looking down at her naked legs, flexing the toned muscles as she gets ready to pour chocolate sauce atop the lumpy masses of ice cream.

Celeste smiles from the corner of her mouth, noticing that Jacob has left the master bedroom. Her smile fades when she notices that he is walking away from the kitchen. She sets the bottle of chocolate sauce down on the counter and walks to the edge of the kitchen, observing her new boyfriend with wondrous curiosity.

Jacob steps aggressively toward his office door at the end of the hallway, walking like a powerful wrestler on his way to a championship match. He opens the solid, white oak door with vigor, pushing it all the way up against the wall. Once the door is in this position, he steps atop the round, stainless steel knob with his right foot. Jacob pushes himself up from the floor with his right leg, clutching the top of the door as he rises. The young billionaire then uses his upper body strength and abdominal muscles to hoist his knees upward, until he is using them to balance atop the door.

Celeste places her right hand over her mouth in shock at the amount of strength and bravery Jacob is exhibiting. She continues to watch with fascination as he places his right palm on the front edge of the door while contorting his left leg until his foot is atop the back edge of the thick wood. The young man then balances in this position, raising his right foot atop the center of the door, before finally standing upright. He then does an about-face on top of the door, ensuring that his backside is facing the wall against which the door is propped.

With a determined gaze, Jacob kicks against the wall behind him, forcing the door to swing beneath his feet. When the door is almost closed, the young man kneels and jumps in the same motion, springing high into the air as the office door shuts under him. As he reaches the apex of his jump, Jacob aggressively presses his palms against the wall at his front. He mimics this with his feet on the wall at his back, leaving his body suspended ten feet above the floor.

The young singer watches with wide eyes as Jacob continues to woo her with his acrobatic prowess. Within a few seconds, he scales up the walls toward the vaulted ceiling, by the strength of his arms and legs, until he is almost fifteen feet above the floor of the hallway.

"Hot damn, baby!" Celeste exclaims with a smile and cheeks that are radiant with lust. "I can't believe you can do that after all of our playtime." She claps her hands, applauding Jacob and grinning with prideful affection.

The young singer is immediately taken aback as Jacob leers at her from his sanctuary near the ceiling. He rapidly descends from his position, moving closer to the kitchen, and lowering his body until it is again suspended only ten feet off of the floor. Jacob then releases his hands, executing a mighty series of movements that begins with kicking off of the wall. He then drops slightly, grabbing at the decorative railing of the kitchen that is just a foot below the edge of the wall and catches it in the middle of his fall. The young man then swings to a standing position on the hardwood floor in front of his girlfriend, with droplets of sweat running across every curved surface of his body. When Jacob lands, his eyes seem to be glazed over white, and his posture is more aggressive. He appears extremely authoritative and dominant.

This change in body language causes Celeste to step back from her young lover, terrified by his strength and unpredictable movements.

"Why are you not seeking shelter!?" He demands in a hateful voice, speaking much deeper and more deliberately than normal.

Celeste begins to panic, stepping away from Jacob as he advances with this new and horrific posture. But his movements are too fast, and he is soon face-to-face with her.

"What's going on with you, Jacob!?" The young woman asks in terror, feeling wounded and vulnerable by this sudden transformation.

"YOU ARE SAFE NO LONGER!" He shouts with a deep, hateful roar, grabbing the young woman by the front of the loose-fitting shirt and glaring at her with unwelcoming disgust.
XXI. Riding The Demon – The Great Harbor, Alexandria, Egypt – July 21st, 365 A.D.

'The sea keeps its secrets.' Partanius thinks to himself as he washes off his arms in the shallow waters on the shores of The Great Harbor in Alexandria, Egypt. The twenty-seven-year-old Sassanid soldier licks his lips and peers up at the gorgeous blue sky, wondering if he ought to pursue other ventures today. He thinks of the heavens above him and the despair below, contemplating how he will meet the afterlife.

'You must finish this!' Thretch orders from the back of the young soldier's mind, his voice formidable, and in heavy contrast with the spirit of the day.

'I killed Julian!' The Persian soldier retorts with a degree of frustration. 'How many men can claim to have befriended and murdered an emperor of Rome? It has been only two years, and you want me to slay another!?'

'I do not care for the emperor.' Thretch replies with militant rhetoric. 'I desire the damnation of the empire. The filth of Rome must not continue!'

"Do you still believe that your God will forgive you?" Partanius says aloud, laughing as he washes his young face in the cool ocean waters, pulling his long, dark hair away from his eyes. "How many slaves do you think you must save to get back into his favor? How many rulers must we slay!? I am weary of this quest, demon: I want a woman and child!"

'The emperor is only a few leaps away from your blade.' Thretch declares with raw determination, entertaining the petty needs of his young host. 'We shall take him today...and I will let you have a woman for a year.'

'You talk of slaying the emperor as if he is a pig in the forest.' Partanius redirects with disappointment. 'Julian was slain in MY HOMELAND! I turned the wheels of war against him with the help of my brethren. We left them defeated and confused on the battlefield... And I struck during a retreat. This task of yours...is madness. The emperor is guarded by thousands of men in Alexandria, and even your fastest movements cannot best an arrow. If I kill the emperor today, I will not have a woman and child; I will have ten arrows in my back!'

'You have the look of a Roman, Partanius.' Thretch reminds his young host, indicating that he has no intention of giving up this mission. 'Your mother was taken by a Roman soldier, and now that you are a man, she cannot bear to see your face – that mirrors his. By using your Roman face against your enemies, you can do your mother justice. She must know that her son sought the noblest of retribution.'

"I may seek justice...for my mother," The young Sassanid says with a grief-stricken heart, gazing out at the harbor as if to find answers.

The morning light on the shores of Alexandria's harbor depicts miles of pristine, white rocks. It is a modern city founded by the philosopher's sword, but beguiled by the disciple's pen. Partanius gazes upon the sea with a lustful awe, as the waves roll in at the most perfect of arcs, lit by the morning sun with the lightest blue, and a hint of green. The young man watches his sandals squish in the mud somewhat as he stands on the beach below the pier, on the east side of the harbor. Partanius shifts the gaze of his deep brown eyes from the glistening waters to The Temple of Isis Pharia. Its bold stone walls and open passages give the monument depth. Farther to the right, he spies Pharos Lighthouse, perched high on the rocks, with a tower rising four hundred feet into the air. The lighthouse is fortified by a thick wall, which has a watchtower at each corner; a veritable palace unto itself. Its white stone surfaces show the majesty of Alexandria to the outside world; architecture meant to be as impressive as it is intimidating. A series of smooth columns near the top of the structure open up the space for light to pass between them, and out onto the sea. This light could be a blessing to sailors lost in the fog, or a curse to traitors whose vessels wandered into the death grip of the empire, on the blackest of nights. Whether friend or foe, any knowledge onboard the vessel would immediately become the property of the great library; never to leave the city again.

'Afraid of a traitor's death?' Thretch booms with growing anger from inside of the soldier's head. 'Your betrayal is not yet complete, Partanius. I did not travel three hundred miles to gaze at this bastard of a city! The Egyptians and Greeks share their beds, and now this proud place is built in tribute to their kingdoms.' The demon grumbles with self-righteous disdain, showing his desire to depart from the beach by twitching the fingers of Partanius' left hand.

'Perhaps the city is more appealing today than you think, creature of the underworld.' Partanius retorts with intrigue as he watches large amounts of water receding from The Great Harbor.

He raises his head to confirm that the harbor is indeed being emptied of all liquid. This event leaves boats turned onto their sides in the slimy mud, and thousands of fish suffocating; abandoned by the sea. Partanius looks upon the pools of leftover water with innocent curiosity. He half-expects Poseidon himself to emerge and announce the end of the world.

Thretch is not easily mystified and displays his savvy by turning on his heel and running up the beach to the top of the pier. As the demon moves Partanius' body, he forces the joints and muscles to extend at maximum capacity. Thretch barrels his way to the wooden decking of the pier, where he can glimpse The Mediterranean Sea. His leather sandals scuff the coarse surface of the rough planks, and he treads for a few steps before halting his progress with urgency. To his dismay, Thretch confirms that the sea has receded far beyond the harbor. It flowed away from the land masses, opening up a mountainous terrain that was covered with water for centuries. While Partanius wishes to observe further, Thretch knows that the displacement of so many millions of gallons of water cannot last long. The Sassanid soldier wishes to stay and watch, but Thretch overtakes him by sheer will, turning Partanius' face away from the fast-moving waters. Although Partanius can take back control from the ancient creature, the young man senses danger, feeling a warm tingle at the back of his tanned neck.

The demon spins the body of his young host around and begins to sprint across the pier toward the city, moving faster than before. Partanius feels a fiery strain ripping through his muscles as Thretch utilizes them to their maximum capacity. On his brawny legs, they rocket past The Temple of Isis Lochias and The Macedonian Acropolis. Thretch has his gaze locked on a Roman soldier, who is planted on a large, black horse. The soldier is in full battle armor, watching the mysterious events unfolding in the harbor. When they approach within ten feet of the horse, Thretch snatches Partanius' sword from its sheath. The Roman soldier notices the advancing assailant when Partanius is within five feet and reacts with surprise. Before the soldier can reach for his sword, Thretch leaps mid-sprint toward him. He raises the sword across Partanius' body and slices with a fierce backhand swipe. A splash of blood erupts in the morning light as the soldier is decapitated by Thretch, and the spray covers Partanius at the face and arms. In a single motion, the demon returns the sword to its sheath midair, wasting no time.

Partanius feels his body crash into the horse, which halts his forward momentum. As soon as his feet touch the ground, Thretch grabs the dead soldier's right leg and pushes with brute strength to cast his body off of the saddle. He then vaults up onto the back of the stunned animal, gripping its neck near the crest, and wiping fresh blood from its skin. His buttocks slam down in the saddle, and he kicks at the flanks, almost immediately bringing the majestic animal to a gallop.

Partanius notices a stinging sensation in his right eye and Thretch immediately wipes away the fresh blood, trying to regain his vision. Atop the horse, they traverse past a half-dozen stunned Roman soldiers, entering a wide road that leads deeper into the city. The white sand gives way to stone paths and neatly decorated buildings rising up on either side; some bearing brilliant, colored mosaics. They pass Cleopatra's Needles and The Caesareum, traveling south to the Boulevard Aspendia, with a direct route to the southern wall of the city. Partanius can hear the Roman soldiers riding in pursuit of his stolen horse, and the guilt on his face is as raw and red as the blood therewith.

'How can you fight all of these men, Thretch?' Partanius berates internally with anxious dread.

'You need not fight the soldiers. They will be occupied by the sea...when it returns with the might of ten thousand beasts.' Thretch confirms as he kicks at the horse, urging it to gallop faster. 'Do you remember the battle that began two years ago; the battle that we still need to finish?'

The Mediterranean Sea rages back inward, sending a tsunami with black waves tall enough to make men cower in their massive shadows. It scoops up ships from the mud like bundles of tinder and smashes them against the stone structures of the city. The cargo within is obliterated, leaving the crews in a deluge of purgatory. For the first time in recorded history, The Great Harbor rises up in betrayal of the men who have reaped the benefits of its peaceful waters.

Thretch whips the horse with all of Partanius' strength, urging the beast forward while the crushing waters of the sea mercilessly roll over the city. The sounds of terror behind him are odd; shrieks of hopelessness lasting only a second, before being swallowed by the vast waves. He sees a clear path to a guardhouse that overlooks the city, and rises to his feet atop the horse. Partanius is shocked when Thretch leaps into the air and grabs a large plank that protrudes from the roof of a merchant shop. The plank is holding a crude sign with the carving of a sword at its center, painted white to emphasize the outline of the sword.

The demon immediately hauls the body of his host onto the roof of the shop, regaining his footing with relative ease, and sprinting toward the lower walls of the guardhouse. Thretch focuses on the wall with vigorous determination, sensing that the waters are closing in on his position. He scales the sheer face of the large brick structure by taking a hard leap and running eight feet up the surface of the wall. This radical defiance of gravity lasts long enough for him to wrap his arms around the two-foot ledge at the top.

The sea finds Partanius clinging to the wall with the crushing roar of millions of dispersed gallons of water, and it grips his body with the promise of death. He feels the cool water invade every crevice of his skin beneath the leather armor, and the bulky tide pulls at his legs with what seems like the force of a chariot. Something strikes the back of his head with vicious power, knocking his forehead into the solid bricks. The young soldier feels blood seeping from the front and back of his skull, and he tries to remain conscious as the sea attempts to claim him.

The water rises until Partanius is completely submerged under its behemoth influence. He continues to grip the side of the wall with all his strength, feeling the sea rip off his sandals, tugging at his legs harder than before. After a few seconds, he feels like he is losing consciousness, and the water appears to have no end. Just when the young man begins to make peace with his mother, the water recedes away from his body, leaving him hanging from the side of the guardhouse.

Partanius almost drops from the wall with this sudden shift in his body weight, and Thretch reaffirms his grip to prevent him from being swallowed by the sea. The young man climbs over the wall of the guardhouse and lies atop the wet stones, sensing a throbbing excitement in his chest that he doesn't often feel outside of battle. He gets to his feet, grabbing the back of his head to suppress the bleeding from the larger of the two wounds. His gaze turns back toward the city and the harbor, and an expression of shock soon forms on the young man's face.

There are clear signs that the sea has invaded Alexandria, leaving much of the city underwater. Large ships are settled atop houses, hundreds of yards from the harbor, and many of the weaker structures have been crushed by the weight of the water. Men and women on rooftops below are gazing out at the harbor, screaming for lost members of their families. Others are cradling the dead in their arms and shrieking at the sky in forlorn confusion. Partanius watches the massive wave recede, and it takes a few more victims in its wake, each of them overcome with fear of the depths that will be their final resting place.

Partanius steps out to the edge of the observation area of the guardhouse, seeing the Roman Emperor just a hundred yards from his position.

Emperor Valentinian Augustus watches the decimation of his city with deep shame, keeping his hands atop the stone walls of his fortified sanctuary. After having ruled for only two years, he cannot fathom what they have done to make the gods so angry.

"I will have your head for what your army did to my mother!" Partanius states with passion, snatching his sword from its sheath and pointing the blood-stained tip of the blade at the emperor.

'You arrogant fool!' Thretch explodes from the back of the young soldier's mind, noticing the shadow of a Roman soldier approaching his right flank.

The demon has only enough time to chastise his young host before a spear pierces his upper back, carving a horrid wound through his lungs to the front of his chest.

"Threatening the emperor is death, boy!" The Roman soldier states in a ruthless display of justice, looking on with pride as the young man drops to the stones beneath his feet.

Jacob is aghast by this tragic death and tired of being haunted by the memories of Thretch in his dreams. As a silent witness to this terrible series of events, he finds himself fearing his mortality more each day. The young billionaire tries to escape from the horrors of this memory and to forget the pain of the spear as it entered Partanius' chest. But all the feelings of this event are now part of him. These recurring scenes of despair have led Jacob to dread the comfort of his bedroom, and he yearns for better dreams in the future.

"JACOB, STOP!" A woman's voice cries out from within the dream, echoing across the fading landscape of ancient Alexandria. "JACOB, PLEASE DON'T DO THIS!"

JACOB'S PENTHOUSE – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Jacob awakens from the vast memories of Thretch to find himself compressing his girlfriend's body against the kitchen counter. Celeste Marie is crying out for him to stop hurting her. Thretch refuses to let go of her throat, gripping it with his powerful left hand, and holding her down on the black countertop. Jacob is horrified to see that Thretch is dangling a steaming black teakettle over her left ear, getting ready to pour scalding water on the young woman.

'THRETCH, STOP HURTING HER!' Jacob shouts from the back of his mind, exhibiting a gritty rage that he has never before experienced. 'DON'T HURT HER!'

"I told you to say goodbye, young Jacob!" Thretch says aloud, holding the spout of the teakettle closer to Celeste's ear. "I will not serve two masters!"

Celeste is filled with dread as the young man's chokehold causes her vision to fade in and out. She is shaking with fear, and her boyfriend continues to say and do things that are radically outside of his character. He has held her captive for the past few minutes, forcing her to watch the water heat up within the teakettle. The young singer recalls how every part of her body shuddered when the steam became intense enough to make the small, black spout whistle. Her fear was further compounded as he raised it over her body, ignoring her cries for him to stop.

Jacob's eyes are glazed over white, and he glares at Celeste with insidious contempt. She screams with the guttural sounds of a woman in severe anguish as the boiling water is poured over her left ear. Thretch releases only a half-cup of the steaming liquid onto her ear and then slams the teakettle down, releasing his chokehold.

Celeste continues to shriek in horror and pain, her left hand trembling above the scorched surface of a once beautiful ear. She drops to her knees in the kitchen, still wearing Jacob's blue button-down shirt. The young woman begins to cry like a helpless child, reduced to a frightened mass on the travertine tiles. A long stream of spittle drips from her mouth as the shock becomes too great. She wants to touch the ear to determine how badly it is disfigured, but knows that the pain would be too much.

"You are not a good man, Jacob!" Celeste announces in a shaky voice, still feeling the horrible, throbbing sting of third-degree burns. "You ARE NOT a good man! I thought you were, but I was an idiot! Just let me go! I want to leave! I want to see my mother! I want my mommy..." She sobs like an abused child as the devastating pain reduces Celeste to her most core components of survival, feeling betrayed and victimized.

Thretch watches the young woman with renewed respect for her bravery. He is grateful for the words that she just uttered to Jacob in her moment of agony, and releases control of the body back to his young host.

Jacob kneels down and tries to comfort Celeste by putting his arm around her shoulder, but she swats it away with a potent hatred.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" The young woman shouts with strength and maturity; finding herself again and raging back to life within the madness of the moment. "I AM LEAVING HERE RIGHT NOW!"

"Celeste, it wasn't me." Jacob pleads with genuine innocence, searching for words that can repair the damage to their trust, but finding none.

"There's something very wrong with you, Jacob," Celeste begins with a determined stare as she gets up from the floor. "But I don't want to waste time on that anymore. I just want-"

"Celeste, please-" Jacob pleads and is immediately cut off.

"Just listen to me!" The young singer says with a clenched fist, looking at Jacob with both terror and hatred. "I'm not going to call the cops, because I know that you have them in your pocket, but you are going to pay to fix my ear. And you're going to buyout my contract at triple the rate!" She demands with flared nostrils, watching his every movement with absolute caution.

Jacob puts his hands up with the palms outward, standing to look evenly at Celeste. Her ear has various layers of reddened tissue, mixed with brown and black skin at the edges. The ear has shriveled somewhat from the intensity of the heat, and Jacob feels himself becoming nauseous at the barbaric display. He begins to cry with remorse, sensing that he is no longer in control of his life. Jacob puts his right fist into his mouth, weeping for his lack of compunction at so many junctures of his life. 'If the universe has set out to punish me for my deeds,' the young man thinks to himself, 'then it has chosen the perfect method.'

"Jacob, you need to snap out of it!" Celeste says with urgency, moving her right hand to get his attention. "I'm going to stand in the doorway, and you're going to bring me my things. If you make the slightest move toward me, I'll run through this building screaming bloody murder to your neighbors. Don't speak to me!" She says, holding up her right hand in a rigid display of strength. "Just get my things so that I can leave here."

Jacob wants to apologize, but has no idea how to convey regret for such a heinous act. He nods his head and follows her instructions, moving through the condo to gather up her belongings. The next few minutes are perhaps the most awkward of his life; even worse than those after his mother was abducted. In this case, he has been the perpetrator, and the victim is someone whom he truly holds dear. Tears of shame stream down his face in the shadows of the large penthouse, realizing that he has desecrated something sacred to his heart. Despite his immeasurable contempt for Thretch, he keeps these feelings from entering his mind – until Celeste can escape.

"Is that everything?" Celeste asks; her body now fully clothed as she presses a piece of bathroom tissue loosely against the left side of her head. "I want to make sure that there is nothing else! I'll never come back here!" She says in a shaky voice, still in shock from the terrible attack.

"That's everything..." Jacob states as tears continue to stream from his eyes, dripping to the rich hardwood flooring.

"Have your lawyer call me." Celeste orders with mixed feelings, seeing how Jacob's actions have torn him apart inside. "You need to get some help! What you just did...is not normal. What happened here tonight...should not happen to a woman! You will never see me again. I've been recording this on my cell phone camera since you handed it to me, and if you don't do what I asked, you're going to prison!" She threatens, holding the pink cellular phone up with the camera lens pointed toward him. "I'm going to the emergency room, and I'll tell them that it was an accident. You will buy out my contract, and pay for whatever damage you've done. Don't ever, EVER try to enter my fucking life again! Get some help, Jacob, there's something not right."

The young woman remains strong as she watches his every movement with distrust. She unbolts the front door with a trembling right hand, cradling the cellular phone against her chest.

Jacob watches her leave with a sullen expression, acknowledging the power and wrath of his companion. He decides that the demon is not someone with which to mettle and that sharing a body will require the patience of a saint. Although every part of his being wants to lash out at Thretch, he forces himself into compliance, lest the young woman suffer any further abuse.
XXII. Absolute Zero

MOHONK LAKE GATED COMMUNITY - NEW PALTZ, NEW YORK

"They've gone too far," Kelvin announces to the group of men, as the enclosed freight trailer bounces and vibrates beneath his feet. "They attacked my family, and now it's time to attack them where they live."

He looks upon the faces of his men under the faint, yellowish illumination provided by the industrial droplight. Herb Phillips has his arms folded across his large belly, listening intently. The gangster is clad in black sweatpants, a large hoodie, and a heavy wool coat. Billy Harmony is smiling up at Kelvin with brotherly affection. He is dressed in an elaborate black leather coat; a pair of thick jeans, and black, leather hiking boots.

"But we're only talkin' about five men, right?" Herb asks with a bit of concern, scratching at the underside of his right leg as he sits on a small stack of wooden pallets. "Does everybody know that the women and kids aren't supposed to be hurt – up in this bitch?"

"That's right," Kelvin affirms, holding up his right hand in agreement. "We're not here to hurt the women and kids, so they should be protected at all costs. There are five billionaires in this neighborhood that have done a lot of damage to our country. They have one hundred and seventy billion dollars in combined wealth."

"We should cut down every last one of 'em!" Barry announces from a standing position next to the wall, watching from the rear of the group, nearest the tractor unit. "The young ones will turn out to be just as evil as their-"

"No! We're not hurting any women or kids, and I only want to take out the guys that are in the photos I gave you." Kelvin interrupts, holding up his left index finger toward Barry with a stern warning. "All I want to do here is send a strong message. America will not be owned or dominated by billionaires. This is a democracy; not a monarchy."

Barry Brinley maintains his confidence, watching Kelvin with hawkish eyes that seem to reflect fatherly pride. He is dressed in a thick, red and gray checkered coat, white cargo pants, and a pair of green, waterproof, wool-lined boots. His head of gray hair is covered by a red baseball cap, embroidered with the logo of the Kansas City Chiefs. Although the thick clothing is hiding his muscular figure, the fifty-seven-year-old looks strong and ready to fight.

"So how are we gonna' take these dudes out?" Billy Harmony asks with a mellow gaze; his energy and intensity concealed just below the surface of an unshakable demeanor. "We can't do it in front of their families."

"No," Barry agrees, holding up his right index finger, "but we can lock the wife and kids in the basement. Then we take the father into the bathroom and put two in the back of his head."

"Does everyone understand that?" Kelvin asks, looking around at the faces of his men, feeling that he might be losing them. "Just take the father into the bathroom, have him kneel over the tub, and shoot." The young rebel feels sick at the thought of murder, and his stomach reports discomfort, signaling that he may vomit. "Have him kneel over the tub, or in the shower... And put two shots in the back of his head. This will ensure that he dies instantly. These people will feel no pain. Keep that in mind..."

"But they'll be scared shitless up until they die." Herb mutters, turning his face away from the group.

"Yeah...they will be..." Kelvin admits after a moment of deep thought, taking inventory of his personal values. "And they should be scared – that's the point."

"What are we gonna' do if things go bad with the cops?" Billy Harmony asks, gazing up at Kelvin with concern. "I mean, if we're executing people like that, we'll have cops here in no time."

"This community is unique," Kelvin answers immediately, contemplating potential issues with the authorities. "The New Paltz Police Department is fifteen minutes away, so all we're dealing with is private security contractors. When we finish the deed, we'll load back up into the semi, and travel to the rock quarry to switch out the trailer for a van. This trailer will get burned and buried with all the evidence. Once we get to town, we'll switch a second time into a passenger bus, and that will take us back home."

"What are the chances that we die today?" Herb asks in a gruff tone, staring down at the dark floor of the trailer. "What if we end up getting caught like Coal Train?"

"You're all taking a risk!" Kelvin conveys, sticking out his chest as he stands close to the droplight, allowing it to shine across his face. "If you don't want to take the risk, then you can get off before the point of no return. Although, once you decide to enter the gates of hell with the rest of us...you shouldn't expect anything other than trouble. There will be consequences for this; one way or another, but we're not doing it for ourselves, we're doing it for our kids."

"The point of no return is in five minutes if you want to get off." Billy Harmony states with passion, glancing at his watch with dutiful presence of mind. "There are some really bad people up in this community, and we need to show them that we're willing to fight for freedom and opportunity. So if you're getting off; you need to decide right now."

The Dragonfly watches as a white, fifty-three-foot tractor-trailer approaches the southeast wall of the Mohonk Lake Gated Community. His trademark green sunglasses are shielding his eyes from the bright, reflecting rays of sunlight, coming from a snow-covered field nearby. He feels strong and tall, walking atop a pair of silver and black Air Trekker Jumping Stilts. The chilly mountain winds whip and bite at the underside of his Walter Payton jersey, causing him to shiver. Nonetheless, he is excited about the danger, and the money that it will provide.

The other six members of his crew are also excited. They are bouncing and trotting across the freshly plowed asphalt with their Air Trekker Jumping Stilts. From a distance, the group of young men appears to be from another planet. Their stilts give them the ability to run twice as fast, and jump three times higher than the average man. The Dragonfly watches with a smile as Jerome and Casey try to outdo one another, bouncing across the hard surface as they wait for the trailer to get into position. There is a red, Dodge Ram Truck parked at the side of the road. It has a blue and white cooler balanced on its open tailgate, making the young men appear to be extreme sports enthusiasts.

The roll-up door of the tractor-trailer has been raised, and an industrial liftgate extends outward from the rear of the trailer. Kelvin waves at The Dragonfly from his position at the open door of the trailer, as it backs toward the wall of the gated community. He steps forward onto the liftgate and sticks out his right hand to signal the driver, helping him to meet the wall without breaking through the decorative red rocks. When Kelvin closes his fist, the driver stops the truck with the liftgate only an inch away from the thick wall. The young rebel then unlocks the large, three-foot flip-plate by releasing the metal lever, and props the steel ramp up against the solid rock wall.

While Kelvin is securing the flip-plate, Billy Harmony and Herb begin to hand out equipment. The thugs provide 9 millimeter pistols, two-way radios, zipper bags with pipe bombs, and ammunition to each of the young men on stilts. Every pistol is retrofitted with a silencer, fashioned from the steel tubing of a black flashlight. Barry retrieves a black nylon rope and fastens it into a square knot on an anchor point that is fixed to the rear frame of the trailer. He then carries the bulk of the rope to the edge of the flip-plate next to Kelvin and casts a ten-foot coil of it over the wall.

Kelvin watches the preparations with pride. The young rebel knows that speed is essential now that people in the neighborhood are likely becoming suspicious. He checks a small zipper pouch that has been sown to his black cargo pants. There are six flares inside of the pouch that have been retrofitted to pipe bombs. Each flare serves as a ten-second fuse for an incendiary device that will kill everyone within five feet of detonation. The ambitious rebel folds his arms across his muscular chest. Kelvin's black compression shirt shows off his biceps; earned from several weeks of weightlifting. He is wearing a pair of black, frameless Ray-Ban sunglasses, seeking to hide the anxiety on his aged face.

When Billy Harmony finishes handing out weapons to The Dragonfly's crew, he and Herb each bring a pistol to Kelvin and Barry. All four men are now standing on the liftgate with silenced, semi-automatic weapons, two-way radios, and bags with pipe bombs. Kelvin signals for both groups to check their gear by tapping three times on the left side of his head. Within a few seconds, members of both teams raise their right fists high into the air, indicating that they are ready to go forward. Kelvin pounds his left fist twice against his chest, signaling The Dragonfly and his crew to begin. He then repels down the nylon rope, followed in succession by Barry, Herb, and Billy Harmony.

The Dragonfly and his crew each take a few steps back from the black, wrought iron gate at the front of the community. They are positioned only a few feet from where the tractor-trailer is docked. Each crew member then sprints forward on his stilts and does an impressive somersault leap over the seven-foot gate. With a bit of luck, they all land without harm inside the perimeter of the community. Every crew member is carrying a silenced pistol, ready to patrol the streets and eliminate private security guards that are a threat.

"Okay, two men per house." Kelvin orders his crew in a whisper, traversing across the snow-covered lawns of the gorgeous estates. "Billy and Herb will hit the houses at the far end of the street, and Barry and I will take the ones closer to the truck. Remember, we are only hitting these five houses marked in red on the map. These guys should all be here for a winter retreat, and Barry's spotters saw them just two days ago. If you get into trouble, call The Dragonfly for help. NOW LET'S MOVE!" Kelvin and his crew jog through the neighborhood, staying alert and calm. They keep their weapons concealed as they gaze at small handheld maps, marked with red ink to confirm their targets.

The four men disperse into the neighborhood, electing to break through back doors, and avoid detection. When Kelvin and Barry reach the first house, Barry kicks in the back door, and an alarm immediately sounds. Kelvin feels a rush of adrenaline as they run to the top of the stairs, sweeping left and right with their weapons to locate the residents. There is a sudden lump of guilt in his throat as he sees family photos, and various personal possessions strewn throughout the home. He decides to put it out of his mind, galloping across the shag carpeting to inspect the bedrooms, bathrooms, and other living areas.

After searching the entire living space, including the garage, Kelvin and Barry find the home to be empty. They vacate the property through the back door and find themselves scrambling to the next target on their map. Once again, Barry breaks through the back door, and the two men enter another home. This time an alarm doesn't sound, which gives the men confidence that their target will be inside. Kelvin signals for Barry to first check the basement and main floor, ensuring that the residents cannot escape the home from the ground. The two men search for signs of people, but there are none in the home. They move to the second floor, and Kelvin is feeling nervous, wondering if the residents are holed up in their bathroom with an arsenal of weapons. The emptiness of the living space does not make sense, and Kelvin feels himself shaking inside, discovering that there are also no occupants within the second home.

Kelvin stops moving and looks down at his watch, realizing that over five minutes have gone by since they first entered the grounds. He feels thick droplets of sweat moving down his scalp and forehead, wondering for a moment if their luck could be this bad. The young man looks at Barry, who answers him with a confused shrug, and he decides to call the rest of his team on their two-way radios.

"Billy, Herb, what are you seeing?" Kelvin inquires through the radio, staring at the empty living space of the lavish home with a perplexed expression. "Dragonfly, what are you seeing? Have you had any resistance?"

There isn't a response from anyone for over a minute, and Kelvin places his left palm against his forehead, feeling his insides shaking with horrific tension. He looks down at the pistol clenched in his right hand, and wonders if this is all just a nightmare. His breathing becomes erratic, and he begins to tremble all over, speculating at what might have gone wrong with such a simple plan.

"There's nobody here." Herb reports finally through the radio, sounding spooked and awestruck. "We've been through two houses, and there ain't anybody!"

"The streets are empty," The Dragonfly reports through heaving breaths, sounding confused and mystified. "There's nobody here, dog. Why would people leave behind their multi-million dollar homes?"

"We're trying to figure this out," Kelvin announces, sensing that he is somehow letting his crew down. "Let's all meet at a central point." He suggests, peeking through the Venetian Blinds of a second-floor window. "Look, there's a playground and swimming pool near the center of the community. Let's meet there in two minutes."

Kelvin and Barry look at one another in deep confusion, both men appearing frightened and vulnerable. They make their way downstairs and through the back door of the home, watching for any signs of an attack. The neighborhood appears desolate as they walk around the corner of the home to the front yard. Kelvin concludes that the isolated nature of the community makes it seem even more detached from the world.

A massive explosion breaks the silence of the morning. Kelvin drops immediately to his knees, turning to see the tractor-trailer now ablaze with orange fire and white smoke. The explosion seems to have been centered on the cab, but the flames are moving across the small gap to the large freight trailer. Kelvin watches in unfiltered horror, assuming that the driver is still inside; now burning up in a fiery hell of burst steel and shattered glass.

"GET COVER!" The Dragonfly shouts through the two-way radio. "A whole shitload of Faceless Red are coming from the north gate! There's got to be over fifty of them!"

There are sporadic bursts of automatic gunfire that carry through the neighborhood from the north. This ruckus causes Kelvin to leap back onto his feet. With a sudden desire to survive, he begins to sprint at top speed toward the playground with Barry in tow.

"EVERYBODY GET TO THE PLAYGROUND!" Kelvin shouts into his radio as he traverses across the dark, black asphalt, noting the newness of the material. "We'll have a better chance as a group." He adds in desperation, clipping the radio back onto his belt. "This was a horrible plan..." The young rebel acknowledges under his breath, attempting to avoid eye contact with Barry.

The gunfire intensifies at the north side of the community, and the men can hear it progressing forward. There are a handful of small explosions, and Kelvin hopes that The Dragonfly and his crew are using the pipe bombs to repel their enemies.

Kelvin begins to seek out cover as he approaches the playground, and notices a large, stainless steel arch at the edge of the play area. There are two green steel tubes suspended within the arch, each supported by heavy-duty rubber and steel joints. When he gets closer to the play set, Kelvin discovers that both steel tubes have holes punched through them every few inches, allowing him to see through to the other side. There is a chain-link fence behind the steel structure, and an empty swimming pool lies just a few feet beyond the perimeter fence. He pans further to the right, noticing that the other play structure is made of plastic, surrounded by small strips of foam-rubber. Something enters the corner of Kelvin's vision from just down the road. He notices Billy Harmony sprinting in his direction, while Herb maintains a slow jog just two hundred yards behind him.

"GET COVER BEHIND THIS ARCH!" Kelvin shouts to Barry and Billy Harmony as he slides under the protection of the steel tubes. "COME ON, HERB! GET COVER OVER HERE!" He implores his comrade, choking a bit from the sudden dryness in his throat.

There are a few bursts of wild gunfire, and Herb's large body spins to the left as he is hit with several rounds. Kelvin leans forward on his hands and knees, watching in helpless terror as the rapid gunfire knocks his friend off of his feet. The large gangster drops to his side almost instantly, and his body jerks before going completely still.

"HERB!" Billy Harmony shouts, stopping just a few feet from the safety of the steel arch. "HERB! GET ON YOUR FEET, BROTHA'!" The young man proclaims in vain, backing away as he reaches out with his left hand toward his longtime friend.

He hesitates for a moment longer in disbelief; his arm still outstretched toward Herb, but the gunfire soon returns him to a state of self-preservation. Billy Harmony joins Kelvin and Barry near the large arch at the playground; each of the men examining their surroundings with trepidation. The gunfire from the north is getting louder, and the crisp snow beneath their feet reminds them that the cold embrace of death is a matter of chance.

"ONE OF YOU MOTHERFUCKERS BETRAYED US!" Kelvin exclaims to the men as they take shelter with him in the snow beneath the arch. "WHO WAS IT!? WHO WAS IT!?" He screams in confusion and pain, stripped raw by the thought of such hellish consequences, primed by the actions of his friends.

Barry and Billy Harmony look upon one another like rival crocodiles, fighting for the same feeding grounds. The two men size each other up for a moment, realizing that Kelvin is probably correct. Billy Harmony pulls the pistol close to his chest, eyeing his companions with great curiosity.

"Guys, there are a shitload of Faceless Red heading this way!" The Dragonfly proclaims as he makes his way toward the large steel arch from the opposite side of the pool. "You don't want to be out in the open. Get to one of the houses, and-"

A burst of gunfire whistles through the air, striking The Dragonfly several times in the chest. He falls immediately backward, with the jumping stilts harnessed to his legs.

The world seems to move in slow-motion as Billy Harmony and Kelvin both look at The Dragonfly, and then back at the smoking barrel of Barry's pistol. During their moment of shock, the older man begins to turn his gun toward them, but Billy reacts faster, firing off a few rounds that force Barry to retreat. The gunfire doesn't hit Barry, but he backs quickly away. He dives to the other side of the arch, taking shelter behind the steel tube that is just six feet away. Kelvin looks down with horror at The Dragonfly's lifeless body, confounded as to how and why a traitor embedded himself into their ranks. He gets to his feet with his weapon ready to fire, unwilling to let Barry leave this place alive.

"WHY DID YOU BETRAY US!?" Kelvin demands through the punctured steel cylinders. "I THOUGHT YOU BELIEVED IN WHAT WE WERE DOING HERE!"

"I KNOW YOU'VE SEEN THE FORBES 400 LIST..." Barry replies back in a sinister fashion, feeling a bit of nervous guilt at the back of his throat. "IF THERE WERE A FORBES 800 LIST, THEN YOU'D KNOW WHO I AM! MY SON GOT YOUR LETTER IN PRISON AND SENT IT TO ME RIGHT AWAY. I HAD TO SPEND QUITE A BIT TO FIND YOU, KELVIN; BUT THE INFORMATION WAS VALUABLE."

"YOU'RE NOT LEAVING HERE ALIVE, BARRY!" Kelvin declares with a deep, throaty voice, almost choking from the anger that is escaping him. "WE'RE GONNA' PUT YOU DOWN! EVEN IF WE DIE HERE TODAY; YOU'RE COMING WITH US!"

"I'M FAMILIAR WITH THE RISKS, CARVER! THERE ARE OVER SIXTY FACELESS RED COMING TOWARD YOU! YOU HAVE NO CHANCE! WE EVACUATED THIS PLACE DAYS AGO!" Barry shouts with a degree of panic and arrogance. "THESE PEOPLE PAID A LOT OF MONEY TO BE RID OF YOU. AND THE REWARDS... THEY'RE BEYOND YOUR WILDEST DREAMS!"

Kelvin signals to Billy Harmony, counting with his fingers from one to three. When he gets to three, both men drop onto their bellies in the snow and open fire at Barry's lower legs. The older man begins to run, but the bullets cut him down, rolling his body onto the snow in a painful, bloody mass.

"We need to get the hell out of here!" Kelvin says with satisfaction, feeling a bittersweet release of tension with the traitor now dead in the snow.

"There's a motorcycle at that house down there," Billy suggests immediately, pointing at a house that is over a hundred yards down the street to their left. "It's a dirt bike, but it will do better than running. All the cars in this place are gone!"

"Let's go!" Kelvin agrees, pointing straight across the street toward the empty backyards from whence they ventured earlier.

The two men sprint across the asphalt, taking turns shooting at anyone who seems interested in them. After a careful trek through a few backyards, and over some wooden fences, they soon find themselves standing inside a lavish home. Billy and Kelvin are grateful to find shelter from the carnage outside.

"What the fuck is goin' on, Kelvin!?" Billy Harmony says through shallow breaths, standing with his back against a plain white wall in the large kitchen of the home. "We checked Barry out, man. He had street cred', and some of my closest friends vouched for him."

"When you've got enough money, it doesn't take long to buy friends," Kelvin answers, looking around the posh kitchen with wild eyes. "...Especially when those friends are starving. Look, dude, we can't do this right now. Let's focus on gettin' outta' here, okay?" He says with pacifist rhetoric, stepping into the center of the kitchen across the coarse travertine tiles.

"Look, man, I'm just tryin' to wrap my head around all this!" Billy replies with a terrified stare, appearing wounded by his friend. "I just watched my partner..." He swallows and pauses, placing his right hand over his brow in shame and hanging his head. "I just watched my childhood friend and partner get killed... You give me one goddamn second to put that out of my head...and I'll go get your little dirt bike." The flustered gangster states with unbreakable conviction, staring Kelvin down to let him know that his terms are not negotiable.

Kelvin closes his eyes for a moment, breathing out to release his anxiety. It manifests as a steady stream of air that would have otherwise come out as a list of demands for action. He forces himself to smile and places his left hand on Billy's right shoulder, gazing into his eyes as if to say that everything is going to be all right. After a few seconds of silence, Kelvin steps away from his fellow rebel. The young man approaches the kitchen cupboards where he retrieves a pristine, cream-colored towel. He turns on the kitchen faucet and uses the cold water to saturate only the surface of the fabric, leaving the inside dry.

"What are you doing?" Billy asks with curiosity, wiping away a few tears of grief as he watches Kelvin with his head turned to one side. "Have you got some science shit that's gonna' get us out of this?"

"These homes are heated by natural gas," Kelvin explains, keeping his focus on the wet towel as he turns off the faucet and places it in the microwave oven. "The microwave will evaporate the water from the towel, and it will catch fire. I'll disconnect the gas line, and then we'll set the timer for twenty minutes before we leave. The explosion should draw people closer to this area. When it goes off, we won't want to be anywhere near this house."

"I'll get the bike ready," Billy says immediately, flashing an expression of tension as the sounds of gunfire grow louder outside the home.

"Don't start the engine," Kelvin warns with a raised right index finger. "Just wheel it out to the west side of the backyard. We'll have to go quietly on foot for a little bit."

Billy Harmony nods and smiles, knowing that he can trust Kelvin's sense of direction during times of crisis. He makes his way across the tiles to the adjacent garage, disappearing through the solid, white oak door.

Kelvin ambles to the stove and climbs atop its shiny black surface to inspect the gas pipes at the back of the unit. He notices a heavy, white marble cutting board on the kitchen counter at his right, and sets down his pistol to manhandle the heavy object. With patience and precision, Kelvin lowers the marble slab behind the stove. He braces himself on his knees and thrusts the heavy marble down repeatedly onto the gas line until it breaks at the valve.

The sound of natural gas escaping evokes primal terror in the young man, and he grabs his pistol, focusing his gaze on the open back door of the home. Kelvin hops down from the stove and steps over to the microwave. He sets the timer to twenty minutes and presses the start button. The young rebel watches the interior light up with energy and the familiar hum of ultra-fast heating. He then exits the home with a rapid gait, descending the back stairs as if poised to escape Dante's Inferno.

Billy Harmony is waiting at the southwest corner of the home, gripping the motorcycle with one hand and his pistol with the other.

"Let me take your gun so that you can push the bike faster," Kelvin suggests as he approaches his friend, showing a face filled with concern. "I don't know how long it will take for that towel to ignite, but we need to move our asses west as quick as we can!"

Billy hands his weapon to Kelvin without hesitation and wraps his fingers around the handlebars of the dirt bike. He then pushes the bike from one house to the next as Kelvin covers him from behind. The two men make their way arduously through the snow for several minutes. Billy's breathing becomes labored after only traversing across the yards of four homes. His face is soon covered with sweat, and each time they move to the west side of a new home, he looks back at his friend for a reprieve.

Kelvin knows that their time on foot is growing short as he watches his friend becoming more exhausted. The feat of pushing a motorcycle through the snow, and uneven, frozen mud is almost too much for Barry. From behind the west corner of the fourth home, he notices that The Faceless Red have thinned-out.

"Go ahead and start the engine," Kelvin suggests, looking around with paranoia and keeping his weapons at the ready.

Billy seems grateful to get a break, but he holds his breath at the thought of firing up the loud engine of the large motorcycle. After a bit of hesitation, he leans the bike to the left and mounts the driver seat. He then turns the key, twists the handle to give it some gas, engages the clutch, and kicks the starter. Both men freeze as the starter produces a quiet rolling sound, but nothing that would indicate combustion. Billy grips the bike harder and kicks feverishly downward, pushing the starter three times in succession.

Upon the third strike, the dirt bike lets out short burst of combustion, expelling a puff of thick, black exhaust from the tailpipe. Billy smirks somewhat, hitting the starter twice, and the engine roars to life, sounding like a bumble bee the size of a small airplane.

Kelvin mounts the rear of the bike and signals his friend to continue their route through the backyards. He gestures toward a wooden fence that is one hundred and fifty feet to their front. As the bike lurches forward, Kelvin realizes that he needs one hand to hold onto his comrade, and elects to drop the pistol from his left hand. The bike moves with surprising speed and power through the snow, and over the cement of various driveways, carrying the men closer to the wooden fence.

Billy slows the motorcycle as they reach the corner of the final home in their path; now blocked by a wooden fence that surrounds the next yard. Both men observe the street to the north, seeing only sparse movements through the yards. These movements are most often taking place between the homes, on the far side of the next street over.

The sound of gunfire cuts through the air from the east and Kelvin watches the wooden fence before them get riddled with seven bullet holes. Billy Harmony twists the right handle and engages the clutch of the motorcycle, immediately vacating the area to their left as the bike picks up speed. More gunshots whiz past the two riders as they exit the long driveway onto the main road of the gated community.

Kelvin feels the unnerving vibrations of the dirt bike beneath him as he and Billy expose themselves from hiding. The sounds of the powerful bike are like bright yellow lights to a swarm of mosquitoes, and the gunfire intensifies from what seems like every direction. Two gunshots hammer the rear of the exhaust pipe, just to the left of Kelvin's leg, causing him to jump involuntarily. The bike swerves to the left, inspiring Billy to raise his right fist, warning Kelvin not to repeat his panicked movements.

The two men barrel toward the north gate with indiscretion, noticing that the gunfire dissipates after they make a sharp left turn toward the exit. When they complete the turn, Kelvin notices that the north gate is only one hundred yards to their front. He bites his lower lip as the cold air whips past; his eyes straining to see as they are rapidly drying out. The gate is open, but there are two sports cars parked in the way. There is a white Ford Mustang on the left, and a Silver Chevrolet Corvette at the right. They are parked in tandem, at an angle, to prevent anyone from getting past. Kelvin notices that four men near the gate are engaged in a gun battle with someone off to their right, and they have not yet spotted the motorcycle.

"GO AT THEM IN A LOOP!" Kelvin shouts to Billy Harmony. "I'M GONNA' USE A PIPE BOMB!"

Billy nods his head and accelerates the motorcycle, driving in a crisscross pattern to avoid any direct gunfire from the group of men. Kelvin realizes that he needs both hands to use the pipe bomb and curses himself for not buying shoulder straps for their weapons. He places the gun beneath his buttocks, feeling the immediate discomfort of the hard metal chafing his anus. With gritted teeth and a determined gaze, he removes a pipe bomb from the pouch on his right leg. His hands immediately find the plastic flare cap, and he holds it with caution. The young rebel calculates the speed of their approach, and the distance needed to throw the bomb.

"GET ME WITHIN TWENTY FEET, AND DO A WIDE LOOP!" He relays to his colleague, preparing to ignite the flare. "WHEN THE BOMB GOES OFF, SHOOT THE GAP! AS SOON AS WE GET THROUGH THAT GATE, YOU'LL NEED TO GO FULL THROTTLE!" Kelvin snaps the plastic cap from the flare end of the bomb and holds his arm outward to the right, watching the smoke leave a red trail in the air.

Billy continues his crisscross driving pattern, swinging left, and then immediately right. The bike approaches within twenty feet of the cars and Kelvin tosses the pipe bomb toward the Corvette, knowing that the fuse has less than six seconds remaining. All four men are startled as the motorcycle approaches, and they turn their weapons to fire a few rounds. This attack is short-lived, as three of the men notice a flaming device flying in their direction. The incendiary weapon motivates them to flee to safety.

The motorcycle banks to the left, avoiding persistent gunfire from the fourth assailant, who refuses to retreat. Kelvin hears a bullet strike the motorcycle; either on the chain or at the wheel, causing the bike to shudder a bit.

The pipe bomb explodes with a deviant fury, smashing the glass of both cars as it rips the lone gunman from his position on the asphalt. The young man's skull fractures apart like a pumpkin dropped from thirty feet in the air, saturating his leather jacket and white cotton shirt with blood and brain matter.

Billy Harmony tightens up his left turn to approach the gate. He drives past the body of the lone gunman, through a four-foot gap between the front of the Corvette, and the stone pillar at the right. Neither car has exploded nor caught fire, but both have damage from shrapnel. The bodies of the vehicles are dented, with sporadic holes ripped through in small sections. The windshields and passenger windows of the cars are destroyed. Although the Mustang is still roadworthy, the Corvette has a flat tire on the front passenger side.

Kelvin feels the motorcycle emerge from the gate with incredible energy, and Billy holds nothing back in getting the bike up to top speed. They hear shots fired from the men behind them, but the angle and speed of the motorcycle is far too difficult a target for anyone to hit with accuracy. The motorbike traverses up the mountain road with vibrant energy, and Kelvin feels alive in a manner that has eluded him since the death of his son. Despite the penetrating cold air that is drying their eyes, and biting at the faces of the men; they are both grateful to be alive. Kelvin retrieves the pistol from beneath him, feeling more relaxed with a cold, yet comfortable seat.

The motorcycle suddenly bucks, twisting to the right as the rear wheel is displaced by a patch of ice. Kelvin senses adrenaline seeping back into his bloodstream as his heart rate increases, and he grips his colleague around the chest. Billy slows the motorcycle with the handbrake and cocks his head back, signaling Kelvin not to be so impulsive. Their speed drops from seventy miles an hour to thirty-five. At this lower speed, they watch for patches of ice, traversing around the hillside of the beautiful mountain road.

Kelvin begins to think about Barry's betrayal, and how foolish he was to trust such an unstable man. He looks out at the serenity of the trees and rock cliffs of the Mohonk Lake area, frustrated by the senseless loss of life that began with his need for vengeance. Had he been more stable, Barry would have never talked him into attacking a gated community. Although Billy isn't looking at him, Kelvin feels the judgment of his longtime friend beginning to seep through in his body language. The back of the man's head is like a scarecrow in Kelvin's once fruitful valley of ignorance. It reminds him of his wicked stupidity, and the losses incurred thereof.

Kelvin glances at the edge of something large and white from the corner of his left eye, and notices that it is squeezing his left thigh against the side of the motorcycle. In less than a second, he feels the bike tipping over to the right, and Billy Harmony latches onto it with sheer terror, preparing for a crash. The motorcycle flips sideways as it leaves the roadway, sending both men onto the snow beneath its weight. Kelvin feels the hot sting of ice cutting his face as his body bounces wildly across the surface of a snowy overlook. The pistol is ripped from his hand, and his right shoulder catches in the snow after a few bounces, tearing him away from the motorbike.

The terrain turns from patches of snow and ice to the coarse and frosted surface of a pond. Kelvin feels his body sliding for what seems like two hundred feet, and he cannot see Billy Harmony or the motorcycle. When he stops moving, Kelvin notices that his bottom lip has a deep cut, and he looks up at a group of pine trees just a few feet away. There is a red sign with white letters below the pine trees that reads: 'DANGER: FIFTY-FOOT DROP.'

The sudden roar of a sports car echoes from the roadway and Kelvin feels his blood infused with terror, realizing that the men at the gate must have followed them. He forces himself to his feet, noting the many injuries that his muscles have sustained. In addition to heavy bruising, he is covered in cuts and scrapes, but the most severe bleeding is coming from his lower lip. He has a bit of trouble getting to his feet on the slippery surface of the ice, noticing that he is standing at the edge of a frozen pond.

Kelvin surveys the area, feeling relieved when he sees that Billy Harmony is lying on his back at the center of the pond, with the dirt bike tipped over his legs. The weary rebel grabs the back of his head, feeling the intense throbbing of a slight concussion. He pulls his hand away to see a thin line of bright red blood on his palm.

"Billy!" Kelvin calls out to his friend. "BILLY! We need to go!" He says in earnest, feeling the throbbing intensify in his skull each time he moves his jaw.

"HELL YEAH!" A voice calls out from the road, causing an ampere of fear to travel down Kelvin's spine.

The young man looks back toward the road, feeling his body strain just from the effort of turning to face left. There are three men rapidly approaching the frozen pond. Two of them are white; one with a large build and a heavy, red flannel coat, and the other short in stature with a wool trench coat. The third man appears to be Japanese, and his sinister brown eyes lock onto Kelvin as he makes his way across the ice. He is clad in a large, white coat with black trim, appearing to be the most sophisticated of the three men.

Kelvin breathes out a thick wisp of panicked steam and turns toward the pine trees. He limps somewhat on his left leg, creating distance between himself and the men. The thirty-foot pine trees seem welcoming, and they give way to some thick brush that is hiding the view of Mohonk Lake. Kelvin stumbles his way through the pine needles and exposed soil toward the brush, pushing hard to get through the thickets. He hears the men approaching closer and steps forward with his right foot, but there is nothing below to support him. A rush of fear shoots through his core as Kelvin feels himself falling into an empty abyss beneath the brush. He grabs in desperation at the thin branches around him to stop his fall.

Upon closer inspection, Kelvin sees that there is fifty feet of nothing below his right leg, and he pulls himself backward to sit on the edge of a recessed cliff. His hands begin to shake when he acknowledges that he almost stepped off to his doom. Kelvin curses himself for ignoring the warning sign, and smacks the top of his forehead, only to have his brain report back with stinging pain.

This moment of self-defamation is cut short by gunshots that begin to tear up the earth and snow surrounding him. Kelvin crawls along the edge of the cliff, advancing a few feet at a time until there is a large pine tree between himself and his attackers. He looks around with urgency, scanning the area below in great detail for a way down to the lake. In a moment of inspiration, he sees a crisp, white rock ledge that protrudes three feet out from the cliff. The ledge is only four feet below the natural rim of the cliff.

Kelvin immediately gets down on all fours, allowing the brush to scratch and poke his flesh without resistance. With a bit of effort, he disappears beneath the surface of the cliff to the ledge. The sound of his three assailants seems to carry across the ice, and he hears them approaching at a full sprint. Kelvin looks upon the dark, craggy rocks and jagged edges that are next to his face, feeling the pouch at his right side for a pipe bomb. His legs are shaking from the pain of the motorcycle crash, and his pants are getting saturated by the moisture of the snow beneath him. He removes a pipe bomb from the nylon pouch and rises up somewhat, keeping his head just below the edge of the cliff.

The young man tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry, and the reflex produces nothing more than a sharp pain in his esophagus. Kelvin looks at the cap of the flare, realizing that his position will be given away when he ignites the device. Despite his reservations, he snaps off the plastic end and holds the pipe bomb away from his face, attempting to conceal it beneath the rocks. After a few seconds, gunfire rips through the brush around him, tearing up the earth and cutting through thick limbs. He ducks down on the ledge as the barrage continues, realizing that he won't be able to identify his targets. In a panic, he tosses the bomb over his shoulder, and it explodes within two seconds of leaving his hand. This mistake allows him the displeasure of feeling the shockwave and hearing the debris whizzing past.

Kelvin notices a sudden ringing in his ears from the explosion, and despite the incessant hum, he still manages to hear the sound of gunfire and someone shouting. The larger white man attempts to get a better vantage point to fire upon Kelvin, but his feet slip off the edge of the cliff. Kelvin watches the man's eyes go from a menacing fixation of hate to a panicked stare of hopelessness, before disappearing through the thick brush. The frightened rebel immediately lights a second flare, feeling obligated to give his opponents hell – even unto his death.

"JOEY!" A man calls out as he steps with caution toward the ledge where his comrade fell to his death. "JOEY! WHAT THE HELL!?"

Kelvin watches the smaller man from his position on the ledge, concealing the bomb under his knee in spite of the burning it causes at the front of his shin. After a careful count, he tosses the pipe bomb with all of his might, throwing it directly at the man's head. He then ducks for cover onto the ledge, waiting for the imminent explosion. Although the bomb misses the man's head by six feet, accuracy is not an issue, and the explosion kills him instantly. The intense shockwave knocks his body off the edge of the cliff, shooting him into the empty space with the force of a freight train. Kelvin watches the body drop out of sight with a hint of pride, feeling that he may have a fighting chance.

He rises up to peer over the ledge, noticing that the Asian man is standing his ground next to Billy's unconscious body. Kelvin spots a large pine tree that stands between himself and his attacker and decides to maneuver up from the ledge to take cover there. He grabs at the thickets around him and pulls himself back onto the main ledge with almost silent movements. The tenacious rebel shuffles through the mud and snow on all fours, until he is close to the pine tree. When he is three feet from safety, a burst of gunfire hits the ground near his right arm and abdomen, causing Kelvin to shield his face with both hands. Without hesitation, he leaps toward the safety of the large tree.

"I've got your friend right here." The Asian man threatens in a high-pitched tone of voice, pointing his AK-47 down at Billy. "Should we see if he floats? Don't be throwing bombs at me, asshole; I'll smoke your friend right now."

A disheartening barrage of gunfire echoes through the trees and Kelvin restrains his desire to check on Billy. To his surprise, the gunfire continues until the Asian man is out of ammunition. There is an odd bubbling sound that follows the gunfire, and Kelvin hears something sliding across the ice into the water.

"Oh shit!" The Asian man exclaims as he removes an empty clip from his assault rifle, replacing it with a full unit of ammunition. "Your friend fell through the ice... It looks like he's drowning. Yeah, I see him reaching up to me...he's screaming for help in the water. Goddamn this is a horrible way to die!"

Kelvin glances backward long enough to confirm that there is a large hole in the ice, where Billy and the motorcycle had landed. His arms and legs begin to shake in terror, recognizing that the man is not bluffing. Several gunshots pelt the pine tree behind his back, and Kelvin freezes in place, realizing how close he is to death.

"Dude, he's running out of air!" The Asian man confirms, staring down at the dark pool of water as he keeps his weapon trained on Kelvin. "He's got two-and-a-half minutes before brain damage kicks in!"

Without another thought, Kelvin reaches into his pouch to find another pipe bomb. He lights the device and begins counting down with a blank stare, knowing that his childhood friend has little chance of survival.

"You're not fuckin' gonna' hit me with that!" The Asian man exclaims with concern, watching the smoke waft off the top of the bomb. "A rifle is faster than a bomb any day!"

Kelvin darts to his left with the bomb in hand, exposing his body somewhat and then spins immediately back to his right behind the tree. The Asian gunman fires at the soil near the left side of the tree, stirring up the dirt in a peculiar pattern. As the man is firing, Kelvin emerges from the opposite side of the tree, and tosses the pipe bomb toward the gunman's head. When the device leaves his hand, he sprints forward a few steps, allowing his body to fall and slide on the ice at his right.

The clever Asian stops firing and jumps backward, but the bomb explodes near his torso, eviscerating him in less than a second. Kelvin covers his ears and keeps his face pointed at the ice as the bomb decimates his enemy. After the explosion, he turns to see that the gunman is down and looks away in disgust from the pile of bowels and other matter that fell from the man's torso. During this brief and grotesque visual, he notices that the left side of the Asian's small frame was ripped open, as though by a circular saw. Kelvin gets to his feet immediately, using his left hand to hide the grizzly scene as he approaches the open hole in the ice.

The hole is about seven feet in diameter and was torn through the ice at an odd angle. He can distinguish where the weight of the motorcycle broke through, but the water is too dark to see anything else. 'He was lying to me,' Kelvin surmises in terror, gazing in shock at the murky, freezing water.

Kelvin closes his eyes for a moment, feeling sick inside from all the death and violence. The young rebel shoves his feelings of anguish down deep within himself, refusing to believe that Billy is dead. He peruses the small pine trees near the edge of the pond like a madman, and without much contemplation, soon finds himself jogging to that area. Kelvin strips off his shirt and removes the two remaining pipe bombs from their pouch. He then drops to his knees at the base of the first small pine tree, placing a pipe bomb on either side of the tree trunk. After a bit of a struggle, he ties his shirt around both devices, securing them against the tree. Kelvin snaps off each of the flare caps in rapid succession. He admires the brilliant red glow of the flares as they burn through to the explosive material within their steel casings.

The exhausted young man vacates the area with his bare chest exposed, allowing the bombs to work their magic. He soon finds himself face down behind a large pine tree, hoping that the flares don't burn through his shirt before the bombs can detonate. Within seconds, there is an explosion that rips through the tree trunk. The first explosion sends the second pipe bomb hurtling through the air, and it detonates within five feet of where Kelvin has taken cover. He grabs his ears, looking like a frightened forest animal, feeling the pressure wave pass over his body as it wraps around the tree. Although he is afraid from the explosion, the young man jumps to his feet, ignoring the pain that is being reported by most of his body.

He is delighted to see the twisted mass of splinters around the trunk of the small pine tree, noticing that it fell over during the blast. Kelvin grabs the base of the tree and uses his weight to finish separating it from the trunk. He stands up tall and drags the tree toward the edge of the ice hole, like a firefighter carrying a heavy hose. Once he reaches the edge of the ice; Kelvin dips the top of the tree into the water, being careful not to let the weight pull him under. He fishes for several seconds in the pond water, looking on with childish fear at the possible advent of Billy's death.

"C'mon, dude, just grab ahold of the tree," Kelvin mutters to himself, fishing in the water as he swings the tree back and forth, pushing it deeper beneath the surface. "C'mon, brother, please don't drown under there; I need you to live! I can't have someone close to me suffocate...again." Kelvin feels drool flowing from his lips as he mourns his friend, recalling how vulnerable and wounded he felt in the moment of his son's demise. "Please...please...just reach up and grab the-"

Something heavy tugs at the other end of the tree and Kelvin focuses on the water. For a moment, he is so stunned that he has no idea what to do. There is a second tug on the tree, and Kelvin drops to his right knee, using his weight against the ice for more leverage. There is a subtle cracking sound beneath him, and his adrenaline comes back at full power, making his insides feel as though he is skydiving. The cracking sound grows louder, but he refuses to give in, pulling with all his strength and floundering against the slippery surface.

Billy Harmony's head emerges from beneath the water, and he takes a deep breath of badly needed oxygen. Together, he and Kelvin coordinate their efforts, allowing him to climb the tree to the point where his friend can pull him to safety. After a few seconds of effort, the two men are lying next to one another on the thicker sections of ice. They are panting and staring at the space around them. Soon their breathing returns to normal, but they are both shivering on the ice; each seeming surprised to be alive.

"I think we should steal that Mustang," Kelvin states as he rises to his feet, using the tree branches to steady himself. "It'll be warm up in that bitch."

"Yeah, that sounds good!" Billy replies, coughing up a bit of pond water as he speaks. "Thank you...for saving me." He adds with affection; his arms trembling from the severe cold.

"I love you, brother," Kelvin says with a broad smile as he reaches out with his right hand to help Billy to his feet. "I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in this... This ain't your fight anymore." He reassures his friend, patting him on his saturated shoulder as he helps him to stand upright.

"Just let it go, man," Billy states with a calm smile, looking back toward the road, and then returning his attention to Kelvin. "It's not worth all this. Just go home to your wife."

"I'm sorry, brother," Kelvin replies with a shaky, forced grin. "This is something I have to see through."
XXIII. Riding The Demon – London, England – December 7th, 1952 A.D.

Heinrich Gustafson slips and falls onto his right knee, smacking it on the concrete for what must now be the tenth time. His joints are aching from all the abuse that has been dealt out by the frosty symmetry of the London walkways in winter. During a typical evening, he wouldn't be so clumsy, but this night is unlike most others in the history of England. Tonight the roads are thick with coal smoke and fog. The blackness is so dense that every pedestrian can see only a foot or two in front of their faces.

The brawny German shouts a few obscenities in his native tongue, before he can contain his frustration and rise back to his feet. His wool pants are saturated at the front with a bit of melted frost, which he attempts to shake from the fabric, but the coal dust turns it into a sticky black mess in his hands. Heinrich puts his hands on his hips in the terrible blackness, gazing at the desolate streets with their haunting clouds of fog. The place looks like purgatory, with so many dark silhouettes appearing out of the abyss. As the minutes pass, the tall German feels his extremities beginning to shake, and he knows that hypothermia is a possibility, if he cannot soon find shelter. Heinrich had grabbed a thick cotton jacket on his way out the door, but it provides nowhere near the insulation needed in such bitter temperatures.

'We need help, Heinrich.' Thretch concludes with subtle aggression, scorning the confused war veteran from the back of his mind. 'Are we going to perish like a small animal? Give me full control of your body.'

'I told you...many times...you cannot have control of my body.' Heinrich thinks to his companion, sensing that Thretch may let him get too close to death for comfort, unless he gives into his desire for control.

'You assume correctly.' Thretch begins in a tone of heightened awareness. 'I would see you get close enough to death to kiss his forehead, lest you give me control. Have you forgotten that all your thoughts are beheld to me?'

'I have forgotten everything but this goddamn black smoke and your nuisance of curious spying!' Heinrich answers with shaky tension, taking on the tone of a victim. 'Why don't you go find another body to haunt? I'm weary of your voice in my thoughts.'

The man sits down on the freezing sidewalk and decries a deep sadness to the world. His plans to embark on a journey to Brazil have been further stalled, and the blackness doesn't give him any hope of finding a sleeping quarters for the night. Even if he could find the hostel where he stayed the previous evening, the likelihood of a room being available at this hour would be a miracle. Thretch feels the damp wetness beneath the hands of his host as the man slumps over in a useless state of despair.

'GET TO YOUR FEET!' Thretch orders in a gritty roar, tapping the index and middle fingers of Heinrich's left hand against the rounded stones of the sidewalk. 'You are behaving as the fat creature that you were when I first entered your body. It took six months to rid you of your pathetic belly! GET TO YOUR FEET!'

"No, I'm tired!" Heinrich answers aloud to the city streets, folding his arms with a disobedient revulsion that is often expressed by young children. "I'm sick! My mind is sick from you! For fourteen years, you have been inside my mind. I have lost my lovely Chelsea, and Agatha...to become your puppet. So, I just want to freeze out here in this blackness! Oh, mighty God, please make this voice stop! I need to escape this torment."

'Get to your feet, or I shall bludgeon your nose!' Thretch warns in a bold display of his resolve.

"Bludgeon...break...I don't care." The middle-aged German states with a bit of psychotic laughter. "I don't care what happens to me anymore. The war was a terrible waste of my time. It left me poor, and I'm tired of running for my life! SO LET ME DIE OUT HERE IN THE BLACKNESS, GOD! I AM READY FOR YOUR JUDGMENT!"

'You staggering fool!' Thretch conveys with a sour sort of mockery, enraged by this tenuous display from a once great soldier. 'Get to your feet! Get to your feet! Get to your feet!'

Heinrich folds his arms, refusing to allow this tactic of repetition to work on him again. He feels his left hand twitching and knows that Thretch will soon light up his body with physical pain if he doesn't move. Several tears drip forth from Heinrich's eyes, and they are instantly coated with coal dust, creating thin black streaks down his pale face. The middle-aged man slumps forward again on the sidewalk, resting his palms on the freezing stones beneath him. Heinrich bites his lower lip in anticipation, knowing that Thretch can control him for about seven seconds if there is a moment when he is not paying attention.

"Hey, mate, are you all right?" The voice of a young Englishman calls out from behind Heinrich with warmth and empathy. "Do you need to stay in me flat for a spell?"

Heinrich turns to see the faint yellow glow of an oil lamp, just a few feet behind him through the smoke. The black silhouette of a thin man is behind the lamp, and just in back of him is the shadowy outline of a doorway, with windows at each side.

"Yes!" Heinrich exclaims through the darkness to the stranger, surprised at this type of courtesy in a growing city. "My body is cold and injured, and I need to stop breathing this terrible black smoke. I have money to pay you for a night of food and lodging."

"Well, come on then; get inside." The young man gestures to his right with the oil lamp, twisting slightly back and forth. "We've got some supper in 'ere, and I've got an extra bunk in me flat."

Heinrich stumbles to his feet on the frosty surface of the sidewalk, feeling himself swell with joy at the courtesy of such a rare and loving person. He moves toward the doorway with childish glee, unencumbered by the short flight of steps, as he all but floats toward the home with a fresh attitude.

"My name is Simon." The man says with good cheer as he opens the door for Heinrich to enter the home.

"I'm Heinrich." The happy German replies with deep appreciation, stepping into the warmth and brightness of the small flat. "Thank you so much for having me into your home! I thought that I would die out there."

When both men are inside the flat, Simon bolts the door and makes his way around to the front of his guest, helping him to remove his coat. Heinrich looks upon the pale stranger with a mixture of affection and distrust, never having seen such blatant courtesy in all his years.

"This is my wife Anna and my son David," Simon states with pride as he helps Heinrich to remove his damp, filthy coat.

Heinrich gazes upon the young man's wife with a friendly smile, attempting to repress his lustful intentions as he takes in her beauty. The young brunette has a healthy bosom and could have married much wealthier, based solely on the rest of her body. She is wearing a humble white dress that hides most of her curves, but Heinrich knows that they are there and tries to put them out of his mind, in respect of his host. He decides instead to pay attention to the curly-haired young man at her side. Despite his youth, the boy seems observant and unafraid, staring up at the tall stranger with a polite demeanor. The boy is wearing light blue cotton pajamas that consist of a thick material, and his head is covered with a knitted cap. Heinrich smiles to see that the young man is also wearing a pair of black shoes with the pajamas. He knows that the floorboards must be freezing, even with the coal fire blazing in the far corner of the den.

"So, Heinrich," Simon begins with a pleasant tone, securing a few rags around the doorway to keep out the black smoke. "Where are you from, mate? I detect a bit of a German accent."

"No, no, I'm not German," Heinrich replies, putting up his hands with the blackened palms facing outward. "I am Austrian...but I was hoping to leave here for Brazil this week, to start a new life in a tropical paradise."

"Is that a fact?" Simon says, ambling around the older man to stand by his family. "What makes an Austrian fall in love with a place like that?"

"Well, I have heard that the forests in Brazil have dolphins, and any such place, is a place for me to retire in peace," Heinrich answers, speaking faster than normal.

"Would you like something to eat then?" The young man asks with a hearty smile, brushing back his shoulder-length brunette hair. "My wife is the devil at making beef stew, and there's just enough to make a body whole again."

Heinrich begins to smile and rubs his hands together with the delectable anticipation of a free meal. Though his face goes pale with agitation at the sight of something on the mantel, above the coal furnace. There is a large, silver menorah at the center of the small mantelpiece. It appears to have been set out for an upcoming Hanukkah celebration, and the presence of this object causes Heinrich's heart to flutter with fear. There is a thick iron door that has been retrofitted to the front of what would otherwise be a fireplace, and the insides are burning with vulgar reds and radiant yellows. The German looks onward in a somber fashion, haunted by the juxtaposition of the menorah with the fiery furnace.

"I'm very sorry, but I must refuse," Heinrich states after an awkward silence, watching the Jewish family with creeping guilt. "I...I had something to eat on my way out the door, and am feeling very tired. Could I pay you for lodging, and retire for the evening?" He asks with a delicate smile, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand.

Simon instinctively moves his body in front of his family, watching their new guest with a discerning gaze. He looks at his wife and can see in her eyes that she has noticed the man's strange behavior.

"Why don't we help you get washed up then?" Simon suggests with a winning smile, trying to hide his ulterior fears. "You look like a bloody Rembrandt painting with runny streaks on the face. There are two long lines of black coal right below your eyes, mate. Come into the loo, and we'll get you washed up." He says with a gaze of subtle deception, pointing to a small room at his right side.

Heinrich bows with gratitude toward his host and steps briskly through the flat toward the small lavatory. The boy and his father follow the nervous German to assist him in finding what he needs, while Simon's wife retires to the master bedroom.

The humble lavatory has a small, white sink at the right, which is near the tub and toilet; all three of them in uncomfortable proximity to each other. Heinrich strips off his filthy gray shirt as he enters the loo, exposing his pale, muscular arms, and a white undershirt. His right arm bears a bold, red swastika tattoo and young David points at the pale-skinned man, staring up at his father in terror.

Simon grabs his son's hand, pushing it down before the German can see him pointing. He looks at the tattoo with a disgusted expression, but forces himself to be cheerful, and avoids alarming his dangerous guest.

"David, why don't you see if momma needs help cleaning the kitchen?" Simon orders his son with a forced grin. "I'm going to get some older towels for Heinrich so that we don't have coal dust all over ours."

"It's a nasty business, isn't it?" Heinrich asks with a jolly voice as he turns on the faucet of the sink to clean his hands and face.

"Excuse me?" Simon responds with a bit of confusion, his eyes darting toward the tattoo, and then down at the floor. "What is a nasty business?"

"Not a nasty business," Heinrich says with a slight laugh, rubbing his wet fingers through his hair. "I mean the smoke from the coal... It's a nasty business." The cheery German looks to his right, and notices that his guest has vanished. "It's a nasty business." He affirms to himself, looking in the small mirror at the black lines that the tears created on his cheeks. "Well, aren't you a mess, Captain? The boys would love to see you looking like a hysterical Fräulein."

"I have your fresh towels, Herr Heinrich," Simon announces in an ominous tone, causing his guest to turn his head.

Heinrich notices that his host is pointing a small army revolver at his abdomen from only three feet away. He sighs in dismay, using both hands to turn off the water from the faucet.

"It looks like it's time for me to leave," the massive German says with a hint of despair. "Just let me gather my things, and I'll be back on the road."

"Did you murder my people!?" The nervous Jew asks with a passionate gaze, cocking the hammer of his stubby pistol. "Did you bomb my city in the night like a pack of cowards!?"

"Look, the war is over, Simon," Heinrich says slowly, raising his hands and turning to face his assailant. "There is no need for further violence. I was not one of those Nazis who hated your people. I was just doing what I had to do... It was my job." He pleads with softness in his eyes, waiting for the younger man to lower his weapon.

Simon begins to tremble from the sudden anguish and stress, still remembering the war as if it ended just a year ago. He sizes up the large German for a moment, recalling how many nights his wife huddled in the darkness with her family, while he was out fighting hundreds of miles away. After a bit of reflection, the young man lowers his pistol, and the German appears relieved.

Heinrich reaches out with his powerful right hand and grabs the young Jew by the throat, squeezing with all his strength. Three shots are immediately fired in succession as Simon raises the gun into his adversary's chest. The large German drops to the white tiles of the bathroom floor on his knees, saturating the area in blood.

Simon is relieved when Heinrich's hand is released from his throat. He watches the muscular Nazi gasping for breath with rigid justification. The young Jew feels his heart pumping at twice the normal speed, and beads of cold sweat have formed near his sideburns.

"YOU ARE AS DISGRACEFUL AS THE REST OF THE NAZIS!" Simon shouts in a wrathful voice, spitting on the floor with aggression, while he watches his enemy fading from the earth.
XXIV. A Mighty Debt

"YOU ARE AS DISGRACEFUL AS THE REST OF THE NAZIS!" Jacob shouts through the bowels of the luncheon hall at Midtown Loft & Terrace.

The young billionaire raises his head from a lavish place setting that is before him. Jacob struggles to wake himself from Thretch's memory of London, England, and his death therein. He sighs with relief, gazing down at his chest, grateful to avoid the same fate as the Nazi, within the house of Jewish people.

Jacob lifts his head a bit higher, glancing from side to side at over twenty members of the board of directors from his father's company. Many of them are still staring at him wide-eyed with suspicion while others scorn him, expressing red-faced anger.

"Jacob, is there something you'd like to add?" Howard asks with a phony smile; his right hand wrapped around a glass of expensive champagne while he stands at the end of the table. "We welcome any and all opinions at these board meetings – you know that." Plato adds with a pleasant tone, returning to his normal demeanor of complacent indifference.

Jacob closes his eyes in a moment of suppressed torment. He pushes with his legs to scoot the hand-made walnut chair back away from the long table. The young man gets to his feet, standing tall and proud among the men and women responsible for his mother's murder. He steps toward the end of the table, across the polished, hardwood flooring, watching his father's old partner with ownership. Jacob's black tuxedo was cleaned and pressed an hour ago, making him appear taller and wiser than he would otherwise. The young entrepreneur traverses the space between himself and Plato with the swagger of a villain, stalking the dining area with purpose. He takes note of the chic place settings, flowers, and other decorative adornments of the banquet table. It feels as though this is the feast for his mother's funeral that never happened.

"Howard." Jacob begins with a dominating smile, continuing his advance toward the end of the table. "Ladies and gentlemen of the board, I do have an amazing surprise for you this afternoon." He clasps his hands together with poise and elation, turning a bit on his heel as he speaks. "This dinner is so much more than just a way to say goodbye to my father. It's a feast to celebrate our tremendous success throughout the years."

Howard observes this oration with a formidable stare, pursing his lips together with growing impatience. He pouts as though a mad dog is loose in the board meeting. The stout businessman is wearing a nostalgic Armani suit, looking more like a gangster from the 1960s than the head of a global communications empire. Howard's posture conveys a lack of control, with both hands rolled into loose fists, held at either side of his waist. Jacob closes the remaining five feet between them, standing next to his father's partner in what appears to be a state of suspended madness.

"I know my mother would have loved this," Jacob states in a powerful and sarcastic tone, gripping Plato's shoulder with his left hand. "It's too bad she's not here...because she really would have liked to see where you've taken things."

The young billionaire glances down at several faces among the board members, watching for the slightest hint of deception or guilt. Several people look down and away in the wake of his comments while others glare straight into his eyes; their mouths making inaudible and voracious threats. He is surprised to see that many executives are showcasing blank stares, glancing around at their colleagues as if trying to gain insight on what is happening.

"My father would have also loved to be here," Jacob says in a hateful manner, gripping Plato's shoulder tighter and shaking him with homicidal affection. "He would love to be here, standing right next to you."

Howard uses both of his hands to remove Jacob's fingers from his shoulder. He then rolls his shoulders in slow, counterclockwise circles to regain his composure.

"Jacob, there's an issue with the majority shares of stock," Plato announces, leaning forward and staring the young man down with lethal intent. "Your father...Earl's shares of the stock are tied up in the hands of an undisclosed third-party. I'd like to know if that third-party is you." Howard says, displaying a smirk of experience and watching his young adversary with calculated determination. "Do you control those shares?"

"Once again, I said that I have a surprise for you," Jacob begins without hesitation, showing that he is unfazed by Plato. "And it's something that my parents would have liked. I apologize, ladies and gentlemen, but this is a very special day for me, so excuse my refusal to get down to business. I know that we're all fortunate...to mooch off of this company that my father worked so hard to build. Ever since he died, I've thought about you people each and every waking second of my life. So when it comes to sharing in the spoils of my father's death, I want each of you to know... You'll get what's coming to you." He finishes his statement with a wicked smirk and lowers his eyes to the table, appearing omnipotent and shameless.

MIDTOWN LOFT & TERRACE LOBBY – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Kelvin enters the front doors of a gorgeous, ten-story building with the mid-afternoon sun at his back. His eyes trace across the red carpeting of the lobby to the expensive décor of the place. It is designed to lure corporate executives and event planners who wish to make an impression. As he steps past the doorman in his black uniform, the blue-collar worker appears immediately out of place. Kelvin maintains an expression of duty and makes his way to a metal detector at the security checkpoint. He removes his brown, leather tool belt and sets it down on a small conveyor at the public side of the machine.

"Put your keys, wallet, and anything else with metal in the bucket, sir." A pale, elderly security guard orders, as he adjusts his thick eyeglasses with his right hand, seeming to zoom in on Kelvin with them. "Can you tell me the reason for your visit today?"

"Yeah, I was told that they needed a black Mercedes towed from the underground parking here." Kelvin holds up his right index finger and removes a folded invoice from his left shirt pocket, unfolding it to read from the notes at the bottom. "The Hudson, Calbraw and Calbraw board meeting needs a Mercedes towed from the parking garage because it's blocking a few people from leaving the building." He refolds the invoice and stuffs it back into his pocket.

"Well, why don't ya' just go to the darn underground parking to get it?" The stubborn security guard asks, folding his arms across his chest.

"There are over thirty black Mercedes in the parking garage. I can't risk towing the wrong one." Kelvin replies as he places his wallet and keys into the plastic tub on the conveyor belt.

"All right then, go on through." The older man concedes with a shrug, scratching the skin beneath his white hair as he presses a button to advance the conveyor belt through the imaging system. "What do you need a drill for when you're towin' cars?" The security guard asks, staring at Kelvin with his deep blue eyes over the rims of his eyeglasses.

"Sometimes I get a radiator with a slow leak or something worse like a gas tank," Kelvin answers as he steps through the metal detector. "I use the drill to drain out the fluid, because the cops won't let you tow something that's leaking."

The older man puts his hand up for Kelvin to stop speaking, indicating that he has provided a sufficient answer. He inspects the drill, flashlight, and wrench on the tool belt, turning each over in his hands and nodding with satisfaction.

"I think those folks are on the tenth floor." The security guard says with a forced smile, pressing his glasses closer to his face as he extends his right hand, inviting Kelvin into the building.

"Thanks." Kelvin responds in a curt fashion as he gathers up his belongings, and reattaches the tool belt to his waist. "Have a good one."

Kelvin looks down at his name embroidered in red over the shirt pocket of the uniform. There is a logo stitched to the opposite side that reads 'New Union Towing.' He smiles somewhat, feeling fortunate that the disguise is authentic, but it will do little for his case if he gets arrested. When he reaches the elevators, Kelvin pretends to talk on his cellular phone, waiting for the opportunity to make a solo ascent.

After stalling for two cars to depart, he gets an elevator to himself, and presses the button for the tenth floor. Kelvin feels droplets of perspiration forming near his sideburns, and his breathing is becoming shallow. There is a sudden wave of anxiety that passes over him as he recalls what happened at Mohonk Lake the other day, and how fortunate he was to survive. He removes the drill from his belt with somewhat steady hands and snaps it apart from the back, exposing a .22-caliber pistol with a twenty round magazine. He smirks at the small lead plate within the fake drill casing, which prevented the machine from seeing inside. The young man snaps the drill casing shut and returns it to its holster, and then retrieves the flashlight from his belt. Kelvin unscrews the bulb coupling from the flashlight and drops it on the floor. He then screws the empty flashlight cylinder onto the front of his pistol. Once this assembly is completed, he tucks the pistol down the back of his black uniform pants and waits for the elevator doors to open at the tenth floor.

After the elevator doors open, Kelvin steps up to a posh reception desk, trying to remain calm as his heart races with impending danger.

"Hi, I'm here to tow a black Mercedes for the Hudson, Calbraw, and Calbraw Group," Kelvin states with a warm smile. "I just need to ask them which Mercedes needs to be towed."

"They're down the hall to the left." A Hispanic receptionist answers quickly, paying closer attention to a story that is being told to her by a member of the kitchen staff.

Kelvin makes his way through the extra-wide hallways toward the banquet hall. He peers out at Manhattan through immaculate panes of glass. The hardwood flooring beneath his feet helps him to accept the burden of what he is about to do, giving him a solid sense of purpose. His legs begin to feel like rubber as each step seems heavier and heavier. The premise of killing several executives had sounded appealing during a recent strategy meeting. Though the actual execution is something out of a horror story. He sighs with contempt, thinking to himself that these are the people who deserve his vengeance more than anyone. This banquet had been on his radar as the perfect target long before Barry had introduced the idea of attacking a gated community.

'It's only a matter of time before the cops get to me.' Kelvin thinks to himself as he nears the banquet room door. 'I might as well take out some of these bastards...so that Geo didn't die for nothing.' He removes the pistol from the back of his pants and places its grip against the double doors of the banquet hall.

After a few seconds of contemplation, Kelvin almost laughs at himself, realizing that he never planned this part. He had just fantasized about walking into the room and opening fire on those who appeared most guilty.

'I don't have an exit strategy. I don't know what security is like in here.' As each of these facts becomes clear, Kelvin feels more doubt sinking in, deciding that his survival is unlikely, and freedom even less likely.

Without another thought, he bursts through the double doors, feeling his blood pressure rise as the sunlight and tables from the next room come into view. Kelvin steps into the banquet hall bearing a face engrossed with rage, but as his eyes focus on the room, he finds himself dumbfounded. Every seat in the dining hall is empty.

Kelvin holds his breath with immediate panic and remembers the ambush back at the gated community. He grips his pistol with purpose and checks under the tables, looking for a sleeper gunman. His stomach is becoming queasy with the anticipation of something horrible. The tow truck driver shakes his head from side to side, feeling like an amateur, and a failure. Kelvin inspects the room, experiencing a great deal of fear. The young man fails to keep his pistol steady, unbalanced at the thought of another rampage blossoming in the shadows.

When he looks closer at the long table, Kelvin notices glasses filled at different levels with various beverages. Some of the plates still have food on them, and everything at the table seems to have been recently used. Kelvin tucks the pistol back into the waistband of his uniform pants and places his hands on his hips. The event was scheduled for six hours, and only four hours have passed. He exhales a slow gasp of frustration, realizing that his preparations were too tedious. The group must have wrapped up their meeting early.

After a moment of consideration, Kelvin decides to make his way back down the hall to the reception desk near the elevators. At each corner, he watches for an ambush, hoping that his fears are illogical regarding another serious backlash. He approaches the reception desk appearing anxious and disturbed. There are thick beads of sweat running underneath his chin, somewhat concealed by his graying beard.

"Excuse me!" Kelvin says, attempting to get the receptionist's attention. "Do you know what happened to the Hudson, Calbraw, and Calbraw Group? That room is empty, and I needed to ask them which car to tow."

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry!" The woman exclaims, placing the palm of her left hand atop her perky breasts. "That party was picked up by a group of limousines three hours ago, and taken to the Calbraw Building. They had some kind of surprise event planned over there."

"Do you have an address?" Kelvin asks with a hawkish gaze, forcing himself to smile at the young woman like an innocent child.
XXV. Posthumous Exhibition

'H. C. & C.,' Kelvin reads to himself from the tinted glass at the front doors of the Calbraw Building. He gazes upward at the monstrous eighty-story structure, looming over the city with its fortified mass of glass and steel. His towing uniform makes him appear out of place amongst the elite as they pass him by on the sidewalk. They leer at the blue-collar worker with shameful faces. The black fabric, tacky logo, and red, embossed letters, somehow offend the delicate tastes of the Manhattan financial district. Kelvin reaches out and grips the steel door handle to make his way inside the building, but finds it to be locked. He twists his head to the side in suspicion and makes his way from one door to the next. After giving each of them a healthy tug, he finds them all secured shut.

'Oh, God, this is another ambush.' The young man thinks to himself. Kelvin inspects his right thigh to ensure that the nylon pouch and six pipe bombs within are still on his person. He reaches underneath the shirt of his uniform and feels the steel grip of the .22-caliber pistol tucked in his waistband.

The anxiety and anticipation have been mounting for several hours, and Kelvin knows that he is getting exhausted. He looks upon the locked doors again with a smile. The young rebel decides that doing what his enemies are expecting, has caused him a great deal of pain and grief. In a flash of inspiration, he ascertains that being unpredictable and smart is the only way to survive this debacle.

He removes a large crescent wrench from his tool belt and takes a moment to enjoy the weight of it in his right hand. A wide grin forms on his face as he uses the wrench to smash through the glass of the door at the far right. Kelvin continues to smile, and even waves to those walking past. The tow truck driver pretends to be breaking the glass as a hired contractor, rather than a criminal. He smashes every last piece of glass out of the doorframe with a crazed look of satisfaction, and steps through to confront the second set of steel doors. The broken glass crunches beneath his black work boots, giving him a sense of meaning and retribution. He strafes to his left in the vacuum-like space between the doors, and then uses the wrench to smash the glass out of a second doorframe. His hand feels righteous as the wrench penetrates the glass. Kelvin envisions his beautiful wife being assaulted by one of the men whose name is on the front of the building. When the glass is gone, he steps into the spacious lobby, enjoying the familiar crunch from the jagged jewels of destruction beneath his feet.

Kelvin undoes his tool belt and lets it drop to the floor, no longer seeing the need for wrenches and fake drills. He removes the pistol from under his shirt, holding it in his right hand, with the barrel pointed toward the ground at his side.

The Calbraw Building seems desolate in the shadows of early evening. All of the lights in the main lobby have been turned off, leaving only the natural light of the sun to illuminate the space, through thin apertures in the upper walls. Kelvin steps across the floor, looking down at the massive four-foot tiles with the demeanor of a scorned hunter. Each tile is a hybrid of travertine and solid black marble, with decorative silver patterns. This design makes the floor appear alien as if an unknown language were scribed across its surface in unbroken cursive.

The young man rounds the corner to the left, toward the exhibition hall, immediately noticing eight replicas of Easter Island statues. Each statue stands eight feet high and four feet wide, spaced evenly to form a large ninety-six-foot circle. There are eight-foot gaps between the statues, with portions of the gaps containing splash pads. The ambient lighting in this area makes it appear even more alien than the lobby. Kelvin hears the sporadic release of air pressure, followed immediately by the coordinated splattering of water from the splash pads.

There are three massive concrete thrones on either side of the exhibition hall, each similar to that of The Lincoln Memorial. The six thrones are facing inward from the far walls, spaced evenly throughout the room. Kelvin can barely make out the shapes of each throne in the sparse lighting and is unable to see any decorative markings or figures seated on them.

The young rebel elects to walk through the circle of statues, calculating that if a gun battle were to break out, they would serve as great cover. When he reaches the center of the circle, he looks down at the company logo in the floor, shaking his head in disgust. Kelvin is disappointed that the logo is a focal point for the face of each statue.

"Welcome to the center of the universe," Kelvin says under his breath, noticing the steel glint of three elevator doors at the far end of the exhibition hall.

"You are not here for a friendly visit." A deep voice remarks from a concrete throne at Kelvin's left, echoing throughout the vast space. "I see that you carry death in your right hand."

Kelvin freezes in his tracks, standing atop the gold logo with primal terror coursing through his body. He takes a deep breath and steps back a few paces, trying to find a way to conceal himself.

"There is nowhere to hide." The voice announces with authoritative spite, sounding confident and wise. "I have seen you...perhaps we should see each other."

Kelvin's heart begins to throb as a surge of electrical power brightens the thrones at the edges of the room, leaving the center of the exhibition hall in deep shadows. He sees a figure seated atop the throne at the far left corner of the room, now illuminated by amber lighting shining upward from the floor. Jacob Calbraw sits at the center of the throne, appearing menacing with his right foot pulled up to his chest, and his right arm wrapped around the shin. His left leg dangles in front of the concrete sculpture, making him seem fearless or careless. Jacob's left hand is resting atop an old-fashioned electrical switch on the armrest, which appears to control the lights.

As more lights spark to life behind the back of the throne, Kelvin notices what looks like a series of hands reaching outward from the wall. He takes a step backward in revulsion, seeing long drips of blood underneath the arms where they were severed at the elbows. The young man is aghast, realizing that Jacob has decorated the wall around his throne with human limbs of all colors and sexes.

Kelvin looks to his right and notices a wide staircase next to the elevators. This staircase is also illuminated in the soft glow of amber, and there are Hispanic workers mounting pairs of human legs on the stairs. The horrid scene involves legs that have been severed at the knees, still bearing the footwear of the original owner, but not their clothing. Each pair of legs seems suspended in rudimentary fashion by some type of wire fastened to the railing.

On the first step are the legs of a woman, with drips of blood that flowed from the severed area below the knee. They are balanced in a pair of delicate, red high heels at the right side of the step. The next step up displays the legs of a man at the far left, also severed at the knee, and adorned with a pair of black, designer shoes. Kelvin's lower lip begins to tremble as he detects an alternating pattern on each step. There are dozens of legs rising up almost around the corner to the next floor.

"Whose death are you pursuing, aside from your own?" Jacob asks with a fierce gaze as he jumps down from the throne, and walks forward, moving around Kelvin's left flank.

"I'm here to-" Kelvin pauses, realizing that his reason for being here may sound foolish if not presented with honesty. "My son died... He was eight years old. The people who could've saved him didn't, because they were too busy taking care of their VIP clients."

"So they did not kill your son?" Jacob asks in a callous tone, dismissing Kelvin's feelings altogether. "They just let him die?" He begins to move faster in the shadows, staying behind the Easter Island replicas as he circles Kelvin.

"THEY WERE MORE CONCERNED WITH ME BEING BLACK!" Kelvin explodes with fury, almost firing the pistol in his right hand from the sudden tension in his fingers. "The security guard thought I might be a criminal, trying to run a scam. YOU TELL ME WHAT FUCKING SCAM INVOLVES A LITTLE BOY DYING IN YOUR ARMS!"

"Your son was dying...of what?" Jacob inquires from the shadows behind the statues, moving with finesse as the conversation continues.

"He had an allergic reaction and stopped breathing," Kelvin replies, fighting back a series of tears as he tries to keep track of Jacob's movements. "All he needed was a shot of adrenaline...and he would have been able to breathe."

"So they denied him the medicine, and he died because you are black," Jacob confirms with fascination, seeming to appear and disappear all around Kelvin. "What was his name?"

"His name was Geo," Kelvin answers as tears spring forth from his eyes, finding his adversary to be oddly therapeutic.

"Young Geo Carver?" Jacob confirms with a sudden spark of interest. "The boy who adored poetry?"

"Why did you come to my house, Jacob?" Kelvin demands, no longer feeling the need to play games. "Why did you hurt my wife?"

"Twelve years ago, men abducted and killed Jacob's mother in the night," Jacob answers in a voracious tone, deciding to share his own loss. "Your son overheard one of the men reciting a poem written by Jacob's mother – that no one else had seen. In time, Jacob discovered that the men in charge of his father's company...had his mother killed."

"Why are you talking about yourself in the third-person, Calbraw?" Kelvin remits with frustration, wiping away his tears from the memory of Geo. "You ARE Jacob!"

"No, I am Thretch!" Jacob retorts, speaking in a deep, booming voice that resounds through the exhibition hall. "Jacob is here, but his time with the body is done – for now."

"I want vengeance for my son's death," Kelvin says with pride, ignoring the perverse insanity of the billionaire who is stalking him like a wounded animal.

"Vengeance has been served!" Jacob answers with a powerful voice that reverberates across every surface of the lifeless building. "There is nothing more for you here, lest you seek to hold hands with the dead."

"I want vengeance from you!" Kelvin replies with a brave and terrified demeanor, aiming his pistol in the direction of Jacob's voice.

"How amusing..." Jacob responds immediately, pausing in the shadows behind one of the large statues.

Kelvin hears rapid movements that seem to be approaching from his rear right side, and he turns to aim the gun in that direction. Jacob darts out from behind the statues and Kelvin fires two rounds before the young man disappears again, diving to safety behind a thick stone head. The room goes silent, and Kelvin listens for the slightest hint of movement. Though the splash pads are too noisy, mocking him with their incessant symphony of water plunging up and down.

Kelvin sees a flash of reflected light and turns to seek out Jacob somewhere near the beam. He wheels around to his right while looking to the left and feels his wrists bump into something solid. To his horror, the pistol is effortlessly knocked out of his right hand; a move that sends it sliding across the slick floor. Jacob grips the right side of Kelvin's chest, pinching his skin and nipple as he clutches his uniform. The young billionaire unleashes a series of left hooks to the right side of Kelvin's face, diminishing his ability to stand. After several hard blows to the head, Jacob allows Kelvin to drop to the floor onto his back, twitching and covering his right eye in severe agony.

Jacob stands up tall over Kelvin's body, rolling his head back and forth on a swivel as if to relieve pain in his neck. He then reaches down and grabs the tow truck driver by the shoulder of his uniform shirt, dragging him across the floor toward the elevators.

"You want vengeance?" Jacob asks with ferocious energy, moving faster with each step as they maneuver across the floor. "Then you shall have it."

The young entrepreneur drags Kelvin to the elevator doors and presses the call button with his free hand. He then pulls the tow truck driver to his feet, returning his stare of galvanized hatred. When the elevator doors open, Jacob shoves Kelvin onto his back in the elevator, smiling with vindication. He then steps inside the car and presses the button numbered seventy-eight, and exits the large, glamorous unit.

"Your vengeance is on seventy-eight," Jacob says with an enraged expression. "Take all you want!"

Kelvin gets to his feet as the elevator doors close, separating him from his adversary in a manner that incites both fear and relief. He looks at the panel of buttons to his right, knowing that he can get off at any floor, and wonders if that would be wise. The young man's stomach is squeamish at the thought of seeing dismembered bodies lying about, in the wake of Jacob's slaughter.

He considers getting off at floor seventy-seven, and taking the stairs to the next floor, but wonders if that will do any good. Kelvin decides to grab a pipe bomb from his pouch. If he dislikes what he sees when the doors open, he can lob the bomb to the floor and close the elevator doors.
XXVI. Life is Cruel

The elevator doors open on the seventy-eighth floor of the Calbraw Building, revealing a small, dimly lit entryway. There is only three feet of hardwood flooring in front of the elevator, leading up to a pair of reinforced black rubber doors. This area of the building seems to have been recently framed in new construction. It is made up of large stainless steel panels that form the walls and ceiling of the short entryway.

Kelvin senses his stomach becoming uneasy, gauging the oddity of these industrial rubber doors within such a prestigious building. The bright orange lighting of the entryway does little to quell his discomfort. Kelvin steps forward with a retrofitted pipe bomb in his right hand. He uses his left hand to explore the smooth surface of the black rubber doors. The young rebel remembers having seen similar doors within loading dock areas. They are used where lift trucks need to pass through self-contained rooms for food preparation and storage. The doors do not have handles, and Kelvin pushes the right side slightly inward, detecting that it takes a great deal of strength to push it open. After pushing the door inward a foot, he releases his hand and watches it snap back into place. He takes an educated guess that once a body enters, they cannot leave. The elevator doors close in a whoosh of energy behind him and he is somewhat startled by this unexpected movement.

There is a faint yet haunting sound of moaning coming from the other side of the door; not just from a single source, but from an entire group. This incessant wailing is followed by the briefest sound of movements across the hardwood flooring; a type of thumping and shuffling. Kelvin's left hand begins to tremble as he looks at his reflection in the stainless steel panel to his left. The young man shakes his head in a solemn fashion, knowing that he should have never come to this building, regardless of the objective.

He stares at the black doors in silence, smirking a bit at the grimness of the path laid before him, and wondering if leaving is an option. Kelvin places his hands on his hips, and the creases of a once tidy work uniform, enjoying the security afforded by the thick, black fabric. His instinct is to find a way out of this place with all possible speed, but he feels that a trip back down to the lobby would be perilous.

"Jacob has lost his mind," Kelvin admits to himself under his breath, inciting a wretched feeling of hopelessness. "I'm trapped in a building with a psychopath."

Kelvin lowers his head to consider the gravity of his misfortune, and removes a cellular phone from his left pocket. With a shaky left thumb, he pulls up his wife's phone number and presses the display to call her. The young man holds the pipe bomb against his forehead. In the sparse lighting of the confined space, he illogically seeks comfort and wisdom from the cold steel. Although the device is deadly, the cooling effect on his skin somehow calms the anxious tow truck driver. This pacifier is helpful as he waits for his wife to answer her phone. After several rings, Christina's voice mail greeting plays through the earpiece of his cellular phone. Although he enjoys hearing the voice of his lover, the moment is bittersweet. When the greeting ends, the voice mailbox beeps, prompting him to begin recording. Kelvin freezes for several seconds, unaware of how to begin such an important message.

"Christina, it's Kelvin," he says as a tear rolls down his right cheek, finding its way to his well-groomed gray beard. "I just want to say that I'm thinking about you... That life has been so much better because of you. I want to thank you for giving me such a beautiful little boy, and I'm sorry... Baby, I am so sorry for what happened to him. I don't know what's goin' on with the world lately, hon, but it isn't a place for honest, hardworking people anymore. I don't know...I don't know what to think. I do know that our little kitchen was the biggest place in my heart, and it still is... Whatever happens with all this...craziness. I need you to know that our time in that little house was everything to me. I love you and cherish you for being the amazing woman that you are. There isn't a day that I regret having you in my life. Baby, you are the center of my universe, and God I miss you! I miss you so much, baby! Your Kelvin bear loves you, and I wish I could hold you right now. If things go bad here, I want to you to move on, and have an amazing life. I love you, Christina Carver! I'm nothing without you, baby." He hangs up the phone as tears descend his cheeks, showing an expression of defeat when he slides the device back into his pocket.

Kelvin pushes hard against the rubber door on the right with his left forearm and elbow. The door gives somewhat under his weight, and he manages to squeeze through the opening, before it snaps back into place. He immediately finds himself in total darkness, feeling a familiar sting of betrayal that weakens his resolve. The young rebel holds his breath in silence and leans back against the door, attempting to reenter the lighted entryway, but the large mass of black rubber doesn't budge. His hands search the smooth surface of the doors, seeking out a handle or emergency release, but there is nothing, save for the feeling of smooth, hardened rubber.

There is another disturbing moan that carries forward from the opposite corner of the space, and Kelvin feels himself shaken to his core by the primal noise. The moaning grows louder as it is repeated, sounding like a warning for trespassers. This alert is followed by a fit of shuffling and thumping sounds. Kelvin reacts by flattening himself against the heavy door and peering into the darkness for any identifiable shapes.

He hears the guttural yell of another creature, rising out of the darkness to his immediate left, wailing an aggressive warning. The young man is startled, and leaps immediately to his right, bumping into the backside of a creature whose head only reaches the center of his chest.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Kelvin exclaims, trying to maneuver to his left, away from the creature, but finding his path blocked by another set of black rubber doors.

The small figure turns about-face in the darkness, letting out a harrowing roar of anger, and Kelvin feels its teeth bite down hard on his left forearm. His eyes open wide in shock and terror, assuming that a type of ape or gorilla is biting him for invading its space. Kelvin lets out a yelp from the intense pain, resulting in a series of groans and grunts from several other creatures in the blackness. He immediately hits his attacker in the skull with the pipe bomb, pummeling it with two solid strikes before it lets go of his arm and backs away.

Kelvin's left forearm is trembling violently from the fresh, searing pain. The warm blood that drips from his skin is a steadfast reminder of how dangerous the situation has become. He feels around the surface of the rubber doors at the right, hoping that there is a handle or release in this unfamiliar section. The young man freezes when he hears a series of cries and primal howls from the space all around him. He senses a group of creatures converging on him for an attack. They seem to be coordinating their efforts in the gloomy space. Kelvin senses that his life is about to end. He holds the pipe bomb outward in his right hand, feeling for the plastic ignition cap with his left. He breathes with discomfort as the possibility of suicide by explosion becomes a tempting option. The young man hopes that the ten-second fuse is short enough to avoid any suffering.

The rubber door to his right opens with urgency, jarring Kelvin and causing him to shift to his right. A powerful left hand reaches through the door and grabs the young man by the shoulder of his uniform. The stranger then tows him backward from the dark space.

When the door snaps shut, there are fevered sounds of thumping and aggressive wailing from the other side. Kelvin turns to face his savior in the dimly lit hallway of an office complex, and is stunned to see Jacob standing next to him. He backs away from the young man in terror, moving as close to the opposite wall as possible.

"What the fuck are you doing to me!?" Kelvin asks in terror, looking down at the deep wound on his left forearm, and watching his blood saturate the bamboo flooring. "You put me in a room with a bunch of baboons! That ain't no way for a man to die!"

"Jacob has no interest in killing you," the demon says in a calm tone to his panicked guest, "unless you still want revenge..."

"Look, I just want to go home to my wife," Kelvin admits as the fresh perspiration of fear and adrenaline begin to saturate his clothing. "I don't want to hurt you. I just...want to be back with my family. This was all a huge mistake... And I get that now. Please let me go home to my wife."

"I want you to see something first," Thretch replies, showing a wicked grin and lowering his head with menacing intent. "I want you to see the fruits of your aspirations. Follow me!" The forfeit soul orders and turns toward a black, metal staircase, which ascends diagonally up the white wall nearest them.

Kelvin looks around the modern office space with the intention of escaping, but wonders how Jacob would react to this decision. The offices that surround him are a large maze of enclosures with clean surfaces and modern equipment. They have broad sections of glass for walls, giving the area a feeling of transparency. He watches Jacob ascend the staircase that is adjoined to the outer wall, and notices that the stairs rise to an observation catwalk.

"THAT WAS NOT A REQUEST!" Thretch shouts at the fearful tow truck driver, glaring down at him with superiority and disappointment. "YOU CAN JOIN ME...OR YOU CAN JOIN THEM!" He states, pointing toward the black rubber doors of the recently constructed stainless steel enclosure.

Kelvin slides the pipe bomb back into its pouch, deciding to follow Jacob up the stairs and onto the steel catwalk. As they ascend the stairs together, Kelvin gazes around the office complex with confusion, wondering what is so important about this place. He peers down at the stainless steel enclosure from the winding metal staircase, observing the recent welds and lack of proper finish work.

There are two light switches that seem to have been recently installed, mounted to the wall at the left, near the top of the stairs. Jacob flips both switches as he makes his way out onto the catwalk, stepping into a position just above the stainless steel enclosure. The young billionaire puts his hands atop the railing, looking dapper in a black tuxedo. After watching the glow of several industrial lights that flicker to life, Jacob gestures impatiently with his left hand for Kelvin to join him.

Kelvin watches his captor with suspicion for a few seconds, but finally decides to accompany him on the catwalk. He steps cautiously to the railing that is fifteen feet above the center of the office complex. There are several industrial-grade lights illuminating the enclosure below them. The young rebel takes up a position at Jacob's immediate right. He stares with curiosity down at the creatures that lurk in the enclosure.

"I'd like you to meet the board of directors," Thretch says with hearty satisfaction, waving his cupped left hand over the opening at the top of the enclosure.

The enclosure is a simple piece of construction made from part of the existing hallway. It consists of stainless steel plates that make up the four-foot sections at the bottom of the fabricated prison. The upper portion of each section consists of tinted glass. There are two sets of rubber doors in the enclosure. One set of rubber doors leads to the elevator at the center of the hallway, and the other provides access to the office space.

Kelvin is immediately repulsed by the sight of the men and women that are caged within the twenty-five-foot by eight-foot structure. His face twists with severe discomfort, and an awful feeling surrounds him, like a soldier wandering the battlefield of his dead brothers in arms. He begins to cry tears of sorrow and remorse, watching the beleaguered group stalking the narrow hallway of their prison in a state of constant suffering. As the seconds pass, Kelvin can no longer contain his empathy, and it bursts forth from his eyes in wave after wave of desperate tears. He is shocked to find himself sobbing at the ghastly display that is shown underneath the powerful industrial lights.

"You came here seeking vengeance on them." The demon states in a deep voice, watching with immense pride as Kelvin recoils in fear. "Now vengeance is done, and you pity them?"

"You can't do this to people," Kelvin replies as the tears continue to flow from his eyes. "This isn't something you do... I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy."

"It is done," Thretch replies with accomplished candor, leaning over the railing a bit to inspect his work. "They are not yet suffering. Their blood is filled with the warmth of the dragon. It will be morning before the suffering begins."

"They need to be put out of their misery," Kelvin demands with a trembling lower lip, feeling a bit of spittle drop from his mouth to the steel floor of the catwalk. "You can't just leave them to suffer."

"They are more beautiful than before." The twisted entrepreneur responds, pointing with his right hand toward the enclosure. "They thought themselves more special than all men... Now they are special, worthy of your pity and grief."

"How did you end up like this?" Kelvin asks with a haunted expression, watching the young man with distrust. "Why would anyone ever do something like this?"

"It is the legacy of my king." The creature declares, staring toward the lights at the far end of the room as if he is awash with old memories. "This is my tribute to him."
XXVII. Riding The Demon – The Dead King Scrolls – Knap of Howar, Orkney, Scotland - Spring, 3952 B.C.

Never before had the earth been so green and the seas so turbulent in their might. Men and women were strong, fierce, and indentured unto their tribes for survival and that of their kin. The wildness of the seas that spring reached a zenith not aforementioned in the tales of mankind. Fishing boats were swallowed daily by riptides, and the skies were covered in dark rainclouds on most days. Many elders had said that the creator foretold a new crucible of civilization and that the joys of invention would lead to dominance and subjugation. It was during this crucial tipping point, when the ancient world emerged anew that men learned to exploit their brothers and sisters. From the first moment that a man gazed upon a metallic surface, to indulge his own image, the tribes of the earth were doomed to suffer the heirs of vanity.

Thretch feels the cool spring rain pelting his face as he sprints across the emerald-colored grasses on the Knap of Howar in ancient Scotland. He stops for a moment at the crest of a hill, feeling joy throughout his entire being. The young man swings his head in a clockwise motion, allowing his long red hair to whip in the wind. Nearly every other member of his tribe has taken shelter from the rain, avoiding the cold, and the lethal illnesses that it sometimes brings. Despite his reckless nature, the strapping twenty-two-year-old warrior has rarely fallen ill. During times of sickness, he always fought his way back to health.

The young man stands solid at six-foot-five-inches in height, and his body is muscular all over, like the wild wisents that grazed the plains. His skin is pale and healthy, exposed from head to toe, save for a weathered loincloth that protects him at the front and rear.

A burst of lightning lances the ground just thirty feet from where Thretch is standing. His bright blue eyes ignite with intense fascination, having never before seen such an exotic phenomenon. He is further dazzled when two more bolts of lightning scorch small patches of earth in succession, each of them leading to a large, solitary tree near the edge of the sea. The young warrior licks his lips with youthful wonder, confused and amazed by this magnificent lightshow. Another series of lightning strikes begin at his right, and again there are three consecutive bolts that crash into the earth, each getting closer to the old Wych Elm tree.

The ancient Scotsman can no longer contain his curiosity. He begins to race across the lush green landscape before him, enjoying the squishy earth underneath his feet. Beneath the dark rainclouds, the Wych Elm seems to be in mourning; its branches all bowing toward the earth, covered in thick leaves. The young warrior runs with indomitable energy, traversing over a hundred yards until he is only three feet from the trunk of the Wych Elm. He ducks under a heavily saturated branch that is blocking his path, and approaches the tree as though it were an elder of his tribe. Thretch pauses for a moment to consider what might be happening in the whirlwind of nature that surrounds him. Although the danger seems certain, he smiles wide at the old tree and reaches out with humble innocence, placing his palm onto its rough bark.

Another series of lightning bolts begin to strike the ground less than a hundred yards away, getting closer to the tree with each strike. Thretch detects that his life may be in jeopardy, but he keeps his hand against the tree trunk. The final lightning strike hits only fifteen feet from his position, returning the landscape to the simple rush of the spring rain. Thretch breathes out in relief, enjoying the cleansing air of the rain that mixes with highly-oxygenated odors produced by the tree.

There is a grating sound from the rainclouds above, as though the sky is being ripped apart. A fourth lightning bolt strikes the center of the tree, splitting it down the middle, and sending Thretch's body hurtling through the air. The young man feels heat throughout his extremities, and his heart stops as he watches branches falling from the Wych Elm toward the earth. There is nothing but intense pain for several seconds, and then there is nothing.

"Thretch, thy lord has called upon thee to serve him." A voice announces from the heavens while the young warrior's body remains suspended in the air. "Thou shalt travel to Mesopotamia to protect King Mesa. He will lift the lord's people out of darkness with his wisdom. The earth will guide thee on thy journey."

Thretch gazes upon the heavens in awe, wanting to reach upward as his body dangles in limbo, five feet above the wet grass. He cannot move without a heartbeat or pulse, and the young warrior feels himself growing cold, slipping out of consciousness and into darkness.

The world explodes to life again all around him, and Thretch feels his heart begin to throb with a wild fury as his body smacks the wet ground. He begins to cough and gag from the fury of the lightning strike, but to his amazement, he can move again without limitation. The fearless redhead looks upon the heavens in wonder, his deep blue eyes seeming righteous and wholesome in the brilliant afternoon rain. He jumps to his feet immediately, looking upward at the rainclouds for signs of the path laid before him.

ANCIENT MESOPOTAMIA – FALL, 3952 B.C.

Thretch enters Mesopotamia with wide eyes; never having seen such a diverse range of tribes converged into one place. He looks upon the merchants with their baskets full of grain, and the large stone houses adorned with more than just rocks and earth. The young warrior shakes his head from side to side in disbelief. He is unable to comprehend how so many men and women could survive this treacherous world, maintaining such soft bodies and sullen dispositions. Thretch watches dozens of animals walk past, led by the ropes of their masters, and his stomach cries out for sustenance. It amazes him how plentiful the food is in this part of the world, and moreover, the complacent attitudes of those receiving such blessings.

Thretch stops and gazes in wonder at the coordinated movements of so many people. Prior to this day, he had seen only a colony of ants working together in such vast and orderly groups. He thinks back to his perilous journey from Scotland, recalling a long swim in the unforgiving seas, and the rocks that almost killed him therein. The young warrior exhales, recalling many violent creatures that he encountered along the way, some of them stalking him for miles.

He sees an elderly medicine woman walk past; her wrist adorned with a bracelet crafted out of twine and snakeskin. A violent shiver passes through his body as he recollects being bitten by a snake in the swamps of The Dark Continent. For several hours, he felt as though his heart would explode, and his hands trembled as never before that day. Thretch's athletic body was expelling every manner of vomit and diarrhea, after having drunk the waters of those swamps. By the time he had crossed the jungle, and regained his health, Thretch was grateful to be hunted by only beasts.

A small messenger boy comes running down the winding road, calling out the same phrase over and over. The young man has short hair that has been cut away from his eyes, helping him to move about in the heat of the sometimes unforgiving sunshine. He is wearing a wool loincloth and a small pair of sandals, appearing wealthy in comparison to the other boys of the community.

"Yadah, lahaw." The boy calls out, pointing at Thretch as he descends the muddy pathway. "Yadah, lahaw. Yadah, lahaw."

Thretch blinks his eyes multiple times and scratches his head in confusion, kneading his matted red hair beneath his unkempt fingernails. He doesn't understand what the boy wants, and stares at him blankly, attempting to interpret his intentions. A few of the villagers begin to lose their patience with the repetition of this phrase, and the group joins in on what the boy is saying. They all speak the same words and point to a farmhouse fifty yards up the road.

The boy begins to fan his hands toward his face, urging Thretch to follow him up the path. Many of the villagers are laughing at the tall redhead, wondering if the man is deaf. A middle-aged man places his hand on Thretch's muscular shoulder, attempting to coerce him into following the boy.

Thretch begins to step forward out of instinct, dumbfounded by their lack of aggressive behavior toward a stranger. Amongst his tribe, outsiders were attacked on sight, and this had been the custom for many generations. When the group notices that he is doing what they asked, there is slight celebration among them, as though an elephant were cleared from the busy roadway.

The tall warrior follows the boy up a muddy pathway, still gawking at the amount of sustenance that is strutting past, balanced on fatty shoulders. Many of the villagers look upon him with trepidation, watching his powerful body kick up the mud like a buffalo preparing for a territorial dispute.

Thretch follows the boy to a farmhouse nestled in a small valley atop the hill. When they reach the home, he immediately notices the perfect symmetry of the sandstone bricks that make up the walls. They are much taller than those of the solid rock home that he constructed in his native land. As a rough, wooden door is pushed aside, a wide smile forms across the warrior's face. He never realized the need for such a barricade at the entrance to a home.

A short man of Jewish descent emerges from the home, wearing thin robes of wool to protect his body from the sun. He has a long beard and soft, brown eyes, and conducts himself with wisdom and respect. His slippers are similar to those that the boy is wearing, and he has to crane his neck upward at Thretch from his five-foot-six-inch frame.

"Yeddah, yiddah, Mesa." The man says, speaking with the posture of a scholar and placing his hand in the center of his chest. "Yellah yiddah?" He asks with a smile, placing his hands back at his sides.

"Mesa!?" Thretch exclaims with excitement, not understanding any other word in the strange tongue. "MESA!" He repeats in jubilation, stepping forward to embrace the smaller man as tears roll down his cheeks.

"Yiddah, Mesa." The tribal leader confirms with a bit of hesitation, surprised by the sudden affection shown by his new protector. "Yelliah yohma!" Mesa says abruptly, stepping out of the bear hug, and gesturing for Thretch to enter the home.

The tall warrior walks inside the large house, still infused with elation after finding the man that was foretold to him. His eyes widen as he sees the interior walls, and Thretch bolts over to the bricks behind the door, fascinated by the plaster coating that creates a decorative sheen. He runs his hands up and down across the smooth, cool surface, feeling inspired by the newness of this advanced culture.

Mesa smiles with radiant pride and folds his arms across his chest, waiting for Thretch to finish enjoying the splendor of the plastered walls. He gazes at his new friend with fascination, wondering how primitive and sheltered his life has been. 'Has he ever seen a scroll?' The wise leader wonders in silence. 'What will he think of the colorful mosaics at the temple, and the amazing healing powers of the priests?'

Over the next two years, the men become like brothers and gain a common ground in their language, enough to have long conversations. Thretch spends much of his time protecting Mesa, and in return, the master of the house takes it upon himself to educate his new friend. There are many lessons along the way, and Mesa believes in teaching through experience. Thus, Thretch sometimes finds himself with burnt fingers or a bloated stomach from eating the wrong type of berries.

During this time of prosperity, the empire begins to expand, and there are many disputes over land and trade. Mesa hires a stone mason to forge the sharpest sword possible for Thretch, created out of obsidian. The mason also creates several spears using the same material, which causes the villagers to accuse Mesa of sorcery. Despite their accusations of his being in league with the devil, no one can dispute the tip of his spear. Therefore, many people begin to embrace the young leader's definition of order and justice. This rank and file combination of authority and wise ruling develops into the first kingdom of Mesopotamia.

HUDSON, CALBRAW & CALBRAW BUILDING – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

"So you were commanded by God to protect what would have been the first king of the Jews?" Kelvin asks with forced optimism, repressing his natural discord for the subject at hand. "Where did that go wrong? Why were you turned into a demon?"

"I AM NOT A DEMON!" Thretch shouts from the center of Jacob's abdomen, holding up his right hand in a powerful fist to threaten Kelvin. "I AM A FORFEIT SOUL! There are no demons...in this world."

"Where did it go wrong?" Kelvin asks the disturbed creature, keeping his eyes focused on the fading sunlight of the Manhattan skyline.

"Mesa was drunk one night." Thretch begins with a glimmer of hesitation. "He beckoned me to his dining hall and said that he wanted to punish the separatists. The king commanded me to capture them, and to cut out their eyes and tongues. His orders also included cutting off their arms at the elbow, and their legs at the knee...but I refused him."

"Now we have this horrifying display of suffering below our feet," Kelvin replies, looking down at the disfigured members of the board in shame. "After all these years, you're trying to redeem yourself by doing what you knew was wrong at the time?"

"If I had done as my king commanded – all of history would have changed," Thretch says in a gruff tone, staring at the palm of Jacob's right hand as he flexes his fingers.

"What did he do when you refused?" Kelvin inquires with genuine curiosity, witnessing the eccentric movements of the billionaire.

"When he awoke the next day, all seemed to have been forgotten and forgiven," Thretch says, his voice trailing off for the first time since he began to tell the story. "A few days later, I tracked an assassin from the edge of the village to the home of Mesa's mother. They gained no ground in trying to attack the king, so the cowards sought after his family. The assassin was able to get to his prey long before I could stop him, but he did not harm her. I chose to take him before the king to answer for his crimes. We assumed that his attack was a distraction; part of a much grander assault on the king. I told Mesa that we should try to learn their plan, by breaking the assassin from the outside inward. But Mesa was not hearing anyone else that night. Perhaps he was vexed by the peril of his mother. He ordered me to cut out the prisoner's eyes and tongue, and to chop off his arms at the elbow, and legs at the knee. I advised him that this was foolish; the decision a scorned woman would make."

"How did he respond?" Kelvin asks with intrigue, grasping his chin with his right hand, stifled by the dynamics of ancient politics; even those fabricated by a lunatic.

"He demanded that I carry out the punishment." Thretch answers in a somber tone, staring at the floor in a bitter state of melancholy. "He ordered that the punishment be carried out on the prisoner... Lest it be carried out on me. So I looked at my sword, seeking an answer from the sharpened, black stone in my hand. I spun around in a fit of rage and lobbed off the prisoner's head. Mesa jumped up from his sandstone throne and drew his sword on me, crying out things in his native tongue that I had yet to understand. With two swipes of my sword, I disarmed the wise king, and then I lobbed off his head..."

"What happened after that?" Kelvin beckons with an increasing level of interest, going over the story in his mind. "Did God turn you into a deem' - I mean forfeit soul?"

"Nothing happened." Thretch answers with a defeated gaze, staring with absent eyes at the sunset. "I left Mesopotamia and chose exile on The Dark Continent. For five more years...nothing happened."

ANCIENT LYBIA – 3945 B.C.

Thretch wipes the sweat from his brow beneath the heat of the North African sun. He looks down at a stone ax in his hands, which he has been using to till the earth for a new farm. The young farmer thinks back to a time when a sharp object like this in his hands would be covered in blood rather than dirt. His back and shoulders are sore from digging in such hardened earth. The temperate nature of this region makes the soil harder to turn. This setback is due to heavy rains that raise the soil, and short periods of drought baking it back into a hardened, dry valley.

Thretch's head is shielded by a wool hood, protecting his face from sunburn. He removes the hood for a moment, using the fabric to wipe more sweat from his brow. After a short break to catch his breath, the young man makes his way to the small stoop of his humble farmhouse. The house is nowhere near as modern as those in Mesopotamia, since he never learned the trade of a stonemason. His farmhouse is more of a hut to keep out the wild beasts. It is made up of heavy lumber, lashed together with various reeds and other sinewy plant life.

A hollowed out log is dangling from a thick length of leather near the door of the farmhouse, and Thretch reaches for it with a serious gaze. He takes the makeshift water cask in his hands, and peels back the leaves from the top that are keeping the moisture contained. The exhausted young farmer drinks heartily from the cask. Thretch takes note of how soon he will need to venture to the nearby spring for gallons more. When his thirst is quenched, Thretch hangs the water cask onto the notch of a severed tree branch and wipes his mouth.

The young farmer looks upon the upturned earth with great satisfaction. He knows that this field should produce enough food to allow him more time for socializing with the tribes in the area. His gaze finds a neatly wrapped cloth in a small nook on his porch, and Thretch reaches down with care, bringing it close to his face. He unwraps the contents of the cloth, exposing some of the finest spring wheat seeds that he could obtain. The young man walks out onto the far end of his field, holding up the seeds ceremoniously in his right hand as if to christen the new farm. He pinches a few seeds in his left hand between his index finger and thumb, releasing them into the broken soil beneath his feet.

Just before the seeds hit the earth, a fierce gust of wind picks them up and sweeps them away. The wind continues to grow in ferocity, gusting from thirty to fifty miles an hour, and blowing the wool cloth and remaining seeds from Thretch's hand. The young farmer turns away from the winds, stepping back toward the farmhouse to find shelter. When he is within five feet of the house, it gets tipped over by the hurricane-force winds that are bearing down on the plot of land.

The air all around Thretch is becoming hot and dry, causing his lungs to strain as it affects the fluid within them. He endeavors to walk against the wind, seeking shelter in an isolated cave where he has been getting his water. Thretch finds himself walking with his body leaning forward at almost a forty-five degree angle. His eyes are filling with dust and debris, and he covers them with his right arm, trying to navigate the landscape from memory. There is a sudden and violent popping and snapping sound, as a large tree breaks from its base and falls in his direction.

Thretch feels a tree branch knock him to the ground like a chimpanzee swatting a fly. The impact breaks his clavicle, nose, and ribs, causing him to curl up in the fetal position.

"Thy seeds shall find no purchase. For thou hast betrayed thy father." A voice of damnation echoes from the heavens. "If thou shalt not serve thy father, then thou shall serve mankind for eternity. Almighty God has chosen this as thy day of reckoning. Behold the scorched earth for miles; a desert greater than any other – a scar on the heart of your holy father."

HUDSON, CALBRAW & CALBRAW BUILDING – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

"What happened after that?" Kelvin asks in disbelief, having a hard time accepting the events that Jacob is describing.

"The world turned to hot dust everywhere I walked," Thretch says, looking down at the floor of the catwalk in deep sadness. "I died for the first time of thirst and have since died as many horrid deaths."

"God scorched the face of the earth...because you cut off the king's head." Kelvin says with mild sarcasm, gazing awkwardly about the large office space. "He created The Sahara Desert just to kill one man?"

"God scorched the earth because I changed your history." The demon announces with a hint of outrage, eyeing Kelvin with sinister intent. "The Egyptians enslaved his people for over four hundred years. I remember living as a slave many times under their dynasties. Without a strong kingdom of Israel, The Roman Empire was free to rise and fall. There was no balance in the world...without Mesa. He would have crafted the fortifications needed for a grand Jewish empire."

"An empire that was later realized by King David and others," Kelvin states with a thoughtful gaze, watching his captor with increasing interest. "So did you find out the identity of the assassin who tried to kill Mesa?" He asks with a sober expression, realizing that this subject is sensitive to Jacob.

"He was from another tribe-" Thretch begins with confusion, shaking his head as Kelvin interrupts him.

"No, he wasn't from another tribe," Kelvin says, waiting for Jacob to demand the inevitable answer.

"WHAT DO YOU KNOW!?" The demon shouts into Kelvin's left ear, indicating that he has been wounded by the foolish little man. "YOU WERE NOT THERE!"

"I don't need to be there," Kelvin replies, taking a step back from his ravenous adversary. "I've been listening to your story. Didn't you ever ask why the assassin never killed Mesa's mother? Was she even afraid of him?"

Thretch moves Jacob's face immediately in front of Kelvin, staring into his eyes with ancient animosity. The two men are only an inch apart, and Kelvin can feel Jacob's breath on his skin. He senses a rod of fear driving through him from his head to his knees. Kelvin notices that Jacob's eyes are glazed over white, and appear whiter as he becomes more enraged. For the first time since they met, he believes that there may be more than one person occupying the body.

"TELL ME!" Thretch shouts at Kelvin and snarls in disgust, waiting for the man to give up an answer so that he can break him from the outside inward.

"Mesa was trying to teach you a lesson," Kelvin suggests, watching Jacob for any signs of demonic backlash. "You said that Mesa liked to teach lessons through experience, and I believe that he was trying to teach you...mercy."

"Whelp! Of course, you want me to believe it was mercy..." Thretch growls with a subtle laugh, dismissing Kelvin's theory. "Mercy is what you want from me right now." The creature concludes in a vicious grunt, reaching with vengeful hands toward Kelvin's throat.

"The assassin was Mesa's brother!" Kelvin exclaims, realizing that his life is in danger. "It was Mesa's brother." He repeats with anxiety, watching Jacob's hands drop back to his sides. "That's why his mother wasn't afraid of him, and that's why he didn't kill her. Mesa used his brother as bait...to see if you could learn mercy."

"Why?" Thretch asks with a deep expression of guilt, appearing shocked and dismantled by this news.

"I would assume that he thought of you as a brother...until you killed his..." Kelvin answers; not wishing to see Jacob's hands reaching for his throat.

"I was merciful when I lobbed off the assassin's head," Thretch says with a demeanor of deep reflection. "I thought that was mercy. Mesa could not torture him if he were dead."

"I guess sometimes it takes six thousand years to know how wrong we were," Kelvin states, feeling a rush of panic in his chest as the words leave his lips.

Thretch meets Kelvin's gaze with homicidal intent, wondering why he would say such a thing unless he were seeking a quick death.

"Do you see that creature down there?" Thretch states with visceral disdain, pointing to the enclosure where the board members are being held.

"Yeah...it's a black person," Kelvin answers in a shaky voice, feeling naked and unprepared to deal with someone so powerful.

"Do you see anything familiar?" The creature suggests with a wicked smile, watching him in a state of deviant satisfaction.

Kelvin looks down at the enclosure, paying close attention to a pair of mutilated black bodies as they scamper about. In the crisp, white lighting, he glimpses the side of a breast and realizes that there is a black woman in the pit.

"No..." He protests immediately, turning pale and feeling nauseated by what Jacob is suggesting. "No, it's not her." Kelvin declares with tears streaming down his face as he looks back at Jacob in severe anguish.

"She was so helpful." Thretch states with omnipotent pride, watching his adversary shatter to pieces from the inside out. "There was no reason to leave her out of this."

Kelvin drops down onto his right knee and begins to shake uncontrollably; detecting that everything inside of him is in terrible pain. He wonders for a moment if he will go into cardiac arrest from the strain on his system. The young man looks down at the enclosure again, every ounce of him wishing for a sweet release from mortality. Kelvin bends down further, covering his face with his left hand in absolute shame and grief.

Thretch watches the young man with cruel conviction. He feels horrible to know the truth about Mesa, but gets a slight reprieve by destroying Kelvin.

"HERE'S YOUR MERCY!" Kelvin exclaims, pulling himself upright to display a pair of pipe bombs between the fingers of his left hand.

Without a second thought, Kelvin snaps the plastic end off of the first pipe bomb, igniting the red flare. However, Jacob grabs him by the throat with ancient hatred before he can light the second device, and casts him over the railing. Kelvin feels his body drop from the walkway toward the enclosure, and both pipe bombs fly out from between his fingers. He grits his teeth, anticipating the impact, and the young rebel lands atop one of the mutilated board members. This body breaks his fall with a horrifying thud. There is a distinct metallic sound of steel bouncing on steel, and Kelvin realizes that he is trapped in the enclosure with the explosive devices. The elderly man beneath him groans in severe pain as he attempts to breathe. Kelvin crawls to the edge of the enclosure, feeling somewhat ashamed to harm someone who has endured so much already.

The flare burns bright red within the narrow space, illuminating the grotesque bodies of former captains of industry. Kelvin gets a gruesome firsthand look at the cauterized wounds on the severed limbs of so many suffering people. The young man is conflicted at his core, and wonders if dying from the ensuing blast with his wife is best for everyone. He watches the many trembling faces of Manhattan's wealthiest families, knowing that they will forever haunt him. This terrible scene confirms that his actions have been folly, and the only manner to resolve social conflicts, is through more peaceful ends.

"Goodbye, sweetheart," Kelvin says with affection to the horrific body of the young ebony woman, feeling ashamed that his beloved will die naked and blind.

The young rebel knows that time is growing short, and springs to his feet in a moment of sudden defiance. He squats to the floor with the tenacity of a dead man walking, bending at the knees. The young man then thrusts his body simultaneously up and backward. Kelvin's shoulder blades smash through a large pane of glass. He feels his entire body hurdle over the steel enclosure wall, slamming down on the hardwood flooring. A large piece of glass gives him a stinging slash on the back of his neck, and he winces from the sharp pain, reaching back to inspect the wound.

The pipe bomb explodes with subdued fury, and Kelvin shields himself instinctively, curling up in the fetal position amidst the shards of glass. He is shocked when another explosion immediately follows the first, remembering that the second pipe bomb had not been ignited. Kelvin covers his ears in vain as the percussion of the blasts has left him with severe ringing in his ears. Pieces of glass rain down all over the hardwood flooring in the main office area, and the young man feels a sliver embed itself into the skin underneath his right ear.

After the second blast dissipates, Kelvin gets to his feet, deciding to abandon his path of justice for Jacob. He searches the area near the elevators for an exit to the stairs, and sees a green sign labeled 'EXIT' just twenty yards to his front. Thoughts of his wife are gnawing at the back of his mind, but he chooses to ignore them, pretending that they aren't real. His uniform has been sliced in several places from the pile of glass atop which he fell. These perforations are especially bad on his lower legs, leaving him dripping small streams of blood as he moves. When Kelvin reaches the exit to the stairs, he throws the steel door open and departs with raw determination, allowing the door to slam shut behind him.

The extra-wide staircase is impressive, having the appearance of a courtyard at a lavish estate. There is a bright lamp fixed to the top of each banister on every landing, making the staircase look more like layers of intersecting streets. Kelvin descends the oversized stone steps in a rush, feeling the sting of his fall from the catwalk, at the hands of Jacob. He keeps his mind focused on the staircase beneath him, determined not to be distracted by anything else. The recent horrors of what his wife experienced are trying to break through, like a herd of stampeding elephants; each wailing with their flesh on fire.

After several minutes of diligent progress, Kelvin finds that he has descended more than six flights of stairs and continues his journey in deep meditation. The steel door bursts open at the top floor, and someone enters the area with purpose, moving down the steps in a rampage.

'There's no way you'll catch me!' Kelvin thinks to himself, wondering if he is being pursued by the psychotic billionaire or one of his men. He looks up at the flights of stairs above, trying to determine who might be giving chase. His eyes widen when he glimpses someone traveling down the staircase at a speed that seems inhuman. Jacob is kicking back and forth from the outer wall in an impressive display of parkour, taking five or more stairs at a time. At this pace, he is completing a flight of stairs every six seconds. Kelvin is awestruck to see him complete two flights of stairs as though he were jumping down from a child's tree house.

This display of strength and speed causes Kelvin to panic, and he immediately descends a seventh flight of stairs. He runs at double his normal pace as drops of blood seep down the back of his neck, and into the folds of his shirt. The young rebel is barely able to set foot on the next landing before Jacob reaches the level just above him.

Kelvin begins to walk backward on the fifteen-foot landing area, watching his shadow exhibit the same fear that is affecting his mind. Jacob continues his acrobatic descent with a face of barbaric disgust, pouncing back and forth on the cement like a cheetah. When Jacob reaches the landing, he raises his fist high into the air, lunging toward his adversary across a four-foot gap. The young billionaire brings his fist down with remarkable force toward Kelvin's face. His opponent is petrified and shields himself with both arms. This punch lands on Kelvin's forearms, pile driving him into the cement floor, and halting his progress. Jacob rolls into a somersault toward the edge of the landing, and immediately gets back to his feet. Kelvin uses both of his hands to vault up from the floor, sensing more danger as he glances at the menacing expression on Jacob's face. His forearms are stinging from the heavy blow, and his body is overwhelmed with various types of pain.

Jacob attacks a second time, before Kelvin can get all the way to his feet. He leaps from the landing and kicks off of the cement railing with his right foot, rising high into the air as he twists to face his opponent. The young man then heaves his right arm downward at Kelvin's head, as if to spike a volleyball. Kelvin protects the top of his head with both hands, and again the punch lands on his forearms with potent energy, knocking him off balance. The tow truck driver feels his hips and ribs smack the hard concrete surface in the wake of Jacob's explosive strength. He ignores the pain that immediately follows and removes a pipe bomb from the pouch on his right leg. The weight of the device feels good in his right hand as he stumbles to his feet. Kelvin snaps the plastic end from the bomb and holds it away from his face, admiring the delicious red glow of the device.

The tow truck driver circles to his right, just missing Jacob with the hot flare as he stays next to the outer wall. When he reaches the lower staircase, Kelvin turns and throws the pipe bomb at the young billionaire, watching it bounce on the floor near his feet. The thirty-five-year-old then throws himself down the stairs. He feels the immediate impact of the hard cement beating and abusing his body, and tumbles violently until reaching the landing of the floor below.

Thretch sees the metal cylinder flying toward him; a handheld angel of death. He uses Jacob's body to vault up the stairs, leaping over three at a time until he is more than halfway to the next floor. The bomb explodes near the railing nine feet below. This blast causes Thretch to flatten Jacob's body face-first against the stairs. Despite the fierceness of the explosion, and the shrapnel that flies in all directions, Jacob's body is unharmed.

On the landing two floors below, Kelvin snatches another pipe bomb from his pouch, noting that only two remain. His nose is bleeding from smacking it on the cement during his insane descent, and his right shin is severely bruised. He forces his body to the next set of stairs at the edge of the landing, and conceals himself on the third stair from the top. Kelvin's hands are shaking with such severity that he almost drops the pipe bomb, just from the act of sitting. The young man plants himself atop the stair and watches for Jacob to emerge from above, wiping droplets of blood from his nose every few seconds.

There is no sign of Jacob for almost a minute, but just as Kelvin is thinking that he might be dead, he sees the young billionaire descending the stairs faster than before. Kelvin removes the cap from the pipe bomb to ignite the flare, counting carefully as he tracks Jacob's movements down two flights of stairs.

When he reaches the landing, Jacob begins to charge toward Kelvin, but stops short when he notices a wicked smile on the man's face.

"TRY AND SURVIVE THIS!" Kelvin shouts as he rolls the pipe bomb toward Jacob's body.

Thretch reels backward, pulling Jacob's shoulders toward the stairs. He covers his head with both arms, placing it between the bottom stair and the wall. His knees are then pulled up to his chest with his feet tucked beneath his buttocks.

An explosion pummels Jacob's body, causing intense pain as his legs are burned by the heat of the device. This incident is followed by a more intrusive agony, when several pieces of shrapnel find their way into his back and shins. He flutters on the concrete in critical disdain, after a hot shard of steel makes its way under the skin of his left abdomen, producing some moderate bleeding.

Thretch grips the concrete wall before him in severe discomfort, cursing Kelvin for his cowardly attack. He inspects the bloody wound in his back, realizing that the bleeding must soon be stopped, lest he face another round of death. Thretch pulls Jacob's body upright with rugged determination and scowls when he hears the rapid footsteps of his escaping adversary.

The creature makes his way over to the railing, using his right hand to keep the shard of steel in place and preventing further loss of blood. Thretch peers over the solid concrete railing to see Kelvin moving at a rapid pace just two floors below. The tow truck driver stops his descent and turns to look up at the demon that is standing above him. Their eyes lock for a few seconds, wanting to destroy one another, and then Kelvin continues his journey to the ground floor.

Thretch is vexed that Kelvin is still alive and rolls his hand into a fist as he turns Jacob's body to ascend the stairs, in search of a first aid kit. Each step upward causes tremendous pain, especially where the metal shard is protruding. Thus, with every stair he climbs, the demon considers a new way to punish his enemy.

Kelvin descends the massive staircase for what seems like days. Although his body is racked with intense pain, he feels the need to take the stairs all the way down. This tedious journey feels like penance for his contribution to the terrible series of events. It gives him time to reflect on things that Coal Train and Billy Harmony had said over the past few weeks. He had been so intent on someone paying the price for his son's murder; that he managed to hide from the entire tragedy. As more concrete slabs disappear beneath his feet, Kelvin considers the costs of his Pyrrhic victory. Each stair seems to represent the tombstones of so many that got caught up in this wild ride. He hangs his head in shame, wondering if he accomplished anything with the symbolic and violent assaults. The wounded father feels deeper and deeper sadness on his descent, realizing how far he has allowed his pain to drag him down.

Kelvin hunkers down when he gets to the ground floor, watching the Hispanic workers from the stairs above. They are still decorating the area with body parts, and he considers using another pipe bomb to clear them out.

When he steps out of his hiding place with a pipe bomb in hand, the men don't seem interested in him. Kelvin realizes, in a bizarre way, that they are simply focused on doing the job that was given to them; no matter how strange. He considers this as he jogs past the workers toward the exit, placing his right index finger against his lips when they look in his direction. The two men shrug off his escape as uneventful and continue about their gruesome deed. Kelvin wonders how many people do similarly repulsive things in their daily work, and are numb to the consequences. He disappears through the front doors with a bit of elation, amazed to see the sun again after such a close brush with death.
XXVIII. Full Circle

The cold shadows of night seem to have released the worst possible thoughts from Kelvin's mind. For the past ten minutes, he has been weeping in the snow on his knees, no longer insulated by the denial of his lovely Christina being dead. Kelvin's tears come forth as a stinging reminder of his neglect as a husband and a man. His uniform pants are becoming saturated with melted snow and ice as he hangs his head in shame, feeling that this is a just punishment for such a complete failure. The two people that he was most responsible for protecting, have both departed his life in less than a month. He looks at his shaky left hand in vain, knowing that he had the ability to save them both, given a bit more planning and preparation. Kelvin makes a fist with his left hand, experiencing a cocktail of self-loathing and rage, allowing the feelings of punishment to overtake him.

There is a .45-caliber pistol in his right hand, and the chilly, steel weapon feels like a friend to him in the obscure sadness of his backyard. He looks at the kitchen window on the backside of the home. The young man remembers Geo's fascination with the ice crystals that formed in the quadrants on each pane of glass. Kelvin loosens his grip on the pistol, knowing that he would do almost anything to return to that morning, and remove the nightmares from his life.

He turns the pistol sideways in his hand, wondering if he should fire it into the roof of his mouth or beneath his chin. Kelvin begins to weep with a new spike of sorrow, envisioning himself kneeling on his lawn and having such limited options for how to exit the world.

The kitchen light turns on unexpectedly within his house, glowing with a bright and welcoming shade of yellow. Kelvin winces at the sight of the small kitchen that is now filled with the promise of life and shakes his head in dogmatic disbelief. His right hand begins to fidget, gripping the pistol tighter, and he suspects that Jacob or his men must have decided to tie off loose ends.

Kelvin rises up from the snow with renewed anger for his enemy, and he points the pistol toward the kitchen window, strafing to the right for a better view. There is a sudden movement beyond the window, and he sees someone carrying a bundle of supplies in their arms, but can't make them out at this angle. He cocks the hammer of the pistol, keeping his finger close to the hair-trigger, sliding left to gain a better perspective.

When the figure moves to the center of the kitchen, Kelvin almost fires, but he sees the adorable face of his wife, and a bag of groceries that she has set on the kitchen table. His eyes grow wide with shock and satisfaction as he lowers the weapon toward the ground, allowing it to drop from his hand in the powdery snow.

"CHRISTINA!" Kelvin shouts from just outside the kitchen window, startling his beautiful wife, who grabs her chest and glares at him with her head cocked to the right. "Christina! Oh my God, baby!" He says in jubilation, holding his arms upward in the air with fists of victory.

The young woman makes her way to the rear door of the home and emerges from the screen door to find her husband in the yard.

"Kelvin, what the hell are you doing out here!?" She asks in an irritable whisper, trying not to disturb the neighbors.

"BABY, YOU'RE ALIVE!" Kelvin shouts with unmistakable joy as he rushes forward and gives his wife a delicate bear hug, being mindful of her sensitive spine. "They lied to me! They told me that you were dead!" He exclaims with the excitement of a young child, expressing tears of elation as he passionately kisses his lover. "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry that I almost gave up! YOU'RE ALIVE!" The young man repeats, feeling his chest expand with heat and hope.

Christina's knitted sweater and black jeans have never looked more attractive to Kelvin in his life, and he feels warm all over despite the biting cold of February. The young woman is irritated at first by his onslaught of affection, suspecting that her husband may be drunk. However, as he tells her more of the story, she also begins to cry, unable to repress her mutual feelings of love for him.

"I want you to know that I'm done with revenge, baby!" Kelvin reassures his wife, staring into her eyes as he holds her petite hands, enjoying the tenderness and honesty of the moment. "I've learned a lot today about letting go of the past and overcoming tragedy. I learned about betrayal, mercy, sacrifice... And so much more. But the one thing I know for certain is that we have to let our boy rest. We have to let our little baby Geo go. His time is done, and we need to celebrate the memories that we had with him."

"What about that horrible guy who showed up earlier this week?" Christina says with concern, holding her husband's head close to her bosom. "Isn't Jacob still after us? Are we safe?"

"Yeah, we're safe, baby," Kelvin answers with deep affection, giving his wife a reassuring kiss on the lips. "We're safe because I finally did the right thing. When I escaped the Calbraw Building, I went to a coffee shop to wash up. People were looking at me a little weird, but I think they knew I was the victim. After I got cleaned up, I marched over to a payphone and called the police. They arrested Jacob earlier today for premeditated murder and shut down his building to the public."

"Aren't they going to find you after all this, sweetheart?" Christina replies with concern, holding her husband closer. "Won't they find us!?"

"Yeah, they will." Kelvin acknowledges with unmistakable clarity, leaning back to look her in the eyes as he nods with affirmation. "But that doesn't matter, baby. We've got several hours to get out of here...maybe to Canada. It might be hours or a few days, but I know we've got time. After the mess Jacob left for them in that building; they won't have eyes on us for a while."

"What happened over there, baby?" Christina says with empathy, watching her husband tremble and shiver in the snow. "Your nose is all crooked, and you look really beat up. Are you gonna' tell me what happened!?" She asks with sudden concern, noticing that Kelvin is wincing a bit when they embrace.

"I'll tell you everything, hon, but first I'm gonna' enjoy being with the woman I love," Kelvin says, refusing to dwell on negativity during this shining moment. "One thing I can tell you is that this pain has taught me a lot. I know that you can't pursue justice on your own; it blinds you and turns you into a monster. Believe me, sweetheart, I looked into the eyes of a monster today, and I never want to be that guy. We are so blessed to have each other; even though Geo is gone. We need to celebrate and honor him by living a good life. When someone you love dies...it's not about what you feel should be done, but what they would have done in your place..."

Christina embraces her husband with a hug of absolution and relief, respecting the man more with every passing moment.

"Let's go inside, baby." She says with a smile, clasping his right hand into hers. "I want to spend some time with the man I love."

RIKERS ISLAND MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISON – NEW YORK

TWO MONTHS LATER

Jacob shuffles down the steep stairs from the prison bus to the familiar concrete pad in front of the prison at Rikers Island. His wrists and ankles are shackled together with chains, and he steps forward with a heart of melancholy, knowing that justice has claimed him. The orange jumpsuit feels surprisingly warm, despite the cool April breeze that is blowing past, and Jacob enjoys the rare experience of sunlight on his face.

He looks back toward the perimeter fence, where relatives of his victims have gathered to witness his incarceration. The young man laughs to himself at their ignorance of the truth, realizing that even the vilest monsters in society have family and friends. Amidst the angry crowd, he sees one figure that stands out from the rest. There is a man with long, gray hair, sitting in a wheelchair and watching him with peace and reverence. Unlike the others, this man is silent, appearing satisfied with the punishment that has been handed down to the young felon.

"Nicodemus!" Thretch states through Jacob's lips as he takes control of the body, gazing upon his old nemesis with respect and a bit of familiar affection.

Thretch follows the guards as they lead him back into the prison, keeping up the charade for the television cameras and the general public.

Several minutes later, Jacob is passing through the halls of a large cellblock, carrying himself with supreme confidence. The shackles are gone from his arms and legs, allowing him to roam through the complex like a foreboding rhinoceros.

The young man steps through the prison with the swagger of a rock star. Every inmate that walks past him nods with respect and says the name 'Thretch,' as if they are soldiers saluting a superior officer in the military. Some of the men have eye patches, and others are missing fingers. The inmates back away as 'the spider of Cellblock B' moves through the crowd in general population; each of them terrified to look into his eyes.

A guard smirks with amusement from the safety of the catwalk above, watching Jacob advance through the groups of prisoners. The inmates move away from him as though they are opposing magnets. His body opens up the crowd like a massive battering ram, and everyone stays back at least five feet from the dangerous young man. The guard chuckles to himself, grateful for the amount of order and obedience that this type of fear creates in his prisoners. He smiles wide, knowing that when Thretch is in the cellblock, any minor irritation is punishable with a severe beating. Therefore, the men keep quiet, and everyone does their time with few incidents.

"WHY ARE YOU KISSIN' HIS ASS!?" A rowdy southerner shouts from the center of the cellblock, watching the men make way for Jacob with an incredulous expression. "HE DON'T LOOK LIKE NOTHIN' AT ALL!"

To the southerner's surprise, the men near him drag his body to the floor, delivering a customary beating that is often given to new prisoners.

Thretch wheels around to confront his adversary, twisting his head to the right and rolling both hands into tight fists. His deep blue eyes are ablaze with a murderous lust, and Jacob can feel a growing compulsion within his companion to unleash the violence.

"It's okay, Thretch, we took care of him for ya'," a tall, bearded prisoner explains, stepping forth from the crowd with his right palm pointed outward. "No worries, we'll teach him how things work around here."

The demon smiles at his bearded spy for a moment, and then turns back toward his cell, noticing that a guard is standing next to the open door. He makes his way to the guard, and the prisoners give him a wide berth wherever he steps.

On the floor at the other side of the cellblock, the prisoners continue to pummel the new inmate with moderate blows.

"Don't insult Thretch." A large African-American man proclaims as he hits the young southerner on the right side of the jaw. "If you disrespect him, he'll cripple you, and then he'll injure two or three of the men standing next to you. Five guys have lost their fingers, and three have lost an eye. He's a crazy mutherfucka', and he has friends all over this place." The inmate delivers this beating with a bit of regret, looking down upon the southerner like he is doing him a favor.

Thretch struts mightily forward to the guard that is standing outside of his cell. The plump man is holding a letter in his right hand, staring somewhere between the floor and Jacob's head as the young man approaches.

"Thretch." The guard says with a slight nod, keeping his eyes down in respect. "Your mail." He adds in a curt fashion, holding up a letter for the young inmate to enjoy.

Thretch takes the letter from the guard with Jacob's right hand and makes his way into a cell at the far corner of the massive room. Although this wasn't his original cell, it took little persuasion to have the guards move him, and assign a proper roommate. The new order that exists in the cellblock has bought Jacob a lot of favors with the prison warden. They have built an understanding, and no guards have been injured in his cellblock since he arrived.

"There was some good news while you were at court." A scrawny Asian man says from the top bunk of Jacob's cell. "I have the newspaper clipping." He states with pride, leaning down with his right hand to show his bunkmate.

"Read it to me." Thretch orders with a casual voice as he lies back on the rough material of his bunk.

"Former New York City reverend found dead." The young Asian reads aloud, trying not to screw up the story as he speaks. "Reverend Gordon Schelnick was found dead of malaria in Pretoria, South Africa. He was the father of the church-"

"That's enough!" Thretch interrupts with a gaze of deep satisfaction, feeling a soothing peace emanate through Jacob's mind. "Malaria is a terrible way to die. I've met my end from it many times."

"I'm sure that you have!" His Asian roommate states with overplayed affection, returning to the silence and enjoyment of reading a fantasy novel.

Thretch uses Jacob's hands to open the already split seal at the top of the envelope, gazing with curiosity at the return address. He unfolds the letter with slow and tedious movements, knowing that there is plenty of time to indulge whatever might lie within the document. 'Dear Life Sentence,' he reads to himself, feeling a smile form at the corners of his lips.
XXIX. The Greatest Generation

Levi Hudson feels the thick stubble under his chin, and turns away from the mirror that is opposite him in a secluded hospital room. He looks down with his soft, brown eyes at the digital tablet in his lap, exhausted from reading so many articles these past few weeks. His screen has a digital copy of The New York Times pulled up, which he has been reading to catch up on current events from back home. The thirty-seven-year-old security officer is dismayed at how soft his body has become during this extended guard duty. Though he does not regret a single minute of service. Levi looks down at a .308 Weatherby Magnum rifle that is propped up against the wall, in the corner of the room. He decides that it is time to check the windows again for potential threats. The middle-aged Navy veteran gets up from his padded hospital chair. He stretches toward the ceiling, which lifts his shirt a bit, exposing a nickel-plated, .45-caliber pistol under his waistband. The security contractor is dressed in the spirit of the local style, wearing a green T-shirt with a bear on the front, and a pair of thick, black jeans. His sunglasses dangle from the neck of the T-shirt, swaying here and there as he stretches. Their shiny, black surface almost matches that of his sleek running shoes.

The slightest sound of a dry cough rises from a nearby hospital bed, and the guard turns his head in sudden disbelief. Levi moves toward the bed with urgency as the coughing gets louder. He lowers himself toward the floor on one knee to assist his benefactor.

Earl Calbraw blinks his eyes somewhat, noticing severe irritation in his throat and realizes that he has never felt so parched in his life. He looks up toward Levi; feeling bewildered at how much his security officer's beard has grown since he saw him last.

Levi bolts over to the bedside caddy, where a large mug of water has been building condensation around its base. He snatches a small, plastic cup from a clear bag next to the eggshell-colored hospital mug, and fills it to the brim with water, spilling a bit on his right hand.

"Here you go!" Levi says to Earl with haste, bringing the cup close to his lips so that the bedridden entrepreneur can revitalize himself. "Drink it slowly; you've been getting your fluids through IV bags." He says with affection, watching his employer enjoy a hearty drink of water. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions, but the long and short of it is that you're alive and healthy. We're at a hospital in Fairbanks, Alaska." The security officer adds with a delicate smile, pulling the empty cup away from Earl's face.

Earl coughs a few more times to clear his throat, grateful when the water breaks through a gnarly seal of phlegm that had developed at the rear opening.

"What happened?" Earl demands as soon as his voice returns to him, choking a bit as he speaks. "Don't bullshit me, Levi; just give me the details." He instructs, twitching his eyebrows in an aggressive manner.

The weary billionaire is clad in an unflattering white hospital gown with blue polka dots. Earl's typically immaculate hair has become a tattered mess of gray atop his head. His face has remained clean-shaven, and his body was washed just hours ago, thanks to a special deal between his caretakers and the hospital staff. Earl gazes down beneath the hospital gown at some fresh bandages on his chest. He recollects the scalding bite of the bullets that tore through his lungs.

"Well, you were shot a few times by some locals." Levi begins as he pulls his chair up closer to the hospital bed. "Johnny got into a spat with one of your other employees over whether to save you or not. As it turns out...Johnny's knife is very persuasive. So he was able to call an ambulance and get you to the emergency room in time. You immediately went into surgery to have the bullets extracted, and it went well, but left you in a coma."

"Johnny saved my life?" Earl asks immediately, ignoring the rest of the details as a tear streams down his right cheek. "I thought he was going to let me die."

"Haha. No, Earl, Johnny did a lot more than just save your life." Levi announces with a proud smile; feeling moved by Earl's display of emotion. "He played along with Scott until he was behind him, and then he cold-cocked him with the pommel of his knife. I'll tell you what, that dude will think twice about messing with you now that his head is split-"

"I want to talk to Johnny." Earl interrupts with an eager look in his eyes, twisting his head from side to side in search of his young savior. "Is he here?"

"Just a second," the security contractor says with a smile, patting Earl on the left shoulder as he gets to his feet. "Johnny, there's someone here that wants to talk to you." He calls to the opposite side of a large blue curtain, which segregates the room from the rest of the hospital. "He's been guarding the door for two months," Levi states with a wink, stepping away from the bed with his arms folded to give the men some space.

Johnny enters the room with an expression of shock on his young face, staring at Earl in disbelief with a pair of piercing brown eyes. The young man is dressed in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of black slacks with blue running shoes. He seems thinner than normal as he takes a seat in front of Earl's hospital bed, showing genuine elation to see his boss on the mend.

"Oh my God!" Johnny states immediately, gripping Earl's left hand with his right. "You finally pulled through... That's awesome!" He exclaims with deep satisfaction, feeling his chest pulsating with strength, knowing that he did the right thing.

"Levi tells me that you saved my life," Earl says with a grateful smile, gripping the young man's hand near the side of the bed. "I'll bet that was a hard decision to make, but I'm so glad you gave me another chance." His eyes fill with tears, and he tries to embrace the reality of what Johnny would have had to overcome to let him live.

Johnny also begins to cry, releasing Earl's hand as he nods his head in affirmation of this harsh truth. Levi feels the happiness of this moment tugging at the back of his throat, but refuses to show emotion. He instead thinks about his time in the Navy, and other security responsibilities – anything to avoid crying.

"You're a remarkable person, Johnny, and I look up to you with the greatest respect," Earl says, feeling tremendous admiration for his young employee. "We're going to heal this country together, son, and I'm going to do it in the name of your parents. There won't be this horrible shadow of greed hanging over America, preventing people from getting what they worked so hard to achieve. I promise you that the medicine and food will be there when hardworking families need them. Nobody is going to manipulate the system again."

"Thank you, sir," Johnny says with a smile of fulfillment. "I knew that saving you was the right thing to do. It's what my daddy would have done."

"Your daddy was a great man." Earl beams with pride, closing his eyes for a moment in a display of respect for the dead. "He did a wonderful job with you, Johnny." The tired billionaire says with a broad smile, pausing for a moment in thought. "Where's Jacob?" The hospitalized entrepreneur inquires, raising his head to look around the room.

"Whoa, stay put," Levi orders with his palms pointed toward Earl. "Jacob can't be here right now." He adds with an uneven stare, allowing his gaze to meet the floor.

"What happened with Jacob?" Earl demands immediately, flailing about somewhat in the bed as he watches his companions lower their heads in shame. "Tell me where he is! Now!"

"Jacob is at Rikers Island," Levi states after a bit of hesitation, not wishing to cloud the joyous mood in darkness.

"Oh, dear God!" Earl exclaims in horror, holding his forehead with his right hand and shaking it from side to side. "He must have found out about his mother... I should have never been drinking! Goddamn alcohol!" He emotes in severe anguish, releasing his repressed rage.

"Earl, you didn't kill your wife," Levi replies with a sober expression, gazing at his employer with deep sympathy. "Jacob found out who murdered Shannonbie; that's why he's in prison."

"It was me!" Earl says in a fit of panic, exhaling with remorse as he buries his face in his hands. "I gave the order."

"NO, YOU DIDN'T!" Levi shouts at his boss, attempting to break him out of his fit of hysteria.

Earl sits up straight and looks at Levi with objectivity, listening to him for the first time since he broke the news.

"Listen to me carefully, Earl," Levi explains in a delicate tone, holding his right hand outward to emphasize his certainty. "Jacob began to investigate his mother's murder after you were pronounced dead."

"I was pronounced dead?" Earl asks with an incredulous gaze. "By whom?"

"Just...let me get to that part," Levi says with a bit of irritation, signaling with his right index finger for his benefactor to remain quiet. "Jacob found out that Plato and the board of directors plotted to have your wife killed. That was because she had asked you to do too much charity work. It was going to hurt their profits, and they took a vote to get rid of her. Your partner told you that she was having an affair, and set up a dummy hotline to make you think that you killed her. Plato ordered a team of guys to abduct her from your home. Jacob found out about it...and-"

"And...and what?" Earl asks with impatience, becoming enraged that Levi is deflecting the most relevant question. "What happened to Jacob?"

"Jacob snapped!" Levi answers in a sharp tone, evoking the social equivalent of ripping off a bandage. "He snapped and slaughtered your board of directors. It's all over the news..." The security guard reports in a faint voice, not wishing to deliver these details so soon. "Jacob is serving five life sentences for premeditated murder."

"Give me a minute alone." Earl orders with fading patience as he closes his eyes, grabbing immediately at the back of his neck.

He looks at the floor in absolute despair as the two men exit the room, having never felt such a visceral betrayal in his life. Earl's stomach is shifting and churning with the disturbed realization that the most painful moments of his life were engineered – in the name of higher profits. The elderly billionaire feels foolish as he sits in his hospital bed, aching for the pain that his little boy must be feeling in such a dangerous prison. He laments the sharp sting of anguish, thinking about how he served his board of directors like a warhorse after Shannonbie died.

"I gave them everything they wanted," Earl states as his face goes white with sadness, and teardrops flow over the small wrinkles of his cheeks. "I gave them everything they wanted...and they took everything from me. Damn you, Plato! To hell with your greed and psychosis...I won't let you win! Every greedy bastard that doesn't value human life is going to be crushed..." He stares at the white tiles of the floor with derisive eyes, unable to accept the bittersweet life that money has provided. "My little Jacob... And my lovely Shannonbie. There is no amount of money that could replace you, but apparently there was enough to destroy you. I won't let this go unpunished!"

NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO STATION - FAIRBANKS, ALASKA

TWO WEEKS LATER

Bright rays of sunlight are shining through immaculate windows, within the offices of the National Public Radio station in Fairbanks, Alaska. All of the radio station employees have made their way to the recording studio, packed together to hear a live rendition of God Bless America. Celeste Marie and Phelony are standing almost shoulder to shoulder as they sing into an industrial-grade microphone. They are watching one another perform in a heartwarming display of sisterly love.

Earl enjoys the performance from a few feet away, sitting next to the radio host at a booth where interviews are conducted. He admires the mutual respect that is being exhibited by the two singers, observing their performance with nothing less than total gratitude. The elderly billionaire is grateful for the earphones that are covering the bandage on Celeste's left ear. He hopes that the reconstructive surgery has done her justice. Earl takes in the atmosphere with the gaze of a loving and protective bear. He smiles at the NPR employees who are standing throughout the room to witness this historic event.

The rustic pinewood surfaces and weathered carpet seem to enhance the effect of the song, and the entire room appears to glow with unity and strength. Earl feels a chill pass through his body as the two singers finish their duet. Each builds on the other's last vocal inflection, displaying a testament of true strength and mutual appreciation.

The bystanders explode with exuberant applause after the impactful melody finishes. They express their gratitude for a rare moment in life with the two pop stars. After a few seconds of passionate celebration, the two performers make their way toward their seats, both stopping to give Earl an endearing hug.

"I'm glad you're alive," Celeste Marie whispers into Earl's ear as she wraps her delicate arms around his stylish, white sweatshirt. "Thank you for giving me another chance."

"I think we all deserve a second chance." He whispers back with casual affection. "The world needs more duets and fewer singles."

Celeste winks at him with genuine appreciation, shaking his hand before taking a seat next to Phelony.

"That was a wonderful performance of God Bless America by Celeste Marie and Phelony!" The NPR host exclaims, adjusting his thick eyeglasses as he reads from a few queue cards. "I'd like to introduce our next guest. He's a billionaire philanthropist from Manhattan, New York, who was recently pronounced dead – in an effort to save his life. Now Earl Calbraw is here to tell his story and offer us all some words of wisdom. So without further delay, I give you Mr. Calbraw."

The announcer smiles at Earl with professional courtesy. He tilts his bald head toward the control booth, and gestures with his thin right hand for the entrepreneur to take over.

"Thank you, Steve." Earl begins with a bit of nervous energy, forcing himself to regain focus before continuing. "Well, it has been a rough couple of months for me, and as you know, I was almost killed by a husband and wife who lost their children. You may or may not be shocked to learn that I have forgiven these people, because I know what it's like to lose family." The commanding entrepreneur chokes up a bit, pausing to drink from a bottle of water on the desk next to the microphone stand. "There was a saying in the 1990s that 'greed is good,' and it became the cornerstone on which we built our society. Unfortunately, I've learned some very painful lessons, despite my attempts to be a better man. And I can tell you without reservation – greed is not good. I've lost my wife and son, due to the shortsighted greed of evil men...and although these men are dead, the wound is far from healed." He pauses for a moment and takes a deep breath, feeling unexpected fear at the thought of broadcasting his next statement. "For twenty years of my life, I helped my fellow billionaires to create a power dynamic in Washington that served our every desire. At some point, I realized that what I was doing wasn't making me happy; it was turning me into a black hole. I once joked that buying an island and secluding yourself from the real world, is the first step to ending your life. Before I leave here today, I'm going to send a letter to the press that exposes every person in the public and private sectors – that helped me to exploit the American people. Although many of you have enjoyed the comforts of millions of unearned dollars; you have done so at the expense of trillions to taxpayers. In this regard, I'm going to list three ways in which you have damaged America, and I want to let you know today that it won't continue."

Earl sits back and takes another drink as the employees of the radio station begin to applaud, which ends with an abrupt signal from the host of the show. "First, tax inversions are bad for this country. I have too many friends who shrug off the idea of their tax responsibility, and tell me that they've bought an island. In their own words, 'they'll be fine.' Well let me correct you on that point. If The United States loses enough tax revenue, the defense budget becomes anemic, preventing us from protecting our borders. When we can't protect ourselves as a nation, who is going to protect that tropical island of yours? Secondly, we need to pay people what they're worth in this country. I have seen too many retailers disappointed in their sales, and yet they don't understand that people need disposable income to buy things. If you're a CEO, don't write yourself a check for five billion dollars. Take some of that money and share the profits with the people who helped you to get there. Henry Ford knew that it was important for people to make a living wage, and that hasn't changed."

The passionate philanthropist stops for a moment to clear his throat, taking another drink of water before continuing. "The last thing I want to ask of my fellow wealthy friends – is to stop turning the screws of politics. When you're throwing millions of dollars at lawmakers to keep you deep in the black, it often puts the rest of the country in the red. We need to focus on keeping the dollar strong and trying to build this country. You were not gifted this wealth for your own amusement. The American people went out and bought your products in good faith...with the understanding that you would somehow replenish the economy. When you hide that revenue in an offshore account, you have betrayed their trust and destroyed their confidence. Our job is to be the stewards of the economy; not the leaches that bleed it dry. By putting money back into circulation, whether through investing, profit sharing or other means - it's good for everyone. And if you have this bitter attitude, where you hate the people that bought your products and enabled your wealth, then you're a contract or two away from sealing your fate. Whether we like it or not, we are tethered together in this economy. Without the hardworking people of this country, your twenty billion dollar balance sheet isn't worth twenty million. It is hard work and productivity that makes a currency strong, so let's do our part in keeping it that way. I love and respect everyone who has worked hard to achieve great things, and there's no reason for that to stop...but we need to serve the economy that served us." Earl exhales with a great deal of relief, feeling as though a major burden has been removed from his heart. "Now I'm going to read from a prepared statement, and I hope that this helps all of you to recognize your role...in maintaining a decent quality of life. Because whether you're an investor looking at a new oil field or the X-ray technician applying for a new job, we need you both to serve this thing that we call a society."

He pauses for a moment and looks at a sheet of paper, holding it close to his face and reading aloud with a robust voice as if his soul is at stake. "We are the stewards of our own strength; protectors of our broken and fallen brothers and sisters." Earl reads with growing passion from his notes. "It's not in the nature of Americans to demand the path of least resistance when times are hard. But it is natural for us to be hard enough to create an easier path for our children, and their children. There are those among you who are weak, and exist on the blood and sweat of others, but there are far more of you...that are an inspiration. You are the long shadows and the sturdy monuments of a time when we cared for one another. We have lived for too long bickering over these political flags of red and blue... So long that many people have forgotten that ours is red, white, and blue. It should not be the privilege of one generation to condemn another, based on their views of the world. We are the people. We all desire love and prosperity, and most of us are willing to work hard to that end. It is these shared values for quality of life that helped us to forge a nation. Any betrayal of that promise; the promise of prosperity, will see us all in ruin. It is my goal to stop the bleeding of the American people; to bring back fair opportunities that will keep our economic vascular system functioning. In order to love a country, you must love its people. Without the people, there is no beating heart of America; no promise of freedom, justice, and wonderful, clean living. I will see prosperity returned to this great nation, and we will cut the head off of corruption wherever it lives... Or die trying. Whether you acknowledge it or not, there was a time when The Greatest Generation lived in this country. They were selfless, respectable, and highly intelligent people. It should never be our legacy to look back upon The Greatest Generation in wonder. But it should be our duty to wonder how each of us can be part of the next greatest generation."

THE END.

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Other books by this author

Please visit your favorite ebook retailer to discover other books by T. C. Clover:

Shots Fired in the Melting Pot

She is Risen

The Golden Goose of Los Angeles: Extended Edition

Isiah's Skirmish

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