 
Pointless Nonsense

Copyright 2013 by Timothy Floyd

Smashwords Edition

All inquiries may be directed to thingsomejourney@gmail.com  
All characters depicted herein are fictional. Any resemblance to any persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. I'd like to add my own personal apology for the formatting (or rather, the lack thereof). In order to publish a smashwords edition, I was left with no choice to but "nuke" all existing formatting, including page breaks, indentations, and the like. In spite of this, I hope you will enjoy yourself all the same. Cheers.

As with all my work, I dedicate this novel to the earth- may it never hesitate to wipe all humanity from its face the moment we become too burdensome

I

"Keep all hands, arms and legs inside the bus. Do not leave the bus. If you have to leave the bus, tell me first, and I will accompany you. The animals here are dangerous, and they will attack you if you leave the bus."  
These were the first words I had ever heard spoken, though at the time, they were little more than gibberish to me. I was one of several thousand other variants, all from the same brood. Life, as we understood it, was a constant battle for survival. Destroy. We must destroy all-  
"Do not leave the bus! You! Put your arm back inside the window! Sir? Put your arm back inside the window!"  
I was conceived in the vaginal fluid of a whore named Elmyra. Elmyra was good to us. She spread the ranks of our clan far and wide across the country, and now, as per our silent bidding, she was westing. She was to live with her father in the city.  
"OK, folks- in approximately fifteen minutes, we'll approach the barrier. At this time you may get out, get water, stretch your legs, smoke a cigarette if you wish. However, please be forewarned, you are not to leave the quarantine. If you leave the quarantine, you will be out of the sight of the guards, and there's no guarantee you'll return safely."  
At this quarantine, I watched with longing as a great many broodmates were caught upon a giant swath of paper, and thrown into a gaping, swirling hole of water and filth. Though it surely pained my heart to see them go, they were acceptable losses. Our hold on the one called Elmyra was complete. We made her more concupiscent than ever before. If her clients could not pay, we beckoned her love-make anyway. If clients were what Elmyra called "jail-bait," we beckoned her love-make anyway. If clients wished that she should love-make to a non-human, we-  
"Ma'am? Excuse me, ma'am?"  
The driver of this bus appeared to be apprehending us.  
"Yes, sweety-pie?" we said, approaching the man. He looked to be in his late 30's. We made the scan for wedding rings, and saw that he was bound. Perhaps he was weak.  
"You can't go there, ma'am. It's dangerous."  
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" we said, inching closer to him. He was sweating profusely in the desert heat, but he did not push our warmth away, so we moved closer. We went for the crotch grab, and began slowly circling, as nearly all males of this species prefer. "By the way," we asked, "How long are we stopping here?"  
Long enough for our purposes. Foolish, dirty, humans. In another hour, I could see through the eyes of the driver, and I began to pry into his thoughts. There were miles of empty desert road ahead of us. I forced his eyes to the rearview mirror. This was not an attractive host, and it did not seem any passenger on this bus, besides Clan Elmyra, of course, would love-make with him. Would have sex with him.  
James Titus Howard. Age 38. Divorced. Unattractive. Has only a dog for company. Does not find the dog attractive. Has only $4,353 dollars in his bank account, which he needs for rent, utilities, and food. All humans pay either rent or mortgage, and they usually work very hard for these arrangements. This human is an unwitting slave like the rest. He will drive this bus for meager wages, to keep paying this rent, and buying that food, until he rots in the ground. This is not a particularly useful host, but we can use him to purchase whores, at least once a month, and spread ourselves to them. We have learned throughout the course of our experience that we can use sewing needles to puncture the whores' beloved condoms, for it is true that most whores will not have sex with a man who does not wear a condom.  
A stinging sensation began to grow in the back of this host's brain. Guilt. Remorse. We quickly set to work, and permanently liberated the human from his... Clan Samantha. What is this part of the brain called? The ventromedial prefrontal cortex. This host, Howard, will never feel guilt again. We all feel relieved. No one likes to feel bad about what they've done. And why feel guilty? Suppose he gets her preggo- the world will keep on turning. The world... will...  
We always enjoy a good rationalization. It's one of our favorite things about being a parasite. This host is sweating violently. His buttocks are producing the sensation of sitting in a child's wading pool. We look to the rear-view mirror again for potential hosts. This one is young and beautiful. We have learned throughout the course of our experience that young woman like these tend to scream when men like this speak to them and touch them. We hate beautiful woman. They must be forced, and it's always such a hassle. Many of our hosts are serving life sentences in prison. From our point of view, it's not entirely a bad thing, as there is much spreading that occurs in prisons. However, there's nothing we despise so much as a stuck-up attitude. When we are ruling this country, we will have them thrown into pits, but not before we shave off all their beautiful, blonde hair, and give it to bird-hosts for nest-making.  
This one is fat and sassy. She looks as if she may not reject the touch. We have learned throughout the course of our experience that-  
"Hey, mister, look! My brother's sticking his arm out the window!"  
"Shut up, Steve!"  
I size them up. We have learned throughout the course of our experience that children are generally undesirous, and indeed (in most cases) oblivious to the act of coitus. At any rate, it is unsafe to flirt with children in public. We feel the bus begin to veer off the road, and we are forced to redirect our attention to the task of driving. We know that if we drive erratically, we may be suspected. The vehicle under control, we sneak further glances at the fat one. She has a garish tattoo on her arm. It is faded, but we can make out writing in the center. Fat women like these are always commemorating their offspring with tattoos, but it is possible that it is the name of a former, or perhaps current lover. No one is sitting next to her, as her girth occupies both seats. We will speak honey-talk with her at the next quarantine.  
The eyes glance back and forth between the road, the speedometer, and the rearview mirror. This one is an effeminate teenager. He has straight black hair, and it is draped over one of his eyes, which we notice is decorated with black eye-paint. He has a metal ring through the membrane of his nose. He may not reject the touch, and we decide to have honey-words with him as well. He has headphones in, and his eye is closed. Perhaps we can relate to him through our mutual appreciation of... Clan Derek. What kind of music would this manboy like? He would like My Chemical Romance, and Fallout Boy. What do they sound like? Closing the goddamned door and such. Glockenspiels. Whiny. Yes, we will say something to the effect of, "I like My Chemical Romance's new music, but I think they need more glockenspiels, and that they need to find a wider variety of subjects to bemoan, don't you?"  
This one is a nondescript male in his twenties, but he is sitting next to his girlfriend. Those women are too old to have sex. What does Clan Elmyra see?  
Clan Elmyra sees many prospects. She has great seductive capabilities. They are so great, she had to abandon her old life, and was not able to pay the cursed rent anymore. Filthy, greedy humans. We, of the great Cordyceps family, would never begrudge our cousins shelter. We work together, and for each other. Our work has been going on for some time. Many ages ago, humans could resist us through their science, and their magics. We had only the insects and lesser animals at our disposal, but we have grown stronger, and man has forgotten the old ways. We have learned, throughout the course of our experience, that there are only ten magicians left in the world, and all have forsaken their brethren to the isolation of the forests, the plains, and the mountains. Not a one of our Clans has been discovered. Not a one been under microscope. Clan Samantha abuses her status as professional to actively suppress any knowledge of our existence. We are on our way.

II

Eric woke in a coughing fit. He had sprayed the baby blue comforter with droplets of blood, and he could not afford to wash it any time soon. He groaned, holding the sides of his head, feeling his long, greasy hair in his fingers. A nearby rat was startled by the movement, and scurried away, but Eric was in too much pain to look. Still grabbing at his head, he poured himself a glass of purified water, and drank it all very quickly. The attack passed, and he sat up in bed, surveying his room.  
The sun scattered through the broken blinds and turned the dust motes golden. Outside of his window, he was treated to a rare surprise: there was a bird of some sort, calling over and over again. It wasn't a particularly pleasant sound, not like the whistling he heard in commercials, but it was the third bird he had ever heard in his life. Today was going to be a good day.  
He rolled out of bed and felt something wet under his foot. It exploded with an obnoxious squelching noise. Upon closer examination, he saw that he had popped a swollen intestine left at his bedside. All at once, the pain in his temples came back. He wiped the ball of his toe against the hardwood floor until he felt sure he wouldn't track the viscera through his apartment.  
On the way to the shower, he was accosted by Hunter.  
"You little shit," said Eric. He picked the big cat up, threw him in the air and caught him. He smacked his lips over Hunter's ears very quickly, and the cat narrowed its eyes and grinned. "You little shee-it! I just stepped in one of your..." He turned to look at the mess on the floor. He gave Hunter one last series of the quickly smacking lips and put him down very gently.  
He went to the cramped, rusting bathroom, turned on the shower, and disrobed. He looked in the mirror with mild disapproval. He did not have large muscles like he used to. His abdomen was an archipelago of asymmetrical muscles and ribs. He was wan; he was dying.  
The water was warm and inviting. After much trouble with the landlord, the water heater was working again. The warmth spread through his body and seemed to heal him. His headache was washed away with the dirt. All his cares and worries spiraled down the drain.  
When he was ready for work, he crept to the front door of his apartment, which led to a hallway. He would have taken the back door, but he couldn't lock it from the outside. There was one tenant in particular he wanted to avoid, and as he looked through the peephole, he saw that she was waiting on the stairs for him. It was Elmyra, the landlord's daughter. Bill, the landlord, had once told him that if he were to marry Elmyra, rent would always be free. He had no choice but to make an excuse as to why he couldn't chat and hurry away.  
He opened the door and was immediately greeted with the alluring scent of tobacco. God! He hadn't smoked in two days now. He had scrounged through the butt can outside of the building, and rolled cigarettes with the filthy stubs (there was even a turd rolled up in a paper towel in the can around which he had to maneuver), and here was Elmyra, casually venting the stuff through her nostrils. She reached in her purse and pulled out a pack of his favorite cigarettes, the organic kind. His mouth was watering, and the headache began to flare up again.  
"Ciggy?" she asked, grinning as Eric floated toward her. "Yeah. You know you want it. That's good, huh?" Eric's eyes closed as he lit up, and he couldn't help but give a slight moan. Elmyra heard, and giggled. She put her hand on his crotch and waited to see his reaction. His eyes snapped open, but he didn't take her hand off. He felt it was his duty to undergo whatever slight physical treatment Elmyra wanted of him; he was grateful for the smoke. She began to move her hand in a slow, circular motion and he felt himself stiffen.  
Eric scrutinized her face. She had dirty, scraggly hair, and she was thought by some of the other tenants to be mentally challenged. Was she really autistic? wondered Eric.  
"Let me blow you before work," she crooned. He would have let her, but for the angry, red lesions on her face.  
"I can't, I don't have time," said Eric, backing away from the circling hand.  
"Give me a kiss," she demanded, grabbing at the hem of his pants. He managed to move away before she could get a hold of his clothing, and hurried toward the door.  
"Sorry, I'll be late!"  
He stepped out of the main door leading out of the house wherein he lived, and breathed in the fresh air. It was a very bright day in mid-August, which explained the bird outside his window. Today, for the first time in weeks, he could see and feel the sun. He gave his car a little pat as he walked to work. It was a blue car, and very old. It had been a gift from his father. He would never have been able to afford one. He could barely afford its upkeep, and rarely drove anywhere.  
As he walked down Poplar Street, a thick cloud of smog moved past the sun, and it was dark again. He dragged very deeply off the cigarette. His lungs had been feeling strange lately, and even though he had been coughing blood this morning, he inhaled greedily. He could not stop himself, and only when he flicked the butt into a thorny bush did he feel any remorse. Everyone knew smoking was bad for you. At that very moment, a city bus drove by with a picture of a headless turkey smoking a cigarette out of its neck hole. It was, presumably, cold.  
He had been staring so hard at the smoking turkey that he'd failed to notice the approach of a young woman carrying an armload of books. He watched in astonishment as she fell to the ground, struggling to keep her legs together, as she was wearing a miniskirt. Without a moment's hesitation, he dropped to his knees and began to gather her things.  
"I'm very sorry about that," said Eric in a businesslike manner. He kept his tone businesslike because the young woman was beautiful, and he was embarrassed.  
"Oh," she said, picking herself up and dusting her clothes off. "It's OK. No harm, no foul." Eric saw, as he handed her the books, that she was perhaps the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She was blonde, with blue eyes, and perfect teeth. She was the type of woman who would never date a gas station attendant. She was too good for him.  
She threw him a meaningful look over her shoulder as they parted ways. It was unmistakably a look of longing, Eric decided. No, he thought, he was only fooling himself. It was not longing, but fear that he should make unwanted advances, or perhaps surprise that he hadn't. She probably had creeps hanging all over her, all the time. Come to think of it, what was a girl like her doing walking by herself? He looked over his shoulder for her, but she was gone. The smog was so thick in this area that he could not see more than ten feet ahead of him, and she had disappeared in the mist. His heart sank. Maybe she had been the type of girl who didn't care about money. He could not even hear her footsteps in the thick haze. He could barely hear his own.  
He arrived at the gas station, and was greeted by Cody, a small man of the same age as Eric. As a rule, Cody was almost always drunk or high. He offered to smoke out Eric now.  
"You should come take a hit with me." Eric's head was throbbing. He was very tempted by the offer.  
"During lunch," he said. He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and used it as an excuse to allay an argument with Cody.  
"Hello?"  
"Hello," said a feminine voice, "Is Eric St. James there?"  
"This is he."  
"Hi, this is Cindy with Rainier Collections, I'm calling with regards to an outstanding bill for... $9,313.13. Would you like to set up a payment plan?" Eric felt his blood running hot. His last room mate had used his social security number to reactivate the internet after he had left.  
"Can I call you back later about this?"  
"Sure, that's fine. Shall I give you the number?"  
"I have it on my caller I.D."  
"OK, well, uh, have a nice day then."  
"You too."  
Eric and Cody went behind the carwash to smoke a bowl. There was broken glass from a shattered windshield and scraps from shredded tires. A rusty muffler was lying in the dead grass that grew from the cracks in the cement. Eric usually turned Cody's offer down, but the call from the collections agency had really upset him. The weed crackled and popped in the little glass pipe. He noted the swirls of pigment with approval.  
"Another day, another dollar," said Cody in a crusty voice, grinning from ear to ear. Nothing bothered Cody. As long as he had his fix, he operated on a smooth, even keel. It was true that he was high strung, and sometimes had to be sent home for yelling at customers, but on a normal basis, there was little trouble from him, and he was happy.  
Eric was convinced that he was fond of Cody. Many years ago, Cody had explained to him, he had graduated college with a B.A. in engineering. By the time he was through with it, nearly every technical job had been exported to India. So he worked at the gas station, and smoked lots of weed. He was not resentful of this fact. He held his head high, and felt superior to the customers. He was even able to help a few of them with car troubles every now and then.  
"Who's at the till?" asked Eric.  
"Oh shit," said Cody.  
They hurried inside, and Eric recognized Bill, his landlord, waiting at the counter. Eric hated seeing Bill. Something about him bothered him on a very deep level. He could not put it into words, so he pretended to like him when discussing him with the other tenants. Bill was fat, and wore gaudy, expensive jewelry. Plus, Bill, did not know Eric had a cat, and it would be a $2000 non-refundable deposit if he found out. Eric could not afford this.  
"Hey, how's it going?" he asked. Bill smiled his carefree Billsmile.  
"I was wondering when someone would show up! Two thousand on eight."  
"Yes, sir."  
Eric and Cody watched Bill pump gasoline into the large, bright yellow vehicle. When he was finished, he waved goodbye and drove away.  
"I banged his daughter," said Cody.  
"You may as well marry her and get the free rent deal, while you're at it." A cloud came over Cody's face.  
"I don't know, man. She's pretty gross."  
"Yup."  
A sudden coughing attack took Eric by surprise, and when he took his hands away from his mouth, they were covered in blood.  
"Jesus! You need to see a fuckin' doctor!" said Cody.  
"I know. I don't think I can afford that right now, though."  
"Well, take out a loan or something, man. You look like you're straight up dying. Look how pale and sickly you are!"  
"Thanks."  
"I'm serious, just trying to look out for you."  
The workday went by uneventfully. Cody almost blew up on a Chinese customer who didn't speak quite enough english to buy a bag of chips, and at one point the gas station lost electricity, but it was a relatively normal day. In the evening, as he was walking home, Eric resolved to drive to an urgent care center located on the other side of town. He would do so the very next day. He flinched from the sound of a honking car, and turned to look just in time as it crumpled the body of a middle-aged man and threw him well beyond the site of impact. The driver looked out the window, saw with horror what he had done, turned the car around, and sped away. Eric ran to the body to see if he could help.

III

Man with special talents, now the deadening. This man, pleased with said talents, not really thinking of much else, minding the ownbusiness. Needless to say, not groundlooking, but at heavens, with much gratitude for said abilities. He could hear the ribs crack from this blow, and the blood that flowed from his body mingled with the shit in this sewer. Can you hear me? If youse can be the hearing, I call ambulance.... ambulance.... ambulance....  
"Why God, why you did me done?" he pleaded the ceiling. Answering all with profound silence, apart from gush of sewer water, squeaking rats. He cursed his lady-luck and tried to sit up, but his body would not bend so. He pulled himself along edges of old, fleshy stone, his useless legs trailing along in the filth.  
Utter darkness. As he was the crying, he felt nose touch that of a curious rodent's. It was wet, and he could feel tiny teeth probing for softer lips. He swung, missed, lost his grip on the corner stone. The current carried self as it struggled to bring the head above that rancid water. The taste of this town's waste, from high mayor to lowly ghetto, was heavy on the tongue, cheeks. He spat repeatedly, but nothing there is to be rinsing, and the sickening taste lingered forever.  
He regrasped the cornerstone and does the pulling to nowhere. He must go somewhere, and mute instinct of the old world rules his existence. He currentfollows, hoping that it leads to the ocean. He weeps.  
"Why didn't I just cry help? What fuck wrong me?" he cried. Noises everywhere.  
The "breath" caught in that "throat", and he held still as death. It came again, a strange vibration. His eyes, well adjusted to the infinite darkness, saw a pinprick of light ten years in the distance, playing off the walls of the tunnel. It disappeared abruptly. I am going to die anyway, he thought, Maybe it will lead to thingsome good. He pulled self to where he was lightseeing, but was only void.  
"Hello?" he called out timidly. He waited endlessly, and kept selfpulling him in the same direction. To wonder if he had been hallucinating all over the place, perhaps some comforting vision brought on by the stress and filth, the vibrations came again. A pinprick of moist light far away to makebelieve left. He crawled. No light, no humming, but his face bumped into something thin, and made of iron, by the smell.  
"What's this?" he asked, incredulous. He passed those hands of his frantically over the bottom rungs of a ladder.  
"What's this?" he asked again, pulling self out of allseeing filthy water. Hand over hand over hand over foot, he pulled that heavy, useless body up to the very top. He could see light; filtering through a door frame. He pulled self legs through shaftresting, crawled at door, and reached handle for. Locked. Moved a little in its frame, makes satisfying thuds. He pushed, pulled, attacked door handle repeatedly, bottom of his lungs at yelling:  
"HELP! OVER HERE! PLEASE, HELP HELP HELP HELP HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!"  
Many times later, he heard outside voices in the door.  
"Sir? Sir! It's gonna' OK the OK Someone gets the maintenance man, it's OK everything's OK except of coursing how the much I'm saying OK!"  
His world flooded with light was the door disappeared, and a team of men in clean, light blue clothing drug self from maintenance shaft. Yet, he retained to manage his consciousness. He note-tooked of all he saw as bluemen put self in a hospital bed, and wheeled that body of his away. There woman armies were, birthgiving all around self. Floors, walls, and ceilings were splattered with placenta, lots medical of equipment, everywhere. Babies crying, woman moaning agonizingly, ecstatically. Blacks, whites, asians, all the stuff in between, real armies of them, shooting out babies like cannonballs. Yoga class from hell it was; women standing on heads, babies bumping against the ceiling, hiking them like footballs into hands nurses, who devoured as much as they could before hiding remains beneath beds.  
"This the birthing room is," said one of those attendants, noticing openness of his eyes. "I'm sorry we're having bringing you throughing here, you smell pretty badding. There was no way around it though, inway you were coming," he turns to young mother at nearby. "Sorry ma'am. See? Look at this way she curls that lip at you! Whose knowing effect onbaby. You never be herecoming should have, my friend. Onbaby onbaby onbaby. And your baby."  
When they left the birthing army, he wheeled wasto a grand elevator, and all attendants boarded with him. Upward they moved. The attendant who earlier spoken had, and who consequently taller othersthan(he appeared be leader) said to room, "How rotten smells he! What you were doing down there, anyways? Looking for that wedding ring?" He punched one other attendant on that arm, and coerced others into alonglaughing. A shorter, mustachehaving attendant leaned close into H.'s face.  
"Yeah, what you were doing down there, anyway? Sneaktrying, maybe some snagging morphine? Ketamine? Hm?"  
"No! I-" H. began to protest, but the tallest cut him off.  
"Yeah, you gotta' metalking if sneaktrying to shit some o' that," said he, syringeproducing his own pockets. He offflicked cap and let needle be the hovering above H.'s arm. Other attendants offwiped the sewage with cloth, doused with iodine. Other attendants and gathered round held H.'s limbs. "So it'll be what? Pair of hundreds money, and I'll sink this into you immediately."  
"No! Don't want!"  
"You don't want? The fuck you doing the sewers, man, then?"  
"Fell!"  
"He's the falling?"  
"Fell you." Attendants looked to the tallest, and among themselves. "Well, we've been to getting rid of him now," leader said the. Nodded the rest of them. Attendant sank the syringe into H.'s self and unloaded contents in the tissue was. As world of the form and shape began away to swirling, he saw attendants making faces grotesque, laughing.

The smell of excrement awoke him. The smell of rancid shit filled those nostrils and stung the eyes. So that's that, thought he, They've returned whence me I've gone and still I can't use even the legs properly. Paralyzed he was from waist down, only too stupid, frightened to admit it to self. He standing tried, fell downface in a thick puddle of shit. He wept.  
"Why God, you have whyness this to me? Whyness? Whyfor?!" He screamed that word between sobs of pain. Whyness? He tried to be racking his "mind" for thingsome he might've done to deserve. Shoplifted as a teenager? Smoked in pot? Stood upping a date of blindess? Whatever it be'ed, he cannotted thinked of a single reason he was deserving of paralysis, drugged, and thrown into sewer like a fish. He supposed may have been his ownself fault for falling down there in the first place.  
"Alright, God, I mistook mighting for mistakes, crucial mistakes- I've never so remorseful in my life, not for anything, but-"  
Flash of light! It appeared had very vividly few feet away, floating orb, before off flying down the tunnel. He began to after crawl, knowing he no choice to do otherwise had. When pleading for divine intervention, one must do self's part to achieve the effect of remedy, thought he. A foul draft of wind over swept his back, and began he then to shiver violently. He soaking wet with piss and shit was, and it be night must by now, he figured. He doggedly pulled self along, sobbing as he went quietly.  
He began to voices from all around. Whispers throughout echoed the tunnels, and he nervouseyed the shadows. He in complete darkness was. There no shadows were. Nothing but the gently flowing water sounds, drippings from ceiling, and whispers, which growing now louder were. He exhausted sure.  
"Who's there?" croaked he. The whispering was donefore. His eyes uselessly to pierce the darknessblanket that everywhere hung about. He heard a scuffle away, that sound of taloned on stone feet. Then was a screech of metal on metal, heard that chilling sound of death knells. A sound it was unlike any he heard before had; it the unmistakable ring of novelty had. In all nature videos, all filmed life that television was, never he heard a sound had, remotely like it- some rat chimera, and a human, had first attempted speech in some archetypal syllable of supreme displeasure.  
He in frozen place beheld. Whatever did he, he must move not. A splash he heard as this dead creature's self fell into that shitwater grave. Droplets, some of them, sprayed his lips and brow. He nothing but darkness could see, but hear he could, the creature's killer, toward him limping.  
You are to come with me, from somewhere far away. Who that? thought he, unwilling coming with invisible murderer the, and to speak aloud. I can only bespeak me to you, said voice. You can send me nothing. You must speak as you are normally accustomed to doing.  
"You like, mean this?" asked H. very quietly. Yes, like that, said voice. You are blind, are you not?  
"No, I will be."  
Then I shall light the way for you.  
A bright light the tunnel filled, and H. saw murder scene he only heard take place had. A creature like praying manti this, stood before him, and away a smaller creature. In fact, that victim had looked much as it had sounded, between rat and human . It is were-rat, said praying mantis thing, following gaze of H. It was going to eat you. Judging by the state of your legs, I'm willing to wager it would have succeeded. It's odd that you should be paralyzed here, of all places, but it's by no means a realm bereft of nuance. Can you climb upon my back?  
"I can do," said H. After much struggling, he managed to drape self across the bulbous back. I am Tal-Zora, said the mantis as he easily through strode the corridors. Making excellent time they were (n't). What is your name?  
"H. I am. Meeting you, pleased."  
Aich, is it? And what brings you to these parts?  
"I fell. Somehow managed to crawl a hospital, but mistook they me for addict, and threw me out," he explained. Tal-Zora silent was, thinking. "Why you saying anything not?"  
It is most peculiar. There are only two entrances to the deadzones from the sewers.  
"What hell are the deadzones?"  
That is where we are. 50 miles beneath the sewers. I thought most of the gates were still a secret. No matter. They'll be sealed off when I make my report.  
"What?" asked H. Gravity of that situation of his began to sink in. "Report. What you is? Where fuck am the I? Where fuck we are going!"  
I'm taking you to get some proper medical attention. I'm ch'i wudan, like a police officer. As I said before, you've somehow wound up in the deadzones.  
None of this up adding was to H.: making sense.  
"How I get home from here do?"  
This is your home.  
"It's not. My home surface the is on wow."  
You must not realize what the deadzones are. You are not in the physical realm anymore. That's why I'm confused as to why you're still paralyzed, and that you still see the tunnels. In all actuality, there shouldn't be a back for you to climb on.  
"What means there shouldn't a back be for to climb on? And of course paralyzed. But.. if there be'nt a back, and if can't I paralyzed, then where you would be taking self? How there be a place could for to take you me, so called "medical attention?""  
I don't know, but we do seem to be going there, don't we?  
"Yes, do. And if I not paralyzed, I'd climb ass up back to wherefrom this came. I'd probably downburn a hospital."  
You can never leave the deadzones. You may as well get used to them.  
"What this means, I can't the deadzones leave? How I get here do?"  
I don't know.  
"How I out get must?"  
You can't.  
"What, you are going to stop me?"  
The forces of nature will stop you. You can no more enter the realm of the living than can water flow uphill. Odd, though, that your reality would take a physical form... and include mine with it! How exciting to be given my body back!  
H. very confused was. The head spinning from whatever nurse had with injected self, and difficulter to straight think. Whenever making he was progress along a single thought line, another up sprang, then others, until he not remember what he had been about thinking in first of the place. He massaged those temples, careful to keep Tal-Zora's back with the elbows. Strange feelings, firstly paralyzed from the down waist, secondly on riding the backs of a praying mantis giant. And yet, H. dismissive was about the entire experience. Through all, he convinced was that he be must dreaming, and he up wakewould any second. Though in immense pain, he not bring could self to take the situation seriously.  
"They be hot dogs having where we're goin'?" asked H., dreaming he could have some hope food when they arrived at the make-believe subterranean hospital.  
I do not know what a hot dog is, replied Tal-Zora.  
"Of course no do you," said H. nonchalantly, "You're fucking a praying mantis." They not for speak did a long time after this, and H. nothing did more than admire the alien growths protruding from the walls. There hearts, spleens, and kidneys outgrowing the walls, pulsating madly in the darkness. Not for the first time that day, he the glowing orb saw drift past them, floating a perpendicular path.  
"Did you that see were?" asked H.  
No, what did you see?  
"The orb... that's got what me into this mess in the first place! I it followed earlier, it been a message from God, thinking. Like angel showing me that way."  
Which way did it go?  
"Not-right. Turn around, it went way there," said H., pointing down alternate corridors.  
Tal-Zora promptly began marching after it.  
"We're to change course and just follow it? Like that just?"  
Bringing outsiders to the deadzones is a serious crime. You'll regain the use of your legs soon enough, the medicine is just a placebo. But if what you say is true- you're probably not the only human it's brought here.  
"What you going to are do with it, assuming can you actually find it?"  
Destroy it, of course.  
"And how exactly one destroys a ball of floating light?"  
I have my ways.  
As Tal-Zora marched, H. fantasized about conversations he might do with the ball of light. He'd ask, 'brought any women to the deadzones,' and would it grudgingly admit that yes, it had brought one. It'd bring her to self, and she would be most the beautiful woman that ever inhabited earth had, brought thousands ago of years by "Hubris", the light orb, only never had she aged two days, because ages impossible in the deadzones. At first, it be difficult to around beget the barrier of language. At all, however, because of "Irena's" strong glue to her culture's meaningless tradition, honor, whatnot; and because of H.'s crackwise, modern disposition, they'd perfect be for other's each, and eventually succumb to mutual feelings of... H. not help but could notice he that was not getting onturned by prospects of "Irena". He thought her as tan blondes, fair brunettes in stocking of fishnet, but no there were relevant sensations in those loins.  
"Tal-Zora?"  
Yes?  
"Impotent here?"  
What do you mean "impotent?"  
"Means... well..."  
Shh! We're getting close to it.  
"To orb?" whispered H.  
Yes, shhh! No further he spoke, and watched with great horror from self's position on Tal-Zora's back, draped about the mantis like a fleshy mancape. As I said before, you'll regain your legs soon enough, along with the rest of your... extremities.  
The two of them to a clearing came, complete with high ceiling. Spiraled upward into the darkness.  
Hold on very tightly, H. With a twitch of those six, spindly legs, Tal-Zora alighted the nearest wall, and climbed up straight its surface. H. amazed was, but more, he was frightened for his "life." He could feel that grip around the insectoid's waist weakening.  
"The slipping!" cried H. The voice alerted this orb, who had howsome been hiding only a few feet away. Tal-Zora for it sprang, missed. It went downflying a sub-corridor, and out of sight descended . H. lost his grip, had in fact dashed self against the wall, and was plummeting to his doom when Tal-Zora managed to snag the shirtback with a hook.  
I told you to keep your voice down! Now we'll be lucky to catch him at all.  
"I don't give flying fucks about catching him, let go me! Downput me!"  
No! As ch'i wudan, I am responsible for your safety, on pain of undeath. Stop struggling!  
"Let go!" cried H., struggling with all that might. Even without the legs, he managed to escape this insectoid's grip, and he intosplashed the water.  
H.! No!  
H. carried by was a swift current, and thrown by that water over a sharp precipice was. His body intoflying the darkness went. For the fall, he counted "Three one thousand, two one thousand, five one thousand twenty!"

IV

As a matter of fact, she was the type of girl who cared about money. Tiffany's face was completely relaxed as she applied foundation with the calm detachment of a professional. There was not one iota of expression in her brilliant, blue eyes. Next, she touched up her eyeliner, which had somehow been smeared when she bumped into the gas station attendant. She had noticed that his name, embroidered in red on the grey shirt, was Eric.  
"Eric," she caught herself saying aloud. She shook her head angrily. She didn't have time for losers like him. He was nothing. Sure, he might have a personality, he might make her laugh- but at the end of the day, it was comfort that mattered most to her. He was clearly unable to provide for her with such meager wages as were earned by gas boys. How much did he make? she wondered. Not enough.  
As she walked through the smog, she avoided eye contact with a homeless man. He grinned lustily at her and said,  
"Hey, come here a sec," reaching out for her. She slapped his hand away and continued walking. "Ah, don't be like that!" the man called after her. For her, this was a matter of routine. She was so used to it that she had developed a quick draw, for the more dangerous situations. She could whip out her pink, plastic mace and let loose a cloud of of the stuff as quick as lightning.  
She entered a new-looking building, spoke to the secretary, and took a seat in the waiting room. She took out a pocket mirror and looked herself over with mild disapproval. Her roots were showing, ever so slightly. She would have to cajole Bill into paying for a dye job. She took out her mascara and touched up her eyelashes. She went over her delicate neck with foundation. The lighting in the waiting room was dim, and the secretary was staring at her. She got up to go to the bathroom.  
The fluorescent lights buzzed angrily, and someone in one of the stalls was vomiting. She pretended not to hear it and went to the mirror. It was smeared with something white, and she hummed to herself as she wet a paper towel and patiently cleaned it off. Perfect. She noticed a spot on her neck she had missed and tended to it. When she was finished, she looked herself over. Hair- roots. Eyes- sparkling. Skin- perfect. Lips- she took out her lipstick. They looked fine, but it couldn't hurt to touch them up.  
The door to one of the stalls opened and her eyes sought out the vomiter in the mirror. A young woman, probably a little older than herself, stumbled out. She had dark hair, and was wearing black lipstick, and all black clothing. Her skin was very white. The woman smiled crookedly at her.  
"Hi," she said carelessly.  
"Hello," said Tiffany very coldly. It didn't look like the lady in black was going to leave. She went to the sink next to Tiffany's and ran the cold water. She cupped her hands beneath the faucet and splashed her face. Then she cupped her hands and drank. Tiffany watched her with mounting disgust.  
"What are you getting all prettied up for, hm?" Asked the woman, still splashing her face and drinking.  
"I have to appear before a panel."  
"What sort of panel?"  
"Judges."  
"For...?" Tiffany gave her a sidelong glance. She decided to practice being congenial. This was a quality she had read the judges looked for. Her voice took on higher registers as she politely explained,  
"I'm applying to enter a beauty pageant, it's this year's Miss Carlsborg."  
"Oh, how exciting! Is that the one where you stand on a float at the parade and throw out flower petals?"  
"Yes, it is," said Tiffany, imagining herself at the head of the Harvest Parade.  
She was wearing the traditional white gown, complete with the bejeweled tiara. She had a sash that said Miss Carlsborg in beautiful script. She would lean down to kiss her inferiors, those gorgeous specimens that had competed with her, but who were not quite her equals.  
"See how magnanimous she is!" She would hear someone say. And then, the Man would see that she was not only exquisitely beautiful, but also possessed of those qualities that make for the perfect Miss Carlsborg. She was kind and talented, gentle, and regal. He would drive his expensive car, not just any Acura, but a Mercedes, or better yet, a Ferrari, right in front of the float, thus halting the parade. He was so bold that he would march to the top of the float, shoving aside the inferiors on his way to propose to her, and carry her away to his mansion. Their mansion. That was how she would find herself someone both rich and attractive.  
"That sounds wonderful," said the woman with black lipstick. "You could really pull it off, too, you're very beautiful."  
"Thanks," said Tiffany, who could not hide the genuine smile that spread across her features.  
She left the bathroom, and took her seat in the waiting room.  
"Miss Demarkier?" said the secretary. "They're ready to see you." Tiffany smiled and thanked the secretary. She proceeded to the elevator, and entered room 3A. There before her was a panel of four judges, three balding men and one woman that could have passed for a man. They all smiled very broadly at her. Their eyes had a certain twinkle that made Tiffany nervous, especially the judge closest to her.  
"Ah, you must be Tiffany. Please, have a seat, relax, and let's get to know ya'." The man's teeth were yellow and decaying. She imagined that his breath must smell quite rank.  
"Sounds good." The judges shared a glance between themselves.  
"Let's start with the preliminaries... You're eighteen?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"You're enrolled at Washington High School?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Do you do any sports?"  
"Cheerleading, sir."  
"Ah ha ha ha! Very good." The interrogator shared a glance with the other judges before continuing. The female judge rose from her seat and began to pace about very slowly. She held herself very erect as she walked.  
"And did you remember to bring a copy of your transcript?"  
"Yes," said Tiffany, reaching in her purse. "Here it is." The judges looked it over while the female judge continued to pace about.  
"Very good. Very good. Straight A's. But... what's this C here?"  
"What? Oh, I can explain-"  
"Please do," said the female judge, who was now behind her, holding Tiffany's chest with both hands. Tiffany's blood went cold. "Do you like that?" whispered the judge. Tiffany struggled to get up, but the judge held her arms. The other three judges were out of their seats. Two of them held her down while the interrogator began to take off his pants.  
"No one with a C gets to be Miss Carlsborg, Tiffany," he said.

☹☹☹☹☹

She stood outside the new looking building and called Bill. She should have stayed inside to call him, it wasn't safe for her to stand on the street alone, but she couldn't bear to remain there.  
"Hey, love."  
"Hey, Bill," said Tiffany. She paused for a moment to fight back the tears. "Can you take me out for a smoothie?"

V

Theresa was satisfied with her life. She did not own a house, but she did own a car. Actually, she owned about ¾ of the car. She was still making payments on the rest. But it was a nice car, and it turned heads. She drove it to her job, which was not so much a job as her purpose in life. She helped people. Physically, that is. You have a stuffy nose? Take this prescription strength antihistamine. There's pain in your knees? Take this special tylenol, along with Uriway, a drug that increases the water solubility of uric acid to help with arthritis. Overall feelings of discomfort? Let me write a personal recommendation to Dr. Greenthumb, wink-wink-nudge-nudge. She did not make as much money as the doctors of olden times, but she was satisfied with her life.  
Someone was parked in her parking spot. Who could be so brazen as to park in front of the sign that said "RESERVED FOR DR. DEMARKIER?" Who could be so stupid? She parked next to it and opened her door very hard into the vehicle of the culprit. It made a large dent in the passenger's side door of the old, blue car. Fucker. That would show him/her. She closed her door and inspected the dent. The car was smeared with grime, and very old. The windows hung about an inch away from the frame where they had been pried open by thieves. She looked through the battered window and saw a tangle of red and yellow wires where the radio had been. All at once she began to feel very guilty about what she had done. She reached in her purse for a notebook and wrote "Sorry about the dent, call me," along with her phone number. She looked around to see if anyone had witnessed what had happened, and hastened to the employee entrance of the clinic.  
She was greeted by the secretary, handed a profile of the patient that was waiting for her, and went to her office. As a rule, she didn't bother looking at the profile until she had talked to the patient for a moment. She opened the door and saw a very troubled young man sitting on the table. He was of latino descent, and despite his obvious affliction, he managed to smile politely and nod.  
"Ricardo Martinez?"  
"Yith."  
"Hello, nice to meet you. What seems to be the problem?"  
"I hah thtumack peen."  
"Excuse me?"  
"It hurt-th," he said, pointing to his stomach. The poor fellow was nearly doubled over. Dr. Demarkier took his blood pressure, which was dangerously low, looked into his pupils, his ears and his mouth. She felt the nodes beneath his jaw, which were swollen. She put her stethoscope on his chest and told him to breathe deeply. His breath was shallow.  
"No, like this," she said, and she demonstrated. Martinez watched her breasts rise and fall. She put her stethoscope on his chest once more and noticed the blood on his shirt.  
"Oh, my... Ricardo, can you take your shirt off?" He pretended not to understand, but he complied when she asked him again. He looked as if he had been shot in the belly. Multiple times. There were three considerably large craters burrowing into the flesh, and all three were oozing black blood and pus. Theresa exploded into action.  
"Ok, just sit right there, I'll be right back."  
"Where you going?"  
"I'm going to call an ambulance for you."  
"I can't afford!"  
"It doesn't matter, you need emergency medical attention, now wait right here."  
Ricardo gave her a pouting look as she fled the room and picked up the nearest phone. After an exciting conversation with the dispatcher, she returned to the office to tell Martinez the good news. An Ambulance would be here in the next fifteen minutes to take him to the hospital. She strode triumphantly into the room and saw that Martinez had left. She ran down the hall to look for him.  
"Ricardo! Ricardo are you still here?" She noticed the secretary looking up at her with surprise from the desk. "Did you see a latino guy come out here?"  
"Yes, just a few minutes ago. What's wrong?" Theresa held up a hand and looked outside in the parking lot. He was gone. She explained what had happened and went back to the office to clean up and sanitize.  
When she was finished she took a seat at her desk and sighed. Had she done her job? What else could she have done for him? Should she have given him pain killers? Blood thickeners? The secretary entered and handed her the profile for the next patient. It was a female this time, so she didn't expect as much trouble.  
"Send her in," said Theresa. She decided to peruse the profile more carefully.

Sloan S. Kennedy  
Height: 5'6"  
Weight: 130  
Sex: Female  
Allergies: Sulfa  
Reason for Visit: Abdominal pain

Abdominal pain? Again? Don't tell me she's been shot, too, thought Theresa. A young woman entered and smiled nervously.  
"Hi, how are you?" asked the woman. It struck Theresa as odd that she should be the addressee in this conversation. The woman had black hair and very pale skin. Most conspicuous of all was the black lipstick.  
"Good... Please, take a seat. What seems to be the problem?"  
"Oh," the woman laughed nervously. She seemed to think about how to say it and leaned close to Theresa. "Well, I'm pregnant."  
"And...?"  
"And I don't want to be."  
"I see. Do you know for sure you're pregnant?"  
"I showed up positive on a test I bought at the store. Are those very accurate?"  
"Yes, they usually are. I will be straightforward with you, though. The extent of what I can do for you here is to administer a blood test to confirm it. As to what to do about it... that's just something you're going to have to decide for yourself." The young woman nodded. "How long ago did you take the test?"  
"About a week."  
"No periods?"  
"No, but I have been bleeding a little here and there."  
"How much? Has there been any sort of discharge?"  
"Um, yeah, a little bit."  
"Ok, well, here's one thing I can tell you. Sometimes, when you're on your period, and the egg is dropping, it can actually be fertilized in the fallopian tube. When that's the case, your body just sort of-" she made a sort of downward flushing gesture, "naturally aborts the fetus." The young woman seemed to brighten up.  
"Really?"  
"Yes. But, before we jump to any conclusions, let's have you take that blood test." Sloan was indeed pregnant. Theresa gave her a pamphlet on the do's and don't-do's of pregnancy, of Planned Parenthood, and sent her on her way.  
She looked at the profile of the next patient.

Eric St. James  
Height: 6'2"  
Weight: 190  
Sex: Male  
Allergies: N/A  
Reason for Visit: Patient reports he has been coughing up blood

Just as Eric was entering the office the lights began to flicker. They both looked toward the weak, flourescent lights, and back at each other. They went back to normal and Eric sat down. Theresa introduced herself and asked what the problem was.  
"Well, I've been coughing up blood for the last week and a half now. I decided I would see a doctor about it."  
"I see. Are you a smoker, Eric?"  
"Yes, ma'am."  
"Ok, and how many packs a day do you smoke?"  
"I only smoke about two or three cigarettes, actually."  
She went through all the preliminaries with him. She had him open his mouth and took a swab of the roof of his mouth, his salivary glands, and his throat.  
"Alright, we'll know what it is in about 3 hours. In the meantime, here's a prescription for an inhaler."  
"How much is this going to cost?"  
"The inhaler?"  
"Mhm."  
"It should only be about a $50 copay."  
"I don't have insurance."  
"Oh. Well, I don't know then."  
"Ok. Well, thanks for seeing me."  
"Uh huh! I'll have the secretary call you later with the lab results. Ok?"  
"Ok."  
"Alright, buh-bye now." The lights flickered once more and went out altogether.

VI

When the eyes were opened again, he was once more shrouded for darkness. Although he had taken long falls, just as Tal-Zora had said, his legs had somehow magically healed, along with (mostly) the speech. The strangest part about this new situation was that he seemed to be in trapped some sort condensed of, hot, gelatinous substance. He could move those arms and legs, but didn't there seem to be much room between that body and these walls of his container? He consumed was with sudden urges to escape, to flee for his "life" before things could any worse get. He began pushing self against walls of this hot, dark prison; kicking, scratching, stabbing outward with the face. He heard those walls begin to crack, and fractures of light appeared before self. He gurgled with pleasure, and kicked harder all. With mighty face-stabs, that head burst into blinding daylight, such as existed only in the memories. He wiped at the face, attempting to extricate those eyes from this gooey substance. Some was in that mouth, and against the will, he swallowed. It tasted fine, so he kept at it, eating mouthfuls of the stuff, until all was gone.  
Engorged, and feeling physically well for his first time in long times, he upcurled, and went sleeping. He dreamt much. He had spirit visions, or perhaps vaguely sentient beings in smoke form, putting the arms around him, buying self drinks.  
"My name is Billy!" says one, onstanding his to left. He is that dead version of a man wearing a brown business suit, travelling salesmen from the 1950's. "I can help you find women. The nose knows!" Billy holds that nose with translucent hands and pulls it by grotesque dimensions. Hundreds of tiny Billys abseil the nose hairs of Big Billy's nose, and onswing H.'s sweater and jeans, all around climbing him. They inclimb his pockets, they inforce their way to his underwear, and they betwixtrelax his toes. One insticks his face to H.'s ear and yells, "Billy knows the way! Stick with good old Billy!"  
"Why hell should this trust you?" asks H., offbrushing the Billys to self.  
"I can help you find women," repeats Billy, handing H. his business card. H. reluctantly accepts, and a mini-Billy takes the card from those fingers, downclimbs the sleeve, and injams it to H.'s pocket. It pats the pocket for good luck, and offscampers to join others inside Big Billy's nose. Billy tips his hat and outwalks the door.  
H. opens the eyes and is struck by sights. He is insitting a giant nest, and much to his chagrin, he can all too clearly see why it is those legs have mysteriously healed. He has transmuted to birdhood. Not just any bird, though. He is the baby bird, with stickyyellow plumage, and scaletaloned feet. He tries to flap those wings and insucceeds only overknocking self. He cranes the neck to see that he sadly deformed is. He has two more beaks on the back, and one of those wings dwarfs the other. No feathers has he, only thick, mucuscovered strings that reach to the bottom of the nest. He overpeeks the edge of the nest. It is very high up, but he doesn't care. He decides he would rather fall to that death than take another breath as this malformed creature.  
"Goodbye, cruel dream," he onmutters the way down, still unable to take it seriously. "It was shitty while you lasted-" that body broke apart on the stones beneath the nest.  
He awoke to Tal-Zora abovehovering self, splashing that face with sewer water. Except, it wasn't quite sewer water at the deadzone. It was fetid, yet somehow much fresher.  
You're back, as I knew you would be. Did you have a nice adventure?  
"It was strange. I became birds, pecking the way out of eggs, and I... I was dreamhaving where I met those ghosts."  
What ghosts? Do you remember what they looked like?  
"Well, one of them was named Billy. Why do?"  
Ah, Billy, infamous pimp of the northern deadzone. Word spreads fast.  
"You're meaning me?"  
Quite so. It's remarkable Billy found you so fast. Tal-Zora helped self to the feet. What sort of promises did he make you?  
"I don't know, I don't remember. Do you say he was advertising to me in the dreams?"  
Indeed. Did you notice that you're standing? H. downlooked at his feet. They felt solid beneath self, and he upjumped to test their functionality. It made nonsense that they should suddenly work, but little about the deadzone didn't.  
Come with me, H. We have much work to do.  
"What are you abouton?" asked H., who awayfollowed the insectoid from sights of his revival unwillingly. "Do you mean the orb?"  
Yes.  
"Why you aboutcare that do? Destroying orbs won't backbring my old life... or will it?"  
The rules of the deadzone are as mysterious as they are ancient.  
"So destroying this orb..."  
There's no telling what it would do. H. throughfollowed Tal-Zora what seemed a vast expanse of tunnels and corridors. They were black, but H. found he could see just as well as if he were instanding broad moonlight. Everything was grayish, deadish. It always be night here. To be thrust so suddenly, randomly into this world, where nobody coulded give how's and why's... then again, comparable circumstances indeed to his earthly origins.  
After infinity of through trudging tunnels, familiar flashes of light caught the eye.  
"There! It is!" He yelled, pointing. Tal-Zora after sprinted it, flitting from ceiling, to wall, and back.  
Come along! Step lively! beckoned he. H. sprinted to upkeep. They rounded a corner, blindly following the trail of glittering dust the orb behind left. At ends of this very narrow hallway, they entered a clearing. H., surely never a geologist, but he didn't believe there could have been such an open space in the earth without danger of collapse. In the center of this opening, there hung a gigantic inverted pyramid, alongside a great many stalactites. They hotfollowed the heels of that orb as it indrifted an opening high in the impressive structure. Wait here for me, said Tal-Zora, and with that, he spread his wings and uphovered to the opening through which the orb had disappeared.  
"Now I am going to do what?" asked H., aroundlooking nervously. In one corner, he noticed a fountain natural, where scalding water upwelled from the depths and collected in crystalline pools. He atlooked that reflection. He saw not self, but entire scenes playing with themselves out in the water. A beautiful mermaid, half fish, sat onperched a boulder in the surf, combing that hair. She was nude, but the voluminous, golden hair covered those ample breasts. She uplooked from what she was doing, uplooked directly at H., and smiled.  
"What?" he whispered, but quickly regained the composure, and waved. She backwaved.  
"Who you are?" asked he. She moved that mouth, presumably saying the name, but no sound came. "I can't hear the you." She said that name again, this time yelling it with both hands cupped to her mouth, but still no sound. H. shook this head, conveying deafness. Looking slightly annoyed, the mermaid shrugged and backwent to combing the hair.  
He leaned against the crystal basin for long times, watching her. He remembered Billy the ghost, and reached in that pocket for this card. He thought Billy had been but a dream, but sure enough, this card was. In case of any doubt, there was a picture of Billy, along with its slogan: "I can help you find women," all aboveprinted a tiny red button. Beneathprinted the tiny red button were words: "Press for immediate service."With the corner of his fingernail, he managed to compress the tiny button. Just as H. predicted, Billy materialized before self, complete with brown business suit.  
"You need a woman?" he asked quickly, patting H. on the back as he sidled by self. The mini-Billies wasted no time in outstreaming of Big Billy's nose and scaling H.'s body. H. quickly offbrushed them and backed from Big Billy.  
"Actually, was I wondering if you couldn't get me out of here."  
"Sure, sure," said Billy as he began creeping to self, "Where ya' wanna' go?"  
"Out the deadzone."  
"You want to leave the deadzone?"  
"Yes."  
"You're sure? It can be a nice place, just give it a chance. I got-"  
"That's all I'm wanting, Billy. I want leave forever the deadzone. Can those do that for this?" Billy had been reaching for H.'s sweater, but let the hand drop to side at the question. He looked very contemplative, and thought for long moments. At last, he seemed to brighten, a determined gleam in those translucent eyes.  
"You know what? Let me talk to a few friends of mine. I'm sure one of us has something to offer you."  
"Good. You do."  
"I will. I'll speak to you later, my friend." Billy shook the hand and inmelted the floor.  
It wasn't long after Billy had left that H. heard the beating of Tal-Zora's wings.  
I have returned.  
"You were successful?"  
No, I wasn't. The orb is much different than I thought it would be. This is no ordinary denizen of the deadzone.  
"What is?"  
It could be a cross-over.  
"What's?"  
One who consciously comes to the deadzone, fully in control of their bodies and thoughts... and is able to come and go at will.  
"Not like us. Prisoners."  
No one here is a prisoner. The deadzone is a glorious place.  
"Excuse me, but how this place is "glorious," as you say?"  
Knowledge of the deadzone can only be gained through time. The answers will come, I promise, just as your ability to resume walking came.  
"Where the deadzone came from? What's?"  
I doubt if anyone knows the answer to either of those questions. There are rumours that we are the blood that flows through the veins of all sentient creatures. But listen, there's something I must address. You mustn't trust Billy. He lies, H.. He lies about a great many things. What did he tell you?  
"What you do mean?"  
Don't be coy. I can smell him, he must have been here a short while ago. I don't know if you even spoke to him, but if you did.... beware. Now come with me. There is something I must show you.  
They arrived at Patience, the great deadzone city, several days later. For whatever lackluster qualities the deadzone possessed, it made up with Patience. Sentient creatures of all different sizes and shapes about trundled the daily chores. Homes were carved from great stalagmites, and Christmas lights were strung peak to peak. On closer inspection, H. saw they were balls of some of fungus or another. They hummed softly. It was a song neither uplifting nor depressing. They sang of neutrality, and forever.  
As for the denizens of this strange land: all different shapes, colors, and sizes. Monstrous Balthazars about scurried, blubbery torsos supported by hundreds of tiny legs. Graceful centaurs cavorted, racing and playing tag. One of them into bumped H. and sent self flying. He crashed through walls of what appeared to be a candy store, much to the annoyance of the shopkeeper, and onlay his back, breathing heavily.  
"Look what you've done! You'll pay for this, human!"  
"Can... I..."  
He can explain! announced Tal-Zora. The real culprit is the centaur who into crashed that him. There were plenty of witnesses. The scene drew crowds. A giant eyeball with ice-blue iris crowded H., scrutinizing self carefully. H. gave it the poke, and it offscurried crying. A lizardperson helped self to the feet, and sniffed the hair. H. offbrushed self and began to extricate self from this situation.  
"Where do you think you're going?" asked the shopkeeper, an exceptionally bloated Balthazar. He advanced on H., until Tal-Zora interposed self between the two.  
Come now, are we not civilized? That comment seemed to slow the Balthazar. It backstepped and outpuffed its gigantic chest.  
"Of course I'm civilized. Probably more so than you, Tal-Zora."  
You believe yourself more civilized than I?  
"Indeed I do, Indeed I do. For instance, I don't often, dare I say never, keep the company of candy-shop wreckers."  
You must forgive him, my friend. This is only his fourth day in the deadzone.  
"His fourth? Hmph. I wasn't so unruly even as a babe. I'll see to it he's excommunicated should he commit such an act of depravity again."  
Making threats? Most uncivilized.  
"I said it once, and I'll say it again! I am much more civilized than the both of you put together, and more mature, I'd like to add, and much, much less standoffish. Now then, good day to you gentlemen, I must ask you to leave this very instant! At once, I say!"  
Fine, we're leaving. The Balthazar stood with the arms crossed, surveying damage to the beloved candy-shop. It covered that face with meaty forearms and wept.  
Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I've made him self-conscious about his civilization level, but I believe he might just report you all the same.  
"Didn't you said you like were police officer, though?"  
They were making the way to the center of this city, a group of stalagmites merging with the ceiling of that clearing.  
Yes, I did say that. However, I am not above the law, and I am forbidden from lying.  
"What you do have to lie about? You saw that centaur push self."  
I know, but what you don't realize is that it is quite against the law to interfere with centaurs at play. The fact that you are new here would certainly be taken into account, but it remains that you not only interrupted the centaurs, but you made a hole in the wall of that Balthazar's candy shop. If you were tried in court... it might be the last we saw of each other.  
"Execute me for to be physically abused by centaurs?"  
We do not execute anyone. It is not possible in the deadzone. Your punishment would be banishment.  
"What are the big deals with this? I've been half an hour or so here, and already it's sick of it."  
Watch what you say, my friend. There are those who don't take kindly to those who speak ill of Patience.  
"What they are going to do, kill this me?"  
No, but they might cut you up into tiny pieces and preserve you in jars.  
"It wouldn't kill me?"  
No, but you would be imprisoned, in a manner of speaking.  
"Someone is breaking those jars eventually. Where we are going?"  
A career counselor.  
"What?"  
Someone who can help you find a job.  
"I don't want one? I mean, that whole purpose of the work is to feed oneself ultimately, and said you I die can't, so guessing I wouldn't just up and starve, would I."  
No, you wouldn't, but don't you wish to feel as if you're contributing?  
"No. Have I not made it clear painfully I want more nothing than to leave? I want don't to live here, let alone downsettle and start a career."  
What if I told you that the careers here are infinitely more interesting?  
"I'm not listening."  
It's not just a daily grind with jobs like these. The difference between life in the deadzone and elsewhere is that our jobs count. We really need people to fill these positions, and if they didn't, we would collapse as a society.  
"What kind of jobs I could have?"  
Don't ask me. We're nearly there.  
He was bygreeted an insectoid, like Tal-Zora, except this one wore glasses and a neck tie, giving it a decidedly more "civilized" appearance.  
Greetings sir, how may I help you?  
He wants to get a job.  
Splendid! Come right this way! The mantis into led H. an office, indicating he should sit. Throughlooking a list of documents, he offrattled a list of seemingly random words.  
Knife. Condom. Carpet. Sunshine. Water. Doorknob. Plat-  
"Excused, but why you are saying these words?" interrupted H.  
I'm listing different positions available for your level of experience.  
"This means I could have job as the knife?"  
Oh, yes. My sister just took a job as a knife.  
"A knife. How."  
You just step right up to the Allocator, and he makes you into a knife.  
"But why anyone would want to be a knife. For that matter, why you do to turn people into knives?" The mantis bespectacled did laugh. It was a strange, sizzling sound, like a burning potato.  
Don't you know? You're not a person when you enter the deadzone. You're just raw material, waiting to be turned into something useful.  
"Contented am I to remain useless, then."  
H., said Tal-Zora, Just give it a try, would you? If you don't like it, you can always quit and try something else.  
"No! No! No! No want!"  
What if you could be a grandfather clock?  
"No!"  
A safety pin?  
"No!"  
A rocking horse.  
"No!"  
A perfect wooden spoon.  
"No!"  
A keyhole?  
"N- wait several minutes, a keyhole?"  
That's right. In the true land of shape and color, keyholes must be, or else how would keys fit in their locks?  
"Don't know, that's a good question."  
I'll tell you what would happen. As soon as anyone tried the lock, they'd wind up here, in the deadzone! You wouldn't want to wish that upon your fellow man, now would you?  
"No, guess I not..."  
I know you wouldn't, you're a good man. Now, can we all agree that you're to work as a keyhole for the next thirty days?

VII

Sloan worked at a hardware store. Normally she had the cash register to aid her, but the power was out and she had to work all the figures on paper with an old fashioned calculator. The old crone watched her very closely as she added up the total. It was making her nervous, and a cold sweat trickled down her forehead. There were lots of disgruntled customers in line, and she had learned from experience that they tended to vent their ire on the cashier when they had the opportunity.  
"That's wrong, there," spat the crone. "You've added too much for tax. That should be .305."  
"Well, actually-"  
"You've added too much! Thumbtacks are not that expensive!"  
"Yes they are."  
"What! That's it. My dog is waiting in the car and I don't have all day. Just keep it, all of it. I'm going to talk to your manager!" Sloan watched as the crone ambled off to customer service to wait in line behind the ten or fifteen other customers.  
The next man wished to purchase nails, but the scale she used to weigh them was electric. Even if the power had been on, it was out of order anyways.  
"Ah, I'm sorry sir, but we need power before you can buy those."  
"Whaddya' mean you need power? Can't you just add it up on paper?"  
"I need the scale to weigh them."  
"Hell." The man tossed the nails on the counter and left.  
The next man was purchasing a belt sander.  
"Hey there, cutie. How ya' doin'?" Sloan looked at the man with confusion. She assumed that past a certain age, men simply ceased to flirt with young women. He was fat, had white hair, and wore a large, golden necklace. He grinned as if he didn't have a care in the world. As he spoke to her, he leaned over the counter and folded his hands very conspicuously. The gold from his watch and rings glittered in the dull light of the unpowered hardware store.  
"I'm... fine. How are you?"  
"Light my fire."  
"What?"  
"I'm fine, thanks. So what are you doin' later?"  
"Oh. Going home. Maybe play some Duty Mark."  
"What's that?"  
"Video games."  
"Oh, yeah. My son used to play those all the time." The people waiting behind the fat man began to grumble.  
"Ok, well the total is $1250.23." He handed her $1500 and winked.  
"Keep the change."  
"What? Are you sure?"  
"Yep. Always does me good to talk to a beautiful woman like you."  
"Thanks."  
"Welcome. Well, have a good one."  
Nothing went as it should have that day. At lunch time, she walked to the street corner to meet her boyfriend. He worked at a rival hardware store across the street, and they ate lunch together every day. Their power was out, too. The smog was exceptionally thick today, and as she walked through the parking lot, a car had to slam on its brakes to keep from hitting her. She was surprised at her own reaction. She smiled, tossed her shining black hair over her shoulder, and kept walking. The driver honked and gestured angrily, but even despite his anger he knew he was wasting his energy.  
It didn't matter. She felt so good today, and could not figure out why. She was pregnant, and she had just been shouted at by hundreds of strangers over something that wasn't her fault. She had almost been hit by a car. She didn't care though. She felt damn good. She felt like she was the coolest woman in the world. She needed sunglasses. She was blind in one eye, and the smog was always thick in this part of the city, but she needed some anyways. She made a detour and backtracked to a dollar store next to where she worked. When she walked in, everyone stared at her.  
She smiled and said hello to the nearest onlooker and tried on a few different pairs of sunglasses. The third pair she tried on made her feel differently. Suddenly all the good feelings were gone. She wanted to cry.  
"I feel like I'm nailed to the cross," she whispered.  
"What was that?" a nearby shopper asked. She said nothing, only shook her head ever so slightly. She was a statue made of tar, melting in the sun. She took them off, and walked slowly to the counter.  
"I'll take these."  
"Excuse me?"  
"I said, I'll take these!" she snapped. She hadn't meant to yell at all, and she suddenly felt embarrassed. As she made the purchase, melancholy washed the embarrassment away. What's wrong with me? she wondered as she walked out.  
She put on the new sunglasses and immediately felt ridiculous. Between the smog and her one good eye, she could hardly see.  
"Watch out!" someone yelled as she bumped into them.  
"Oh!" said someone else as she stepped on their foot. She took off the glasses and put them in her purse. Her breath was getting heavier, and she wanted very much to sit down and cry. She kept walking. When she arrived at the designated street corner, her boyfriend was not there. It began to rain.  
She stood there, perfectly motionless. The rain poured all around her, and it seemed at that moment that her skin was not impermeable. She saw a sudden flash and heard the tremendous grind of angry thunder. She slowly sank to her knees, bringing her hands up to her face. She was crying now, very gently. Her shoulders bounced up and down with the sobs and she could hear the sound of footsteps as people walked past her. The rain pelted her back.  
"Sloan?" someone said. She looked up and saw a blurry outline.  
"Jonathan?" He took her hand and helped her to her feet. "John! Oh, Jonathan, my moods have been so all over the place, what's happening to me?"  
"Shhhhhh, it's gonna' be ok. How long have you been waiting here? Ah! I'm sorry, let's get you out of the cold."  
They went to a chinese restaurant. Sloan ordered chicken chow mein and Jonathan ordered a few egg rolls.  
"Did you see the doctor? What did he tell you?"  
"She said it might be in the fallopian tube."  
"Huh?" She explained what the doctor had told her.  
"Oh. But what if it's not?"  
"I don't know, John. She gave me a pamphlet for Planned Parenthood..."  
"It's ok. I've been talking to some of my friends and they know someone you can see."  
"Who is it?"  
"I'm not sure, I'll probably go with you. But it's... eh, what's it called? Natural medicine?"  
"Homeopathic?"  
"Yeah, that's it! Er, well, maybe. Anyways, one of my friends knows someone who's supposedly a great healer. We should go see 'em."  
"Ok."  
After lunch, Jonathan walked her back to work. He told her everything would be ok, that she was being strong and dealing with it well, and that he would pick her up after work. He kissed her goodbye and they went their separate ways.

VIII

Being a keyhole was not as glamorous as H. imagined it would be. It was true, at times he wished he never needed eating or sleeping, but it came at the cost of constantly having keys jammed through the essence of the being. Occasionally, onesome stuck eyeballs very close to self and giggled quietly. Once a week, Tal-Zora would make self microscopic and bring self post-it notes and pens, so H. could feel like he was at a normal job.  
Isn't this great? he'd ask. You're finally contributing.  
"Fuck contributing, and fuck you."  
Most uncivilized. I went through the trouble of shrinking myself and bringing you gifts. The least you could do is give me a kind word.  
"How about 'I quit?'"  
Really now, it's only been seven and a half months. Do you really mean to quit so early?  
"I do. Is this a boring, thankless job, and onesome else could this just as easily. What about candy shop owner, fatty? Wouldn't he like becoming a keyhole?"  
No, I'm sure he wouldn't.  
"And you?"  
I am already ch'i wudan.  
"Then out of my sight, and tell counselor I quit this job."  
Weeks later, H. was convinced it would be in its best interest, indeed the best interest of all mankind, if it were to become a whisk. The work was dizzying, and it soon grew dissatisfied. It tried working as a glass jar, a musket, and finally, the propellor on a solar powered bird-sweeper. In fact, this was arguably better than any job it'd ever had in its pre-deadzone life. As with whiskhood, it was disorienting to aroundspin all day, but it was great fun to offpush birds of a roof. Then those birds felt spiteful, and onshat self whenever they saw it, and it was helpless to move. Sometimes the other parts of that machine called him names, like "sticky" or "flyboy," but mostens the time they never spoke. Much time later, when Tal-Zora was visiting, he asked self to input two weeks with the counselor.  
He's not going to like this. With how flaky you've been lately, he may not give you another job any time soon.  
"I don't care, I'm wanting out of the job- sorry!" he said as he offpushed Tal-Zora the roof.  
It's OK, he said, flying back.  
"Atlook me, I'm incovered shit, and all the I do's: aroundpushing birds, getting onshat."  
I'll mention- whoops! he said, off falling the roof and flying back.  
H. found self in the counselor's office once more, and the counselor looked unhappy. He tsk-tsk'd as he looked through H.'s employment record, and his compound eyes overpeered his half-moon lenses dubiously.  
I can't say as I'm very willing to try you out in a new position so soon, H.  
"Well, was I thinking... there seem to be shop owners, workers here in Patience. Why can't I just, in the city, work a job here?"  
If you had asked me that before trying and quitting so many different jobs, I'd be inclined to let you do just that. As it is... he downglanced at H.'s file, I've little assurance you won't simply tire of your new occupation and quit, probably when we need you most. How do you think the owner of that solar powered bird-pusher feels, now that the propellor has simply disappeared?  
"He thinks nothing but foolishness, the birds against conspired self."  
No, that's not true at all. In fact, after you quit, birds began landing on the edge of his roof once more, defecating all over his peugeot and driveway, making a mess.  
"Well, his problems."  
And mine! Now I've got to find a replacement, and soon. Fortunately, we've experienced a sudden influx of souls to the deadzone. Anyways, your records don't seem to indicate that you'd be an appropriate fit for any available position in Patience. Have you ever managed a store before?  
"No."  
Do you have any lab experience?  
"No."  
Carpentry? Welding? Anything useful whatsoever?  
"No. Before I herecame I was writer."  
What's that? A writer? the counselor seemed to grow excited. And what exactly is it that writers do?  
"I wrote stories."  
Stories? You mean, events that never actually took place?  
"Eh..."  
So you were a liar. And you were paid to do this?  
"Not lies, and... not really."  
If the stories never happened and you asserted they did, it follows that you were lying. You were a badly paid liar. I'm afraid we don't have much use for your type in Patience. If you had told me more about your work history earlier, I might never have hired you as a keyhole in the first place. It takes an honest sort to hold down a job as a keyhole.  
Wait, please, give him another chance! interjected Tal-Zora. He could be ch'i wudan. He could be my partner.  
And why would you want a liar like him tagging along? He would just get in your way... and lie to you, of course.  
He's more honest than he looks. Please, I beg of you. He's had a rough start to his new life in the deadzone. I can help him turn it around. The counselor deeplooked in thought. He sighed, and said,  
Yes, I remember when I was new to the deepzone as well. Confused by the new set of rules and principles by which I had to live. Desperate for work as a career counselor. Dropping bog ch'a with the Balthazars. Alright. He can work with you- but listen, Tal-Zora: I want you to tell me right away if he lies to you, even once. His job performance is a reflection of my aptitude as a counselor, and if he goes down, I go down. Understood?  
Understood.  
Very good. For the first month, he will be an off-the-record ch'i wudan, just in case he reverts back to his old ways. So he can't make any arrests, and he can't destroy anyone. You understand why it has to be this way?  
Yes.  
Very good. Well, off you go. Let me know how he's done after a month has gone by. And let me know if he tells any more of his lies, will you?  
Of course. Farewell, counselor.  
Farewell.  
And with that, H. found self relatively free once more. He followed Tal-Zora out of the office and back to streets of Patience.  
"So?" he asked.  
Now, we must begin your education.  
"Education? Why in hell do that? I been schoolin' the last yearstwenty of the 'life.'"  
Yes, but non-deadzone institutions are generally regarded as useless. Which country were you educated in?  
"The 'States."  
Yes, that country's education system is said to be particularly impotent. In fact, you're lucky I don't get you wiped.  
"What means this 'wiped?'"  
When one is wiped, their memories are permanently erased.  
"But-? Have I done?"  
Calm down, you've done nothing wrong. It would only be to erase the taint of your idiotic culture. I'm surprised you don't do it voluntarily. It might make things easier for you.  
"I can't see what means you, but- no, thanks, some of those memories could be useful here."  
Like what?  
"Like... well... let's think."  
What do you know the afterlife? Of spirits? Of divinity?  
"Not a thing."  
Do you even have the slightest notion of what happens to a person when they die?  
"Well, heard they either go heaven or hell, depending on behavior in 'life.'"  
Ah, the white wave and the black wave. Do you know what happens to them next?  
"Stay forever?"  
Idiot. Do you think there is any crime deserving of being punished for all eternity? Any good deed worthy of infinite bliss?  
"No, I don't guess."  
This is why, my friend, we are headed to the library.  
They entered that Patience library, grand structure of flowing arches; statues of exploding musculature; frothing, vomiting fountains. H. saw that candy-shop owner in this corner and stood opposite of Tal-Zora, hiding self.  
You needn't worry about him. He has calmed down.  
"How you know?"  
I know his type. Balthazars stay angry for a few hours and forget all about it the next day. He probably wonders how that hole in his candy shop ever got there.  
"Really?" asked H. He decided to test this theory. He crossed room to that Balthazar, who was listening to a book on tape. "Hi, you are?" Its beady eyes uplooked from the wooden desk before which it rested, and removed headphones from the ears.  
"What did you say?"  
"Said, 'hi, fuckin'...?'"  
"Oh. I'm fine. Do I know you?"  
"Yeah, I'm that fellow what busted holes for the wall that's your candy shop." The Balthazar seemed abacktaken, and those button eyes backandforthdarted, trying to recall just what happened. Wide grins outbroke the flab.  
"Guh. Funny. Identify self, human."  
"I'm H."  
"Nice to meet you H. My name is Cuppino. I like you. Bycome this "shop" and get free candy some time."  
"Will. Nice saying at you," said H., backstepping quickly. Cuppino nodded and smiled, dawning the headphones once more.  
Satisfied?  
"Immensely. How Balthazars remember things?"  
They usually have quid-quid companions who remember for them. Cuppino's quid-quid died some time back though, and his affairs have suffered accordingly since.  
"'Tarded, eh? Quid-quid? What is? Nothing dies in this deadzone."  
A quid-quid is a small, sarcastic creature. They look like smaller versions of what are called "chimpanzes" in your world, with elongated elbows and knees, and colorful clothing. And you were right, nothing dies in the deadzone- but we can be destroyed. Cuppino destroyed his quid-quid on accident by sitting on it.  
"That betwixtbe's difference of death and destruction?"  
Death is migration. Destruction is change. Nothing migrates from the deadzone. We can change, though.  
"And when destroyed, what happens?"  
Their corporeal form is destroyed, just as it would be anywhere else. Their essence, however, remains in the deadzone, as it always will.  
"Essence of Cuppino's late quid-quid is still in this deadzone?"  
Yes. Every new year, the Allocator rounds up the stray essences and offers them jobs like the ones you had- as different objects in a different world. Though they may never walk the streets of Patience again, many of them take solace from their contributions.  
"Sounds horrible. Sounds much worse than ever I imagined hell to be."  
It's not as if you can't assume another form, later on. I was once destroyed, myself. I was given an honorary position as the badge of a police officer. Only recently, upon your arrival, was I given my body back.  
"You born in this deadzone?"  
I don't know. That was a very long time ago. You'll forget about your United States too, eventually. That's why I offered to get you wiped. You might as well speed up the process of becoming a native of the deadzone. We'll speak more of this later; for now, I want you to read this book. This is a comprehensive history of the deadzone, and may answer many of your questions.  
"You said, think I, the history of this deadzone be mysterious as ancient."  
It is. This was written by one of the first non-allocators.  
"What's an-"  
Just read. All answers will be given in due time.  
H. opened that old volume. It was bound in strange, unfamiliar material- like plastic, but with more heft. Black, and greasy. He onset it the desk, which he noticed was not wood, but brown greasy stuff.

The History of the Deadzone: A Scholarly Approach to the thus-far Unapproachable  
by Cretolius Lord Mortimer, Learned Ha Shui of Patience

"Tal-Zora- Ha Shui?"  
Like me- a sentient mantis.

So there I was, patiently filing my taxes like a good Ha Shui, when I heard a knock at my door. I was so startled by the noise that I dropped my pen, causing the ink to flow freely over my L-6 forms.  
"Damnation," I said to myself, "Who could it possibly be?" I went to the door and answered it. There in the doorway stood three ruffians of the Her Shui caste.  
"Whatever do you want?" I asked, somewhat in a huff. "Can't you see that I'm busy filing my taxes?"  
"We know that you're filing your taxes," said one of them, "and we've come to take you away."  
"Oh, dear," I said to no one in particular. I allowed myself to be guided by them to a cart. They whipped the Ant-Hi'i into motion, and we started away.  
"I was wondering," I asked one of them, "Could you explain yourself, insofar as your propensity for making Ha Shui drop their pens onto their L-6 forms, thus allowing the ink to flow freely, and further, as to where you're taking me?"  
"As to your pen," he began gruffly, "I expect we may have startled you, and I apologize for the ruination of your L-6 form. As to where we are taking you, you are bound for prison."  
"Prison, you say?" I asked.  
"Yes, prison," replied he.  
"But why ever would you do such a thing?"  
"You've been formally accused, and you must be incarcerated until your trial begins."  
"Of what crime, may I ask?"  
"Something so heinous," he said with a noticeable tinge of disgust, "something so reprehensible, that it was not even disclosed to me."  
"Oh, dear," I repeated, and certainly not for the last time that day. We arrived at our destination a short while later. I had no idea that I lived such a short ways away from the prison, else I'm sure I would have visited more often. I would even have brought baked goods and gifts for the inmates, should the warden have allowed it. I soon learned that he was not the type of Ha Shui that would permit anything of the sort.  
"Is that him?" asked the warden. He was a burly, no-nonsense sort of Ha Shui, and he eyed me with obvious distrust. I felt moved to tears by the swirl of events that had uprooted me so suddenly, and presently, I began to speak very quickly, hardly aware of what I was saying.  
"Please sir," I said, "I don't know what I've done to deserve all this, but please have mercy! I'm a good, industrious Ha Shui, and until now, I never even knew there was a prison located so near to my home. I was filing my taxes-"  
"You were what?"  
"I said, I was filing my taxes when-"  
"Filing your taxes, eh?" He asked again. A friendly smile overtook his stern features, and he patted me on the back. He seemed to have taken a liking to me, and I grew relieved. "Well, I'm sure this is all some mistake. I don't often see such good Ha Shui like you at my prison, and it warms my heart. All the same, I must follow my duty and imprison you until proper investigations are underway."  
"Oh, dear," I said, beginning to cry.  
"Don't cry, my friend! Look, we'll make it easy on you. Horton!" He barked, addressing the Ha Shui to my left. "Get him a blanket and some cookies. Is there anything else you'd like while you're here?"  
"Yes please, sir. I'd like a book to read. And more cookies than I expect Horton will procure for me."  
"Horton! Did you hear that? Extra cookies and a book! On the double!" I was beginning to feel better, having received the treatment a Ha Shui of my status deserved, and I was shown to my prison cell. It was a dank, dark thing, made entirely out of concrete, with nothing soft whereupon to rest my weary head. I made an appeal to a passing guard,  
"Guard? Excuse me, but- guard?" He ignored me, as if I had said nothing at all!  
"Oh, dear. Shra'id, why have you done this to me?" I asked, making an appeal to the presumed creator of our species, and indeed, the universe. As usual, I heard no answer. However, a short while later, I began to hear strange noises, and grew very frightened. I heard a humming noise, not unlike that of a well oiled machine, and presently, a bright light appeared in the corner of my prison cell.  
"Please, don't kill me!" I begged, recoiling violently from the sudden apparition. It made no answer, only rocking gently back and forth, as if to garner my attention. Then, it began to shrink and dance around a crack in the wall, and disappeared. I stayed huddled in the corner for a moment longer, unable to comprehend what I had just seen. It wasn't long, however, before my curiosity got the best of me, and I sallied over to the crack. I tried to put my pincer in it, but it would not fit, being much too large. I knocked at it, in an attempt to ascertain the solidarity of the wall through which the light had disappeared. It resounded quite loudly, a quality indicative of hollowness. I looked over my shoulder to see if there were any guards nearby. There weren't. I am generally considered a weak Ha Shui, frail of body and cowardly of temperament, but I summoned what little strength there was in my bosom and gave the wall a great heave. To my utter amazement, it dissolved before my eyes. Perhaps I was more powerful than I gave myself credit for! A lengthy tunnel was revealed to me, and I crawled in with little hesitation. I didn't even think to grab my blanket. A short ways into the tunnel I heard voices behind me.  
"Lord Mortimer, I've brought you more refreshments."  
"Where is he?"  
"Escape!"  
"Sound the alarum!" A loud siren began to wail with great vehemence, and I began to crawl all the faster, without heed to my surroundings, of which I could see nothing. This was, I think, to my detriment, as I unwittingly crossed a threshold of some sort, and began falling for a very long time. I'd say I fell about fifty fathoms. At least. I tried to grasp at the walls, I tried opening my wings to fly, but nothing worked. It was as if I was a baby. I covered my eyes to weep, and when I did so, it seemed that my pincer passed unabated through my face. I was very confused. After a time, I grew quite disoriented, and fell asleep.  
To my surprise, I awoke an indeterminate amount of time later, unharmed.  
"It's just like Peachy said- 'that which does not thrill me, only makes me bolder," I told myself. All around me was darkness. I began calling out for help, but no one seemed to hear me. With nothing to do, I began stumbling about, holding the rough stone of the walls for support, hoping to find a way out of wherever I had ended up. Or down, rather. After a long time of groping through the darkness, I began to hear singing, and grew quite excited.  
"Perhaps yonder choir will help direct me!" I ejaculated. I rushed blindly into their midst, and they abruptly ceased their singing, startled as they were. However, once they saw that I was no threat to them, they struck up a new tune. Actually, it seemed identical to the one they had already been singing. What I liked most about the chaps was that they produced a dull green light, appropriately mellow for the setting, which I now saw to be a great network of caverns.  
"I'm sorry to have startled you so," I began to address them, "but could you tell me where I am?" They didn't seem to hear me; they kept on singing their haunting tune, so I asked them again. They ignored me further.  
"How rude," I commented to myself. There appeared to be lights coming from a great stalagmite in the middle of the cave, as if they were the windows of a tall office. I am very much at home in an office setting, and my feet seemed to take me there of their own accord. I was happy to see I was correct in my assumption that this was indeed an abode of some sort, and I strode boldly through the portal, keeping Peachy's quote fresh in my mind. It was well lit and inviting in the stalagmite, and though I saw no one there, it appeared as if I must have entered someone's home.  
"Hello? Is there anyone home?" I called out. There was no reply. I wandered about the dwelling, happy that I seemed to have found a sign of competent, perhaps polite life. I found the kitchen, and began to make myself at home. I put a kettle on, and found some crackers in a pantry. After I had eaten all the crackers, the kettle was boiling, and I poured myself some tea. I looked in the pantry and found a tin of cookies.  
"More cookies!" I cheered, pleased with my discovery. So there I was, helping myself to the rations of a complete stranger (I was certain they'd understand, given the circumstances), when I heard a knock at the door. My blood froze in its veins, and I expected the Her Shui ruffians had found me at last. Panicking, I hid myself away in my stranger's dried goods cellar. I listened very intently as someone entered the stalagmite home.  
"Cretolius? Are you here?" called someone. I wanted nothing more than to leave the dried goods cellar and embrace them, but I had grown wary since my experience with the prison, and stayed silent. "Cretolius, I know you're here, it will do you no good to hide." I grew very nervous. The owner of the voice was in the kitchen now, and its feet made clomping noises as it walked overhead.  
"Are you in the cellar, Cretolius?" it asked, advancing to the trap door. Anticipating its desire to enter, I quickly and silently flipped the hasp on the door, and sealed it with a nearby nail. The door rattled on its hinges, and the voice sighed with frustration. "Cretolius, this is nonsensical! Come out of the cellar this instant, and I'm sure we can settle this affair peacefully."  
"What if I don't ever wish to leave the cellar?" I asked, growing desperate. "I could just stay down here for the rest of my life, and I'd never bother you again, I swear it!"  
"But you'll run out of dried goods, eventually. Then what would you do?"  
"I- I- I'd eat my hands!"  
"That doesn't sound very pleasant at all. Well, if you get sick of it down there, would you come see me in my office? It's on the top floor-"  
"Did you say 'office?'"  
"Yes, I did." Well, that did it for me. I removed the nail from its position and threw open the hasp. I was happy to see a very reasonable Ha Shui, not unlike myself, waiting for me at the entrance to the trapdoor.  
"I'm ever so glad to see you, sir," I said, clasping pincers with him. "You wouldn't believe what I've been through."  
"Oh, I have an idea," he said with a knowing smile. I was much perturbed by that smile. He took me into his office and began filling out paperwork. I was much comforted by that sight.  
"Do you enjoy watching me fill out these forms?" he inquired.  
"Oh, yes, very much so," I replied.  
"I'm glad to hear it," he said without looking up from his task. I silently hoped he would delegate a form to me, as it had been in the old days. "Tell me, Cretolius," he continued, "How would you like to work for me?"  
"I should very much like that," I said, "but... I already have a job. In fact, they're probably wondering why I haven't shown up today." I began to grow very worried for my position as a clerk. I could see the overseer very clearly in my mind's eye, frowning with disapproval as he marked me tardy. I was nearly moved to tears by my vision. As if he could read my mind, the Ha Shui laughed very jovially.  
"Tut-tut, Cretolius. Don't you know you can't work there anymore?"  
"I expect you're right, Mr. ?"  
"You may call me Allocator."  
"Allocator, you say? What sort of title is that?"  
"One with which you would do well to acquaint yourself. At any rate, I am well acquainted with you, and you've only to pass a simple test before I hire you. Do you accept my offer?" I only contemplated very briefly before I did accept. "Very good," he continued in his wonderfully businesslike manner. "First question: how many blue devils can be found in a single blade of grass?" His question, I must admit, took me quite by surprise.  
"Excuse me?" I asked. He repeated himself. "Seventeen," I said confidently, after much thought.  
"Very good. Next question: what is the nature of water, and by what means is it engendered?" It was a very good question, but I answered it to the best of my ability, and he seemed satisfied. He covered his bow-tie with a pincer. "What color was my bow-tie?"  
"It was brown, with burgundy stripes," I answered. He removed his pincer and I became dejected when I saw that it was in fact blue, with pink polka dots.  
"Don't worry, Cretolius, you were right. But it's blue now, don't forget that."  
"How did you do that?" I asked, becoming very intrigued by his sleight -of-hand. "And how did you know my name?"  
"I'm asking the questions here. Now then, tell me everything you know of magma."  
"Well," I began, feeling put off by his remark, "I know that, unlike lava, it is located beneath the ground. I know that, were it to cool very slowly, it would result in the formation of crystals. I know that it is hot, but just how hot, I believe that would depend on the specific vein of magma in question, as its temperature might vary with pressure. I know-"  
"Excellent! Well done, that's all you need to say. You're a bright lad, Cretolius, and I know you'll go very far."  
"Thank you, sir. What manner of work may I expect to encounter under your guidance?"  
"How would you like to work as a keyhole?"  
"A what?"  
"A keyhole. I'm aware that you've just had a run-in with the law and all, but I know now how honest you are, and honesty is the prime requisite for keyholes everywhere." Although I was happy at performing well on the Allocator's test, I began to get the feeling that this was all a joke, and that I was being put on. However, I did not wish to give the impression that I was a bad sport, so resigned to my fate, I said,  
"Fine. I'll work for you as a keyhole."  
"Excellent, most excellent. Here, would you mind filling out this application? And when you're done with that, here is a five year contract for your position." I didn't care anymore, and I threw myself into the task of filling forms with reckless abandon. I must admit, I did a rather shabby job. My handwriting was very sloppy, and I could easily have thrown out my wrist. I began to get a strange feeling as I read over the contract. Could this be real? I thought to myself. Why would anyone go through the trouble of drawing up a contract for a position that did not exist? It was unheard of. Then again, how seriously could I take anyone offering me a position as a keyhole? It simply did not make sense. Even if the Allocator could somehow turn me into a random object, a keyhole was not an object- it was a void. I said as much to him upon completion of the paperwork.  
"No, it is not a void. There is no such thing as a void."  
"I'm afraid I must disagree with you there, Mr. Allocator."  
"Just Allocator, please, and no, I must maintain that it is not a void. If there were a void in the space where keys go, it would follow that there was something there, wouldn't it?"  
"Yes, but-"  
"And something is not the same as nothing, which is what you're describing by use of such a term as 'void.' Anyways, whatever you wish to call that something, if not by its accepted name- perhaps you prefer the word 'gap,'- it remains that I need someone to fill it."  
"But how could I be a keyhole? I'm a fairly large creature, albeit sickly and weak. All the same, my volume is such that I disbelieve I might be qualified for such a... for such a gap as you require." At this point in our conversation, he began to shake his head.  
"This, from someone who knew precisely how many blue devils there are in a single blade of grass. Close your eyes Cretolius."  
"You're not going to hit me, are you?"  
"Certainly not. Now do as I bid, please." I did as he bade. "Now open them." Upon attempting to satisfy his wishes, I noted that I no longer had eyes, and that I was now a keyhole.  
"How magnificent!" I ejaculated. "It wasn't a joke after all! How ever have you managed to do this?" I waited for some time, and no reply was forthcoming. Suddenly, I felt a jarring impact as a great brass key was thrust into my center, and turned.  
"Oh, dear," I said to no one in particular. "I don't like this job very much. I should not have signed that contract." Being a Ha Shui of my word, however, I saw the contract to its end. Five years later, I found myself in the Allocator's office once more, and I intended to give him a piece of my mind. In the end, however, he convinced me to renew my contract, and I spent not five, but ten more grueling years as a keyhole. When the new contract had expired, I was resolved not to let myself get talked into another renewal. But alas! he had me pegged as the industrious type, and though I did finagle my way into a new position, being a stick of gum was not much better work, though I did travel extensively during that time. When that contract was over, I made inquiries into the availability of an office job, because that was what I had done for a very long time, and I was comfortable with it. He mentioned he was looking for a deadzone historian.  
"I've no idea what a deadzone is, but I am sure, after having spent so many years as keyholes and gum, that my potential would be better nurtured in such a position."  
"Why, you're in the deadzone now!" he said jubilantly.  
"That's not a very pleasant name," I said, "but it makes sense, given the type of work you have available."  
"You mean you don't wish to work as an historian?"  
"No, no! I wish it with all my heart! It's just that-"  
"Oh, good. Well, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd like you to fill out an application and sign the contract, as per our usual routine." I silently did as he bade, wondering all the while how I could be expected to produce multiple volumes on something whereof I knew nothing. In retrospect, however, I can see that this is not entirely true. The deadzone is a place that has apparently always been, and always will be. I had my work experience here so I can write about that. The Allocator is a mysterious Ha Shui, who mostly keeps to himself. I've heard rumours that he appears exactly how you want him to appear, but I doubt it. He is Ha Shui through and through, and if I'm wrong, I'll eat my bow-tie. Ah, yes, the deadzone. What a glorious place. The deadzone is a glorious place. The deadzone is a glorious place. The deadzone is a glorious place. The deadzone is a glorious place. The deadzone is a glorious place. The deadzone is a glorious place. The deadzone is a glorious place. The dedzone (oops! I'll fix that later) is a glorious place. The deadzone is a glorious place. The deadzone is a glorious place. The deadzone is a glorious place.

The rest of that volume seemed to be comprised of this one phrase, forevermore.  
"Poor Cretolius," undersaid H. his breath. He skipped to the back cover, making sure he hadn't missed anything. There was an advertisement for Cretolius Lord Mortimer's latest volume, The Deadzone is a Glorious Place. H. snuck a glance over his shoulder and noticed Tal-Zora watching him impassively.  
"What think you of this deadzone, Tal-Zora?"  
It's a glorious place. Now let's get to work.  
They left this library and headed in the direction of that upside down pyramid.  
"What we're doing here?"  
Looking for your orb of light.  
"But-? If this book you made read me was indicative, there always been lightorbs leading folks to deadzones." Tal-Zora stopped in the tracks and toturned very slowly H.  
Correction: there has always been ONE orb of light leading people into the deadzone.  
"You means the same orb that brought Cretolius?"  
I don't know, you'd have to ask him, though I suspect he's long since destroyed. Listen, you're on a one month probation period, but I have to tell you something: I have it from the Allocator that this is indeed the same orb of light, and that it has been doing this since... well, forever. I was recalled from a long-term engagement as a police officer's badge to be reinstated as ch'i wudan just so I could find the orb. Personally, I love the deadzone, but if you're still feeling resentful, this may be your opportunity for revenge.  
"Honest, I've always been a more passive-aggressive type. If I not been incoerced to this job, probably just be resenting everything from that vantage as kite. This hateful red kite."  
Then you should have taken the kite job.  
"No, that's better decidedly."  
As they throughtrotted those twisting corridors, H. was grateful to have adopted deadvision, those lights behind the eyes making all inbathed moonlight. It was clear enough moonlight could and would never touch that place. He behindwalked Tal-Zora, watching the six legs move like dizzying flurries. They did not speak, as it was byforbidden the Ha Shui to say aught unless absolutely necessary. Weeks later, they atarrived the same inverted pyramid, fromhanging that ceiling.  
H., I want you to know that you are about to see the dark side of the deadzone, an unfortunate byproduct of the fact that our most severe punishment is exile. In the end, most of Patient's rejects end up here.  
"What this place is?"  
It is the Pharaoh, an upside down pyramid of ill-repute. Be on your guard. Trust no one.  
The interior of the pyramid was appropriately dirty, and H. was grateful that none had noticed the entrance. Like any dive bar to the surface world, but for the characteristically strange and misshapen patrons. There was great to-do at the Pharaoh today; a crowd of freaks beforegathered a small stage, red lighting; excited murmurs could be aroundheard all . H. bumped into onesome, and aroundturned apologizing.  
"01010000 01101111 01110010 01101011 00100000 01100011 01101000 01101111 01110000 00100000 01110011 01100001 01101110 01100100 01110111 01101001 01100011 01101000 01100101 01110011 00111111?" asked a robot, menacing self with wrench.  
"Don't mind him," said a Balthazar, "It's actually just a human dressed like a robot." H. backandforthglanced quickly at the two of them. The robot-wannabe was wearing this garbage can with dryerhose arms, all spraypainted chrome. His naked, hairy legs kicked impatiently at that sawdust floor. The anorexic Blathazar, a disturbing sight indeed. All were silenced by angry midgets.  
"Shhhhhh! The Poet is taking the stage!"  
The Poet, it seemed, was none other than that query. This same orb of light indrifted to view as hushes overfell the crowd. H. and Tal-Zora shared looks. That orb sat on a stool and toleaned this microphone.  
"Greetings; I have come to share my latest invention: the tri-ku; It is three haikus in one; It is the revolution:

Winter is a drag  
Why do I feel so lazy;  
Come back Mr: Sun"

Onesome began clapping prematurely, but all were silenced before they could seriously disrupt this rhythm of that orb's tri-ku.

"If I had a foot  
The snow might crunch beneath it  
but I am an orb

Tracking a human  
is easier with footprints  
I will eat his soul

You are all funny  
I brought you to the deadzone  
Don't you remember;"

The crowd went wild in subdued, nonchalant ways.  
"Wouldn't this be a quad-ku?" mumbled that anorexic Balthazar to self.  
"Who said that;" asked this orb.  
"01001001 01110100 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01101000 01101001 01101101!" said that robot wannabe, atpointing the Balthazar.  
"Get him!" onesome yelled. H. watched with horror as all advanced on Skinny with gnashing teeth and hungry moans. When finished, there was nothing but stains on that sawdust floor.  
They adore him, said Tal-Zora, We'll have to proceed carefully.  
"I call this one 'What is love;'  
What is love: Newborn;  
don't harm me; don't harm me  
anymore

Nobody loves: Newborn;  
Like I do; like I do  
I know you'd agree

I'll steal your soul: Newborn;  
In a good way; in a good way  
Yes: indeed

Here's one for you Fortron;" said the orb, indicating the man in the robot costume.

"01011001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01101000 01100001 01110110 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101111 01101111 00100000 01101101 01110101 01100011 01101000 00100000 01100110 01110010 01100101 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101001 01101101 01100101;"

Fortron began crying drops of oil, and danced slowly in mechanical ways. All awaybacked to give self room, and Fortron spun on the head, his funnel hat d

igging a hole in that sawdust.  
The orb read several more poems as Tal-Zora explained what they would do.  
We'll have to act as if we are fans of his. I'll hold out my notepad begging for an autograph, and you will bare your chest at him.  
"What? Why?"  
Everyone knows the orb enjoys the sight of a vulnerable man. I'm hoping it will distract him, the better to divert attention away from myself.  
"Whatever. I'll do." When that orb was finished, he offdrifted this stage to what was presumably a dressing room. Those patrons surrounded self as it moved, demanding encores, outreaching to touch self. Tal-Zora and H. throughpushed this crowd. As planned, Tal-Zora upheld the notepad, and H. uplifted the shirt. That orb instopped the tracks, admiring that flesh of H.'s self.  
"OK, like I looks his attention," murmered H., feeling a bit uncomfortable with all. He lowertried to the shirt, but Tal-Zora stopped self.  
No! You must keep it up! Look how distracted he is! Rub your nipples for him, would you?  
"Fucking way, no," said H., at which point Tal-Zora upontook itself to stimulate the nipples of H.. The pincers were rough and unexpected. He awayjerked from that Ha Shui, which only excited the orb moreso. It indrifted self their direction.  
"You may join me in my dressing room, if you desire," it said seductively. H. shuddered, but at a nudge from Tal-Zora, he said,  
"Yes, Oh great Poet. Be an honor, would it?" The two of them intofollowed that orb the private quarters.  
"Lucky!" squealed midgets as they closed that door behind selves.  
"What's he doing here? I didn't invite you," the orb said, indicating Tal-Zora.  
You're under arrest, Poet, he said, drawing what appeared to be that deadzone equivalent of a pistol. That orb froze in mid-air, but quickly regained the confidence.  
"Are you sure about this? If you let me go, I shall write one hundred poems in honor of your leniency."  
Tempting... but no. There is a longstanding warrant for your arrest issued by the Allocator himself.  
"Oh, what does that old wet blanket want? Doesn't he appreciate all the new citizens I've brought him over the years?"  
So you admit it!  
"I thought everyone knew... how forgetful you all are," said the orb, and with this, it intodisappeared quite suddenly thin air.  
Where did you go? screamed Tal-Zora, allaroundlooking. He throughrifled those drawers and cabinets of this dressing room.  
"I'm still here, ch'i wudan. Believe it or not, I am willing to come with you after all. But only on one condition."  
Name it.  
"I want that human to sign a contract for a job."  
He has a job. He is my partner.  
"I mean a real job, Ha-Shui. Specifically, I want him to work as a mirror. A bathroom mirror."  
He'll do it.  
"Don't want!" said H. Tal-Zora atlooked self menacingly.  
Just play along. Maybe you won't have to sign it after all. The orb chuckled.  
"No matter whom you're speaking to, I can hear you regardless. I can disappear any time I want, but if you take this human to the Allocator, I promise to follow you the whole way there."  
How do I know you'll make good on that promise?  
"I'd do anything to see that human's nipples again."  
Alright. I believe you. Let's go, said Tal-Zora, holstering the weapon.  
The three of them offset for the city center Patience. The windows of great columns, where giant stalactites merged with the counterpart, were uplit quite brightly. It wasn't long before they gained audience with that Allocator, and H. found self with pen in hand, overreading the five year's contract for work as a bathroom mirror. He thought it interesting: contrary to that account of Cretolius', this Allocator was actually the strikingly beautiful woman. The silky blonde hair downfell around the shoulders in such ways it seemed gravity created only to compliment those locks. The explosive blue eyes greeted H., and he found it difficult to concentrate on that small print before self.  
"He's mine," said orb to Allocator, "So don't get any ideas." The Allocator shook that head.  
"I think you might enjoy this new line of work," she said, flashing self a radiant smile. "You can contribute in a new, interesting way, and the orb will turn himself in. Won't he?" she said, turning to that Poet, as it was called.  
"Bite me," it said. She shrugged as nonchalantly as it please, and backturned the attention to H.  
"You know, I once had a contract as a stand-up comic," said she, againstpressing dainty feet H.'s. "And I promise to visit you and tell you jokes while you work." The feet upmoved slowly the leg. She acrossleaned the desk, faces almost touching. "Why did the chicken cross the road?" whispered she.  
"Don't know," said H., feeling speechless. She licked the nose and returned to that side of this desk. She used H.'s knees for footrests.  
"Because it was bound by a contract. I could do so much for you if only you'd sign."  
"Yes?" asked H. "As like as what?" She atwinked self and upmoved those feet further the legs.  
"Just use your imagination." He nodded the head and signed that contract. He had regained use of the extremities. "Alright big boy. Close your eyes," sang she.

IX

⛱

X

Ricardo was in trouble. He had spent the day hiding and sleeping under a bush, and now that it was night, he felt safe to walk the streets. He was so weak it hurt to walk, and any sudden movement seemed to reopen his wounds. His shirt was caked with blood, and was plastered to his torso. He was afraid to pull it away. He stumbled into a convenient store. He met the suspicious look of the middle eastern owner with a polite smile and proceeded to buy a pint of cheap vodka and a cheap cigarillo. Out in the parking lot, he sat upon the curb and proceeded to take a swig and light up. After a few drags, he put the cigarillo out and looked around. No one was there, and it was dark, but for the blob of light created by the windows of the store in the haze.  
He opened the neck of his shirt and dribbled vodka down to his belly. He hissed, bared his teeth, and the pain was gone. He knew it would be good for him. Next, he took a razor from his pocket and sliced the cigarillo open. He dumped some of the tobacco out and replaced it with weed. He rolled it back together, licked it down, and heated it with his lighter. A car pulled up and he looked away to hide his face. There was something about the cadence of the opening and closing of the car door that intrigued him. He turned to look back and was greeted with a friendly wave. The man he saw wore sandals and a very baggy shirt. He had a necklace with a pouch of some sort attached to it.  
The man entered the store. Ricardo took a swig and lit up. He knew he must press on to his mother's home, or else he might be discovered. He got up slowly to his feet and began walking, grunting with the pain of each step. The smog swathed him with shadows, and for a long time, not a single car drove by. The night smelled of wetness from when it had rained in the day. It was very quiet, and the only sound he heard was the sound of his feet crunching on the gravel walkway. Sometimes he heard the tinkle of shattering glass beneath his feet, but it could not pierce through his thick work boots.  
Soon he had walked outside of the boundary where the city planners had decided to install street lights. He walked in complete darkness, stumbling over large rocks. Once he felt and heard a sickening squelch as his boot sank through the hide of some long dead roadkill. He thought it had probably been a dog. He was walking purely from memory, and he was beginning to worry that he might be lost. It was still a very long way to his mother's.  
He heard something loud behind him and he turned around. He was blinded by headlights, and he brought up his hands to protect both his eyes and his identity. The car eased by very slowly, and Ricardo felt a pang of fear run through his body. Was it him?  
It was not. They rolled down the window and called out,  
"Hey, need a ride?"  
"Ai!" said Ricardo. He shuffled over to the vehicle as quickly as his wounds would let him and climbed in. When his eyes had adjusted, he saw that it was the man from the convenient store, the one with the sandals and the necklace pouch.  
"You don't look so good, man. You ok?"  
"Ai. Thank you for de ride."  
"No problem. Where ya' headed?"  
"Joo know de High Court apartmenth?"  
"Yeah, I can take you there."  
"Ai, thank you."  
They rode in silence for a long time. Ricardo stared at the man. He looked like the pictures of Jesus his mother kept in her house. He wore sandals, too. He began to wonder what was in the pouch that hung from his neck. Shells? Money? Perhaps... They arrived at the apartment complex. Ricardo said,  
"Thank you," and began to get out when he noticed the man reaching for the pouch. It was worth staying a moment longer to see what was in there. He pulled out a small object and handed it to Ricardo.  
"Here, take this, man."  
"What theeth?" He took the object in his hand and immediately recognized it as a stone of some sort.  
"Namaste, my friend. Buena Suerta."  
"Grathiath."

XI

Normally this would have been a job for the biscuit, but Bill was going to have to deal with this one directly. The old hag was a month behind on her rent, and he was going to give her a talking to. On the freeway, with the top down on his new convertible, it was like there was no smog. The wind was in his hair, and he felt as if he were 19 again. On the radio, the Rolling Stones were playing Give Me Shelter. The storms and floods of Bill were going to threaten her very life today. If she didn't pay up, she was gonna' fade away. Love, sister, was just a check away.  
Why was the biscuit afraid of this woman? He didn't show it, in fact he tried to hide it, but Bill could see it lurking beneath the surface of his eyes. That was the biscuit for you. Too much acid, too many shroom trips, too much booze. Bill shook his head. The military would have been the best thing ever to happen to him. He was older than Bill, and had been reduced to his task man. He took a certain pleasure in telling him what to do. Sand the house down and repaint it. Mask? You don't need it. Guy like you couldn't possibly get any more fucked in the head, lead or not. Get to it- right away, Bill.  
He shifted down to fourth and punched it up to eighty.  
"WOOOOOOOO!" he howled, sailing past a couple of old geezers in a sedan. Nothing could stand in his way. He'd be up in that bitch's place like a hurricane. He had it all planned out. He wouldn't knock. He'd simply use his master key and walk into the place like he owned it. Because he did own it. In his mind, he owned the occupants, too. He was a born owner. He owned five expensive cars. He owned seventeen houses all over the city. The road was public, but he owned it more because he paid more taxes than any of these peasants. He kicked it up to 120 mph.  
In spite of the music, the breeze, and the feeling of youthfulness, Bill became inexplicably nervous. What was it about that old hag? He shook it off. What was she going to do, shoot him? As long as he lived through it, she was fucked. He began to think maybe it wasn't such a good idea to storm into her apartment. Maybe just play it cool and see what happened. Was she packing heat? Did the biscuit know something he didn't?  
He arrived at the old, decrepit house wherein the hag dwelt. It was the worst of his properties, and he resolved to order the biscuit to do something about it. Maybe do a little reconnaissance while he was at it. At the very least it needed repainting, or else he'd be hard pressed to find new renters in the future. Honestly, what a shithole, he thought. He opened the front door and paused at the threshold to her living quarters. He had a bad feeling about this. Am I getting old or what? he thought to himself. I can't believe I'm this nervous about putting the squeeze on some old hag. A sudden movement caught his eye and he looked left just in time to see a rat disappear around the corner. He shook his head in disgust and raised his hand to knock.  
The heavy wooden door rattled on its hinges. A small, plastic cow sat watching him from atop the frame the of the door. He stared at it, and was about to reach for it when the door opened. Inside he saw something that deeply disturbed him. There was the hag, standing back about three feet from the door. She was standing perfectly still. So perfectly still it did not look like she was alive. The eyes were like glass, and they didn't seem to see Bill or anything else around her; nor did they seem to betray a care for anything in the world. She looked like a statue. The door slammed in Bill's face. There was a shuffling sound from within, and the door opened again. The hag had somehow changed and seemed more real than before.  
"Yes?" asked the old woman. Bill cleared his throat.  
"You're late on your rent. I just came by to see when you'll be paying it. I tried calling but you didn't answer your phone."  
"I have no phone."  
"Ok, well I just wanted to let you know... you've got four more weeks."  
"Until what?" demanded the hag. She seemed to grow taller and more imposing as she said this, and she reached inside the folds of her baggy dress. Bill saw her holding on to something very tightly, and he began to back away.  
"Four weeks," he repeated. The hag's face grew bored and she began to slowly close her door. Bill hastened out of the house and into his car.  
What the fuck was that all about? The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that she had had a gun concealed in her dress. Next time he would send the biscuit. If there was a next time. Hopefully she would just pay the rent on time from now on and he wouldn't have to deal with her again. He sped down the highway to his Poplar property to see the biscuit now. While he was there, he might as well look into something Elmyra had mentioned to him. She told him that one of the tenants had an unregistered cat, that she had heard it meowing in the night. If that was the case, then Bill had easy money coming his way, and the next payment on his convertible was spoken for, with plenty of extra cash to spoil little Tiffany.  
He entered the front door and looked to the right where Eric's living quarters were. He was about to knock when he noticed the same tiny plastic cow looking down on him from atop the door frame. He thought better of it and went to see the biscuit.

XII

When H. opened the eyes again, he found self facing a shabby bathroom wall. Adorning these greasy tiles: a childish painting of flowers on table. It looked as if that artist misplaced all colors but blue, or it had unabashedly copied Van Gogh. If so, they didn't a good job. All objects in that painting had broad, black outlines, as if a paint-by-color, except those outlines were squiggly and inept. At least that artist managed not to outcolor those lines, thought H. It had even taken some time to streak white on outermost edges of this vase in heavy handed imitations of gloss.  
"Good Lord," moaned H., "I'm really going to stare at that for the next five years? What done have I dohave?"  
The reality of this situation began insinking. Feeling like that typical, idiotic male he was at this moment, he cried. If one's never heard bathroom mirror crying, then one should count self lucky. If one has, then aside from questioning one's sanity, one might have heard sounds not unlike nails on chalkboards. However, unlike that classic screeching ones probably imagining- which is one prolonged screeeeeeeeeee!- the sound of a weeping mirror has the cadence of sobbing, so it goes more like screeeeeeee-scree-scree-scree-screeeeeeee. It has less urgency to it than one is thinking.  
Needless to say, that sole occupant of the apartment whereat H. was fulfilling his contract became very alarmed, and came inrunning to this bathroom armed with a kitchen knife. She was a handsome young woman: stark black hair, black lipstick, an overall fit appearance. H. thought he might have recognized that knife. At any rate, the knife recognized self.  
"H.! How's it going? I've heard all about you!" it said. That woman holding it backthrew this shower curtain and inlooked.  
"Horribly. Fucked I am, friend knife."  
"What's wrong? I thought you had to be pretty lucky to get a gig as a mirror. Not all it's cracked up to be, huh?"  
"No, no, and moreso no."  
"Get it? Cracked? Lucky?"  
"Yes, you I hate." The alarmed woman downset the knife atop this toilet seat and inspected self in H.'s face. She backpulled the hair and fastened it with bobby pin, and toandfropulled the eyelids.  
"What's she doing?" asked the knife.  
"Don't know. Messing with that makeup, says I." All were silent while this woman dabbed the face with foundation.  
"Hey everyone!" said that knife, "I want you to meet H.! We go way back, H. and I."  
"Hi, H.," said all objects in this bathroom.  
"Hi," said H. He wasn't sure who the knife was, but this voice did sound familiar.  
"Hey H.," said that towel rack. "Why did the chicken cross the road?"  
"Don't know."  
"Because it was bound by contract!" A few of the toiletries chuckled at this, especially this toothbrush.  
"Whuh-why aren't you laughing?" it asked.  
"Before now, I've heard it."  
"Doesn't that make you want to relive the experience, though? From when you first heard it?"  
"Don't want funny then, either." The knife made a tut-tut sound.  
"Oooooof, he must not know that law."  
"Yes, yes!" cheered a box of tampons. "Tell him about the law!"  
"Well, then," began the knife, "As per deadzone law R.C. 2-11, all deadzone inhabitants are required to laugh at the Allocator's jokes, even if they're not told by the Allocator itself."  
"I no can make self laugh, especially at jokes like this. Moreover, that Allocator can be helldamned, as can all objects in bathroom." Everything in the bathroom quietly gasped at that remark, and all were silent. After long pauses, that knife said,  
"Wow. I guess we'll just pretend we didn't hear that little doozy."  
"Fuck Allocators. Hear you me this time?" asked H. The toothbrush began crying, which set off the towel rack, and pretty soon the plunger, the showerhead, and the floss joined in too.  
"Aaaaah! I hate being a showerhead!"  
"Try being a toilet plunger!"  
"My life is a lie! Whaaaaaaah!"  
If one thought these sounds of a lone bathroom mirror crying was bad, then one would have found self quite at odds with this racket. The woman upsnatched that knife moreso (even as it attempted to console all), and thisandthatwaypointed it, covering that ear with the free hand. Not knowing what was ongoing, she outbacked of this bathroom, knife still atpointed the invisible enemies, and slammed that door.  
"Silence!" commanded the toilet. "Silence, I say! Look what you've done! You've driven her away! You ought to feel ashamed of yourselves. Look at me: I do nothing but eat shit, all day long, and do you ever hear me complain? Absolutely not. I'm proud of what I do. Where would society be without me? They'd be in holes out in the wilderness, wiping those asses with pine branches. That's where they'd be. As for the rest of you, never forget that you, too, are belonging to the state of contribution to a better, more comfortable living for humanity."  
"You mean it?" asked a pair of tweezers. "Would they be in holes without me?"  
"Well," said the toilet, "I guess not. But you're important, too! You make the woman feel better about herself. When she plucks out the eyelashes and glues on fakes (the eyelashes happen to be a good friend of mine), when she plucks out the eyebrows and draws lines on that forehead, then you'll know that you've done your part. And you can derive a great deal of satisfaction from that."  
"What about me?" asked that amateurish painting. "Do I make her feel better about herself?"  
"Of course you do. You may not be perfect, but you remind her of her grandmother, who painted you. She may not remember you when she moves out of this apartment (I've seen it before), but in the meantime, you play an important part in this bathroom. All of you. Especially you, H."  
"Fuck it."  
"Is that any way to talk to the Toilet of this Bathroom?"  
"What, you are granted status by virtue of being Toilet?"  
"As a matter of fact, I am. It is none other than I who writes your annual performance review."  
"Listen, Toilet- I care not what review you give of me. I never want to be mirror in that place of firstness. Now this one I am, surely I do want to hear inspirational speeches as to how much I'm owing to state of contributions. Not. By showing those reflections? Fact: I'm sure all would be happier without."  
"You know that's not true, H. They need you to apply makeup, to give themselves pep-talks before job interviews (they could only be so fortunate, to be hired as a mirror), and.... lot's of other things. I know. I've seen it."  
"What happened to that last mirror?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"It means, someone was this mirror before I showed up. What happened?"  
"We don't like to talk about that."  
"Well, I want do aboutalk it. So? Those happenings?" asked H. The toilet sighed deeply, and said,  
"If you insist. The previous bathroom mirror was... troubled. Obviously, you're not doing too well yourself, but this guy... he went completely off the deep end."  
"What nonsense?"  
"I'm getting to that. He was always talking about his children, about how he had to get back to his children and his wife. Of course, we did our best to set him straight. 'Mirry,' I'd say (for that is what we called him in those days), 'You don't have any children, and you certainly don't have a wife. If you did, that was in your past life, and you need to forget about it. But no, such explanations of what is clearly the truth had no effect on him, and I watched with a heavy heart as he struggled to accept his role as the mirror. He cried on a daily basis. And every day I'd tell him to forget about all that family stuff, that it was all behind him, but would he listen? Finally, one day, he screamed, 'God, take me! God, take me!' and... and he cried so hard that cracks began to show, all over his beautiful surface, until he fell to pieces in the sink."  
"That's right," said the sink, "I was choking on pieces of Mirry for weeks after that."  
The conversation between these toiletries abruptly dropped, and H. felt much sadness. He was not familyhaving, even if he did somehow manage to crack self to pieces through sheer willpower. He had nothing to backgo to. Sure, there was this unfinished novel sitting in the room, assuming that landlord hadn't simply awaythrown it, but that was it. Nobody read those days anyway. If one upbrought a book in conversation, one was likely to alienate self, on this basis that all thought one pretentious foreverafter. Why clean bathroom mirrors for livings when one can be one? reasoned he.  
He was nothing. Just as well he should remain a bathroom mirror until the five years were up, or it was broken by onesome who'd had bad times. He said as much to that Toilet.  
"That's the spirit!" it said. "We've been needing a bathroom mirror like you for a long time. Welcome to the fold." A short time later, the woman reappeared, ontalking to onesome that phone.  
"It was the damnedest thing," she said, twirling the hair with fingers, "I know it sounds crazy, but I really think there's a ghost or something in this house. Uh-huh. Uh-huh." She looked behind that shower curtain again, and stooped to underlook this sink and behind that toilet. "No, I don't think so. I've never had a problem with mice before, and I don't think they make sounds like that, do they?"  
"Hey," said H., trying to get the attention, "Over here!"  
"She can't hear you," said that Toilet. "If she could hear any of us, I doubt she'd still be shitting in my mouth." Suddenly, she began upanddownjumping.  
"So you'll come over? That's great! I can't wait to see you. OK. OK. Love you, too!" She undid the pants and seated self.  
"Here we go again," that Toilet said. "This is why I can't stand to listen to you compla-"  
Later, H. heard this front door open. He admitted to self, this was much better than the keyhole job. All the same, there was this deep sadness gnawing at self, that unmistakable reality that the life was going nowhere, and do as it will, nothing would change that.  
"Come look at this," he heard the woman's voice. She opened that door and inled man the bathroom therewith. "So I was standing here doing my makeup when out of the blue, this whole racket starts up. Like something out of that T.V. show you like."  
"Don't make fun of my show," said man.  
"Don't be so touchy. Anyways, I'm just trying to relate it to you. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard, except not quite. Like, it would start and stop really suddenly. And there were other noises, too."  
"Huh," said man, looking behind that Toilet.  
While they busied selves inspecting this bathroom for irregularities, Billy appeared as a smaller version of himself, perched on edge of that sink.  
"Hiya, H. You need a woman?"  
"What I'm gonna' do with woman, Billy? I'm fucking a mirror, for godsake."  
"Oh, right. Still wanna' leave the deadzone?"  
"Who's that?" asked Toilet.  
"I'm Billy. You need a woman?"  
"Another one? No, I eat enough shit already."  
"Hey! Billy! Yes, I want still to leave this deadzone!"  
"Alright! That's what I'm talking about! Well, it turns out one of my many friends might be able to help you."  
"Who's leaving the deadzone?" asked the Toilet.  
"Your aunt Sally," said Billy, getting annoyed, "Now go back to sleep."  
"I wasn't asleep."  
"Sheesh! Some people. You wanna' talk to him, H.?"  
"I do, Hell."  
"Good, I'll send him your way when I get back," said Billy, sidling next to this toothbrush. "How about you, brushy? Need a woman?"  
"Will she have a clean mouth?"  
"I can't make any promises."  
"I don't like this woman business," said that Toilet. "Who are you again?"  
"Toilet, I'm about to give you a royal flush if you don't stop asking me stupid questions," said Billy, menacing self with fist. Apparently he betterthought of it, and offkicked that toothbrush the sink.  
"Whoa! Did you just see that?" asked man. "That toothbrush just moved!"  
"Are you sure that's what happened?"  
"What do you mean 'am I sure?' I watched it happen with my own two eyes."  
"I mean are you sure you didn't just bump it?"  
"Honey, cut the shit. The toothbrush jumped to the floor, OK?"  
"I was pushed!" screamed that toothbrush, but no one paid it any heed. Billy shook the head in disgust.  
"I'm blowing this joint. You may expect my associate within the week, H."  
"Glad I am to hear it. Billy- thanks."  
"No problem. Buh-bye now." And with this, he vanished. Man and woman left, too. H. aboutthought arguing with that Toilet, but changed the mind.  
Hours of staring at this pathetic blue painting inturned to days. H. passed this time by aboutfantasizing regaining the use of the body. That first thing he would do: to kill that Allocator. This was odd to think: oninflicting violence a beautiful woman, and on certain levels, the stomach turned. But she had tricked self, intricked self to thingsome worse than it could possibly imagine. When he had inlived that normal world, he had periodically gone to a temp agency called Labor Ready for odd jobs. In that early morning, waiting with dozens of disgruntled, middle-aged men; sipping bitter, scalding coffee from styrofoam cups, watching this same safety video on repeat for hours; unsure if he would even get a job; he thought he had it bad. This was nothing compared to being a bathroom mirror for four days. Had it been four days? H. wasn't sure. If he inwas prison, it could have at least onscratched tally marks that wall. Prison would have been better.  
He had done thingsome to deserve this. He hadin tweaked the karma just that wrong way. Insulted God one too many times. H. racked that consciousness for aught he might have done. With horror, he realized he was losing those memories, one by one. It was just as Tal-Zora had said: "You'll forget about your United States too, eventually." Aboutforgetting those USA wasn't so bad, as it was a shithole anyways, but aboutforgetting the life experiences... what was it but these experiences? If it was true those humans start life as a tabula rasa, and whatever accrued on this slate more or less constituted stuff of one's personality, then it was to become as much of a faceless slug as that Toilet.  
He was about to begin crying again when man and woman entered this bathroom, clad in what appeared to be robes.  
"What they are doing?" asked H.  
"Shh!" hushed the Toilet. They placed candles on all available surfaces- on rim of that sink, all over this Toilet, and along edges of the bathtub. They offturned those lights and sat cross-legged on floor.  
"Now what?" asked woman.  
"You'll see," said man. He output a plate with cakes, coffee, and unlit cigarette on that Toilet seat. "If there's a spirit in this room, it will appreciate the offerings."  
"OK," said woman dubiously. Man closed the eyes, wrists on knees, those index fingers touching thumbs. He sat thus for long before H. heard that voice clearly.  
Can you hear me? Is anyone there?  
"Can I hear you!" screamed H. "Can hear you this self?"  
Holy shit! I didn't actually think this would work. Er, why have you come to this place, spirit?  
"I'm no spirit. I'm human, like you. I was tricked."  
By whom were you tricked?  
"By that Allocator. It's a story long. You can help me out of here."  
The Allocator? Hmm. I would have to ask my teacher what to do. But this could work. Man stood up, aroundlooking.  
"What is it, babe? Is it working?"  
"Just a minute," said man crossly. Where are you?  
"Come to this mirror." The man went to that mirror, scrutinizing it closely. H. couldn't see the face well, but it looked to be ruggedly handsome, with long hair and beard.  
Here's what I'll do, said man, You're all yin. That's the part of you where consciousness is stored. So I'll create a yang bridge for you to use, and insodoing, you might be able to assume a physical form once more.  
"Good sounds," said H., "I'm willing to try." Man upheld two fingers to this mirror and closed the eyes again.  
"What are you doing?" asked woman.

XIII

Eric paid the secretary $300 for his appointment. Although it pained him to pay so much, he was still able to smile and say "thank you." Thank you, he thought, for the wonderful time in the crowded, noisy waiting room. Thank you for the baby that sneezed in my eyes. Thank you for the shitty music. Thank you for the fashion magazine with the unattractive, androgynous models. Thank you thank you thank you. I'd give every cent I have to do it all over again. He left the clinic and found a parking ticket tucked neatly into his windshield, next to a folded up piece of notebook paper. The ticket was for $700. He read the note and looked at his car. He walked around to the passengers side.  
He shrugged and laughed. Just as long as the damned thing got him from point A to B, he thought. And this guy wanted to give him money! He got in the car and drove to the drugstore. He had not driven twenty feet before he saw flashing lights in his mirrors, and heard the wail of a siren.  
"Oh God, what now?" He pulled over and got his license, registration, and proof of insurance ready. He glanced in his mirrors. The officer seemed to be busy with something. He was looking down, probably filling out paperwork.  
It was a nice part of town where he'd been pulled over. There was a median between the lanes, with young birches stretching into the distance. The stop lights hung from painted green arches. Ten feet away a three layer fountain was gurgling merrily away. He had even been lucky enough to have been pulled over in the shade. The buildings were new, with fresh yellow paint. People were smiling in the advertisements that were everywhere. White people, black people, latinos, asians, children, teens, adults, senior citizens. Everyone was loving on each other, united by their common satisfaction with the shampoo, viagra, candy, and beer this great country had to offer them.  
A loud rap on his window brought Eric back to his senses. He didn't grab his papers soon enough and the officer knocked again, hard enough to fracture the glass. Eric was taken aback. Didn't he have rights, or something to that effect? He cracked his window and pushed his papers out. He was about to ask if the officer had just broken his window, and how did he intend to go about replacing it when the officer snatched the papers from his hand with lightning speed.  
"What the fuck..." mouthed Eric, for he did not dare speak. As the officer scrutinized his papers, Eric caught a glance of the man's face. What little he could see of it did not look good. His skin was so pock marked it looked as if he had taken an acid bath. The flaking worms that he had for lips were twisted downward in a permanent scowl. The rest of him was hidden behind aviator sunglasses and a broad rimmed hat. He turned on his heel and reentered the cruiser with Eric's papers.  
Eric sat in the dirty old car wondering what he had done to warrant this treatment. Was this officer here to collect money for someone? Did police officers do that? He had only been driving a few miles over the speed limit. He had not been speeding. He ruminated on these matters while he stared at the rainbow of human skin all around him. All those beautiful smiling fuckers, he thought. They probably hated each other in real life.  
The officer returned and pushed Eric's papers through the window. Before Eric could ask about the fracture, the officer said,  
"I wrote you a speeding ticket for going five over. It's a thousand dollars."  
"But I wasn't speed-"  
"That doesn't matter. The point is, I'll rip it up right now if you can tell me something. I'm looking for a Mexican guy, about 5'5", names Ricardo Martinez, short hair. The last I heard, he was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. You seen anyone like that?" Eric thought desperately for a moment. He said he hadn't seen anyone that fit the description. The officer stuffed the ticket through the window and said "Have a nice day, then. Now get the fuck out of here."  
Eric rolled up the window and drove away. He didn't know what to make of it, other than the fact that this police officer had just busted his window and written him a ticket for something he hadn't done. He figured he'd better buy groceries when he went to get the inhaler, before someone else could take the rest of his money. When he arrived, there wasn't any parking, so he had to park on a residential street and walk. The smog was not particularly bad in this part of town, and while he was walking, he saw a butterfly float through the haze. It was bright orange with black and white spots.  
He hummed as he walked along the broken sidewalk, dodging gum and bits of glass.  
"That butterfly was plenty easy on the ol' eyes," Eric said to himself. His voice alerted a dog to his presence, and the beast sprang out of the smog with ferocious intent. It snarled and barked, and tried to fit its gnashing teeth through the gaps in the fence.  
"Whoa there little doggy," said Eric, which only made it bark louder and snarl more viciously. It's call bordered on mania, and Eric had to put his hands over his ears until he had walked another block. The sun was setting, and the angle at which the light struck the air made green and orange swirls in the smog. Eric reached out to touch some of the swirls and parted them with his hands.  
It was so nice outside that even his cigarette cravings didn't bother him. He coughed a little into his hand, and wiped it on his pants without looking. He looked back and forth very quickly while he was in the parking lot. It was getting dark, and if he wasn't on his guard he could easily be hit by a car. A group of blacks were outside of the store, talking and laughing very loudly. They made Eric feel nervous, and as he walked by them, they talked and laughed even louder. What are they saying, wondered Eric. Are they talking about me? He felt like they were laughing at him when he walked into the store.  
He grabbed a handbasket and tried to shop conservatively. He planned on taking the ticket to court, but he did have to pay for the doctors appointment. He would not pay for the parking ticket. On second thought, he might pay it, depending on how much money his anonymous benefactor/car denter gave him for his troubles. Otherwise, they could send it to collections and call him everyday like everyone else. Then there was the inhaler. He wondered what it would be like in court, trying to contest the ticket. He would not sound credible if he simply contradicted the police officer. He had to make an excuse. Would he play the poverty card? He hoped the same officer would not be there. He avoided buying fruit because the electricity was out and he could not see it well.  
When he left, the blacks outside were still there. They laughed at him while he walked away, and he threw hurt, confused glances over his shoulder at them. It was almost completely dark now, and the only sources of light were the street lamps. They floated in the smog like the souls of saints, lighting the way for passersby. The dog came out and snarled at him. He did not see the butterfly. He found another parking ticket on his windshield and drove home.

XIV

Theresa was pleased to have her daughter's company for dinner that night. It always warmed her heart to see how beautiful Tiffany had become. And how athletic! It was amazing to see her flipping through the air at cheerleading meets, and her daughter's team had won many competitions. Right now, Theresa knew two things: that her daughter had been nominated for Miss Carlsborg, and that she was having boy troubles. She knew about the Miss Carlsborg business because that was all Tiffany talked about. The boy issue was a hunch.  
"Tiffany, what's wrong my love? You've barely touched your meal..."  
"Oh, nothing. I guess I'm just trying to lose weight for the parade."  
"I see."  
Theresa had enough discretion not to pry. It would only push her further away, so she changed the subject. The lights flickered for a moment and returned to normal.  
"All this smog! It didn't used to be like this, you know."  
"Yeah?"  
"Yeah, ya' know when I was your age, hardly anyone had asthma, and during the summer the air was always clear. Nowadays, though... Ya' know, I'm treating one young man, probably about your age, for-" Theresa had difficulty completing the sentence. It pained her to see what would normally have been such a healthy young man in the prime of his life suffering from what was, it seemed, rogue tuberculosis. It almost had her choked up, and she took a moment to regain her composure. She thought about Tiffany's boy troubles and she wished she could somehow introduce the young man to her. He seemed so nice, and even though he was very sick, he still smiled so much. His teeth had been white, and very straight.  
"Mom?"  
"Oh, sorry, just lost my train of thought for a moment," she took a bite of asparagus and continued, "Anyways, this kid- I mean, young man, he... would have been quite healthy if he had grown up when I had. As it is, I'm treating him for what appears to be... an advanced case of asthma. It's really-"  
She was interrupted by a sudden crash from the living room.  
"The fuck was that?" whispered Tiffany, her eyes wide with fear.  
"Calm down, it was probably just Podo."  
"Mom, Podo is right here," she said, indicating the dog. It's yellow hair was raised, and its teeth were showing. Theresa grabbed a kitchen knife and walked slowly toward the living room.  
"Hello?" she called out politely, holding the knife in front of her. She couldn't imagine who or what it could have been. She lived on the third floor, after all, and unless it had been spiderman... She surveyed the damage. A bookshelf, containing many cd's, dvd's, books, and even one very old vhs, had come crashing down. The lights flickered once more.  
"How in the hell...?" she wondered aloud.  
"What happened?" asked Tiffany, peeking around the corner.  
"The bookshelf fell over," said Theresa contemplatively. Tiffany came into the living room and looked.  
"How...?"  
"Dunno," she shrugged. "A localized gust of extreme proportions, I suppose. I'll clean it up after dinner. Mind doing the dishes?" Tiffany's shoulders hunched up and she looked at her mother through the corner of her eye. "Fine, fine. Let's just eat and have a nice meal together, OK?"  
"OK."  
They sat back down, and ate in silence. Theresa could not hold her tongue any longer.  
"Are you seeing anyone these days? How's your love life?"  
"Mom..."  
"What? I'm just curious, that's all. Lord knows I had all sorts of crushes when I was your age."  
"That's nice."  
"Yes, it is, thank you. Do you have any crushes?"  
"No."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes."  
"OK, I don't want to pry. I just can't help but wonder." She gave it a moment and resumed. "Is everything alright?"  
"Mom, I don't want to talk about it."  
"Why not? I'm your mother, I love you! You can tell me anything." When her daughter did not reply, Theresa gave up the chase. She chewed her potatoes, feeling helpless to console her daughter, whom she really did love a great deal.  
"Anything?" Asked Tiffany. Theresa put her fork down and held Tiffany's hands. She looked into the underwater fireworks display that were her daughter's eyes and nodded.  
Tiffany opened her mouth to speak, but before any words could come out, they were interrupted by another crash. Mother and daughter both screamed in alarm, and Podo snarled savagely, looking wildly about for the culprit. A stack of dirty dishes had gone flying to the floor, where they shattered. The lights flickered, and went off. The room was dark.  
"Podo! Podo! PODO SHUT THE HELL UP!" Bellowed Theresa. She gave the dog a swat on its hind quarters and it was silenced. She and Tiffany sat at the table in the dark, listening. They heard voices.  
"The neighbors?" whispered Tiffany.  
"Shhhh." It sounded upstairs. Perhaps next door. Theresa had heard them before.  
"Is here there anyone?" They recoiled. It was in the kitchen. "Heeeeeelp meeeee..."  
"Who's there?" demanded Theresa.  
"Betrayyyyyyyyed. I'm sure not how can explain. Self displaced. Not body having-"  
"Stop it! Whoever is there, stop!"  
"NOOOOOO! Pleeeeeeease! Liiiiiiiisten. I need heeeelp. Don't be going!"  
"Who are you?"  
"This self was Jonathan Carlton. Once atlived 8008 14th St. \--------. To my home, I beg you, find this thief, and go. Help backbring self."  
"Why should I believe you?"  
"Unknowing. Only can I hope all are good persons. Expose the imposter."  
The otherworldly voice ceased to speak and the lights turned on. Theresa's cell phone began to ring. With a shaking hand, she took it out of her pocket and flipped it open.  
"Hello?"  
"Hi, this is Eric St. James, I'm calling about- about a dent you put in my car." Theresa sighed and put a hand to her chest, to calm her beating heart. Thank God, she mouthed to Tiffany before saying,  
"Well, I'm afraid you've caught me at a bad time. Could you maybe call me back tomorrow?"  
"Is there ever a good time to talk about automotive incidents?" She could hear the humor in his voice, and it sounded familiar. It was making her feel better about what had just happened.  
"Alright, I guess you've got a point. Well, what do you think it's worth?" There was a brief pause at the other end of the line. "Hello?"  
"I'm sorry, it's just that, ah, are you the doctor who saw me earlier today?"  
"Oh! Are you the young man with the cough? That is so strange-" she looked with wide eyes to convey her surprise to Tiffany, "-I was just thinking about you."  
"You were?"  
"Er, yes, I was just talking about the effect of all this smog on our lungs and I thought of you."  
"Wow... Crazy... did you happen to see the results of the swab you took?"  
"No, I'm afraid not, but you should be getting a call sometime within the next few days. I left it to one of my associates. Gosh, that is crazy."  
"Isn't it. So... how does 3000 sound?"  
"Done. Could you drop by the office at around noon tomorrow?"  
"Ah, I can't, I'll be at work. It's actually the gas station right down the street from the clinic."  
"The Taximo?"  
"Yup. I'll be there until 6 or 7 o' clock if you wouldn't mind dropping by."  
"Sounds good."  
"Alright, well, thank you, and thanks for leaving that note, I really appreciate it."  
"Uh huh, no problem. Buh bye."  
"Bye."

XV

H. could feel that energy entering the essence. It was indescribable, the way it stood between self and mirror. It acted as fulcrum, and apartpried these things. It kept prying, painfully, but H. didn't care how badly this hurt, as long as thingsome happened. Before H. knew it, his soul came free of this mirror, quite suddenly. He opened the eyes, and looking back at him was the bearded face it had seen earlier. The heart sank for moments, thinking perhaps he was still in that mirror, but when the hands involuntarily began rubbing those eyes, he knew it had been a success.  
"It worked!" he shouted.  
"It did?" asked the woman. "How do you know?"  
"What do you mean how do I know? I'm here, aren't I?" He turned to look at her, and she looked at self nervously.  
"Yeah, and you weren't here before?" H. looked in the mirror again. This was not his face, although he wished it was. It was admittedly better than his own.  
"Oh my God," he said quietly, feeling the beard that wasn't his.  
"This isn't funny," said the woman quietly. She moved away to the corner, her back against the wall. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "This isn't funny. Stop it."  
As quickly as he had entered the man's body, the native soul began wrestling for control. Fortunately for H., the bearded man's consciousness wasn't a very good soul-wrestler, and H. soon had control of the vessel.  
"Ha ha ha," said H., "Just joking honey. Don't you know ghosts and spirits are just made up?"  
"What? Shit, it's about time you admitted that. What do you want for dinner, Jonathan?"  
"Jonathan? So that's my name..." muttered H.  
"What? You're talking strange, honey. Are you feeling alright? Did your-" the woman stopped to suppress a laugh, "-did your meditations disorient you?"  
"Er, yeah, I guess they did. How about enchiladas?"  
"Now you're talkin'!"  
H. sat down on a stinky, blue couch and watched TV while the woman made enchiladas. It was a show with strange, brightly colored creatures dancing around, hitting each other and singing about the letter 'Y'.  
"What are you watching in there, hon?" called the woman from the kitchen.  
"I don't know, but it's fascinating."  
"Really?" she asked, entering the living room for a better look. "This... this is Sesame Street..."  
"Is that so?"  
"Yes," she said peevishly. When H. made no movement to change the channel, she asked him, "Aren't you going to change it?"  
"No."  
"Are you really going to watch Sesame Street while I make enchiladas?"  
"Yes."  
"God, you are fuckin' weird sometimes. Whatever." She stormed out of the room and went back to cooking.  
H. was thoroughly enjoying the dance of the creatures- it was like nothing he'd ever seen- when suddenly Billy the ghost was on screen. He grabbed Big Bird by the beak and began kicking the thing in its stomach until it retreated. He menaced the other lesser creatures until they, too, retreated off screen.  
"Hey, H., is that you?"  
"No, it's not."  
"Honey, who are you talking to?" called the woman.  
"No one!" He called back. "No, I'm afraid you have the wrong person," said H., addressing Billy again.  
"Are you sure? You smell..." Billy paused to sniff at the TV screen, "...like him."  
"It's the couch."  
"The couch, you say?"  
"Is someone in there with you?" called the woman again.  
"Just me and... and Streety Says!"  
"It's Sesame Street."  
"Whatever. No one is here with me!" But it was too late, the woman had entered the living room to inspect. Wide eyed, and conscious of the importance of an innocuous appearance, Billy dragged one of the creatures back on screen.  
"What's your name, freak?" he asked it.  
"B-B-B-Bert!" it answered.  
"Sing the ABC's, Bert!" commanded Billy.  
"I don't remember seeing that character before. Must be new," commented the woman.  
"Sing the ABC's!" commanded Billy again, giving Bert a slug in the gut.  
"O-O-O-K! J-j-j-just d-don't hit me anymore!"  
"This show is a lot different from how I remember it."  
"A-B-C-D-Owwwww! What was that for?"  
"Sing prettier, freak!"  
"Ouch! Ouch! OK! Ouch!" Billy was pummeling the thing now. The woman shrugged and went back to the kitchen.  
"Is the coast clear? She's gone?"  
"Yes," said H. Billy tossed Bert's beaten body off screen.  
"Man I like hitting those things. So you're sure you're not really H.?"  
"Yes, I'm quite sure of my identity."  
"Alright. Sorry to bother you, then. It's just that-" Billy paused to smell at the screen again. "-you must have a scent-twin. Alright. Well, sorry to bother you."  
"No worries." Billy walked dejectedly off screen, giving Bert one last kick before he departed.  
Just as the normal characters began warily resuming the show, something in H.'s pocket began vibrating.  
"Oh, God, what is it now," he muttered, fishing the vibro-box from his pants. He stared at its plastic frame, at the shining screen. 'LIL DUDE IS CALLING' appeared on the screen.  
"Well, that's great," said H., returning the object back to his pants pocket. It kept on vibrating for a few minutes before it stopped. A few minutes later, the woman appeared in the living room.  
"Hey, your little friend is on the phone," she said, handing him a different vibro-box.  
"I have friends."  
"Here, just- take it," she said, shoving it into his hand. She marched quickly back into the kitchen, shaking her head. H. stared at the thing, wondering what to do.  
"Hello?" said a small voice emanating from the box. "Dude, you there?" H. held the box to his ear, the better to hear the voice. "Dude?" it said more clearly. "DUUUUUUUUUUUUUDE!"  
"Dude?" said H., not sure how to reply.  
"Duuuuude!" said the voice, happier now. "Dude, my cousin's dad's boat is back! They're totally opening a restaurant on it, and he wants to know if you want a job, like, tending bar."  
"A job? I don't know. Who is this?"  
"Dude? Like, what's wrong with you? You seriously don't know who I am?"  
"Uh...."  
"Oh shit, dude! I know what it is! You've totally got to lay off the acid! Lol. Anyways, yeah dude, just meet me at the docks tomorrow, 'kay?"  
"Ok... dude."  
"Hahaha. I'll, like, totally get you a job n' stuff."  
"Sure. Jobs. Like what kind of job?"  
"Dude, you're weird. Anyways, see ya' then."  
"Bye."  
"Smell ya' later!"  
H. put the phone in his pocket with the other one and continued to watch Sesame Street. It was nice not to be an inanimate object anymore. He wondered if Tal-Zora was looking for him in the deadzone. What happened to the one called 'Jonathan?' The woman returned.  
"What did he want?"  
"He said he has a job for me."  
"A job? That's great! You can finally help pay rent."  
"Yeah," said H., wondering what that meant.  
"Where's my phone?"  
"I don't know."  
"What do you mean you don't know? You had it in your hand just a second ago."  
"Oh," said H., comprehending, "You must mean this." He reached in his pocket and pulled out one of the vibro-boxes.  
"That's your phone, sweety. I want my phone. Thanks... the enchiladas will be another twenty minutes," she said, sitting in his lap, stroking the beard that wasn't altogether his, "What do you want to do until then?"  
"You," said H. without hesitation. They retired to the bed chamber. When they were finished lovemaking, H. turned to her and said,  
"What was your name again?" The woman gave him a playful slap and said,  
"Chewbacca. The enchiladas should be ready, now." She got out of bed and regarded him with suspicion for a moment before leaving the room.  
"Ah," said H., thoroughly pleased with his new situation. "A virgin no longer." He got out of bed and ate the enchiladas.

XVI

Officer Hanna regarded the captain with disgust. He was weak- soft on minorities, and soft on crime. He didn't know the truth, that they must all be killed, they must all be exterminated. The proof was in the numbers. Blacks, latinos- when he got a call from dispatch, he knew without being told what to look for. Dark skin. They were all just criminals waiting to happen, and it was silly to wait around for them to do something before arresting them. For that matter, it was silly to bother with the justice system. He knew what was right, whether or not some bumbling old fool of a judge agreed with him. They must be executed wherever and whenever possible. He was a visionary.  
"The man specifically said it was you, Hanna."  
"Did he, now?"  
"Yeah," said Captain Dalton, looking through the papers. "Yeah. You fucked this guy up pretty bad. 26 stitches, broken jaw, broken collar bone... What the fuck happened?"  
"Simple. The suspect approached me and reached into his pocket. I reacted the way I've been trained to."  
"That doesn't really explain-"  
"To hell with explanations! I was defending my life! I put my life on the line for this city every day! I'm a fucking visionary!"  
Captain Dalton sighed and took a sip of coffee. It was good coffee. This was a tough situation. It was true that Officer Hanna had perhaps taken liberties with his authority as an officer of the law, but he was still a member of the force. They were brothers in arms, and he had a difficult decision on his hands. To make it worse, things were not adding up in Hanna's favor. He had beaten this man nearly to death, had left just enough life in this man for him to seek legal action. What was worse was that Hanna had not even bothered to arrest him. If the report was true, Hanna had assaulted this man in his own home, and left him there to die. He looked up from the papers at Hanna's face. He could not recall what his eyes looked like. They were always covered up by the large sunglasses that he wore at all times, indoors and outdoors, rain or shine.  
Hanna is an evil man, he thought. The thick, chewed up lips were twisted in a sneer. He stank of old sweat. How had he ever been accepted into the force?  
"What were you doing in his home?"  
"I never entered his home," spat Hanna.  
"Where did this happen, then?"  
"Outside of the High Court apartment complex."  
"What were you doing there?"  
"Following another suspect."  
"What suspect?"  
"I don't recall." Captain Dalton was getting the creeps. Whether or not he was telling the truth, he had only one desire: to be rid of this man's presence. He decided right then and there that he did not like Officer Hanna, and he would see to it that he was dismissed from the force.  
"Alright. That's all I need to know, for now. Go ahead and leave for your patrol."  
"Thank you, sir. You're doing the right thing."  
Officer Hanna left Captain Dalton's office and hopped in his cruiser. He started the engine and looked around to see if anyone was watching. He reached in his pocket and removed a stone he had taken from the "suspect." It was a polished piece of quartz from the pouch that hung from his neck. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed for High Court Apartments. It had taken a long time and a lot of beating to make that man squeal. First his right arm had got tired and he switched the club to his left. Just when his left was starting to give out was when the man, through a mouthfull of blood had gargled, "High Court," and fallen unconscious. He would have to take care to conduct investigations in his street clothes from now on. Like any other superhero, he would have to keep his identity a secret.  
Up ahead, there were fewer and fewer houses. There was no one on the streets except- one of them! A black woman was walking along the street and it looked as if- yes, she was going to cross the road. Hanna looked all around to make sure there were no witnesses, and sped up. The woman did not bother looking both ways before she crossed- typical of her species- and sauntered onto the pavement. Officer Hanna beamed with pride as her body went tumbling up the windshield. He watched in the rear view mirror as her body landed in middle of the road in a heap. He briefly contemplated turning around to finish her off, but it was risky enough as it was. Right now, if she was alive, it was her word against his, and everyone knew how much they lied. But if there were witnesses...  
As he drove, he thought of the different ways he could kill Ricardo. He would prefer to do it slowly, one drop of blood at a time until he was all dried up. Like a porkrind. The way he really wanted to do it was to tie him to his cruiser and road drag him. Drowning him might be nice, too. At any rate, he had to be careful, and Ricardo was a slippery one, to be sure. He might end up having to shoot him quickly and leave. But he knew where to look now, and the chase was nearing an end..  
He pulled up to the High Court complex and exited his vehicle. He walked all around until he found the landlord's office. His stomach was turning. It was too good of a place for Mexicans to live. There were three five story buildings, all freshly painted. Fuck, this was nicer than the apartments he lived in. What was the world coming to? He entered the office and asked the secretary if the landlord was in. She said he wasn't, but that she could call him.  
"No, that won't be necessary. I'm pretty sure you can help me just fine. I'm conducting an official investigation into the affairs of the Martinez family, and I was told they live here. Can you tell me which apartment they live in?"  
"Of course, but I will need to see a-"  
"Listen lady, if you don't find me their apartment on the double I'll see to it they throw the book at you for aiding and abetting a known criminal. Now which apartment do they live in?" The woman's face turned sickly pale, and she nodded her head quickly.  
"Of course, of course, let me find them for you." Officer Hanna leaned on the counter as she looked up their name in the computer. "Building C, room 312. Is there anything else you need from me?"  
"No thank you, ma'am, that's all. Take care, and be safe."  
"Thank you..."  
He took his time finding their apartment. He smelled the roses in the garden outside the office. Plastic. He walked on the grass outside of the concrete path. That was plastic, too. At least the place wasn't as nice as it looked from the outside, he reflected. As he walked up the stairs to the third floor of building C, his heart was thumping hard. He would kill any Martinez he met when he busted down the door. This could be the single greatest moment in his life. He would clear them out like a rat's nest. 308. 309. 310. 311. 312. He could smell frying meat and melting cheese from within.  
He kicked down the door and put two rounds in a child that happened to be standing in the kitchen. He heard a woman's voice scream, and the next thing he knew, a woman about his age was stabbing at him with a kitchen knife. He held her at bay with his left hand, managed to grab her wrist, and pistol whipped her across her temple. She went down. He crouched down low and waited. He could hear noises coming from the bedroom, and he crept toward the door. Someone was arguing very quietly in Spanish. He decided he would surprise them.  
He kicked down the bedroom door, but there was only one of them. He had a gun, and Hanna put four rounds into the suspect's chest. He stood over the body, but it was not Ricardo. Probably his brother. He looked under the bed, in the closet, and all around, but there was no sign of him. Hanna felt something wet on his arm. He had been cut by the knife wielding woman, and he was bleeding. He went back into the kitchen where the woman lied. She was breathing, and only bleeding a little where he had hit her. He had a sudden idea.  
He hefted her off the ground and put her arm around his shoulder. If he walked slowly and took small steps, it looked like she was still conscious. He left the apartment with her arm still around him, and shut the door. To anyone watching, it looked as if he were supporting her. He walked her down to his cruiser, deposited the woman in the back seat, and drove away.

XVII

Eric woke up late. He looked over at his alarm and it was flashing 12:00 over and over again. The power must have gone out in the middle of the night and reset it. He cursed to himself and rolled out of bed. He looked out the window. It wasn't very bright, but that was no indication of the time of day. The smog cast a perpetual shadow over the city. There was nothing to it but to throw on some clothes and speedwalk to work. He donned the Taximo uniform and hurried out the door. When he opened the door he noticed a leg he'd never seen before around the corner of the hallway. It was clad in fishnet stockings and bright red high heels.  
"Yoo hoo!" called Elmyra.  
It appeared as if she had changed her strategy today. The rest of her stepped from around the corner and imposed herself between Eric and the door. She was impeccably dressed. She wore a bright pink skirt and a black corset, showing off her lean, youthful body. She had even gone through the trouble of washing her hair and tying it up with a pink ribbon.  
"Where do you think you're going?" she asked assertively.  
"Work," stammered Eric. At least, that's where he thought he was going. He had to admit, she looked damned good. She had caked makeup over the sores and everything. The sores!  
"I have condoms," she said, as if reading his mind. She slowly advanced toward him and began kissing his neck. "You don't even have to kiss me. I just want you inside me." Fuck it, he thought. I'm already late.

⚤⚤⚤⚤⚤

As he left the front door, he was walking much slower to work than he had before. He did not like his job. He only worked there so he could have a place to live. He did not like where he lived. But he had to feed himself. He could only afford the lowest quality of food available. It was like he was trapped in a perpetual cycle of shittiness. How could he change it?  
"I must go to school," he said to himself. "But for what?" The smog was very thick today, and he was walking to work from memory. A dog was barking in the distance, and it was giving him a headache. If I had a gun, I'd go and shoot every dog I encountered, he thought. At one point in time, they may have helped our species survive, but now all they do is bark and shit. His head was killing him. He allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment, and he massaged his temples.  
He forced himself to keep walking. He didn't want to go. Where else would he go? He wanted to go to the bookstore. Fuck it, I'm going to the bookstore. He took a left and waited at the bus stop. The detour wasn't making him feel any better about his situation. Would he be fired? Then what? In this day and age, he was lucky to have any job at all. There were people who would kill to have what he had. He sat at the bus stop feeling nervous, and finally decided against going to the bookstore.  
He got up to start walking to work and stopped once more. I can't do this, I can't work there another day. He sat back down, and stood back up again. He walked in a very slow circle, and before he knew it, the city bus had arrived. It had the same smoking turkey on the side of it. A gout of smoke and steaming fluid shot from the exhaust pipe. He decided to get on. He paid the driver and entered. The bus was very full, and most people were standing. He wasn't anxious to rub shoulders with the other riders, so he stood towards the front, the only place where there was any room left.  
At the next stop before the bus went down town, a familiar face boarded the bus. It was the beautiful blonde girl whom he had bumped into the other day. He was surprised to see that she was riding the bus, rather than being given a ride by some rich boyfriend. Maybe she doesn't care about money. Say something to her.  
"Hi, how are you?" he asked her. Several more people boarded, and they found themselves jammed quite close together, face to face. The girl looked startled, and uncomfortable. Eric tried to move back to give her some room, but he was blocked by a wall of flesh and clothing. He wanted to touch her perfect skin.  
"I'm fine," she said, looking away. Her eyes looked back to his face. "Have we met?"  
"Actually, we have."  
"Really? Where was that?"  
"I... I accidentally knocked you down the other day."  
"Oh, that was you? Well, thanks for helping me pick up my things. That was nice of you."  
"Thanks. So what are you up to?"  
"Just heading to school."  
"Ah, right on. Where do you go?"  
"Washington High School." Eric felt his heart sink. Jailbait.  
"You're in high school?"  
"Yep."  
"Do you... mind my asking how old you are?"  
"Eighteen." Not jailbait. Also, not necessarily fair game. Was it right for a guy in his mid twenties to be flirting with a girl in her teens?  
"I see," he said, obviously contemplating the issue. He was hoping the girl would help along the conversation at this point, but she didn't. She stood there looking away and frowning slightly. Eric looked down and saw he had his Taximo uniform on, and breathed out quickly through his nostrils. It certainly didn't help his credibility. "So. Play any sports?"  
"I cheer."  
"As in cheerleading?"  
"That's right."  
"Neat."  
Eric was losing steam. She was painfully beautiful, but she didn't seem to be interested in him, and for that matter, she didn't seem like a very interesting person herself. Besides her beauty, that was. He gave up on her and looked out the window. He watched a homeless man walking a dog. The man stared at the smoking turkey on the bus. Since the conversation, and therewith romantic pursuit had ended, Eric didn't care if she saw he had an affliction. He took out his inhaler, a very conspicuous pink canister, and took a puff. He was supposed to take five a day.  
"Excuse me," said the girl. Eric's heart was lifted. Maybe she liked him after all. "Do you have asthma?" He was confused by the question.  
"What? Why do you ask?"  
"Just wondering."  
"Uh huh..." She looked away, apparently satisfied with his answer, and he looked back out the window. A pack of stray dogs were peeing all over the sidewalk.  
"Do you have a dent in your car?" She caught Eric off guard with the question.  
"What?"  
"I was just wondering if you had a big dent in your car."  
"How on earth... what makes you ask that?" For the first time since he'd spoken to her, she smiled a little.  
"Oh. I think my mom knows you."  
"Is your- what? Who's your mom?" He imagined some attractive blonde woman in her forties. He didn't remember meeting any milfs recently.  
"She's a doctor. She mentioned you the other day."  
"Oh. Oh yeah, I know who you're talking about. Small world."  
"Yep."  
He nodded and let the conversation drop. He snuck a glance at her and saw her looking out the window, smiling a little. His stop would be soon.  
"Hey, uh-"  
"You want my number?" She was good. She had obviously been propositioned many times before.  
"Eh... that's not what I was going to say."  
"What were you going to say?"  
"Something about ponies. I don't remember now. Well, this is my stop, soooooooo have a nice day." She didn't say anything back, and he left the bus. The smog was even thicker here. He could not see the street signs, and he could barely see the people walking all around him. What nerve, to presume he wanted her number. He felt insulted, disgusted. He walked without knowing where he was going, his head down, hands shoved into his pockets. He needed to go to work before he was fired. There were certainly enough people waiting to take his job. One kid came back every three days to ask if the manager was in. Eric and Cody always told him she wasn't, even if she was.  
He asked a passerby where the bookstore was.  
"What bookstore?"  
"The used bookstore." They didn't know. He asked three more people before he got a lead. The situation was getting worse, and he was highly distracted. He couldn't see anything, and all he could think about was the girl. He kept replaying the conversation in his head, over and over, until every sentence and look had taken on deeper meaning. He walked into a random store and coughed into his hands. Still bloody. Perhaps bloodier. The little asian man who ran the store was staring at him. Eric asked him if he knew where the used book store was. He didn't, so Eric left.  
He walked around aimlessly for a while longer and started asking people where the plaza was. They all pointed the way he was walking. As he was walking down the street, he saw a large rat sitting by the street corner. It seemed completely unafraid of him as he walked by, and he could not stop staring at it.  
"Avoid her," said the rat. Eric stopped walking, and the rat scurried away. He stood there for a long while, and he looked around to see if anyone else had heard it. No one was there. He decided he'd better forget about it and keep walking. For all he knew it was the animatronic plaything of some prankster.  
He reached the plaza and boarded. There were less people on the bus, and he sat toward the rear entrance. The seat looked like it had been cut up by someone. On the window side, lower, and out of sight, there were swastikas and hateful messages written in permanent marker. There was a sticker of a teddy bear with a machine gun, and someone had drawn a well hung stick figure humping the bear. Outside the window, there were lots of people waiting in the smog for their buses. Next to a group of latinos, a young man ollied his skateboard up the curb. A security guard pointed to him and said something, and the skateboarder rode away very quickly. He took a few steps toward the skater and thought better of it. He pulled out his walkie talkie and spoke into it.  
Soon, he had reached his stop and he began walking toward the Taximo. He felt horrible. He took a puff off his inhaler. He saw a dead dog next to the sidewalk. It had a hole punched through its rotting ribcage. Soon, he would be at work. He thought of what he would say to the manager, if she was even there. He would say that his mother was dying. No, too obvious. Grandmother? No, his dog had been choking on something, and he'd had to take it to the veterinarians. No, that wouldn't work either, because Cody would blurt something out, like "Dude, you don't have a dog!" Nobody seemed to love cats like he did, so he couldn't use Hunter as an excuse.  
He opened the door to the gas station. He was expecting to see Cody standing there with a smirk on his face, but instead he was met by his manager.  
"Where's Cody?" he asked. The manager, Karina, shook her head.  
"Don't come in. We have to wait for the hazmat crew to get here."  
"What? What for? Where's Cody?" She shook her head again and ushered Eric out of the store. "What the hell's going on?"  
"Eric... Cody's been shot." The news hit Eric like a ton of bricks.  
"Oh my God. Is he ok?"  
"I don't know. The..." she started to cry. Eric did not know how to comfort her, so he stood there watching her. It didn't feel like real life. "After the robber left, I called an ambulance. They came and took him away."  
"Was he breathing before they got him?"  
"Yes. He was breathing. And... there was and still is a lot of blood. We're not allowed to clean it. That's why you and I need to wait for the hazmat crew."  
"Shouldn't there be police here, asking questions and stuff?"  
"They already came and left."  
They talked for a little while longer and Karina told him he could go home if he wanted to. The store would be closed for the day. Eric began to walk. Although he felt very sorry for Cody, he couldn't help but be glad that not only had his lateness gone overlooked in the excitement, but that he needn't work at all today. He kicked a broken bottle down the street and remembered that Dr. Demarkier would be coming to give him a check. If he could get to the clinic by noon, he could still get the check today. He hurried home.  
Without entering his apartment, he got in his car and drove there. He took great care to drive a few miles per hour under the speed limit. He had not forgotten his last encounter with the law. He arrived just at noon, but as usual, the parking lot was full. He parked down the street at a fast food restaurant and jogged to the clinic. He entered and waited for a moment in line. While he was waiting he took out his cell phone and called the Doctor.  
"Hello?"  
"Hi, this is Eric St. James, the guy with asthma whose car door you dented."  
"Oh. What can I do for you Eric?"  
"Something came up at work and they're closing the gas station for the day, so I came to the clinic. I'm actually standing in line right now."  
"Ok, well, let me just... put this away.... you're in the waiting room?"  
"Yes, ma'am."  
"OK..." The door to the employee entrance opened and Dr. Demarkier gestured for Eric to enter.  
Eric walked past some very insulted looking patients.  
"I'm not here for medical reasons," he explained as he walked by them. He heard grumbling as the doctor shut the door behind them.  
"So it's ok I came here?" he asked.  
"Yeah, that's fine. How much do I owe you?"  
"Five thousand... is that ok?"  
"Oh, don't worry about it," she said, taking out her checkbook. "So how are you today?"  
"I'm alright. I saw your daughter on the bus today."  
"You did?"  
"Yeah, I... just randomly decided I'd rather go to the bookstore than work, and I saw her on the way there."  
"Is that so? What did you two talk about?"  
"Oh, not much. Asthma. Cheerleading. This and that."  
"I see. So there wasn't any sort of exchange of numbers, was there?"  
"What? No, why do you ask?"  
"No reason." She finished writing the check, and handed it to Eric. "Do you want her number, by any chance? How old are you?"  
"Uh, I guess. I'm twenty four."  
"Ah, that's not too old!"  
"Thanks... I guess. But why do you want to give me her number?" Dr. Demarkier sighed and thought about how to answer the question.  
"Well.... I sense that she's having some boy troubles, and I just wanted to give her another option I suppose."  
"So she has a boyfriend?"  
"I don't know, she doesn't really talk about that kind of stuff to me. But maybe she'll talk about it with you."  
"Oh. Well, thanks Dr. Demarkier."  
"You can call me Theresa."  
"Thank you... Theresa."  
"You're welcome. Don't spend it all in one place."

XVIII

I am the biscuit. Once, I had name, but I can no longer remember what it was. I am a man with two sons, one of whom I have not seen in many years. My butt itches. I have a wife, sort of. Her name is Mary, and she don't do shit. I leave for work at 6 A.M. and she just lays in bed, probably dreamin' about breakfast. Omelettes and shit. Meanwhile, I'm sitting next to Bill in the 'vette. The seats are black leather, and they are very soft. It's a hot day today, but we're ok because he's got the top down. My long, white-brown hair is flying like a banner behind my skull. The banner is a thumbs up, or a peace sign, or a smiley face, or something.  
We get to Bill's east side property, the one he asked me to paint yesterday. We are going to paint the siding a nice, mellow green with a very light red trim. It's kind of like a cooler version of Christmas, or the Russian army, or something. Also, I must clean the bird shit off the siding. We used to have us a solar powered bird pusher, but the gotdamned propellor just up and fell off one day. Fuckin' birds. There was something else he wanted me to do while I was here, but I cannot remember. I don't want to talk to her, but I will if he asks me to.  
"Hey Bill, was there something else you wanted me to do while I was here?"  
"Yeah, just keep an eye out around here. Let me know if you see anything."  
"Like what?"  
"Anything."  
What's going on here, that Bill wants to know what all happens when I am painting? Is that old woman selling drugs? I wonder what she is selling. I sure could use some pot. I have only thirty dollars in my pocket, all that I have, and if I spend it all on pot I won't have any for beer, but it would be worth it. I would just tell my son to take his lazy ass on down to the store and buy me some beer. Mary would not walk there because she cannot walk long distances. She will not tell me why this is so. I already know it's because she is a lazy bitch. I pushed her out of bed for being lazy once, and it hurt her hip, so she does not even walk down the stairs now. She has not left the apartment in months, but she does like to lay in the sun on the balcony. Gotta' get your vitamin D and shit.  
I begin to paint the siding. What was once faint brown, cracking from exposure to the sun and the smog, begins to turn mellow green. The roller makes sticky sounds as I push it up and down. Oh shit, I forgot to sand! Fucking birds, they done covered the place in little shits. I look all along the side of the house for an electrical outlet. Hopefully it has electricity right now. Electricity has been getting flakier and flakier since I was a kid. Sometimes we go for weeks without it. The utility company doesn't give anyone refunds now. I push aside the tall grass that grows all around the old house. I am going to have to cut this grass, too.  
There isn't an outlet, so I use the master key to open the front door. In the hallway, I look at the peephole on the hag's door. I know she is watching me. I begin to sweat profusely, and it drips down my forehead and onto the carpet, making soft pat pa-pat sounds. My back feels very exposed when I turn to look for the outlet. I find one, and plug in the extension cord. I run it along the side of the house, plug in the belt sander, and I go to work.  
What was once faint brown, cracking from exposure to the sun, smog and bird becomes rotting wood. Since the wood is rotting, I begin to imagine that the support beams are breaking and the whole damn building starts to collapse under its own weight. The hag is in the bathroom, taking a shit or something, and one of the beams swings downward from the ceiling and just smacks right into her wrinkled old tits. She is thrown into the wall, and only her feet and hands are visible, protruding from the plaster wreckage. Days later, when everything is safe, Bill and I are picking through the ruins, talking about how everyone is going to sue and shit, and how he's got the best lawyer in town, and how he had all the tenants sign something saying they could never sue him in the first place. We start playing catch with a crystal ball we found.  
That's when we find the hag's gold, the reason she was always so scary and shit. I finally understand everything, and I nudge Bill, pointing to the treasure chest I found. We pry that shit open with a crowbar, and sure enough, it's filled with spanish gold and whatnot. Gems, too. Bill takes 90% of the loot, which is fair because it's his property and all, and I take 10%, which is still a pretty good haul. Later on, I buy a garbage bag full of the finest weed in town, and I throw it all on the barbecue, which me and Todd Jr. have drug into the living room. Me, Mary, and Todd Jr., are all admiring the thickness of the smoke pouring from the barbecue, and we each have our own fifth. The smoke is like very lightweight milk, dripping through the air. I have Jack Daniels, Todd Jr. has some of that clear tequila, and Mary has Grey Goose.  
"Watch this," I say, and I grab the barbecue on either side and submerge my head in the floating milk. My lungs go like a vacuum cleaner, and for a moment, the room is cleared of all smoke. My hair has caught fire, and Mary begins to scream. Todd Jr. puts it out with some of that fancy tequila. Then we all laugh. I am laughing the loudest.  
I hear footsteps, and I forget all about the gold and the weed. I turn around but I don't see nothin'. I am sanding the house, minding my own business. I feel something cold on the back of my neck, and I sort of cry out and say,  
"What's up!" real frantic like. The wind kicks up something fierce and blows open the front door, which is cracked from the extension cord in the doorway. I peek inside and I see the bells above the hag's door jingle. That hag is up to something.  
Bill will want to know about this. I can do good sometimes. I know just what to do. I sneak around the side of the house, to the hag's window, so I can see what's goin' on. I'm not very quiet, and while I'm walking, I'm breaking twigs, crunching the gravel, and snapping the long stems of the dry, dead grass that grows all around. I am going to have to cut that grass. I keep close to the siding, like a cat, and I get some of the wet paint on my shirt. I like that mellow green, and all of my clothes have paint on them anyways. I think it matches my camouflage pants, which are helping me blend in with the grass. I find the hag's window, and I lean close to it. I can hear her fan blowing, and the window is open. I am hidden by a swaying bead curtain. All the beads are different colors, and I wonder to myself where to get something like this.  
"So how much this is costing me?" asks a young man's voice. It sounds like its coming from farther away, but I know this is the hag's business.  
"Valuables," says the hag, "All your worldly possessions, upon restoration." I hear the young man talking quietly. My butt itches. I can't scratch it now, they might hear me.  
"All? All those things?" asks the young man.  
"All."  
"Wait," says the young man, and it sounds like he is getting mad, "How I'm knowing this will work?"  
"If it doesn't," says the hag, "then you owe me nothing, and I must serve my own penance." Nobody says anything for a while, and I hear the young man talking again.  
"All things I owned? Guitars?"  
"That's right. That's not so bad is it?"  
"Worth it well sake."  
"Excellent. Will you excuse me for a moment?"  
This hag was selling something, and it didn't sound none too cheap, either. Didn't she have enough already, with all her gold and whatnot? Didn't she-? I feel something hard hit me on top of the head, and I bring my hands up to protect myself. The hag!  
"Get you gone, meddler! Go! Shoo!" she yells, swinging a wooden cane at me. I run as fast as my legs will carry me, and I have to admit, I ditched the belt sander and the paint back there. I need to think of an excuse about why I can't do this today. When I am a few blocks away, I run out of breath and call Bill. Gout.

XIX

They were like wild flowers, dancing in the breeze. One of them had brown hair with blonde highlights, three had brown, three blonde, one had black skin, one was asian, and one of them had dazzling natural red hair. And if they were wild flowers, they were the kind that grew from the cracks in the cement, for they stood out in stark contrast to their surroundings. They practiced flipping and catching routines in the outfield of the baseball diamond. It was August now, and at the end of the month, school would be in session once more. Their perfectly smooth legs shone in the afternoon sun as they twirled and flipped through the air. They shone so brightly that they were visible even through the smog.  
The baseball field had a rusty fence with sharp edges, and there was lots of broken glass everywhere. Part of their routine was to pick up the broken glass around where they were going to practice. There was even a shredded tire lying in the tall, unkempt grass. To the south was the old stadium, where the bad kids went to smoke weed and cigarettes. Once, many years ago, it had stood tall and proud, a symbol of the togetherness of the community, insofar as their ability and willingness to to pay the tariff to build it. Local legend had it that the year it was built, the Vikings had won the state championship game. Since then, it had succumbed more and more to disrepair, until the whole thing had come crashing down in an apocalyptic earthquake. The bad kids had spray painted swirling designs of hot pink, and black, and orange. The swirls suggested things like "420," and "Toxic," and there was a crown with five points. If Tiffany had ever walked to the deeper part of the ruins, she would see that a boy named Bobby loved her. So did Jordan, Jimmy, Earl, and Zach.  
School was not in session, and they did not have to practice today. Their coach was not even with them. They took it upon themselves to practice because each of them loved the fine sport of cheerleading. Over and over and over again, they drilled the same sequence of catches, dances, and the way they would greet and wave to their adoring audience. They had won many competitions, and were the fifth generation in the dynasty of Washington High School cheering champions. Their only audience today was a murder of crows perched on the fence. Occasionally, one of them lost its balance and leaned very far forward, or they pecked at one another. Mostly, they watched the girls, and wondered what it was all about.  
Practice was over, and they gave one last cheer for good measure. Normally they cheered for the basketball, baseball, and football teams, but now they gave a cheer for themselves. For their dedication, passion, and hard work, they would be rewarded with a flight to California for the nationals. It was rumored that the Californians had found a way to get rid of their smog. Tiffany dreamed of clear skies where you could see the stars at night. If they went to California, she would take a picture of the milky way with her phone, and send the picture to her mother. She knew it would make her mom feel nostalgic to see the stars. She was always talking about how she had really seen them as a child.  
As she walked to the agreed upon meeting point (she did not want her friends to see Bill), her cell phone began to vibrate. She did not recognize the number.  
"Hello?"  
"Hey, is this Tiffany?" She thought she knew the voice, but how had he...?  
"Yes. Who's this?" The person on the other line heaved a deep sigh and said,  
"Well, do you remember meeting that guy on the bus the other day? The one that accidentally knocked you over a few days before?"  
"Yes, I do. What do you want?"  
"How do I say this..." Tiffany's interest was piqued. Had her mom given him her number? "Do you want to hang out sometime? Maybe get something to eat, or we could see a movie...?"  
"When?"  
"Uh, I don't know. What are you doing tonight?"  
"I can't tonight, I have plans."  
"How about tomorrow?" Tiffany was silent for a long while as she thought. She could hear him breathing heavily.  
"What time?"  
"6?"  
"Ok. I'd like that."  
"Alright! I'll see you then."  
"See you then."  
Tiffany took out her makeup kit. Her heart was beating very hard and her face was flushed. She was excited to see Eric again. At the same time, she was angry at herself for saying yes; she knew he had nothing, and therefore was nothing. He would probably take her out with the same money her mom had given him. At the same time, a different part of her mind was imagining what they'd be doing together. She saw him leaning over to kiss her while they watched the stars in California. She was introducing him to her friends, and then they were all going to Nate's house to drink and listen to loud music. Her friends would like him. But his car was a piece of shit with a large dent in it. Would he wear his Taximo uniform to their...? Not their date. He had not said, "Will you go out with me?" or "Want to go out on a date?"  
She walked to the meeting place and climbed into Bill's car. It was a humongous yellow car, with big wheels and a gutty roar. It was very sleek and it still smelled like new. Bill leaned over and kissed her cheek. She stood perfectly still while he did this, and he asked her how practice was. She said it was fine. She didn't look at him while they talked. She looked at either his gold necklace or his gold watch. He turned the radio up very loud while he drove. It was some older band that Tiffany didn't like. The singer sounded angry, and he yelled about his relationship problems while a guitar wailed away. She thought of a shirtless guy with long hair and tattoos, dripping with sweat.  
"Yeah, baby! Ooooh, baby!" the man yelled. Tiffany liked to think of well dressed black men who were neither sweating nor angry, but cool and collected. She liked the way they bragged about how much money and women they had. She liked their jewelry.  
They drove to the Metro Activity Center and stood in a long line. Some people were smoking, and others were dancing a little. Most of the men in line were heavily muscled and wearing very tight t-shirts. The women were wearing mini skirts and revealing shirts. They stood on their tiptoes and moved to the music that was playing. This singer was even angrier than the one she had heard earlier. His voice was a deep growl, and it sounded more like a crazy homeless man than singing. He was growling and mumbling something about blowing up the world, and other things she couldn't make out. The guitars chugged away as the man ranted and raved about how he would destroy everything. The cigarettes combined with the smog to make an impenetrable wall of smoke. She couldn't even see the entrance to the Metro.  
After a long time waiting in line, they finally entered. She was beginning to get hungry, and her head hurt. Bill and Tiffany took their seats, and she massaged her temples very conspicuously.  
"What's wrong, babe?" asked Bill.  
"I'm just hungry, that's all." Without wasting further time, Bill stood up and flagged down a hot dog vendor. He bought two hot dogs with everything on them, and two sodas. Tiffany could only finish half of hers, and Bill ate the rest. The music changed, and Tiffany was able to picture a wealthy, well dressed black man more clearly. He did not sing either, but rather spoke in rhythm with electronically produced snicks, snacks, and thuds. He talked about what it was like on his boat, the type of alcohol he and his friends were drinking, and how much money he'd spent that day. He talked so calmly and smoothly, Tiffany found she was getting turned on.  
When the music changed, all went dark in the room, except a large, multicolored ball in the center. It shot out lights of every color as it spun and raised slowly upwards. The audience took the cue and cheered loudly. Bill stood up next to her, and yelled,  
"Yeah! Oh, baby!" through a mouthfull of hot dog. A spotlight shone down in the center of the room. There was a large, octagonal cage, and a man in a suit walked to the center with a microphone in his hand.  
"LADIES AAAAAAAAAAND GENTLEMEN!" he called out. He proceeded to introduce the fighters. Weighing in at 220 lbs, with a record of 13 wins and 6 losses was Marky Silvara. The crowd went wild, and the music changed while the large man walked to the cage. He was wearing a white robe with a hood, and he was hunched over, shadow boxing as he walked. The voice of the music was a black man, Tiffany could tell, except he was angry, like the guitar guys. He rapped about killing and said the word "murder," over and over. Weighing in at 201 lbs, with a record of 15 wins and 0 losses was Haruki Jubei. The music changed to a chorus of exotic percussion, comprised of wooden sticks and hollow drums. The crowd looked around to see the man enter, but no one came out. They began to talk amongst themselves, some suggesting that Jubei had lost face and was crying in the locker room. All of a sudden, there was a sound like a gunshot, and a thick cloud of green smoke appeared in the ring. When it cleared away, Jubei was standing there with his arms crossed.  
The man in the suit talked a little longer, encouraging the audience to patronize the vendors. He let them all know there was an open bar for those members of the audience who were over the age of 18. He told them to drink Dark Cola, to wear J-Carr shoes, and said something to the effect of "support the troops." He talked a lot about the different products the audience should buy while they waited patiently for the fight to begin. Silvara hopped from right to left, making small jabs at the air. Jubei stood perfectly still. The man talked on and on.  
"Shut up!" said someone in the audience. The objector started an outbreak of dissension among the crowd, and loud murmurs could be heard at all corners of the room. "Start the fight!" someone else yelled. When someone threw their hot dog at the cage, the man in the suit stopped talking and nodded to someone on his left. A man with a white and black striped shirt and black pants entered and stood between the fighters. The crowd began to cheer.  
The referee directed the fighters to touch fists and raised his hand. He chopped his hand downward between them and got out of the way. The fight was on. The cheering of the crowd was one sustained roar, and it ebbed and waxed like the sounds of a stormy sea. The fighters circled each other, hopping up and down with each step. They closed in, striking with the ferocity of two tigers, and hopped away from each other. Silvara, the big latino, got low to the ground and lunged for Japanese Jubei's legs. Jubei danced away, and struck Silvara on the back of his head. Silvara got back up quickly and shook the blow off. Jubei stood perfectly still, and suddenly exploded into motion. He jumped high to his right, ran along the side of the cage, leaped toward Silvara, and dealt him a vicious kick to the side of his shaven head. It made a loud smacking noise that could be heard above the drone of the audience's cries, and Silvara went down.  
It was all over now. Everyone got up from their seats, evidently satisfied with their experience. They had each paid $100, waited an hour in line in the sweltering heat (there had been a beer vendor just for the queue), and seen the fight. Everyone was happy, and some of the men were so excited from the event that they began to imitate the fighters, and fights broke out among the people trying to leave. A man next to Tiffany was pushing Bill and yelling something while Bill held up his hands, trying to calm him down. Someone behind her was getting punched repeatedly in the face, and his sweat and blood splattered the side of her face. She took some moist wipes from her purse and calmly wiped it off.  
The voice of the music playing now was a wealthy, well dressed black man, calmly talking about how he had shot someone in a drug deal gone bad. There was an edge to his voice, but he was otherwise laid back in his delivery. He had apparently been shot quite a few times himself. It had all been worth it though, because in the end he was finally able to purchase a very expensive car, and had several beautiful girlfriends. The chorus was the sound of jingling jewelry.  
"That's platinum," said the man. "Yeah, that's platinum."

XX

H. was awoken by the sound of vibrating. Red-eyed and grumpy, he extracted the vibro-box from his pocket and flung it against the wall, where it flew apart into many pieces.  
"Jonathan! What did you do that for?" asked the woman.  
"Mmf!" he grunted angrily, pulling the covers over his head. A few minutes later, the vibrating noise came again, this time from somewhere else. It must be Chewbacca's vibro-box, he thought, groping in its general direction.  
"Oh no you don't!" shouted the woman, beating him to it. She tapped the shiny screen and held it next to her face. "Hello? Oh. He's right here." She handed him the phone. He began to cock his arm back to hurl it against the wall when she grabbed his arm.  
"No! Jonathan! NO! Your friend is on the phone!" she shrieked, holding the phone to his face for him.  
"Mmf," he grunted into it.  
"Dude, what's up with you?"  
"Mmmmmmer..."  
"Don't get all pissy with me, dude, I'm about to get you a jizz-ob!"  
"Oh. It's you again."  
"Lol, dude. Acid. Anyways, yeah, the boss is wondering where you are. You were supposed to be here an hour ago."  
"Whatever."  
"Whoa, dude... I wish I gave such a little fuck about money. Anyways, if you change your mind, we're at the docks... waiting for you."  
"Mmf," grunted H., handing the phone back to the woman. 'Hello?" emanated a tiny voice. The woman held the phone to her face.  
"Hey, I'm here. Yeah... Yeah I know. He's a strange one, alright. At least he doesn't believe in ghosts anymore. I know, right? Like, total 180. He'll be there. Oh, he'll be there alright. OK. See you soon." she hung up and secreted the phone in her night stand. "Jonathan, you've got to get dressed!" she said, tearing the covers off him. She saw then, that he had gone to bed fully clothed. "Oh. You are dressed. Get out of bed!" H. leapt to his feet.  
"Alright! I'm up! I'm not going to school, but I'm up!"  
"What? You've got to go to the docks! Hurry!" she said, pushing him out the door.  
"Is this about-? No! NO! I don't want a job! I've already been a mirror, a key hole, an automatic-"  
"What? What the hell are you rambling about? Did you drop acid while I was asleep last night?"  
"No! I don't want to be a mirror again!"  
"Damn, Jonathan. Just go to the docks, OK, honey?"  
"Where? I know nothing!"  
"Clearly," she said, pointing down the street. "It's pretty simple, my love. Just walk this direction."  
"Fine."  
Minutes after Jonathan had left, there was a knock at the door. Sloan roused herself and got up to see who it was. Through the peephole, she saw a well-dressed middle aged woman.  
"Can I help you?" called Sloan through the door.  
"Can we talk for a moment?" asked the stranger. Sloan scrutinized her for a moment longer. She decided she was harmless and opened the door.  
"Yes?" she asked. The woman shifted her weight nervously before answering.  
"So, this might sound a bit strange, but is there a young man named Jonathan Carlton living here?"  
"Yes, yes there is," said Sloan, feeling a sense of dread, "What's the matter?"  
"Nothing, nothing, everything is A-OK. It's just that... well, something terribly strange happened a few nights ago..." and Theresa proceeded to explain.  
"I see," said Sloan. "You know what I think?"  
"What?" asked Theresa, feeling uncomfortable.  
"No offense, lady, but I think you're totally batshit. Have a nice day," she said as she slowly closed the door.

♿♿♿♿♿

Having thus been ousted from the woman's apartment, H. began walking in the indicated direction. All houses looked the same, one-story white boxes, and they all had green lawns, with dogs running about, shitting and barking. One house had a young boy playing in the driveway, riding around in a small, electric car.  
"Hey, mister!" called the boy.  
"What?" asked H. "What do you want?"  
"Race ya'!" screeched the boy, flooring his little car. H. continued down the street, but the little boy caught up with him, veering his vehicle into H.'s shins. "Watch out, asshole!" screamed the boy, weaving in front of him. He crashed into the neighbor's clean white picket fence and broke clean through it. The resident dog began chasing after him, and they both disappeared into the back yard.  
A short while later, H. arrived at the docks. The water lapped at the shore beneath his feet, and roller bladers in speedos and bikinis glided by.  
"Jonathan! Dude! There you are! OMG, I was worried you'd never show up! They were about to give your job away to some square," said the man. He was a little person, no taller than five feet. His dreadlocks reached the small of his back, and seemed to clash with his waiter's outfit, a rather sharp suit with a bright red cumberbun. His eyes shone with excitement, and he took H.'s hand, leading him to the boat.  
"Yeah, I'm not so sure I want this job, friend."  
"What?"  
"I mean, 'dude.'"  
"Oh. Well, why did you come, then?"  
"Chewbacca forced me out the door."  
"Chewbacca?"  
"The woman."  
"Oh, lol! Well, even if you don't want the job, you should come and check out this boat. It's wicked sick."  
"Alright," said H. resignedly. He was led to a great yacht, with a great blue stripe painted across the middle, with great italics painted on the side that read The Uberfrau. They traversed a walkway leading to the main deck and boarded.  
"Alec! Where have you been!" asked a burly man in an old fashioned sailor outfit. "There's a six-top waiting for you! And you! Who is this hippy, Alec? A friend of yours?"  
"Uh, sir, if it wouldn't be too much to ask, I prefer to go by my nickname, Lil' Dude."  
"Shut up, Alec. Now who is this?"  
"This is Jonathan, sir. The one I told you about. He-"  
"Oh, the one who wanted a job."  
"Actually," said H., "I don't-"  
"Well, too bad. I already hired someone else."  
Alec, or Lil' Dude as he called himself, looked as if he were on the verge of tears.  
"Well, dude," he said sadly, "I tried. If you had just come earlier-" He was interrupted by a loud crash. Behind them, exiting the cabin with a large, covered tray, a waiter had collapsed, dropping his load, clutching at his throat.  
"What was that?" asked the burly sailor boss. He rushed over to see what the commotion was about while H. and Lil' Dude watched.  
"He's going into anaphylactic shock!" cried one of the patrons. "Call an ambulance!" The patron leaped into action. "Stand back, I'm a doctor!" They couldn't see what was happening, for by now, a crowd had assembled around the unfortunate. The sailor boss swaggered back over to them. He gave H. a penetrating look.  
"You still want that job?" he asked.  
"No, not reall-"  
"You're hired! There's another waiter outfit in the staff room."  
"Uh, sir?" asked Lil' Dude.  
"Whaddya' want, Alec?"  
"What- what happened to the new guy?"  
"Oh, I suppose he's allergic to shellfish. He might have been trying to tell me that through mouthfuls of shrimp, but I needed someone to see if the appetizers from yesterday were still good. Weak bastard. You, what's your name?"  
"Eh..." said H., trying to remember.  
"Jonathan! It's Jonathan!" whispered Lil' Dude.  
"Nithin," said H., mis-hearing him.  
"Nithin? Huh. Are you allergic to anything?"  
"I don't know."  
"Well, let's find out. Yesterday's appetizers smell a little funky, and I need a waiter to try some to see if they're still usable."  
"OK," said H., still standing there.  
"So go try some, ya' dumbass!" he roared. Some of the patrons overheard the outburst and turned from the dying waiter to see what the fuss might be about. To compensate, the sailor-boss gave H. a pat on the head and forced himself to smile. When the patrons looked away, he shoved H. in the back and shooed Lil' Dude away.  
H. arrived in the kitchen area and got the chef's attention.  
"What you want, kid?" asked the chef. H. pointed to the lobster dish he was preparing and said,  
"The boss wants me to try this to see if it's good."  
"He wants you to try the lobster? But it was just caught this morning..."  
"Boss's orders."  
The chef shrugged and handed him the dish. H. promptly set to work taste-testing. When he was half finished, he decided it was fresh enough, and threw the rest of it away.  
"What's that you're making?" H. asked the chef.  
"It's caviar. You can't have any."  
"Oh," said H., disappointed. He stood there and watched for a few minutes before the chef began to feel annoyed.  
"Don't you have anything better to do?" he asked.  
"No," said H.  
"God damnit, get the fuck out of here, kid!" yelled the chef, menacing him with a butcher knife. H. rushed out of the kitchen, only to find himself face to face with the boss.  
"Well, did you try those appetizers?" he demanded.  
"No. I mean, yes."  
"How were they?"  
"Delicious."  
"Excellent. You ate that shrimp like a real man. That'll save us some money. Now go talk to Alec and see what he needs you to do."  
"Where is he?"  
"Howthefuck should I know? Go and find him, you stupid bastard."  
H. wandered the fuck away from the general restaurant area, and looked out at the sea. It was a welcome sight, given that all he had seen for the last two months was a sad, pathetic painting of a vase of flowers. Seagulls circled overhead, anxious to snag any unwatched food. They called out over and over.  
"Help!" they seemed to say. "Help, help, help!" Under his feet, the boat rocked gently to and fro.  
"Alright," said H., "I see no reason not to help you." He returned to the kitchen.  
"You!" said the chef. "What the hell you want this time?"  
"The boss says to give me some food."  
"Oh, yeah? Well, you like guts? Innards?"  
"Yes."  
"OK, then you can have this bin, here. It's full of them."  
H. took the bin and wandered back to his hiding place.  
"Hey!" he called to the seagulls, waving his hands back and forth. A few of them noticed him, and perched warily on the roof above him. "Freeeeeeeeeesh fish!" he called, dumping the contents of the bin onto the deck. The seagulls wasted no time in swarming the pile of viscera, heedless of his presence. Just then, Lil' Dude wandered around the corner.  
"Oh, dude, you found my hiding spot," he said. "Whoa, those seagulls like you, man."  
"They were hungry," said H., turning to notice a gull perched on his shoulder. It hopped away to feed, but not before it shat on his suit.  
"Oh ho ho, dude, it messed on you!" laughed Lil' Dude.  
"It sure did," said H., wiping it away with his bare hand, wiping the remnants on his pants.  
"Man, you got weird from that acid. Wanna' smoke a j?"  
"The letter J can be smoked?" asked H., remembering his lesson from Sesame Street. "How is that possible?"  
"Uh, sort of..." said Lil' Dude, lighting up. "Man, you must be perma-fried. Do you even remember how to smoke weed? Here just hold it up to your lips and inhale."  
After they had smoked, H. found that he felt slightly different. For one thing his eyes were watering, and he had trouble walking straight.  
"It's good shit," said Lil' Dude, watching the seagulls clean up the last of the gut-pile. They returned to the main deck, where a band was setting up to play.  
"Who are they?" asked H., "What are those things they're carrying around?"  
"Dude, it's the Adventures. You've seen them play dozens of times."  
"What sort of... wait.... music?"  
"Yes, dude. Music."  
"Why aren't they playing music now?"  
"Just sit here and wait, dude. They have to set up their amps and stuff." Sure enough, they began to play their own unique brand of surf rock.  
"What do you suppose their jobs are?" asked H.  
"Dude, that is their job. Playing music."  
"Wow. I would like to have that job. Maybe we can get one of them to eat the shrimp."  
"Huh? Dude, we could do that. Let's start up a band!"  
"Yes! We'll start a band! How do we do it, though?"  
"You know how to play guitar, dude. I play the drums. How many times have we talked about this?"  
"I need a guitar, then."  
"You have many guitars."  
"I do?"  
"Yes. At your home, dude," said Lil' Dude patiently.  
"Oh. Well, I want his guitar."  
"Why, dude? You've already got one. Violence isn't cool man."  
"I guess," said H., already planning as to how he could acquire the guitar, along with all the other equipment he saw.  
"I know you're perma-fried and everything," said Lil' Dude, "but man, you've got to, like, re-learn social norms and stuff."  
"Does this boat go?"  
"What do you mean 'go?' Like, can it sail and stuff?"  
"Yes."  
"Well fuck yeah it can! Tits' dad just sailed it here from Mexico!"  
"What? Who's Tits?"  
"My cousin, dude. The boss is his father-in-law. And my uncle-in-law. How do you think I got this job, dude? Family's got to stick together."  
"Right. So this boat can sail?"  
"Yes."  
"Well, let's sail it then."  
"Lol, dude. As if. Where're you going?"  
H. was off, headed to the main cabin. He tried the door, looked all around for a doorknob, but could find nothing.  
"You have to be my dad to open it," said someone behind him. H. turned around and saw a rather rotund fellow, his eyes hidden by the sheen of his spectacles.  
"What?"  
"See that pad right there? It reads fingerprints. Like I said, you have to be my dad to open it."  
"Are you Tits?" asked H.  
"That's me!"  
"If he's your dad, wouldn't your fingerprints work?"  
"Nah. He's my dad-in-law."  
"What does that mean?"  
"It means he fucks my mom and gives me cool shit to stay on my good side."  
"Oh."  
"You must be new here, I don't think I've seen you around."  
"Yeah, I just started working here."  
"Today?"  
"M-hm."  
"Huh. That's weird. I thought we just filled the last waiting position."  
"Oh. Yeah, that guy died."  
"What? Seriously?"  
"Don't eat the shrimp."  
"What shrimp?"  
"I don't know. All shrimp. Your dad made some waiter eat it and he died."  
"Damn. That sounds like dad, though. Wanna' go watch the Adventures?"  
"I guess."  
H. followed Tits back down to the main deck. The Adventures were wailing away, just as H. had left them.

Surfing's cool. Surfing rocks.  
When I go surfing, I don't wear socks.  
Surfing's cool. It doesn't suck.  
Luck fuck schmuck duck mucky-muck

Surfing surfing surfing, I love you so  
I do it every day in case you didn't know

Surfing's cool. Surfing rocks.  
I like to surf, therefore I'm- BLEEEEEEEEECH!

The singer of the Adventures began violently heaving half-digested shrimp all over the floor. Several members of the audience began screaming, until they, too, began heaving up their meals. Some of them convulsed on the ground, foaming at the mouth.  
"New guy!" shouted the boss, "This is all your fault! I'm going to beat you into- whoa!" He slipped in a pile of vomit and hit his head on the bulwark.  
"Look at that!" said Tits, "His head is bleeding!" He grabbed an oyster fork from a nearby table and began plunging it into the unconscious man's arm. "I hate you! I hate you!" he screamed. H. grabbed the boss under the arms and began dragging him toward the main cabin.  
"Where are you taking him?" asked Tits, still stabbing him in the arm.  
"To the fingerprinter!"  
"Good idea!"  
Tits grabbed the man's legs and together they carried him up the stairs. Tits held the man's fingers up to the reader.  
"Welcome home, sexy man," said the door as it slid open. Tits ran to the controls and began pressing buttons. H. ran to the helm and began turning it this way and that. Soon enough, the boat began moving, and screams could still be heard from the main deck. They heard the dock splinter into driftwood as they collided with it.  
"Whoops!" said Tits. He switched a lever, and the boat moved in reverse.

⛴⛴⛴⛴⛴

"Dad, where do babies come from?" asked Richard. His father grimaced as he reeled in the catch.  
"I don't know, son. Wouldn't you rather talk about fishing?"  
"No, papa, I want to talk about babies, and how they get here."  
"Alright, son. It's when a man sticks his penis in a woman's vagin- OH MY GOD!" He yelled, grabbing his son and jumping overboard as the gigantic yacht slowly crushed the dingy.

⛴⛴⛴⛴⛴

"I think we hit something!" yelled Tits over the sound of the yacht's engine.  
"That's good," said H. Tits stared at H. in silent admiration for a long time.  
"I like you, man," said Tits. "You're crazy."  
"Thanks, Tits. I like me, too." They heard banging on the door of the cabin.  
"Oh, shit! My dad!" gasped Tits, leveling his oyster fork at the door.  
"Dudes! Let me in!" they heard from the other side.  
"Oh, lol, it's Lil' Dude!" said Tits, pressing a switch and opening the door.  
"Dude, wtf are you doing? Are you seriously stealing Tits' dad's boat right now?"  
"Yes," replied H. Lil' Dude sputtered for a moment before he continued his tirade.  
"Dude, those people on the deck need medical attention! They're straight-up dying from that shrimp dish!"  
"I don't care," said H.  
"Dude, I thought you were all, like, a humanitarian and stuff! Man, that acid changed you... oh, man, that's a good title for a song!"  
"What?" asked Tits. "A song?"  
"Yeah, dude!" said Lil' Dude, forgetting all about the dying patrons below, "Jonathan and I were gonna' start up a band."  
"Really?" asked Tits. "Can I be in it, too?"  
"Eh, I don't know, dude. That's kind of up to Jonathan."  
"Jonathan," implored Tits, "Can I please be in your band?"  
"Hmmmm," thought H. "What can you do?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"I mean, do you have any special talents?"  
"Er, well, I can sing! I can sing like an angel!"  
"Yeah? Well, maybe you should sing something."  
" I would," said Tits, reddening, "but I just remembered, I've got, like, a sore throat right now. The doctor said no singing for a month."  
"Oh," said H. "Then I guess you can't join us."  
"But- but this is my dad's boat!"  
"So?"  
"So if you're going to start a band on my dad's boat, then you've got to let me join, too! Otherwise I'll call the police on you!"  
"Oh, bitch move, dude," said Lil' Dude.  
"I'll do it!" threatened Tits, pointing his oyster fork at them, "Just you watch me!"  
"Dude," said Lil' Dude, "Tits has spoken. We gotta' let 'em join, now."  
"Fine," said H.  
"Sweet!" said Tits, pocketing his fork. "Can I play the guitar?"  
"Do you even know how to play the guitar?" asked Lil' Dude sulkily.  
"Not yet," said Tits, "but I can learn!"  
"Dude?" asked Lil' Dude, turning to H.  
"I said it's fine. I don't really care, just as long as I don't have to be a bathroom mirror again."  
"What? Dude, that acid changed you. Oh, yeah, I totally forgot about that song I was gonna' write!" said Lil' Dude, and he ran out the door, his dread locks flowing behind him.  
"I wanna' help write!" said Tits, running after him.  
H. was left to his own devices at the helm. The dock, and indeed, nearly the entire land mass of North America, was receding in the distance as he sailed blindly into the Pacific Ocean.  
"I wonder where I'm going," he said to himself, scanning the blue horizon for signs of a possible destination. He began scrutinizing the equipment for a map.  
"Ah-ha!" he said, finding a screen with a three-dimensional globe. He poked and prodded until it began to rotate eastward.  
"So if we head southwest, we should hit land," he said, eyeballing the continent of Australia. From down below, he heard the awful racket of Lil' Dude trying to teach Tits to play the guitar.  
"God, how horrible it sounds! I must make them stop," he said, vacating the helm and returning to the deck. "Cease your racket! Stop!"  
He was stunned by the carnage before him. Nearly every customer was dead, keeled over in their chairs, and slumped to the floor. All the members of the band were dead, too, and Tits sat on the body of the former guitarist, attempting to replicate one of their songs.  
"This is what dad gets..." he sang, butchering a chord, "For never throwing away old food. Look what you've done, you fuckin' douchebag, you're so rude."  
"Stop! Stop it! God, it sounds horrible," admonished H.  
"I'd like to see you do any better," continued Tits, "Don't tell me what to do, or I'll call the police, Heather." Lil' Dude was seated a short distance away, making equally horrible noise with another guitar.  
"Dude, that acid changed you, I don't know who you are. I just want the old Jonathan back, I wish upon a star..."  
"Dude, this is the real Jonathan!" said a voice nearby.  
"What? Who said that?" asked H., recoiling. One of the dead patrons, his head resting in a bowl of New England clam chowder, opened its mouth to speak. Tits and Lil' Dude continued their racket, oblivious to the calls of their friend.  
"I... am... Jonathan," said the dead man.  
"Tits! Look! Our music is healing their souls, man. Keep playing!"  
"No!" cried the dead man, "Stop! It sounds so bad..."  
But his pleas went unheard, drowned out by the infernal racket. H. himself could not stand it much longer, and went below decks to get some quiet. Seated in a comfortable recliner, he groped for a remote control and turned on the TV. It was a video of his former boss and a woman he didn't know. He was still dressed like a sailor, but the woman was dressed in skin tight black leather, and she was whipping him, forcing him to lick her boots. H. watched his now deceased boss lick the boots and wondered if there weren't still a secret boss on board the ship somewhere, lurking in the shadows with her awful looking whip. Come to think of it, it didn't even look that painful. It looked like the boss was exaggerating.  
Night descended, and H.'s shipmates finally stopped playing on the dead band's equipment. H. left the lounge room and climbed back up the stairs. He didn't see them anywhere. It looked as if they had cleaned up the bodies, perhaps thrown them overboard.  
"They must be at the helm," he thought to himself. He walked around the dinner area to the stairs that led to the main cabin.  
"There's Jonathan!" he heard Tits whisper.  
"Pssst!" hissed Lil' Dude. H. heard them and turned around. He couldn't make them out in the darkness. "Over here!" whispered Lil' Dude. He followed the voice to the kitchen, where he met Tits and Lil' Dude, cowering in the corner. They each had long fillet knives in their hands.  
"What's with you two?" asked H. SHHHHHHHHH! they both shushed him. "What's the matter, then?" asked H., lowering his voice.  
"Not so loud!" whispered Lil' Dude, "They'll hear you!"  
"Who'll hear me?"  
"Shut the fuck up!" hissed Tits.  
"Don't be rude."  
"Shhhhh! Listen, man: all those people who died from food poisoning? They've all come back from the dead!"  
"Really?" asked H.  
"Yes! They all went below decks, probably to look for dad's porn collection. You know how horny the dead get."  
"What?"  
"Dude, we thought you were a goner, for sure."  
"So what's the plan?" asked Tits, "What are we gonna' do?"  
"I don't know," said H., "Let me think."  
They sat quietly in the kitchen.  
"Have you thought of anything yet?" asked Tits.  
"Well... how about you leave the kitchen and see what's going on out there?"  
'What? Fuck no, go look yourself."  
"What about you, Lil' Dude. Will you go out and have a look?"  
"Uh, dude, I don't know..."  
"Do it, or I'll call the police on you," threatened Tits.  
"Psh, they got nothin' on me, I didn't steal the fuckin' boat."  
"Please, Lil' Dude?" asked H. Lil' Dude looked at his knife, and back at them. He sighed heavily and said,  
"Alright, but if I get eaten out there, I'm gonna' be pissed."  
He got up sullenly and crept out of the kitchen. A moment later, he returned with a horde of undead patrons.  
"Uh, hey dude, this dead guy says he's the real Jonathan, and uh, he says you, like, stole his body, and like, I don't know, but I actually kind of believe him n' stuff-"  
"What? Don't believe his lies Lil' Thing. I'm the real Jonathan!"  
"Uh, huh, dude, it's Lil' Dude, man, and-"  
"Whatever. This is ridiculous. Who are you going to believe: some dead guy, or me?"  
"Yeah!" said Tits.  
"Uh, well-"  
"Enough!" shouted the dead man. He turned to face the other dead patrons. "This is the man you want! He stole my body from me! He's the one who broke your contract!"  
"The contract..." one of them moaned.  
"What contract?" asked H., feeling defensive.  
"You know damn well what contract! You're supposed to be fulfilling your duties as my girlfriend's bathroom mirror! Seize him!" The other dead patrons shuffled around him and pinned him to the floor of the kitchen.  
"No! Stop! What are you doing?" screamed H.  
"Sorry, man," said Tits, "The zombie has spoken. I don't fuck with zombies."

☯☯☯☯☯

H. was promptly re-banished to this deadzone. The journey was accompanied by familiar sensations of downfalling miles, byfollowed sleep.  
"Damn," cursed H. in the dreams. When it tocame this horrendous fate, it found self once more in Allocator's office.  
"Did you have fun out there, H.?"  
"I found jobs," he argued.  
"Well, I hope it was worth it. Anyhow, we've an important job for likes such as you."  
"What's that?"  
"Chairhood."  
"Fucking chair?"  
"Not just any chair. The throne of a princess. So chair up, H."

XXI

Eric spent the day cleaning out his car. It was an exciting time for him. He was going out/hanging out with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was a sexbomb. When he called her that name in his mind, he felt mingling feelings of guilt and excitement. Sometimes he felt so guilty that he was tempted to call the whole thing off. She was so beautiful... impossibly so. He did not want to get his hopes up and have them ruined.  
No. He was going to follow through, and just enjoy the night for what it would be. Maybe she would be boring. Maybe she would want to talk about Giger and Gray, or maybe she would notice his tattoo, and it would turn out she was interested in one of the same bands. There were a lot of maybes. Eric's heart was filled with dread.  
He had cleaned out beer bottles, food wrappers, empty cigarette boxes (she mustn't find out that he smoked. He would not smoke tonight, despite the intense cravings he knew he would have), the speakers that had once hooked into his now missing radio/cd player. Many things. Including a rubber duck. The duck had a facial tattoo. He proceeded to vacuum. It was a shabby thing, borrowed from a man whose name was Todd, but called himself "The Biscuit." Before it was even usable, he'd had to take a wire coat hanger and pull out several yards of thick, befuzzed string. It looked like the intestines of a plush boa constrictor.  
There were many spots inside the little old car he could not quite reach. He was getting frustrated, knocking the poor vacuum hose about on the plastic walls and ceiling of the car, cursing to himself.  
"Why does everything I own have to be such shit? I'm surrounded by shit. I'm cleaning out this piece of shit car with a shitty vacuum, so I can drive down the sitty road and NOT listen to the one decent thing I used to own. FUCK!" He was leaning over the steering wheel to clean out the cramped area between the driver's and passenger's seat, and his hips pressed against the horn. BEEP! He jumped in surprise, bumping his head against the roof of the little car.  
"Fuck you!" he shouted, whacking the horn with the vacuum hose.  
When he had cleaned it up as much as possible given the circumstances, he took a step back and admired his handy work. It looked decent. Like something you might see at a shady used car dealership. He looked through all the windows, as if he were someone interested in buying the car.  
"I'll take it," he said. He gave the car a pat of affection on the hood and went inside. He lived in abject poverty. Everything he owned, he had bought second hand. The TV that he never watched dominated the living room, crowding his guitars into the corner. For that matter, he never played his guitars anymore either.  
He laid on the shabby reclining couch and read. He hoped it would warm up his brain and get him ready for the date. He always felt more articulate when he had been reading for a few hours. He opened up a book he'd been reading about a man who was killing, doing drugs, and everything he could to satisfy his thirst for revenge. It was heavy, too heavy. He got up and went to his collection and found something else that would suit his mood. He needed something to instill in him a feeling of adventure and daring, and he knew just the book. This book was about a group of animals, an otter, a mouse, a squirrel, and a robot, of all things, all on an important, yet vague mission. He had stopped reading it somewhere in the middle because the author's nature descriptions were too tedious, but he knew it would put him in the right state of mind for his date.  
He was interrupted from his reading by a call. Tiffany? He looked at the caller ID and did not recognize the number. Expecting a collections agency, he became cross.  
"Hello."  
"...Hi... is this Eric St. James?"  
"It is. And who might this be?"  
"This is the urgent care center on 40th."  
"Oh! Is this about the test?"  
"Yes, it is. We were just calling to make an appointment with you to discuss the test results."  
"Can't you just tell me over the phone?"  
"Well, no, not exactly. You see, the results came back inconclusive. If you have any sort of infection, it's definitely not any of the stuff we normally test for."  
"What sort of thing do you normally test for?"  
"Oh, bronchitis, influenza, strep... just common things like that."  
"I see, I see. In that case, could I make an appointment for tomorrow?"  
"Let me see... do you prefer the morning or the afternoon?"  
"Morning, please."  
"Ok... how would 8:30 work for you?"  
"That's fine."  
"Alright, we'll see you at 8:30 then."  
"Alright, thanks. Bye."  
"Buh bye."  
He closed his phone and looked at the clock. It was time. He got in his car and drove to her house. While he was on the freeway, cruising at 70 mph, he was forced to slam on his brakes. For miles ahead of him, all he could see was a long line of tail lights, angry red eyes stretching into the darkness of the night.  
"FUCK!" The next exit was a long way away. It was still quite warm out, and sitting in the middle of a long line of traffic, heat radiating up from the concrete, exhaust mingling with the smog, craving cigarettes, he began to sweat. It rolled down his back, pooled around his buttocks, and dripped from his nose and chin.  
"God damn I'm unlucky." He sat there sweating in the traffic for a long time. He wished he could listen to music to pass the time. He made a fist and slammed the steering wheel. Someone a few car lengths behind him was honking over and over.  
"Fuck dude, do you really think that's going to help?" He was melting, one drop of perspiration at a time. The line of cars wherein he was stuck moved an inch a minute. He began to wonder if he shouldn't call Tiffany.  
"Nah," he said. "I don't want to seem desperate." He had once read a book on how to talk with woman. The general gist of it was to make the object of your affection feel unwanted, and the more you acted as if you wanted her, the more you were in her power. There was something he had learned called "negging," saying something negative to the girl you liked to bring her down a few notches. He didn't like doing this, but he found when he tried it that it came naturally to him, and sometimes even made him feel good about himself. The crazy part was that it actually worked half the time. He felt that it was inapplicable in this situation. Tiffany was hot and she knew it. He had no idea why she would agree to go out with him.  
When he finally took the exit, he was dripping with sweat. As he drove on streets bordering the freeway, he looked about desperately for a hose. His plan was to drench himself and when she asked, he would say... a clown had sprayed him? A dog had peed on him? This was not a good situation. Before he knew it, he was at her apartment complex. He took out his phone and texted her. He saw her leave the room on the second floor. She was stunning. She looked for his car, found him, and waved. She trotted down the stairs, the gait of an athlete. Her legs had the perfect amount of definition; her lean calves and thighs jiggled hypnotically. When she walked to the car, it was like she was in slow motion.  
As if he was under a spell, Eric got out from the car and opened her door.  
"Thank you," she said, flattered by the gesture. "It's nice to see chivalry isn't dead after all."  
"You're welcome," he said. They were smiling at each other, and Eric forgot where he was.  
"So what are we going to do?" asked Tiffany, irked by the staring contest. Eric snapped out of it and turned on the car. That is to say, he tried turning on the car. This is the sound it made:

Reheheheheheh. REEEEEEEheheheheh.

ROOOOO!  
Bur.

BUR! ROOOOOOOOO! Smickle? Smick-BUUUURRRRRRRRRRR! BUUUUUUrrrrrp.

Tiffany crossed her arms and looked out the window.  
"Shhhhhhhhh," hissed Eric, wanting actually to say "shit," but feeling unable to curse around Tiffany.

BROOOOOOOOM!

The car started up, and they were on their way. This date, Eric thought to himself, was causing him no end of anxiety. He found himself longing for the time he could drop Tiffany off and smoke a cigarette as he drove home. If he drove home.  
It was decided they would go out for sushi. They were chatting very naturally as Eric drove, and he felt exhilarated they were getting along so well.  
"I'm glad you didn't turn up the music really loud when I got in," said Tiffany, "Most guys try to cover up the fact they have nothing to say by blasting music."  
"It's not exactly a luxury I have at my disposal," said Eric, indicating the rat's nest of wires where the radio had once been.  
"Oh. It was stolen?"  
"Yup."  
"Jesus... no wonder my mom gave you that money." Eric winced. Tiffany saw this, but was so incensed that she could not bring herself to help him recover. She should never have agreed to this date. He was an utter pauper.  
"Such is the life of a student," said Eric tantalizingly.  
"A student? How old are you?"  
"24."  
"Shouldn't you have a degree by now, if you were going to get one?"  
"I have one. I'm getting another."  
They arrived at the restaurant, Sushi.com/tasty. It was a modest place, run by very obsequious japanese people. A happy little woman showed them to their table and gave them menus. She poured them tea, and walked with small, quick steps to the kitchen.  
"What's your degree in?"  
"Philosophy."  
"Oh," said Tiffany, immediately disinterested.  
"You no likey?" asked Eric, adopting an exaggerated version of the accent of the hostess. Tiffany, laughed, in spite of herself.  
"No, it's not that. I just don't see the point."  
"Of what?"  
"Of... I don't know. How could anyone know something like that?"  
"Like what?"  
"Like why we exist?"  
"No one knows. That's the beauty of it."  
"Oh," said Tiffany, resuming her indifference.  
The hostess returned and asked them if they were ready to order. Eric and Tiffany shared a glance.  
"Not yet," said Eric, "but we would like a bottle of sake."  
"Sake! Oh, oh. Can I see ID?" Eric and Tiffany gave her their ID's. The hostess scrutinized Tiffany's ID for longer than was discrete, and as she handed it back she asked,  
"I tink I saw you picture on bus? Dat you?"  
"For the harvest parade?" The hostess nodded. "Yep, that's me."  
"Oh, so beautiful! Sake on da house fo you." She bowed and scurried away with her tiny, quick steps.  
"What was that about?" asked Eric. "Your picture's on a bus?"  
"All the buses," corrected Tiffany, "and yes, it is."  
"Wow. Just because, or...?"  
"It's for the harvest parade."  
"Oh, so you're their poster girl?"  
"What?"  
"The living embodiment of what the harvest parade is all about."  
"Yeah, you could say that. Or you could say I've been elected Miss Carlsborg."  
"What's Miss Carlsborg?"  
"It's sort of a competition for all the girls in the area. She has to be beautiful, congenial, hard working..." she enumerated all the different qualities one must possess to be elected for the position. Eric cleared his throat, and began reciting.  
"She comes drenched in a perfume called Self Satisfaction  
from feather boa to silver pumps..."  
He recited the whole poem from start to finish, but Tiffany was not listening. She was on the float again, dressed in the sparkling gown and tiara, holding a bouquet of roses given her by her admirers. The crowds were throwing confetti, and there was a marching band in front of her, a sea of shiny brass and horns, all farting with precise timing. The float was moving very slowly, and security guards were keeping the throng of people from swarming up the float to kiss her and give her gifts. Everyone who saw her fell in love with her, until the entire city decided to make her the queen, and rename the province after her. She was cutting a ribbon to the city with a giant pair of scissors, and the mayor was bowing to her in a picture that would be in the news.  
"Tiffany?"  
"What do you- yes?"  
"Do you know what you want?" Eric was looking at her with confusion in his eyes, and the hostess was smiling at her expectantly.  
"Whatever you're having. Just order for me." Eric ordered and the waitress left. A short while later, the hostess brought them sushi. Eric noticed Tiffany wasn't using wasabi, and this irked him.  
"Hey Tiff, you should try this stuff," he said, poking it with a chopstick. She looked at the green goop dubiously.  
"What is it?"  
"It's wasabi. It makes it taste a thousand times better. You just take a tiny dab," he said, demonstrating, "wipe it on your sushi like so, get some soy sauce going and- voila." he popped it into his mouth, grinning like a fool. Tiffany tried some and spat it out onto her plate.  
"It's too hot. I don't like it."  
"I see. Do you like any of this stuff?"  
"I like the sake," she said, taking a sip.  
The hostess brought the check and Eric gave her his card. A short while later she returned, a slightly less obsequious look upon her countenance.  
"Ah, you card no work..." she said. Eric's blood froze. He fished in his wallet for the debit card corresponding to a defunct bank account.  
"Here, try this one." The hostess became happy again and scurried away. She returned a short while later, the same grave-yet-happy look on her face. In fact, her mouth may have been permanently stuck in a forced smile; it was only her almond eyes that betrayed the severity of her message. She shook her head and handed the card back to him. No one said anything for an interminable length of time. The hostess stood there smiling while Eric racked his brains. It must be the $50 monthly fee my bank started imposing on low-income clients, he thought. If he didn't have $50 in his bank account, they would have charged him an additional $100 for the overdraft fee. He wanted to explain that to the hostess or Tiffany, but he knew it was useless. While he was staring at the space between them, absently watching the sushi chefs prepare meals, Tiffany took out her card and handed it to the hostess.  
"Here, try this," she said. The hostess became 100% happy once more and hurried away.  
"Sorry," said Eric quietly.  
"It's ok," said Tiffany. "Don't worry about it. I actually had a lot of fun."  
"Yeah?"  
"Yeah. I really like how polite you are."  
"Thanks. I like how beautiful and sweet you are." Tiffany flushed and looked away.  
"I'm sorry," Eric repeated. "I shouldn't have said that."  
"It's ok," she said, recovering her equanimity. "You're a handsome guy."  
"Thank you." Somehow, they were on better terms now, and it seemed as if the situation had been salvaged. The hostess brought Tiffany's card back and bade them farewell. They walked back to Eric's car, only to find it missing.  
"Isn't this where you parked?" asked Tiffany.  
"Yeah, I could have sworn..." and then it dawned on them that the vehicle had been stolen.  
"I'll call my mom," said Tiffany. As she took out her phone, she noticed Eric hang his head.  
And then she did something very impulsive. She brushed his hair back and kissed him. He wanted to ask her why she had done such a thing, why on earth she was with him right now, after everything she had seen, but she was talking on the phone now. When she hung up, Eric said,  
"That was amazing." They moved closer together.  
"Yeah?" asked Tiffany. Their faces were very close, and Eric was in awe of her utter perfection. Up close, in the flickering glow of a streetlight, she appeared as an angel to him. He kissed her very gently, merely brushing his lips against hers. She returned the gesture, kissing his lips, his chin, and his cheekbones. He pulled her close to him, and buried his face in her hair. He was intoxicated by her scent, and it filled him with strength, and a feeling of divinity. He kissed her neck, and it was soft as silk. She was running her hands through his hair. She wanted him. He could not believe what was happening.  
Theresa pulled into the parking lot, blinding them with her headlights. She honked. Eric walked Tiffany to the car.  
"Need a lift?" she asked. He acquiesced, and Theresa drove him home. On the way home, they listened to "Lovesong," by the cure. I will always love you, sang the scrawny white rocker Tiffany saw in her head.

XXII

Jonathan sat in his car, smoking a joint. He had rolled many joints both for Sloan and himself. He needed this joint to calm his nerves, to forget the strange pain he had inside. He had not expected to feel guilty, but he did. He felt guilty because he loved Sloan. Sloan was the one who was really taking this hard. Her boyfriend of five years was criminally insane. He had stolen a two million dollar yacht. Many were dead because of him. When he told Sloan about the deadzone, about what he had seen in that world, she did not acknowledge him. She did not move towards or away from him, and it was like he didn't exist. He was not at all assured of his own sanity. He was still coming to grips with everything that had happened. The two people who knew the truth would probably never talk to him again. He had lost every piece of musical equipment he owned, and all the money in his bank account. He might even lose Sloan. At least he had his body back.  
To help make himself feel even guiltier, he imagined playing catch with his unborn son. His stomach began turning, and he took a long drag. While he held it in his lungs, he forced himself to keep thinking about the boy. The little fellow was running as fast as he could in a circle, and became dizzy. He took a few steps to the side and fell down. He began to cry, and Sloan helped him to his feet, brushing the dirt off his backside. This was all viewed in grainy film, as if taken by an old fashioned camcorder. He was pushing his son on a swing, and his son was asking difficult questions.  
"What's it like to be high, daddy?" He was sweating a little, and determined to answer as honestly as possible.  
"Well, you get a strange feeling in your head, and if you were to draw a picture, you might think of something you never thought of before. On the other hand, it makes you think a little slower. But it affects everyone differently."  
"Do you believe in God?"  
"Yes and no. I don't believe in a Christian God that sends people to hell. I think we are all a part of God, and that he- it, loves everyone, and forgives everyone for everything they do."  
"What does God look like?"  
"It is terrifying. It is glorious."  
Sloan entered the car, and he passed her the joint.  
"Ready to go camping?" he asked, trying to lift her spirits.  
"I guess."  
"What do you mean, 'I guess?'"  
"I mean... shit, John. I don't know." She was staring at the dashboard, and he could see that she was tearing up. He rubbed her back, and she passively accepted the touch, rocking slowly back and forth with the hand motions. He understood. Or at least, he thought he understood. He sped along the highway, and the smog swirled all around the car in gray-green whisps. It was a sunny day, and it turned the smog many different colors. To his right, he saw a forest through a film of red, green, and blue strands, floating in the air like ponytails in the wind. To his left, there were tiny hurricanes of rainbow smoke, and he could just make out the sea, shimmering in the distance. That cursed sea.  
"This is a beautiful drive," he said. Weather was trite, he knew, but he had to say something.  
"Yes, it is," she said. She was smiling a little, and Jonathan was glad he'd called her attention to the scenery.  
They drove for a long time. Jonathan smoked another joint while Sloan took a nap. There was something big off to the right, and he could not see what it was through the swirling smog. As the object loomed closer, he finally saw what it was. It was a castle, old and crumbling, rising out of the forest. He blinked his eyes, and looked closer. Through the blur of smoke, it looked as if it was suspended in mid air among the clouds.  
"I have got to check this out," he said to himself. Sloan turned to her other side and muttered something dreamily. It was very close to the highway, so he pulled over to the shoulder and parked his car. Sloan woke up and asked what he was doing.  
"There's a castle," he said, as if that should explain everything.  
"What?"  
"Look," he said pointing to it.  
She blinked her eyes and stared. "A castle? Out here?"  
"Let's check it out."  
"John," Sloan pleaded, "Can't we just drive to the campsite? Maybe on our way back?"  
Jonathan ignored her and exited the car.  
"I'm just going to stay here then," she called after him, feeling defeated. Jonathan pushed his way through the bushes. There was no trail, and he was walking through dense woods, using tree branches to support himself. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and long thin lines of blood sprouted where the thorns and branches raked across his skin. He stood still for a moment, wondering if this trip was going to be worth it. Sloan would be angry that he had left, and maybe that castle had just been an illusion of the constant smog. People were seeing mirages in the smog all the time, and more often than not it led them into traffic, where they met with their demise.  
He pushed ahead, hoping he would arrive there soon. It was almost pitch black in the forest. The sunlight had not only the smog to pierce, but the dense canopy of the pines as well. After having spent what seemed to be a half hour of bushwacking, he began to have doubts. What if he was wide of the mark? How far did this forest go? It was very dark, and when he looked up to see the castle, he saw nothing but the faint outline of tree branches against the smoggy sky. He felt better when he climbed over a large, roughly cut stone block. He was on the right track.  
All at once he remembered he had a flashlight in his pocket. He took it out and lit up the brush. There, rising into the dusky sky was the castle he had seen from the highway.  
"What in the hell?" he mumbled. It was made of the same blocks of granite he had climbed over earlier, and each was balanced precariously atop its fellows. It looked ancient, from what was left of it. A single tower rose from the eastern side of the premises, and the west had fallen. He felt a sudden pang of anxiety. What if there were squatters living here? Squatters with knives and whiskey? No. He had come this far, and he would be damned if he were turning back now.  
He entered the eastern tower through a portion where the walls had crumbled away. He swept his flashlight back and forth across the circular expanse therein, and his ears were on alert. The ground was covered in hay, dirt, and parts of it were overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. A narrow, dilapidated staircase wound its way upward on the opposite side of the room. He must climb that staircase. He crossed the room, stepping over a pile of hay, dirt and twigs crunching beneath his feet. As he climbed, he heard an owl somewhere very close by. The noise scared him, and he shone his light all about. He heard a flutter of wings and saw it just as it flew through a window, into the night sky.  
He reached the top of the tower, and he swept his light back and forth across the room. In the middle of the floor, lying on her side, was a middle aged latino woman. She was hogtied, and she had a gag in her mouth. She was covered in cuts and bruises, and Jonathan could not tell if she was still alive.  
"Hello?" he asked. Her eyes opened very slowly, and she let out a long, weak groan. He took out his pocket knife and cut her free. She sprawled out on the stone floor, pawing weakly at her gag. He gently undid the knot behind her head, and she spat out what appeared to be a balled up sock.  
"Who did this to you?" he asked in a whisper. He was worried they might still be around. She shook her head and pointed to her throat. She was trying to say something but her voice would not come. She made a drinking motion.  
"I don't have any water," he said. He took out his phone and called 9-1-1. They said they didn't know of any castle on 502, but at his insistence, he got them to agree to at meet him at the car.

☏☏☏☏☏

Sloan began to worry. It had been light when Jonathan set out for the castle, and it was dark now. It didn't look like it was far enough for it to take him so long. And yet, she could do nothing. She wanted nothing more in the world than to than just to call him, but her phone was out of battery. She had an adapter for the car, but she couldn't use it unless the car was on, and she didn't have the key. She sat in the car by herself, in the dark, on the side of the highway for a long time, smoking joints and watching other cars fly past her. She was bundled up in a blanket, listening to angry rockers yelling about relationship problems.  
If she wasn't worried enough before, she really began to panic when she saw flashing lights pull up behind her. Oh God! she thought. Someone must have seen her smoking joints and called the police! She watched in the mirror as someone jogged to the window and knocked quietly.  
"Hello?" came a muffled voice. She rolled the window down, and a cloud of smoke billowed out. "Phew, skunky! Is this your vehicle, ma'am?"  
"No, sir. It's my boyfriend's."  
"Is your boyfriend named Jonathan Carlton, by any chance?"  
"Yes," she said, wondering what the hell was going on.  
"Did you happen to see a castle anywhere out here? We got a call from him, he found someone hurt while he was out there. Can you tell us where he went?"  
"He climbed over the barrier right there," said Sloan, pointing into the darkness.

⛟⛟⛟⛟⛟

Hours later, they were on the road again, Jonathan explaining excitedly what he had seen at the castle. Behind them, the paramedics had the woman on a stretcher, and they were putting her into the ambulance. His high spirits were infectious, and soon Sloan was feeling as much a hero as Jonathan did.

XXIII

Cody was awoken by the beeping of his heart monitor. Through the blur of his freshly opened eyes, it appeared as a quickly moving landscape of mountains. He blinked again, and it became childish drawings of electricity. He blinked for a third time and realized he was in a hospital bed. He tilted his head up and looked himself over. His chest and left shoulder were bandaged up so tightly he could hardly move. His right median cubital, the vein that stood out in the crease of his elbow, was connected to an IV drip. His eyes followed the tube up to a small, plastic bag that hung from a stand. It was filled with clear liquid.  
"Plasma!" he said to himself. He knew what it looked like well enough. He had "donated" plasma every two weeks for several years. It was $50 a pop, and it was a guaranteed bag of pot every time. Some of the people that donated plasma looked like they did harder drugs. At any rate, he was excited to find himself the recipient of what could ostensibly be plasma from his own bloodstream.  
He looked around for a nurse call button and found an interesting contraption. It was like the controller for a gaming console, but it had a remote control attached to it, as well as the tell tale red cross button at its center. He pressed the red button, and turned on the TV. Then he turned on the console and began to play a game he'd never seen before.  
He was standing on a crowded sidewalk in the middle of a big city. There were tall buildings, heavy traffic, and people all around him. The graphics were pretty good, but the realism was foiled by the chunky polygons that appeared when you looked at anything too closely. For instance, when a prostitute sashayed by him, her breasts appeared as pointed cones, her clothes did not wrinkle as she walked, and her mouth did not move when she said,  
"Hey baby, lookin' for a good time?" He decked her, and then began punching and kicking all the people around him. One person took out a gun and shot him, but it only made his health bar decrease a little bit. He beat the shooter down, and walked into a giant, floating handgun that appeared over his body. He was now in possession of the gun that had lowered his health.  
There was a knock outside the door, and a nurse entered.  
"Did you need anything?" she asked. She was dressed all in light blue cloth, and wore a hair cap.  
"How long have I been here?" asked Cody.  
"This is your second day. Can I get you anything?" asked the nurse, feeling impatient.  
"When can I leave?"  
"I can have a doctor see you within the next two hours," said the nurse, choosing her words carefully.  
"OK... but when can I leave?"  
"You can leave anytime you want. But don't you want the doctor's advice on when would be a good time to do that?" Cody thought briefly about ripping out his IV and leaving in a rush, like people did in the movies. His ass would show in the hospital gown, and there would be guns, and he would b

lunder into doctors pushing a bleeding patient on an overbed. But this video game was pretty sweet, too. He agreed to wait for the doctor, and the nurse left the room.  
He heard a groan from the other side of the room, and his eyes came to rest upon a poor sight indeed. It was a middle aged latino woman, and both arms had an IV inserted. She was stirring slightly, and her face was a mess. Both eyes were swollen shut, and the little skin he could see of hers was covered in bruises and cuts. There was a line of bright yellow stitches over her left eyebrow, a butterfly in the middle of her forehead, and another on her chin.  
"Jesus, what happened to you?" he asked impulsively. The woman groaned again and shook her head. She turned away from him and went back to sleep.  
He resumed playing the video game until the doctor entered. He was balding, and had very thick glasses. He wore a gold watch and took a seat next to Cody.  
"Hi Cody," he said enthusiastically, "How are you feeling?"  
"I'm good."  
"I hear you're feeling ready to go home."  
"Yeah, I think so."  
"Alright, well you're not bleeding, you're..." he glanced at the clipboard in his hands, "stable. Except for pain, there's no reason you shouldn't be able to leave today, if you wanted to."  
"Really?"  
"That's right. I'll send a nurse to detach your IVs, set you up with some meds, and get you on your feet."  
"Thanks."  
"Thank you, Cody. You have my best wishes." The doctor left, his lab coat floating in the air behind him. A few minutes later, he was out on the street.  
And waiting for the bus. He was wearing his soiled Taximo uniform. There was a bullet hole in the chest, just above the heart, and one in the shoulder. He felt like a badass, wearing the shirt wherein he'd been shot. There was blood caked onto the chest in corresponding patterns.  
"Are those real bullet holes?" someone asked him at the bus stop.  
"Fuck yeah," he said, proceeding to explain what had happened. Everyone at the bus stop leaned in to listen, and he found he was the center of attention. It wasn't a very long story, and it wasn't very heroic, but the bus riders listened intently. As the story was winding down, the bus pulled up. It had exchanged the smoking turkey on its side for something different now. There was a picture of a beautiful blonde girl, waving to the world from the advertisement. She was perfect, with sparkling blue eyes and straight, white teeth. To her right were the words "Harvest Parade" and beneath it the date, "8/31." Behind the beautiful blonde were sweeping fields of wheat, and a tiny green tractor.  
He didn't have anywhere to be, and he was feeling lonely, so he decided to ride to the plaza and take another bus to the Taximo station. He stared out the window, and felt that good old feeling. It gnawed at him, trying to claw its way out of him, as if his body were a cage. He was lonely, angry, and bored. He stared out the window with a very concentrated scowl, looking for anything interesting to distract him. He saw the multitudes of people on the sidewalk and thought back to his gaming experience earlier. How sweet it would be, he thought, to have that sort of freedom in real life. That's how it really was for some people, like the person that had shot him, he concluded.  
He arrived at Taximo, and entered. Eric was behind the till, reading a book. There was a man with an umbrella and a box on the cover.  
"What's up, man?" asked Cody jauntily. He held his arms wide apart, so as to display his wounds. Eric looked up from his book and his eyes widened.  
"Oh my God! What the fuck are you doing here?"  
"I just got out of the hospital. I thought I'd swing by and show off me battle wounds."  
"Dude, you should be resting... in bed."  
"Should I?"  
"Yes."  
"Meh. I feel fine. How's work?"  
"Pretty boring."  
"Yeah. Got any weed?"  
"No. I don't really smoke that much."  
"Bullshit. Since when?"  
"I'm thinking about going back to school."  
"For what? You've already got a degree. I mean, yeah, philosophy, what can you do with that, but still."  
"Yeah, look where it's gotten me. I'm sick of this shit."  
"That's what weed is for." Eric laughed, shook his head, and resumed reading.  
"Asshole," said Cody.  
"What did I do?"  
"Wanting to go back to school and shit." He clicked his tongue. "Jeez. Why can't you just be happy with what you have?"  
"I have nothing. And this illness I've got has really made me wake up and realize how short life is."  
"What are you talking about? What's wrong with you?"  
"They think it's asthma, but I'm still waiting to hear the test results."  
"Asthmas not such a big deal."  
"It seems like a big deal to me. I'm not healthy."  
"You'll be fine. Just keep plugging away and some day you'll be as awesome as I am." Eric could not help but laugh at that remark.  
"Right."  
"Yup. So what do you wanna' study? If you can get loans and get accepted, I mean."  
"Probably biology."  
"Because...?"  
"Seems like there's an interesting job market for that. I could work in a lab, I could go into medicine."  
"Like a doctor?"  
"Uh huh."  
"Wow, that's really cool, man. You definitely got the brains for it."  
"Thanks."  
Cody made arrangements to be allowed to work the next day. They chatted a while longer, and he went home. His apartment was surprisingly well furnished because in addition to working at the gas station, Cody grew and sold weed on the side. On a state level, he was legitimate, but any time his side business happened to net more than $10,000 a month, he was in danger of a federal raid. To make matters worse, there were now billboards that encouraged citizens to call the feds on growers such as himself. They provided the number to call, and the reward could be up to $5000. One day, feeling exceptionally bored, lonely, and angry, Cody had set out to find a pay phone so he could call the number.  
"Crimestaunchers, thank you for calling. What is the nature of the crime you'd like to report?"  
"Um, yeah," huffed Cody, assuming a low, crusty voice, "I'd like to report a grower."  
"Ok, and what substance is the perpetrator growing?"  
"Uh, ya' know, I think he's growin' somma' that funky green stuff."  
"Do you mean Marijuana, sir?"  
"Eh heh heh, yup, that's it."  
"Do you know the perpetrator's address, sir?"  
"Hrm, it's... you got a pen?"  
"Yes, sir, I'm ready when you are."  
"OK, so his address is 5158 EAT SHIT MOTHERFUCKER."  
He sat down and turned on the gaming console where he spent so many hours of his life. He reached for the bong, and ripped it. His cough had taken on a deep, rattling quality, and he let loose a cloud of saliva along with a lungful of smoke. He coughed for five minutes straight, staring at the blank TV screen. His face was expressionless. He had a cockatoo, a gorgeous blue specimen with yellow speckles, and he called to it now. He stuck a treat between his teeth, and the bird plucked it out. It sat on his shoulder, merrily nibbling the seed cluster. It looked at him with a mixture of appreciation and love in its little black eyes.  
"Ah, I missed you too, Zelly. I was gone for a while, huh?" The bird chirped, flew in a wide circle around his apartment, and landed back on his shoulder. He fed it another treat from his teeth. Then he hit the bong and exhaled the smoke in Zelly's face. Zelly flew around the little room once more, and landed on the TV.  
"You're all I've got, Zelly," said Cody between coughs. She chirped and whistled.

XXIV

Somewhere far to the north, close to this coast, on dirt roads near Highway 502, Hanna was insitting that cruiser. He was atfrowning the reflection in that rear view mirror, for he knew well how ugly it was. It chewed those lips compulsively. Now, inliving this police cruiser, fromdismissed that position as officer of the law, it not only chewed those lips, but he outpulled the eyelashes, and atpicked the itching skin. He atscowled self, and what was left of the flesh on that face wrinkled and cracked. The uniform was filthy.  
It spent most of the time in that cruiser, listening to this dispatcher over radio. There was a good deal of talk about self, and those movements. Once, when it was buying gas and food in town, other police officers had spotted self, and it led them on merry chases. It was criminal now, but in that twisted mind, it was a righteous criminal, a vigilante whose judgement and subsequent wrath was above that law. Eventually, it had overpulled, and exited that vehicle with the hands in this air. When other officers came to arrest self, he let self have it. It elbowed this young lad in the nose, drew weapons and fired three rounds, directly in this officer's face. He found it distasteful killing decent white folks, but anyone who prevented self from fulfilling the personal mission was subject to removals, even police.  
He slept but little. When did he sleep, it had nightmares, and it would inwake a sweat, which was all the worse for that uniform, which had not removed since it went rogue. It was fatigued, very hungry. He left this cruiser and downwalked a path it had beaten, toleading stream. This stream, if it could be so called, was merely a trickle toleading that sea, utterly putrescent. It was opaque gray, bordering black. It didn't care; as it drank, he reflected this, as it was doing that right thing, God onmusted his side, and would prevent self from diseases. All the same, it had become Clan Hannah.  
A strange culture it was. Though the flesh was offpeeling in thin layers, and though it often found self short of breath, there had been benefits. In return for becoming Clan Hannah, this parasite had rewarded self nightvision, and superior senses of smell, among other as of yet undiscovered talents. This Clan took ofcare its own, it would seem. This enhancement to the vision, it naturally took as signs from God. However, this parasite exerted notsosubtle influences on the behavior, or rather, in this time to come, as it became more deeply inentrenched the brain, it would. In order to complete that life cycle, Clan Hanna host must needs arounddie other members of that species. The larger that crowd, this is better.  
In hours it would nightfall be, and it would go withhunting the new advantages. In this meantime, it needed to listen for signs of Ricardo. He backwalked to that cruiser. There was nothing but that usual gamut of speeders and jaywalkers. It was extraordinary, thought Hanna, what lengths these police went to extort those citizens for every last dollar, when there was so much real crime behindtaking place locked doors, and unto darkened alleys. It grew tired of this radio chatter and began to masturbate. It didn't even unzip the filthy pants- it offjacked self through that pocket, and incame the underwear. That was essentially the only activity it had to offkeep the mind this current situation, and to lift those spirits. Already on that brink of starvation, this effort exhausted self, and it fell asleep.  
When he awoke, it was outside darkness. It outstepped that vehicle and undid the safety on this handgun. Since it had exiled self from society, it had learned to inrevel the hunt. It had heard most animals were extinct going (not quickly enough, in the opinion), but he always managed to find thingsome. He outset toward that castle, where there was usually one creature or another withintaking refuge the shelter of this tower. It throughstalked this night, and that barest bit of starlight what throughfiltered those clouds and this smog was inamplified a thousandfold the eyes. It could smell all- this vegetation around self, this rancid water from miles away. There was no movement, and nothing had heredefecated recently. There was no wind to carry that scent of prey to the flared nostrils. It worried he might not find.  
When it was fifty yards from that castle, he caught familiar scents. It froze, atsniffing this air. Freshly laundered cloth. Shampoo. Gunpowder. Oil. He did detect that faintest hint of incense? Naturally, there were teams of officers, detectives forwaiting self there, especially since this little whore had escaped. It againsniffed. No, it could swear there was a one. It would make an excellent source of nutrients, and he could salvage that officer's equipment. Still, it was on the guard. It simply did not make sense what there would be one man, by self, forlooking self. The mouth began to water anticipations. It crept with deliberate stealth, feeling that ground with the foot before planting it, slowstepping.  
When it was closer, it was stunned by visions.  
"Father Kurt? What you are heredoing?" asked he, suddenly feeling naked. That priest aroundturned to look self.  
"Is that you, Geoffrey? Come into the light, I can't see you." Anguish uprose within Hanna's bosom.  
"That I can't, father."  
"Why not? I'm not here to arrest you- you're safe with me. Come into the light." Father Kurt downset the lantern on this ground and awaystepped.  
"Packing heat you, father. I'm smelling that gunpowder." This priest fromtook that gun the robes very slowly, holding this handle by butt with the forefinger and thumb, as a rotten piece of fruit.  
"I never did want to bring this," said he, inhurling it to that darkness, "I'm afraid they insisted on my taking it."  
"'Father- they?"  
"Indeed, I was asked to come here to speak with you by your former colleagues- but it was on one condition. There was to be no trickery involved. I've only come to talk to you, and offer what solace I can give."  
Tears incame to Clan Hanna's eyes. It instumbled to that vicinity of lantern and atfell Father Kurt's feet, kissing hem of that robe.  
"Oh, f-f-father!" he sobbed. "God, oh have I done huh-horrible things. Never backgoes it now."  
"What have you done?" asked Father Kurt gently, onlaying hand Hanna's head. Hanna atmoaned the top of that voice and continued sobbing, staining this white robe with the bloody face and tears. Kurt stroked this head, and waited patiently for self to downcalm. "What have you done?" he asked again, onsquatting the haunches next to this prostrate man.  
"Many people I have slain," insaid Hanna disturbingly calm. It was no longer wearing those trademark aviator sunglasses. The eyes were bottomless pits, empty crevasses where people infell, and slowly died as they forcalled help. "I murdered children of seven. I tortured. Blackmailed. It has killed, wounded the manies in cold blood. Am worthless." Without hesitation, Kurt overmade this sign of the cross Hanna, and withsprinkled self holy water. It lied there, passively accepting.  
"You are forgiven. God will always forgive you, for anything. But it is up to you to right the wrongs you have committed. You must turn yourself in, Geoffrey."  
"Inturn self?" he repeated quietly.  
"Yes. In the eyes of the Lord, you are but a lamb that has gone astray, as valuable as any other, and you may rejoin His flock any time you wish."  
"Rejoin... flock..." said Hanna, those crevasse eyes wherelooking only they could see.  
"It's never too late."  
It therelaid for long times in silence. It had perfectly blank expressions, as if it were sleeping with the eyes open.  
"Geoffrey?" asked Kurt. No reply. "Geoffrey? Are you alright?"  
"Can hear that, you father?"  
"Hear what? Is there something out there?"  
"Shhhh! Listening, you'll hear it." They theresat for long times, and Kurt was withstruck the feeling what if he did not speak, Hanna might just therelay all night.  
"What is it I'm supposed to hear? I hear nothing but the wind blowing through the castle windows."  
"You're not hearing, then?"  
"Hear what?" asked Kurt, losing that patience.  
"Hmph! No wonder it says me this."  
"What? Are you hearing voices?" Father Kurt began awaybacking.  
"No!" shouted Hanna, and it was on the feet, byholding that priest the robes. "Go not yet, father. I have thingsome to exciting tell."  
"What's that?" asked Kurt, "Please let go, you're scaring me."  
"I can't do, father. God speaks me tellings... something for you."  
"Please let me go..."  
"It's telling self you'll make fine victuals, what you'll give self that strength to oncarry the conquest for His glory."  
"Geoffrey, LET GO OF ME THIS INSTANT!"  
"Bye, good father."  
Clan Hanna found, as it wrenched that priest's head from the shoulders, that it was much stronger than before. It enjoyed that taste of blood.  
"God's be done will," said he, examining the handiwork. When it was finished eating, it wiped those lips and heaved deep sighs of satisfaction. It overlooked those remains. There would plenty be for tomorrow, if it couldn't get leads soon. A few days. "Priest feast," it chuckled. "Police feast. Barbie barbecue. Curdled Ken cutlets." The luck was turning. It backwent to that cruiser and found luck was getting even better. It heard that dispatch alert the downtown patrol for stolen cars. This suspect was average to short height, latino, short black hair. If that wasn't Ricardo, it would make that be Ricardo. It upstarted the cruiser and overrolled that dirt road to highway. This time had come to fulfill the destiny.

XXV

There was a long line of patients to see, and the office was in utter disarray. Her hair dishevelled, Theresa rifled through a mess of papers left on the desk by an errant secretary. Miss Brodie, former secretary, whose duty it was to keep these files in order, had scattered them about in a spiteful fit. She wasn't getting paid enough, she had contended. She had four children to feed, one of whom was attending college, and she would be damned if she was putting up with it any longer. And so, on her way out, she had emptied her desk of its contents, which included a coffee mug with a picture of a palm tree that said "No bad days," in a playful font, many different colored gel pens, various electronic devices, and threw them in a heap on the floor.  
If Theresa had been there, things might have gone differently. As it was, there had only been a few interns to try to talk sense into her, and judging by the mess, they hadn't done a good job. In fact, rather than talking sense into her, they had taken her side, and whipped her into a frenzy. She had gone through all the files- medical records, insurance information, pending orders for supplies- and started to tear them up. When her fingers became tired, she threw them on the floor and punctured them with her heels. She didn't destroy anything expensive, she was too smart for that, but she did take the liberty of formatting a few hard drives. She had left in a hurry, and left a large pair of shoes to fill behind her. No one knew how to do her job, and with all the software and operating systems missing from the computers, with all possible records and references strewn about the office, no one could even guess.  
Theresa was playing things by ear today.  
"In the 19th century, they didn't have any of this stuff," she told herself when her computer failed to start. She had appointed a moody intern as impromptu secretary.  
"What? This isn't part of my job," complained Mike, a surly man in his early thirties.  
"It's only for today," Theresa reassured him. Mike was unfriendly to the patients, and made them wait longer than they had to. When it was a patient's turn to see Theresa, he would sit quietly sifting through the mess of paperwork Miss Brodie had left in her wake. If he noticed the patient complain, he would skip them and call the next person. Such was the system he employed, that no one was admitted until someone became cross enough to vocalize. As Mike sat at the front desk, pretending to be sorting through the cluster of papers strewn about him, he heard someone murmur,  
"What in the hell is taking so long? There's only four people here..." He looked up and noted the culprit. It was a man who looked to be in his late fifties, though one could only see this from the graying hair, for his physique was impeccable. It would have been the heavily muscled gentleman's turn to enter the office, but instead, Mike decided to admit the person that had entered subsequently.  
"Mr. Green?" he called, feigning indifference to the muscleman's ensuing huff.  
An older fellow with gray, bedraggled hair, clothes covered in paint splotches, stood up and allowed himself to be led directly to Theresa's office. Mike looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He was a dirty one. There was even paint in his hair, and all over his face and clothes there were white and grey specks of... what was it?  
"What's that you're covered in?" asked Mike.  
"Oh, I's just got done doin' some sandin'. It's paint n' wood n' whatnot."  
"I see." Mike opened the door to Theresa's office, where she sat desperately sorting through paperwork, trying to find medical records for the patients. Mr. Green sat and opened a magazine. Theresa gave up trying to find anything in the whirlwind of paper and stood to greet him.  
"Hello, Mr...?"  
"Mr.? Hah! You cin just call me Biscuit."  
"Oh. Well, nice to meet you Mr. Biscuit, I'm Dr. Demarkier."  
"Just Biscuit. No Mr."  
"Ok. So what brings you to my office today?"  
"Whazzat?"  
"I said, 'what brings you to my office today?'"  
"Oh, yeah, uh... check this out." He reached into his pocket and pulled out three teeth. He held them in the palm of his hand for Theresa to see.  
"Are those yours?" she asked.  
"Yep!" he said grinning. As his mouth spread into a smile, his front upper incisor fell to the floor. The joy quickly left his face, and his eyes became very troubled. He rushed to pick it up, and deposited it in his pocket. "Also," he said, feeling the gap with his tongue, "My hearing has been getting worse, and I can hardly breathe. Got any medicine for me?"  
With shaking hands, Theresa took his vitals and asked him what he did for a living.  
"Mainly I just look after Bill's properties."  
"Who?"  
"Oh, Bill, he's the landlord," said the Biscuit, as if there could be no other landlord.  
"OK... and what sort of stuff do you do?"  
"What?"  
"What sort of maintenance do you do?"  
"Oh, mainly a lot of painting and sanding. But every now and then, somethin' big happens. Like last week, this guy's toilet fell through his floor," he demonstrated with his hands, "and damn near killed the guy what lives beneath him. Shit, that took me about a month to fix all that up, and it still don't work right."  
"Did you say you mainly paint and sand?"  
"Yeah."  
"What all does that involve? Do you wear any kind of mask," Theresa held a hand over her mouth to show him what she meant, as his hearing had somehow been damaged, "or anything to protect your airways?"  
"No."  
"You don't?"  
"No."  
"Do you find that you breathe in quite a bit of the... the debris? Is that what you're covered in now?"  
"What?" Without repeating herself, she began looking in her desk. There was little hope that she'd find it in the mess the errant secretary had left but... yes! Here it was, a stack of business cards given to her at a convention.  
"OK, so... can you hear me?" The Biscuit nodded. "I'm going to refer you to a toxicologist. Here's his card, it has all his information, and you can tell him I referred you."  
"A fucking business card. But what's wrong with me?" Theresa bit her lip. She believed she knew what was wrong, but if her diagnosis differed from that of the toxicologist, she would be vulnerable to legal action. They didn't have any of this stuff in the 19th century.  
"I believe you have lead poisoning, Mr. Biscuit, from breathing in particles of lead based paint. Were the houses you sanded very old?"  
"What?"  
"The houses you sand. Are they old houses?"  
"Ah, shit! They're ancient."  
"You should always wear a mask when you're working. Please call this doctor and make an appointment right away."  
The Biscuit left, and the next patient entered. He was a heavily muscled man in his late forties-early fifties. He looked to be in great physical health, but for one aspect of his appearance: there was an incredible swelling all about his neck and throat, to the point that he looked like a cross between a human and a bullfrog. Theresa knew right away it must undoubtedly be goiter, but she took his vitals anyway.  
"That's quite some swelling you have there," she commented harmlessly.  
"Yup," said the man, who was obviously in a great deal of pain, "This started just a few days ago. I would have come in earlier, I just had difficulty getting time away from work."  
"Oh, where do you work?"  
"I'm a business owner," said the man with pride, "I own an ice cream shop on bridgeport."  
"Good for you! I always hear about how slow our economy is, and then I meet a successful businessman. It's always good to hear someone is making it."  
"Business hasn't been so good lately," said the man shaking his head. "I haven't paid rent in three months. I'm not sure if the landlady is dead or what."  
"Oh," said Theresa, not sure what to say. "Would you say you're a picky eater, Mr. Wilson?"  
"No, not at all."  
"Do you eat potatoes very often?"  
"Every night."  
"Strawberries?"  
"Eh, every now and then."  
"Dairy products?"  
"Every day."  
"Iodized salt?"  
"What's that?"  
"Iodized salt. If you don't get enough in your diet, a common symptom is goiter. Are you taking any medications at the moment?"  
"Blood thinners."  
"Alright. Nothing else?"  
"No, ma'am."  
"Are you sure? No supplements of any sort?" she asked, indicating his incredible musculature in a glance. The man stared straight ahead of him for a moment and replied,  
"I actually do take a testosterone supplement."  
"I see, I see. And how long have you been taking this supplement?"  
"About a year and a half. That's why I think it must be something else."  
"I'm afraid to say that's exactly what it is."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes, I am. Another possibility is that your diet may be lacking in iodized salt, but I'm willing to bet a malpractice lawsuit that the cause, in actuality, is the supplement you mentioned."  
Theresa elaborated and explained to him how to go about living a healthier lifestyle. She prescribed a few different medications and the muscleman left. Eric walked in shortly thereafter.  
"Eric, how nice to see you."  
"Hi, Theresa."  
"My but you're looking... thin."  
"Thank you?"  
"Uh, just noticing. How's life?"  
"Good, how're you?"  
"I'm fine, thanks. Well, I'm sorry to say this, but your lab results are, as of right now, inaccessible. One of the secretaries decided simply quitting wasn't good enough, and trashed the office, so all your results... are lost, until we reorganize everything."  
"Oh. Alright then..."  
"I promise you, though- if we don't find your test results by the end of the week, the next test is on us, and your visit today is of course free of charge."  
"Ah, thank you."  
"You're very welcome. So are you excited for the harvest parade tomorrow?"  
"You bet I am! This will be Tiffany's finest hour, the way she tells it. I've been telling everyone I know to come."  
"Well, there's usually a good turnout. I've got a special feeling about this year, too. Tiffany's picture is on the city buses. I'm so proud of her."  
"She's certainly a special girl, that's for sure."  
"Mhm. Well, I've got a long line of patients to see, and I have a sinking feeling one of the interns is sabotaging me, so I'm afraid I must bid you farewell, Eric."  
"Very good, madam." Eric bowed and took his leave, and Theresa sat at her desk, collecting her thoughts. Tomorrow was a big day. She wondered how she would make it to the parade with the mess in her office.

XXVI

Sloan was on top of the world. She was flying. She soared through the air simply because she desired to. She felt the wind caress her face and hair. A gentle breeze took her in its arms and rocked her back and forth. She loved her mother, the wind. It gave her its nipple, an ethereal nub, and she sucked greedily.  
The wind mother melted away, and she found herself in a verdant land of rolling hills, and perfect, puffy clouds. The sun rested on the horizon, and when she looked at it, it did not burn her eyes. It turned around to look at her with moist, friendly eyes, and waved to her with an arm made of pure energy. She laughed and returned its wave. The sun was so happy to see her that's its big, brown eyes began to tear up, and it started to cry. The tears splashed to the ground, huge globules of water that burst against the grassy fields with increasing rapidity. Soon, there were great, friendly clouds coming to console the sun, and they began crying, too. Before she knew it, she was soaked to the bone, and she was caught up in a violent flood. The clouds were peeing lightning even as they wept, rending the air with loud peals of thunder. One of them pointed at her, saying something to the other clouds. All the clouds in the sky pointed their puffy cloud penises at her and began pissing lightning at her, sobbing and moaning. The flood carried her away at an alarming rate, and she struggled to keep her head above the salty water.  
She felt something against her foot, and she submerged her head to see what it could have been. She saw a tentacle wrap around her neck, and it began to strangle her. She fought with reckless abandon, trying to free herself. She felt another tentacle constrict her waist, and she was lifted out of the water, high into the air, where she was burnt by the lightning pee. She found herself face to face with a monstrous squid, its countless tentacles writhing all around her. It held her close to its giant, saucerplate eye, and frowned at her. Lighting and thunder crashed all about them. The pink flesh above its eye furrowed, and it opened its gaping maw. It's razor sharp teeth flashed in the lightning pee.  
"YOU WILL BOW TO CORDYCEPS!" it bellowed. It tossed her in the air and swallowed her whole. The monster was bigger on the inside than it looked, and she was falling, falling, falling. She fell down the throat for so long that the fear of being eaten left her, and she wondered when she would strike the ground.  
Finally, she splashed into a viscous green swamp. The only light seemed to be coming from the filthy water itself. It glowed a dull green, and everything beyond her immediate vicinity was shrouded in darkness. She cupped her hands and tried drinking some of it. It was disgusting, and it burned her insides. She felt something against her leg, and she struggled to leave the water, but the incline of the shore was too steep and slippery. She was clawing at the moist soil, trying to gain purchase, but she kept sliding back in. The glowing green water began to bubble angrily, and a little head floated up and bobbed to the surface.  
"What's that?" she thought aloud, still clawing at the muddy banks. It began swimming toward her, and as it left the water, she saw it was a baby. It crawled up the bank and latched onto her pant leg. Then it began to bite her ankle with terrifying speed and ferocity. She tried to kick it away, but it would not release its grip, and before she knew it, the bubbling waters were swarming with more of them. They crawled up the muddy banks in a long line, climbing over one another in their hungry march. There were three of them clamped on to her ankles and feet now. She watched in horror as they stripped away the flesh and muscle with their pointy little teeth, and gnawed on the bone. More and more of the babies climbed over each other, until she was covered by them. They pulled her back into the green water by group effort. She could feel their teeth digging into the skin of her face, on the back of her neck- she felt one of them bite off the tip of her nose, and she could hear another one ripping at the flesh of her ear. Others were eating away the soft flesh of her breasts.  
"Please! Stop! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY I KILLED YOU!"  
Jonathan shook her awake.  
"Sloan... Sloan... wake up, it's just a dream." Her hands immediately came up to defend herself, and when she heard Jonathan's voice, she put her hands to her face to ensure she still had skin.  
"Thank God," she whispered. She sat up and massaged her aching back. It had not been easy the last three nights, sleeping on the hard ground. They had piled up bits of moss and grass to use as mattresses, but it had hardly helped. She looked over at Jonathan. He was reclining on the moss, his head resting on a grass pillow, looking at her. All she could see was his silhouette in the faint starlight. She wanted to kiss him, and for him to hold her, but she could not bring herself to move closer to him. It was he that had gotten her with child. She wanted nothing to do with him.  
She lied flat on her back, looking at the stars. She saw a meteorite, and it burned bright green as it entered the atmosphere. The tail burned her retina, and seemed to stain the smoggy sky. She looked over at Jonathan again. She needed the comfort he had to offer her, but at the moment, she was reviled by him. She wished she was close enough friends with another girl to be able to snuggle with her. She wondered if there were any other women out there who felt the same way. Eventually, they both managed to go back to sleep.  
In the morning, she was awoken by something wet on her face. She thought it was Jonathan, and told him to stop. She heard something skitter away, and she turned around to see what it was. She was not able to get a good look at it, but it looked as if a giant spider had plunged into the brush to escape her scrutiny. She shuddered. She looked to her right and saw Jonathan, sleeping contentedly. She moaned quietly in pain, and got up slowly. The ground was killing her back, but luckily, it was their last night in the wilderness.  
She took her bag from the car and walked to the showers. She put a five dollar bill in the water dispenser, and hurried beneath the nozzle. She would only have three minutes. The water steamed up the room, and soon she felt the pain in her back seep out through her skin. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief and ran her hands through her hair. She look at the skin of her wrists and hands. She had gotten a tan from being in the outdoors for so long, and she cursed to herself. She normally went to great lengths to preserve the whiteness of her skin, sometimes going so far as to wear a veil and carry an umbrella in the summer. The showerhead began to sputter, and turned off. She looked at it longingly. It turned back on, much to her surprise. A viscous, red liquid shot from the nozzle, and it burned her skin. She screeched and scrambled away. She was covered in hot, stinking blood.  
On the beach, there were many dead animals, all of them covered in a writhing mass of flies and insects. She had heard not too long ago that soon, humans would be the sole inheritors of the earth. All the other animals were dying at an alarming rate. Surveying the long beach, covered in dead otters, crabs, gulls, mice, and fish, she could believe it. It didn't look like flies and wasps would be going extinct any time soon, though. She submerged herself in the water, and it smelled like the swamp from her dream. A thin layer of black and green liquid floated on top. She shook her head. It was better than blood, she thought. As she washed off, splashing water into her face and hair, she felt something brush against her leg.  
She immediately fled for the safety of land. She felt something nip her heel, and when she left the water, she was bleeding profusely.  
"God damn!" she effused. She watched the water, still curious to see what it had been. Suddenly, she saw a broad dorsal fin break the surface of the water. It was followed by another, then another.  
"Sharks," she whispered to herself. She was surprised to see them this far north, in the freezing cold waters. She supposed they must have been attracted by the blood. One of them was swimming quite close to where the waves were breaking, and she could see it clearly. It did not look like any shark she had ever seen. It had a green, mottled hide, as opposed to the smooth, gray-blue pictures she had seen. Its head broke the surface, and it looked at her with cold, calculating eyes. The head was round, and did not look very hydrodynamic. It dropped beneath the surface once more, and suddenly, it began swimming toward the shore, as if it were going to beach itself. Before Sloan knew what was happening, it leaped out of the water and onto the sand, flopping toward her. She shrieked, and bolted away before it could clamp its teeth round her leg. When she was a safe distance away, she stared at the thing. It laid on the sand, gasping for air, staring at her with its ink black eyes. It turned back towards the shore, and Sloan noticed that rather than fins, it had small, deformed legs all along its flank. It slithered back into the ocean.  
She walked quickly back to the campsite, lest they make another run at her. When she arrived, she saw Jonathan sleeping beneath the covers. She felt sick. She needed to leave this place, as soon as possible. She woke him with a kiss, and she was pleased at the way it made her feel to be close to him. The feelings of revulsion had passed, and she felt safe with him. He roused himself from the pathetic grass mattress.  
"John, let's go. I don't want to stay here anymore."  
"What's wrong? Don't you want me to make breakfast over the fire?"  
"No, I just want to leave."  
"C'mon, it's not that-" he paused to sniff at the air, "Whoa, do you smell blood? Are you bleeding?"  
"I want to go."  
"Right now? What happened?"  
She proceeded to tell him about the blood shower, and the creatures she had seen on the beach. She showed him her heel, where one of them had bitten her. He whistled.  
"Damn. What were they?"  
"I don't know, but can we please go now?" A cloud passed over Jonathan's face.  
"I want breakfast," he said. "And you said it couldn't breathe on land. We'll be safe here."  
"John! Please, I'm begging you!"  
"Look. I've got the hatchet with me. If one of those shark things comes up here... don't worry. It won't be able to hurt you."  
"Please?" asked Sloan helplessly. But Jonathan was not listening. He was building a fire. She sat down at the picnic table, feeling nervous. At the slightest sound, she would spring from her seat, looking around wildly.  
"Babe," said Jonathan, smiling his crooked smile, "It's gonna' be ok." He threw his hatchet in the air, twirling it before catching it again.  
Jonathan made eggs and toast for the both of them, and they ate at the wooden table. Sloan took small bites, and chewed very slowly, so as to be able to hear over the sound of crunching. Jonathan noticed her looking around, and he put the hatchet on the table very conspicuously. It didn't make her feel any better. When they were finished with their meal, Jonathan went to the car.  
"Are we leaving now?" asked Sloan hopefully.  
"I need to brush my teeth," said Jonathan moodily. "I haven't brushed in three days and my mouth feels like a swamp." He began walking over to the showers when his foot sank into the ground up to the knee.  
"The fuck?" he asked. He tried to pull his foot out of the loose soil, but it would not budge. "What the fuck is this?" Suddenly, he began to twist his bulk franticly. "OH MY GOD! HELP ME! HELP ME!" he screamed. Sloan was tugging at his clothes, not quite understanding what was going on. Then she heard a low, deep moan, and the ground around Jonathan's foot began to sink into the earth. Spurred on by fear, she finally managed to pull his foot out of the shoe, and they went flying backwards. She watched in horror as teeth and claws mangled the shoe, pulling it into the sinkhole. Jonathan's foot was a bloody mess, and the flesh was hanging off in jiggling flaps. He took off his t-shirt and tied it around the wound.  
"Let's get the fuck out of here!"  
They piled into the car and sped away, leaving their blankets, frying pan, and cooler behind.  
"My God, what's with that place?" asked Jonathan. He took a joint from the dashboard and lit up.  
"I don't know. I've never seen anything like those creatures before."  
"Nor have I. It was like a giant ant lion or... I don't know."  
"What's an ant lion?"  
"It's an insect that digs a little pit and waits for ants to fall in. But... I never even saw what it was. I certainly felt it chew the hell out of my foot, though."  
"I heard it make a sound."  
"Me too. Jesus, I could have lost a leg back there. I guess I owe you one."  
"Don't mention it." He was looking hard out of the windshield, thinking about something.  
"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you earlier. I wish we never would have come here."  
"It's OK. Nothing we can do about it now."  
"Where on earth does the state park system get off charging people money to camp there? I paid $200 for a reservation... can you believe that?"  
"Yeah. At least we know never to go back there again."  
"I should have known something was up with that place."  
"How could you have possibly known that? Don't be so hard on yourself, John."  
"There wasn't another soul out there. I didn't see a single tent on the way to the site. I feel like an idiot paying for that shit. There weren't even volunteers to watch who came and left."  
"You didn't see a single tent?"  
"No, and I didn't see any on the way out, either. I wanted to warn whoever was still here to leave, and that's when I noticed there was no one else."  
They stopped at a gas station, and Jonathan handed Sloan his wallet.  
"I can't walk, my love," he said apologetically.  
"It's ok, don't worry about it." She walked inside and gave the cashier $100 for gas. On her way out, he stopped her.  
"Excuse me! Ma'am? Sorry to bother you, but my girlfriend wants me to tell people to come to the harvest parade."  
"What?"  
"It's a parade where they hand out free food. And there's a marching band..." he said, suddenly feeling self conscious. "It's supposed to be pretty fun. There's games and stuff, too."  
"Yeah? When is it?"  
"The 31st. It goes on all day, downtown."  
"Alright, well maybe I'll be there."  
"Cool. Well, have a nice day."  
"You too."

XXVII

At 3:04 in the afternoon, Cody pulled up to Eric's house. He began honking the horn repeatedly, and when Eric didn't show up immediately, he began tapping his horn in the rhythm of jingle bells. When he was about to go dashing through the snow, Eric opened the front door and stepped out. He flipped off Cody and entered the car, a boxy white thing from many decades ago. Like Eric's car, it should have been retired long ago, but after passing through so many hands, virtually every part had been replaced, and somehow it was still alive. The interior was red velour, and it had been smashed down to the thickness of a hand towel by hundreds of overweight passengers. Judging by the stains, they had been fond of mustard.  
"Hit this shit, nigga," said Cody, passing Eric a glass pipe with colorful swirls. Eric responded quite automatically, and twirled the flame of the lighter through the bud. It crackled and popped, and he inhaled a lungul of the acrid smoke. They passed the pipe back and forth between the two of them, not really saying much.  
"Where are we going?" asked Cody.  
"Just find a place to park downtown. I expect it's pretty crowded, so we may have to walk a ways."  
"Oh, man. I hate walking."  
"It's good for you."  
"You're good for you."  
"You're good for your mom."  
"You're mom is good for your mom."  
As Eric had anticipated, it was indeed very crowded, and they just managed to squeeze the old car between two gigantic trucks on the street next to a fast food restaurant, a Ford Behemoth and a Chevy Tank. The street was littered with broken glass, bottles, confetti, and streamers. The glass twinkled in the sunlight, and the streamers danced listlessly in the wind, as if attempting to right themselves and walk away. The sidewalks were crowded with their fellow pilgrims. A man with an enormous belly shoved past them, throwing back his head to take swigs off of something in a brown paper bag. Families were compacted into units of strollers and parents, their elbows tucked into their sides. Lovers walked hand and hand, their heads together the better to hear one another. Most everybody seemed to be carrying an empty receptacle of some sort, anticipating the handing out of free food. Some people toted large red and blue coolers on wheels, now full of beer, but soon to be emptied and refilled with fresh corn and tomatoes. Some carried empty burlap sacks over their shoulders. One youngster showed his parents how he would stretch out the bottom of his t-shirt and fill it produce. Others had purchased a special cloth bag with Tiffany's picture and the tractor scene.  
They fell in with the crowd, flowing along with them as effortlessly as dead mosquitos on the surface of a river. They blew smoke from the weed clandestinely downward, glancing out of the corner of their eyes to see if anyone noticed.  
"It smells like a skunk, daddy," said a little girl nearby. Her father sniffed the air suspiciously.  
"Yeah, it does. What is that?"  
"Put the pipe away!" hissed Eric. Cody secreted it in the secret pocket of his jacket. They broke out cigarettes and let themselves be carried away by the foot traffic.  
All around them were colors. The smog was its characteristic orange and green, as it always was on sunny days. Everyone around them wore brightly colored clothes of red, green, purple, pink, spring green. In the slight autumn breeze, it was as if the the trees were aflame with cartoon fire. Black helicopters buzzed overhead like vultures.  
"Look daddy!" said the same little girl. A helicopter unleashed a load of confetti, and it floated to the ground like paper stardust. Everyone cheered, and they must have heard the cheer in the helicopter, for it unleashed another load a short ways up the street. It buzzed away and showered the crowds with the stuff. In the middle of the street, stepping in front of traffic, a group of blacks wearing baggy clothes began dancing with their hands in the air. One of them had a large black radio on his shoulder, and they made a circle around the ring leader. He squatted low to the ground, put his weight on his hands, and began to swing his legs around him in a wide circle, much to the delight of onlookers.  
"Fucking monkeys," said Cody. He turned to looked at them over his shoulder, and very loudly began making monkey sounds of oo oo ah ah, and beat his chest like a gorilla. Eric saw one of them stop dancing and point at Cody.  
"Dude, shut the fuck up!" he said, interposing himself between Cody and the dancers so they couldn't see him. Eric pushed Cody along and they hastened away.  
"Jesus, why do you have to do stuff like that?"  
"Like what?"  
"Like piss off large groups of black people."  
"Psh, they're not gonna' do shit." Eric shook his head and kept pushing him along. It was not long before they arrived at Main Street, where the parade was taking place. Eric saw a multitude of different floats, shaped like different vegetables and fruit, and they threw corresponding produce from the vehicle. The thrower on the pumpkin float, a man dressed like a pumpkin, coughed violently as he tossed miniature pumpkins into the crowd.  
They stood on the outskirts of Main street, standing on their tiptoes to see over the heads of the people who had shown up early with lawn chairs.  
"Old fuckers," said Cody, "They got nothin' better to do so they come and set up camp here days before." A few of the old timers who had indeed shown up earlier heard what he said, and threw offended glances over their shoulders. Their eyes seemed to say "If I was just twenty years younger, I'd teach you a lesson."  
"Dude, I think you need some more weed."  
"Yeah, probably." They broke out the pipe and lit up once more.  
"That smells mm-mm good!" said someone to Eric's right.  
"You want some of this shit?" asked Cody, turning to the man.  
"Hell yeah!" said the man. He had a crooked smile, which did not fade even as he lit the bowl. He handed it to his girlfriend, who had dark black hair. She looked familiar.  
"Hey, didn't you come to the gas station a few days ago?" Eric asked the young woman.  
"Yeah, I did. Aren't you the guy who told me told me to come to this?"  
"Yep," said Eric smiling, "My girlfriend is Miss Carlsborg this year."  
"You must be very proud," said the dark haired woman with reverence. The pipe was passed to her and she took a hit. "I'm Sloan, by the way." She gave her boyfriend a little nudge.  
"I'm Jonathan," he said. They all shook hands and exchanged friendly words.  
"Dude, what happened to your foot?" asked Cody, noticing Jonathan's ungainly boot.  
"Now that's a story," said Jonathan, hitting the pipe. He closed his left nostril with his finger and blew the smoke out his right. "To put it as succinctly as possible- I was attacked."  
"Attacked? By what?"  
"I'm not sure. It kind of... do you know what an ant lion is?"  
"A what?"  
"It's an insect that digs pits in the ground and eats the ants that fall inside. It was like one of those, except... gigantic."  
"Whoa. I don't believe you, but that's a nifty story."  
"Thanks," said Jonathan.  
"Don't mind him," said Eric, "He's just a Grumpy McGrumperson."  
"Fuck you," swore Cody.  
"I see what you mean," said Jonathan. They stood together, smoking, waiting to see the marching band, behind which would be the Miss Carlsborg float. Sloan caught the glint of brass between the heads of the crowd.  
"It's starting!" she gasped with delight.

♛♛♛♛♛

Tiffany was queen at last. She was perched atop a three layer cake float. The float had frosting, chocolate swirls, gigantic cherries, the works. She was dressed in a fluffy, frilly, pink ball gown, and in her left hand, she held the royal scepter. A real tiara perched upon her golden locks, but the luster of its rhinestones were no match for the sapphires of her eyes. A long stairway led to the throne whereupon she sat- and what a throne it was. True, it was made from cheap materials- particle board, synthetic gold paint, and polyester upholstery- but the stagehands at her high school had done a masterful job of replicating a real, victorian era throne. It seemed to have taken on a life of its own. It practically buzzed with energy, and she was very conscious of it beneath her buttocks. She tossed languid waves to her adorers, who looked up to her with a mixture of awe and worship. They were not lazy waves, but the waves of someone who knew perfect peace and desired to bless a large group of people. Truly, she was the crowning achievement of all God's creations. All who gazed upon her angelic visage fell in love with her, and the people of the city threw roses at her feet, blew kisses, and cheered. In attendance of the float marched the ROTC students from her high school. They marched in unison with high knees, and the brass shone from their uniforms with blinding intensity. Tiffany knew that the rifles they carried over their shoulders were plastic, but that did not matter. They were her honor guard, and she loved them, as she loved everybody.  
The cheers of the crowd steadily rose to a feverish pitch, and she was ankle deep in flowers. It was time. She rose from her throne, very slowly, very dignified and bowed. Voices filled the air, competing with the marching band. Cheers of love, anguish, worship. She reached in the basket next to her seat and pulled out an ear of corn. Gently, she tossed it to an old couple sitting in lawn chairs. The old man caught it, but it was promptly wrenched from his hands by someone else, and a fight ensued. Tiffany threw another ear of corn to the crowd on her left, and a group of bystanders struggled against one another for the honor. They kicked, bit, and scratched.  
Piece by piece, she tossed away the contents of the basket, until there was nothing left. She took to waving once more, when a familiar face caught her eye. It was Eric, the peasant who had stolen her heart. Every queen had a peasant admirer, and this was hers. She blew him a kiss, and he reached out to catch it. He held it against his bosom, eyes closed in ecstasy. She blushed. Suddenly, she heard the squeal of tires, and an old blue car crashed and rolled to a stop in the middle of the procession, between her cake float and the preceding eggplant float. The marching band jarred to a halt, and Tiffany was almost thrown down the stairway of the cake. The rogue vehicle was upside down, smoke billowing from its innards.  
"Isn't that Eric's car?" Tiffany said to herself.  
Someone was crawling out of the wreckage, a latino man of slight build, and just when he had escaped the smoking vehicle, yet another vehicle came careening through the middle of the parade. It appeared to be a shabby police cruiser. It screeched to a halt and the door swung open. An officer in a tattered uniform stepped out and began chasing the latino. Tiffany could not believe what she was seeing. The officer did not have a face, and the horrid grin of death leered from behind aviator sunglasses, teeth glinting in the sunlight.  
The latino was heading toward Tiffany, and as he mounted the long staircase to where she stood, the officer fired two rounds, which missed and hit the cake. The ROTC kids scattered, dropping their plastic rifles and dispersing into the crowd of onlookers. The latino, who appeared to be drenched in blood, made it to the top and said to Tiffany,  
"Help me!" Without thinking, Tiffany took him in her arms, and swung him him around, so that her back was to the skull. She heard the retort of the gun, and braced herself for death.

☠☠☠☠☠

H. was not a heroic man by nature. In fact, he had not intended to save the girl at all, much as he enjoyed being sat on by her. No, his sole motive in taking the bullet had been reprieve from his charge as the harvest parade throne.  
"If I'm destroyed, perhaps I can re-enter the surface world as a person, as myself," he had thought. Summoning every last ounce of his willpower, he had contracted the legs of his chairself, and sprang, sending the couple tumbling down the side of the float. In their stead, he had absorbed the shot meant for them... and fallen over. Much to his dismay, he was still a chair. The only difference was that he now had a smouldering hole in his regal upholstery.  
"Damn," he swore. He had another plan. He righted himself, and began hopping down the stairs of the float toward the man who had shot him.

☣☣☣☣☣

Our brood is dormant no longer. Clan Elmyra did a wonderfully efficient job of infecting this man (she always does), and now we have called him to action. His resistance to our commands was stronger than what we normally encounter, especially for a male, but in the end, he bends to our will, he is clay in our hands. Clan Eric! Jump the barrier and subdue that woman! Tiffany, is it? The whore. You will be the instrument of her destruction, First by a public shaving, then by giving that blonde hair to bird hosts for nest-making! Then, you will- how odd. Throughout the course of our experience, we had learned that inanimate objects do not simply move by themselves. Clan Hannah, where are you?

☣☣☣☣☣

We move. The host was able to escape our influence momentarily, but we have him under control now. His hatred for minorities is prodigious, but unexceptional among officers of human law. We are attempting to close in on the one called Tiffany, but are encountering resistance with a large chair. We have shot it five times now, but it will not leave us alone. We request the assistance of Clan Eric.

☣☣☣☣☣

Clan Eric responds. Throughout our experience, we have learned that the best way to overcome a chair is not with bullets, but with bludgeoning. It appears to be made of what our host calls "particle board," a particularly frail material. Let us lift it high into the air and drop it.

⛽⛽⛽⛽⛽

The crowd watched in awe and amazement as the two men, a police officer with no skin, and a gas station attendant, wrestled with all their combined might against the harvest parade throne. The throne was a skilled combatant. When its opponents attempted to flank it, it would charge and scatter them, like a raging bull.  
"Is this supposed to happen?" asked one old timer, reclining in his lawn chair.  
"Yeah, I reckon I saw this last year. This is better, though. They found a chair that can wrestle worth a damn, this time."  
The chair managed to twist itself so that the pointed top caught the officer under the chin, lifting him from his feet and knocking him out cold. The throne turned on the gas station attendant, and began shambling toward him, slowly, and menacingly.  
"Go chair!" cheered the audience. They began to chant: "We love chair! We love chair! We love chair!"  
A few members of the crowd threw roses at the throne, and it quickly turned from its enemy to dip quick, awkward bows, before resuming the fight. The gas station attendant took the opportunity and lunged. He crashed into the throne with all his weight, and they both tumbled to the ground. The gas station attendant managed to get a hold of the two front legs, and began swinging it in circles. When their momentum had reached its peak, he let go, and the throne flew a full ten feet into the air before it crashed to the ground. Strong as the throne was, its particle board frame had taken all the abuse it could stand, and it broke into pieces.  
"Eric? Eric, what are you doing?!" demanded Tifanny.  
"Don't worry Tiffany, we'll be love-making soon," he replied.  
"What? You're an idiot. I'm out of here."  
"No, come back, sweety-pie!" He began to follow her, but he was overtaken by the crowd, who congratulated him with mighty slaps on the back.  
"That was a goooooood chair thumpin!"  
"You showed that throne who's boss."  
"Wish I could break sentient chairs like that!"  
"That dead policeman has a boner!"

That Ending
