

### MORSELS

Twisted Tales of Life and Death Vol. 1

By Kelvin J. Wade

Copyright © 2011 by Kelvin J. Wade

SMASHWORDS EDITION

### License Notes

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

For Cathi, the love of my life

### TABLE OF CONTENTS

1.Greenlight

2.Red Delicious

3.Precious White Lies

4.Freakshow

5.Bitchslapped

6.No Good Deed

7.Victuals

8.Udder Nonsense

9.Seconds

10.The Young and the Terrorists

11.American Roulette

12.Coming Home to Roost

13.Switchcraft

14.Godshot

15.The Next Best Thing

16. About the Author

### Author's Note

Hello and thank you for purchasing my first collection of short fiction. I grew up loving fiction. My childhood favorites were C.S. Lewis and Judy Blume. As I grew older my tastes turned to John Fowles, Rod Serling, Stephen King, Clive Barker, Dean Koontz and Richard Matheson.

While I certainly am not crazy, narcissistic or drunk enough to compare myself to any of the above writers, I've definitely been influenced by them all. By looking at that list, you can see that I enjoy weird horror stories with a twist.

The stories you will encounter in this book aren't necessarily horror stories. But they are strange and if I've done my job well, they'll take on a twisted journey to places you've never been.

They say that every writer dreams of writing the Great American Novel. I'm no different. My problem is I haven't produced any novels. I haven't outlined any novels. I don't even think I have the patience to write a 400-page story that slowly unfolds over time.

But I love short stories. I sometimes find myself being put off by long stories. I like stories with characters and plots and the whole nine yards but that are told in an economical way. I like a story that you can read on a plane, in a waiting room or in the bathroom. Hey, I'm not pretentious.

So, instead of trying to feed the reader a meal in the form of a novel, I'm taking the best dishes from my mental buffet table and feeding you delicious morsels. I hope you enjoy them.

Kelvin Wade

November 2011

GREENLIGHT

He ordered another gin and tonic. He looked at his watch. The guy had said five and it was five fifteen. He was wearing the rose on his lapel just like the guy had said to on the phone. Now where was he? He slipped another cigarette out of the pack of Benson & Hedges on the table and lit it. The waitress arrived with his second drink.

How did he get into this position? It happened so fast. His father had built that hardware store with his bare hands. The old man had literally tiled the place and ran the electrical. And he'd worked around the clock, giving that extra service, that extra touch. Expanded to two other stores with loyal customers. He remembered the jingle his father had on the radio when he was a kid.

"Sink's clogged up /

you need a part /

O'Henry's /

Hardware with a heart."

When his old man passed the stores on to him, he did well in the beginning. The stores were performing better than they ever had. Then there was that little recession at the beginning of the 90's. Then Home Depot had to open up in town. The stress of trying to compete with a national chain with deep pockets had sent him to Las Vegas to blow off steam. He got addicted to blowing off steam at the blackjack and craps tables.

Then came the loans against the businesses. All the while he's trying to hold together a family: a wife and three kids. He was in too deep.

He took a big swallow of his drink and a drag off the cigarette. He looked up and a man was standing beside his table. The heavyset man was well dressed in a dark tailored suit. His beard was thick, the rims of his glasses heavy. His eyes were the most piercing blue. The heavy man extended a hand.

"Sorry I'm late. I had to watch you for a while. Make sure no one was with you," the man said in a voice that sounded like heavy furniture being moved around a room.

"I'm alone. Pleased to meet ya. I'm Harry O'Henry. I own O'Henry's Hard--"

The heavy man shook his hand and then raised it to halt his speech.

"I don't need to know your name or who you are. I'm not giving you my name. This isn't how I look," the heavy man intoned. He flagged the waitress down and ordered a lager and asked for breadsticks.

O'Henry took another drag on his cigarette and a swallow of his drink. He exhaled to his right.

"This is cloak and dagger stuff. I've never done anything like this. How do you know I'm not wearing a wire?" O'Henry asked.

"I already scanned you with an RF detector when I came in. You're clean, " the heavy man said.

O'Henry finished his drink.

"And how do I know you're not wearing a wire?"

The heavy man reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a big brown cigar. He snipped the end with a little blade and lit up the stogie. The waitress arrived with his lager and the breadsticks. He took a sip of his brew and bit a breadstick, chewed and swallowed.

"You don't. That's up to you. I'm not in charge of your precautions. When do you need this done?'

O'Henry shifted in his seat. He swallowed hard. His eyes left the heavyset man and drifted to a family of four having dinner three tables over. The two small children were eating plates of spaghetti with sauce all over their faces. The father was sipping a glass of red wine. The wife, a redhead with pendulous breasts, was eating a salad and a dish of Linguine Con Le Vongole.

They didn't seem to have a care in the world. Family night.

"It's gotta be tomorrow. By two p.m. Not tonight. But tomorrow. From the time I get up til 2 pm. Okay? Not at my house. Okay? I gotta be away from the house. I don't want to see it comin'," O'Henry said, taking a nervous drag off his cigarette.

He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a thick envelope. He slid it across the table.

"Pick up the envelope. You give me that outside. I leave first. You leave five minutes later. You hand me the envelope outside. It has to all be there."

"It is."

The heavy man drank long from his lager and then pulled hard on his cigar. He left a funky cloud hanging between them.

"The phone number you used to contact me will be good from now until tomorrow. If you change your mind, you forfeit fifty percent. You have to give the operator your name and use the code word---"

"Wait," O'Henry interrupted him. "I'm not going to change my mind. Do you know how hard this is to do something like this? I've been thinking about all kinds of other scenarios and nothing else works. This is hard. I'm not going to change my mind. I don't need any code word."

The heavy man just stared at O'Henry for a minute.

He puffed on his cigar and then ground it out in the glass ashtray on the table.

"You want a greenlight then. Nothin' stops a greenlight," the heavy man said, staring into Henry's eyes with those piercing blue eyes.

"Then that's what I want. Tell me...do you do it? How is it done?"

"No, I don't do it. I don't know who does it. And I don't know how. It gets done. For all I know, he's in this restaurant. Are you sure you don't want a code word... a surrender word? Sometimes fellows get scared when they face their own mortality."

O'Henry ground out the cigarette next to the cigar.

"My house will be paid for by insurance. My kids'll have somewhere to stay. I've got a million dollar policy. It'll pay off double for a homicide. It's the only thing in my life I haven't screwed up."

The heavy man finished a couple more breadsticks and drained his glass. He left a twenty on the table.

"We're all done here."

Harry couldn't sleep that night. He laid awake just staring at his wife as she slept. She never looked more beautiful. She was strawberry blonde, maybe twenty pounds overweight with bags under her eyes but to him she was a goddess. A vision. Every so often, he'd lean over just to smell her hair. Herbal Essences Totally Twisted conditioner and Vanilla Fields perfume mixed with an earthy scent made up the smell of his wife. He slipped out of bed and into the bathroom to sob.

God, how I wanted to grow old with you, he thought to himself, biting his thumb in the darkness.

He tiptoed down the hall and looked in at his girls. Amanda, 6, and Pearl, 11, were sleeping on their backs, their room a pink explosion of Barbie excess. He slid down the hall to his sixteen year old daughter Carrie's room. He peeked in. Her light was on and she was whispering on her cell phone.

"Carrie. It's three in the morning, " he whispered.

She said, "Gotta go, " and hung up. He walked in and sat down on the bed.

"This what you do every night? Stay up and talk to people on the phone?"

"Sometimes, when I can't sleep, I call Jackie. She's an insomniac, " she whispered.

He smoothed her hair with his hand and marveled at how much she resembled her mother.

"How long you and Jackie been friends now? Ten years?"

"Twelve."

"She's a good friend. I'm glad you can lean on her. Good girl. You know I love you, right?"

"You okay, dad?"

"Yeah. Everything's going to be fine. You get some sleep."

In the morning, he took an extra long shower with hot, hot water. The heat helped work out the knots in his back. The clouds of steam helped relax him. He'd spent most of the night crying but he knew....he knew he was doing the right thing. The children would live a good life. It was all he could hope to give them. Not a life of shame as he liquidated his stores and the bank repossessed the house. They didn't deserve that. This way they could keep the family home and have enough left over for a new start. Maybe in a few years the girls would have a stepfather, some kindhearted man who could help them grow into smart, independent, well-adjusted women. He had to hope for the best. He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.

The sound of his wife screaming shook him from head to foot. He could hear his daughter scream, too. Louder than she'd ever screamed.

Oh my God...They're going to do it here! I told them not at the house! Not in front of the kids

Harry wrapped a towel around his waist and grabbed the straight razor off the counter. He flew out of the bathroom in time to hear his wife screaming his name. His right toes caught the side of the doorjamb and he went sprawling into the hallway, the straight razor spinning down the hallway on the shiny wood floor. He picked himself up, tied the towel tight, scooped up the razor and, dripping water behind him, turned the corner and flew down the stairs. He could hear his youngest girls screaming now, too. His heart pumped and his toes burned from the fall, but he had to get to them.

This wasn't the deal. This wasn't part of the deal!!

He made it to the bottom of the stairs and ran right into his wife who threw her arms around him. They collided with such force that once again the straight razor was knocked out of his hand. Carrie picked it up.

His wife was kissing him and he was busy looking past her at his two youngest girls bouncing up and down in the living room holding each other's hands.

He saw no goons and no guns. No masked intruders. His wife stopped kissing him.

"We won, Harry!! We won!!!"

"Daddy, we won!"

"Won? Won what?" Harry asked, out of breath, his back and knees aching, his heart thudding in his chest.

"The lottery!" his wife screamed waving the ticket in front of him, "Carrie, get the paper!"

His daughter showed him the numbers in the morning paper. Sure enough. They matched the ticket. They matched the ticket in his wife's hand! All six numbers and the mega number! His eyes couldn't focus on the monetary figure. Perhaps they printed it too small. He caught his breath and looked again, squinting.

23 million dollars.

He let out a whoop and leaped into the air and pumped his fist. He started dancing a dance his girls' would've normally been embarrassed to see him do but now they didn't care. His girls were dancing around him. Carrie was dancing, waving the straight razor above her head.

It hit him slowly...like remembering an unpleasant dream. It crawled into his consciousness and fell over his psyche like internal rain. The whole thing was cosmically absurd. He swallowed hard but tried to maintain his smile.

"No school for anyone today. We're going to go out for breakfast and then straight down to lottery headquarters. Nobody calls anyone. No friends. No relatives. Okay? That means no texts, Carrie! Let me go get dressed," Harry said, running up the stairs.

He made it into the master bedroom and closed the door. He picked up his cell phone and dialed the number he'd called to arrange the meeting with the heavyset man. A woman's voice answered.

"Eliminations, may I help you?"

"Yeah...my name is Harry O'Henry. I arranged a...a...job for today but...I ..I ...uh.. I don't need it. Okay, so call it off. Alright. Call it off."

"Okay, do you have a code word?"

"A what? Oh...uh...they didn't give me one. But call it off. Okay?"

He heard typing on the other end.

"Sir, you've been greenlighted."

Harry swallowed hard. He laughed nervously.

"Yeah...I know. I didn't know what I was doing. Circumstances have changed. I don't need it. Just call it off."

"Sir, we can't call off greenlights. This should have been explained. And I only have ten seconds left for this call."

"Listen...You have to. You got it? Call it off! Look, tell you what...you can keep the money. Keep it all. Just call it off. Give me a confirmation that it's called off."

"Goodbye, sir."

Harry called back but got a fast busy signal. Shit, shit, shit. He dressed quickly. He opened the closet, reached up on the top shelf and retrieved a metal box. He did the combination, opened the box and pulled out a .38 revolver. He loaded it and shoved it in his pants pocket.

He walked nervously down the stairs. He looked at his watch. 8:25 a.m.

"Honey, let's take separate cars, okay?" he suggested.

"What? Why?"

"I need to go by the main store on the way back."

"I'm riding with daddy!" Amanda called.

"Me, too!" Pearl shouted.

"No, no, no. Everyone rides with mommy. Daddy wants to ride alone."

His wife slid up against him and whispered, "What's gong on? Is everything alright? I mean, we're millionaires. Millionaires, Harry."

"Everything is fine. I'll explain tonight, okay? Okay. Trust me. Now let's go to Original Pancake House."

The drive to the restaurant had been nerve wracking. Harry had taken a different route than his family. His wife had called him on the cell phone but he didn't answer. He had to keep his eyes peeled for trouble. At the restaurant, he chose a table in the back of the restaurant with his back against the wall. He refused to eat a thing.

A tall man in a San Francisco Giants jacket sat two tables away, eyeing the family. Harry noticed him right away. He ate an apple pancake, Dutch baby, bacon and a spinach and pepper jack cheese omelet. Harry thought if the guy handled a gun like he handled a fork, they're done for. He watched the man drink six cups of coffee and then rise to go to the bathroom. Harry slowly reached for the pistol in his pocket. The man continued on to the bathroom, stopping to look back at the family before he went in.

Harry took the opportunity to hustle his family out of the restaurant at that point. They left for the lottery headquarters downtown.

Harry decided to take the freeway. Surface streets seemed like too big of a risk. He could be chased and cornered or caught at a traffic light. There were just too many things that could go wrong. On the freeway, if a car got too close behind him, he changed lanes. He decided to make himself a moving target.

He parked on the opposite side of the building than his family. He phoned his wife and told them to go on in, that he would meet them inside. As he exited his SUV, a man stood about fifteen feet behind him. The man wore dilapidated shoes, wrinkled dirty jeans and a worn blue jacket. His face sported a scraggy beard and was lined with wrinkles. When he spoke, he was missing his upper teeth.

"Hey pal...you got any spare change?" the man called.

Harry was so startled he drew the pistol and aimed it at the man. The man took a step backwards.

"I...I...don't want no trouble," the man called out and took two more steps back, his hands trembling. The front of the man's jeans darkened. He was urinating.

Harry shoved the gun back in his pocket, convinced this was just a homeless man. He ran into the lottery building. A burly security guard stopped him from running. Lottery headquarters was on the third floor.

Harry stepped into the elevator. He punched the button for the third floor. A young black youth wearing black jeans, a black coat and black beanie began jogging toward the elevator.

"Yo...hold up."

Harry pressed the 'close door' button and sank to the back of the elevator as the doors closed before the young man could reach it.

"You punk!" he heard the guy yell.

In the lottery headquarters office, Harry's family was seated in chairs. There were four lottery officials and a security guard in the office. Harry sat down in an empty chair next to his wife. A balding man with a bushy mustache shook his hand.

"As I was telling your family...the ticket has been verified as authentic. One other winning ticket has been sold, so you and your wife will be receiving a total of $11.5 million before federal and state taxes. This will be paid out in twenty annual installments."

Harry put an arm around his wife and kissed her cheek.

"When will we receive the first check?" he asked.

"We will be presenting you with a large promotional check right away. We will invite the news media to cover the event. That will take place within the hour. You will receive a direct deposit of the first installment within six weeks."

"This is unbelievable," his wife sighed.

Harry thought about the money. It was the cure to their ills. It was amazing how life worked out. He thought about taking the family on a vacation. But he also thought about Las Vegas. Once he'd squared his debts, it was high roller time. He'd be treated like one of the big shots. Limo. Comped suite. Comped meals. VIP all the way. He'd even take the family.

He was jolted out of his fantasy by a knock at the door. It was a security guard who whispered something to the other security guard in the room. The guard in the room turned towards Harry.

"Sir, can you accompany my colleague downstairs for a moment?"

Harry rose from the chair slowly, his hands trembling.

"What is it?" his wife asked.

"Yeah dad, what's up?" Carrie joined in.

"There's just a misunderstanding that needs to be cleared up. An altercation in the parking lot?"

"Oh...yes," Harry said, relieved, "...a homeless guy. He was aggressively panhandling and we got into it. "

"If we could just clear this up," the new security guard offered.

"Oh yeah. Kids, I'll be right back."

The ride down in the elevator with the security guard seemed like it took forever. Harry expected the guard to draw his weapon at any moment. He'd have to be faster on the draw. But Harry hadn't fired his weapon in six years. He used to faithfully go to the range with Lenny Jacobsen. They'd target shoot and then go out for beers afterwards. But ever since Lenny had his first kid, they hadn't been out to the range. The security guard glanced at Harry and it made Harry move slowly away from him. Who knew how big this Eliminations outfit was. His body trembled and he eyeballed the security guard closely.

"I called it off," he mumbled.

"Excuse me?" the security guard asked.

They reached the first floor and the doors slid open.

Across the lobby stood the homeless man and a police officer.

"That's the dude! He went crazy on me...Like Rambo. Dirty Harry. Pulled out his piece! Dude's psycho!" the homeless man ranted and pointed while positioning himself behind the cop.

The police officer had unsnapped his gun holster and was pointing at Harry.

"Sir, up against the wall!" the cop ordered.

"This is a big misunderstanding. I can explain everything," Harry offered.

"Front right pocket. Gun!" the cop shouted.

There was a scream in the lobby. Some woman. The homeless man hit the floor. The security guard had spun Harry to the floor and pulled the gun out of his pocket. Harry could feel two knees in his back as his hands were harshly cuffed. The room appeared to be spinning. Voices appeared muted and distant. Any moment he expected the muzzle of a gun to be pressed against the back of his head and his life ended. His pulse quickened and his heart pumped rapidly.

"My name is Harry O'Henry. I own O'Henry Hardware stores. I can explain everything," he was repeating.

As the cop and security guard lifted the now handcuffed Harry to his feet, Harry looked around at the startled people on the floor. It was an absurd scene. He was the victim, yet they were treating him as if he were a criminal. He did feel bad seeing a woman and her small child huddled on the floor. And there was the homeless man sprawled on the floor muttering into a cell phone.

Down at the station he was fingerprinted, photographed and booked. He was led into a small room with a metal table that was bolted to the floor. He was handcuffed to a metal ring on the side of the table as he sat in a wood chair. The room had no windows, not even the one-way glass he'd expected from watching so many cop shows. The walls held a lot of graffiti, most of it pretty profane.

"What a day," he said to no one in particular. On the ride over to the police department, he was sure a hummer would ram the car and a hitman would kill him and the cop. That's the way it's done in the movies, he thought. He didn't know what to expect.

The security guard told him that he would explain the situation to his wife and kids and he hated that. A day that was supposed to be their happiest day as a family would be marred by his arrest on these bizarre charges.

How would he explain it all to them?

The door opened and a short man wearing brown slacks, a white shirt and a loosened tie entered. His badge was clipped to his waist. He wore a shoulder holster but there was no gun in it. He carried a folder and a mini cassette recorder. He pulled up a chair across from Harry.

"I'm Detective Wilson. Before we get started, can I get you anything?"

"I'd like a smoke."

"Well, I don't smoke. I don't have any cigarettes. There's no smoking in here anyway. You want a coffee? Soda? You hungry?"

"I am really hungry. I haven't eaten today."

The cop left the room for a few moments and came back with a cold can of Coca-Cola and a tuna sandwich wrapped in plastic. He sat down and turned on the recorder.

"I'm Detective Wilson. It's twelve-fifteen. Before we get started I'm going to remind you that you have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can be held against you. You have a right to counsel and to have counsel present during questioning. If you cannot afford counsel, it will be provided to you by the state. Do you understand these rights?"

"Yeah...yeah...Look, this is going to sound nuts. I own some hardware stores and we've fallen on hard times. I also have some gambling debts. I've been under a lot of

pressure. So I found this company on Craigslist called Eliminations. They're hit men."

Harry was breathing heavily but he had to get this out. He had to get this off his chest. He opened the Coke with a little pop and swigged some down.

"They represented themselves as contract killers?" Wilson asked.

"Yes. We set up a meeting for five o'clock at Vittorio's restaurant yesterday. I met with this guy. Heavy bastard. Beard. Wouldn't give me his name. You could check with the wait staff at Vittorio's and see if anyone remembers him. He ordered a lager and some pretzels. What I had in mind was...I wanted them to kill me. I've got insurance policies that would've helped my family out. I was ready to do that. I was that distraught. I paid the guy five thousand dollars."

"What does this have to do with the homeless man you allegedly held at gunpoint?" the cop asked.

"I'm getting to it," Harry said, gulping the Coke. "I told them I wanted it done today. I didn't know how they'd do it. But my wife...as crazy as this sounds... my wife won the lottery this morning. We're rich. I don't ...I don't have financial problems anymore. But I couldn't call it off. They wouldn't call it off. So I've been panicked all morning. I took my gun to protect myself. And when I saw the homeless guy, I freaked. I thought it was them."

The cop sat back in his chair.

"How does this help you, Mr. O'Henry? Not only do you still have the problem of brandishing the weapon at the homeless guy. You're telling me that you conspired to commit insurance fraud?"

Harry hadn't thought about that. He finished the drink and ran his hand through his hair.

"Look...nothing's happened. I mean...I know I scared the homeless guy. Fine charge me. I just want to call off the hit. That's all I'm concerned about at this point."

Harry tore open the plastic wrap and began eating the tuna sandwich.

"Mr. O'Henry...maybe we can get together with the District Attorney's office and work something out. Do you have the phone number of this Eliminations?"

"It's in my cell phone. You guys took it when you booked me. Hey, speaking of cell phones...when I was handcuffed, I saw the homeless guy talking on a cell."

"So?"

"How many homeless people have cell phones? Maybe he was in on it." Harry asked.

"I'm sure the arresting officer got a statement from the guy. We'll find him and check out your story. Okay. Someone will be in to take you to a holding cell. You'll make bail."

The detective shut off the recorder, gathered up the folder and left.

Harry thought about his wife and kids coming to bail him out and it cheered him up. His wife would freak when she found out what he'd planned on doing but he could explain it. He just didn't want the kids to find out. Once this was behind them, they'd start a new life. They had a new lease on life. A life of leisure and travel including plenty of visits to Las Vegas.

He finished half of the sandwich. He was ravenous.

The door opened and a tall black cop walked in wearing a suit and tie and holding some folders. He sat down across from Harry.

"Okay...Mr. O'Henry, my name is Detective Wilson and I'm here to talk to you about your case."

Harry looked him in the eye.

"But I already talked to a Detective Wilson..."

The detective looked puzzled.

"I'm the only Detective Wilson at this precinct."

Just then Harry didn't feel so well. His stomach was in knots and then stabbing pains. His throat seized up. It became hard to breathe. He puffed trying to get air

into his lungs. The cop across from him rose, alarmed.

"Mr. O'Henry?"

His tongue swelled in his throat.

"The sandwich..." he gasped.

Harry toppled to the floor, his hand still cuffed to the table.

RED DELICIOUS

I know you don't believe in vampires. Who would? I didn't. Shape-shifting undead creatures of the night are things better left to books for tweens or Hollywood. So I never saw it coming. I was alone. Just gotten dumped by my girlfriend. I was seventeen.

Came out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show late one October night. I liked the atmosphere, the camaraderie. When you went to see Rocky Horror, you were a part of something even if you went alone like I did. Walking to my car along the black rain-slicked asphalt I kept turning around because I felt that someone was behind me. It was one of those deals where I didn't want to turn around for fear of what I might see. I could feel eyes on the nape of my neck. I turned once and saw nothing but a couple of girls laughing on the way to their car.

I got in my PT Cruiser, cranked the engine, lit a Swisher Sweet cigar and pushed in my Grateful Dead CD. My mom got me into the Dead. She played "Touch of Grey" so much while cleaning the house that I had no choice but to groove to it. I sat listening to guitars and engine and watching the smoke swirl for a moment, thinking about my girl.

Then it bit me.

Felt like someone had pressed a hot fork against the back of my neck. I jerked forward so fast and hard that I cracked my head on the steering wheel and hit the annoyingly loud horn. I saw stars and felt the blood rolling down my back. All the while it felt like ice water was trickling down my arms and spine.

Since then it's hard for me to go out during the day without massive amounts of sunscreen. It burns. And my stomach has ached and I've felt so weak. And the thing that's most revolting is that I've had this urge...this urge to bite someone. At first I thought it was just hunger so I hit the drive-thru at the Burger Palace after school a few times gorging on Regal Burgers with cheese and twisty fries. But that didn't sate my hunger.

Then I paid a dude outside 7-11 to get me a 12 pack of Pabst. I drank the 12 pack at Ryan Urmansky's uncle's house. His uncle was cool. He'd let kids drink and smoke weed at his house as long as we didn't drive, cut him in on the party favors and, of course, didn't rat him out. Ryan puked on his own shoes. But it wasn't booze I was thirsting for.

Then I was watching some horror movie on HBO late one night and someone was killed. They were a bloody mess and my stomach did back flips and my mouth watered. It nauseated me that my body responded the way that it did at the sight of blood but I couldn't deny it.

Look, I'd never tasted blood before. You know how some people accidentally cut their finger and then immediately stick it in their mouth to stop the bleeding? Not me. No way. Gross. So for me to react this way to the idea of tasting blood made me want to hurl.

I wouldn't know the first thing about biting someone. I didn't even have fangs. Was I supposed to just gnaw on someone's neck until I broke the skin? That's gnarly. And how do I pick someone to bite? And do I just bite them like the one that bit me? The way my stomach was carrying on, I didn't think a simple taste of blood would be enough. The way I felt, I could end up killing someone.

I couldn't commit murder.

So the next day, I went to a pet store after school and bought a mouse. $4.27. They put it in a cardboard box for me. I convinced the girl behind the counter that I had a cage, food and water for it at home. I didn't even make it home before I pulled over behind a convenience store and bit it.

It wriggled and twitched but when I broke the skin and tasted the salty rustiness of its blood, I sucked it clean like a jelly donut. It sounds sickening now but at the time I wished I'd bought two.

I went home and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror with disgust. I thought I wasn't supposed to have a reflection but there I was, looking somewhat pale and gaunt. I opened my mouth to look at my teeth. No fangs. Just a teenager's mouth that could use better brushing.

When I thought back to how that blood tasted, I started to get hungry again. It was like remembering an awesome meal you'd had at a steakhouse. My mouth was watering. I opened my mouth again to look at my teeth and was shocked that now my canines both top and bottom had elongated into fine pointed fangs.

I had a snake mouth.

I shut it and clamped a hand over my mouth.

In the week since that happened, my urge had only grown. I'd bought two mice and a hamster at two different pet stores. But I couldn't continue with these snacks. They just weren't enough. It's like trying to satisfy your urge for ham with a Vienna sausage. I couldn't bring myself to bite a stray dog or cat. I knew what I was craving but it's hard for me to admit it. I didn't want to kill anyone.

So I went for a long walk in the woods behind my house. Every bird I heard I wanted to bite. I entertained the idea of biting my ex. She dumped me for Ronnie Engle, second-string quarterback on the football team. It's one thing to get dumped for the quarterback of a football team but for the backup? Really?

And the way she did it was so cold. I get a text in the middle of the night that says, "Just thought you should know I'm going out with Ronnie Engle now." Just thought you should know? A text message?

I should've bitten them both. I should've gone down by Foxhurst's Lake where all the kids go to hook up and made meals of them. But that's just my hurt talking. That's my pain.

It was growing dark and I found that I felt better at night. Stronger. But just as hungry. I spotted something moving to my right at the base of an old sycamore. It was a garter snake. I used to catch them and play with them when I was younger. This time I had a different agenda.

I seized the three-foot long snake and immediately bit it. I had to bite it immediately because if I thought too long about it, I wouldn't do it. As soon as I bit it, it reared up and bit my right ear. So there I was biting it as it bit me. I was twirling around trying to pull its mouth off my ear and I tripped over a log and tumbled down an embankment. I rolled and rolled on twigs, leaves and moss and somehow the snake came loose from both my ear and mouth.

It was just as well. Snake blood is cold and tastes like dirty mushrooms.

I stopped rolling and sat up. Across from me, about ten feet away, sat a grungy old guy layered in dirty clothes with a ZZ Top beard. One of the boots he wore had a hole in the side. His grubby hands cradled a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. Had to admit the old guy had taste. Then it went through my head. He's obviously homeless. No one knows he's here. The sun was sinking behind the trees.

I stood up and brushed myself off. My stomach rumbled. The old guy just stared at me with the grayest eyes. His mouth was partly opened but no sound was coming from it. He could tell something wasn't quite right about me. Maybe I was looking at him the way a fox looks at a chicken. Perhaps I could no longer hide my hunger, my desire for the liquid that would sustain me. Maybe I'd catch a buzz off his blood. Maybe he looked in my once lively but now undead baby blues and could see nothing but death.

"Leave me be!" the man growled suddenly.

I took a step towards him.

"I know what you are. I've seen your kind before."

"And what am I?" I asked.

I moved closer. I could get away with this. I could take this old man. No family would miss him. No one would report him missing. The old guy reached into his pocket and brought something out in his hand. It was small and hard to see. I reached for him and he pressed whatever it was into my palm.

It burned and I screamed. It was as if he'd handed me a white-hot piece of charcoal. I dropped it quickly and staggered back, holding my wrist. I looked down at my hand and could see that I'd been burned severely.

He picked up whatever it was and then stood up on wobbly legs. He held it out before him. It was a small silver cross.

"Holy crap, are you kidding me? That stuff works?" I said, dumbfounded.

"Begone!" the man snarled.

I stumbled backwards, turned and scrambled up the embankment. If the old guy hadn't pulled out that cross, I would've done it. It scared me that I was so close. But for now I had to get home. Mom would be wondering where I was.

The next morning I slept in. Kept the curtains drawn. My mother came by twice and wanted to know why I wasn't up. I mumbled something about it being Saturday and I was tired. The truth is the sun was really starting to bother me. I was using sun block like crazy and always put on my shades when I ventured out but it wasn't helping that much.

While I laid in bed, my stomach was fighting itself. It gurgled and groaned and I knew it wasn't for my mother's blueberry pancakes. I was getting these aches and cramps. They went down my spine and arms and legs. There obviously was only so long I could hold out. Maybe I'd have to find a neighbor's cat. Maybe that's the lengths I would have to stoop to in order to make these pains go away.

Then, as I sat up in bed, a horrible thought oozed across my brain. I thought about biting my mom. Just slip up behind her while she was scrambling eggs and sink my teeth into the nape of her slender neck. At that point, I don't think I'd be able to stop. I couldn't just take a few sips of the crimson nectar. I'd never be able to explain what I was doing to her, so I'd have to finish her.

God, what was I thinking? That's my mother!

There she was knocking on my open door. I looked at her with hungry eyes. She started walking across the room to open my curtains but I stopped her. I jumped out of bed and stood between her and the window. I didn't want those blistering rays searing my skin.

"I'm up. I'm up."

"Look, Vivian needs me to watch Tabitha. But I've got a hair appointment. Can you watch her for an hour and a half? I'll pay you. She won't be any trouble. All you have to do is fix her a sandwich and put a DVD on for her."

Tabitha was an 8-year-old terror. She had big blonde curls and ringlets. She'd been the kind of baby that everyone doted on and called cute. Her mother spoiled her rotten and while she could act like the sweetest little girl you'd ever met, she was also a little diva. I watched her once when she was five and she threw a juice box, remote control and her shoe at my head, all because I wanted to watch videos while Hannah Montana or some other such nonsense was on. The kid's got a strong arm and good aim.

"Mom....Tabitha is horrible. You can't leave me with her," I tried.

"Please. I need this favor."

Well...she was making the payments on my PT Cruiser.

"Okay...okay. An hour and a half."

She thanked me and gave me a hug, which put her slender neck really close to my mouth. I had to pull away pretty quickly and I think she noticed.

Tabitha's mother was fat. I guess the polite term would be Rubenesque. She has blonde curly hair and porcelain skin. To be honest, she reminded me of a human Miss Piggy. I thought about biting her but I had this mental picture of her popping like a balloon. Made me giggle at the door. She was nice and all. She'd just raised a spoiled little brat. She came to the door in a light blue tracksuit about ten minutes after my mom had left for her hair appointment.

Tabitha was decked out in a white cotton dress and had a pink ribbon in her hair. Her mom entered her into pageants and things and from what I understand Tabitha had won quite a few of them. It's pretty sick if you ask me, dolling up little girls and parading them on stages.

One minute I'm mentally chastising Tabitha's mom for whoring out her little girl in beauty pageants and the next I'm in the kitchen making a turkey sandwich and thinking about biting the little girl. What kind of freak am I?

I finished making the sandwich, spread some corn chips around it on a plate and carried it with a glass of apple juice to Little Miss Diva in the living room. She was sitting on the sofa watching something on the Disney channel. She snatched the plate from my hand and some corn chips rained down onto the carpet. She barked at me to put her juice down and lit into the sandwich.

Yeah, she was going to balloon up like her mom in no time.

She was chewing away and I was just about to go call Ryan Urmansky and finally tell him what had happened to me when I heard her say, "Ow!" She had been eating so fast she'd bitten her tongue. I looked at her and she moved, slowly, almost as if I were watching something in slow motion. She touched the tip of her tongue with her finger and when she drew the finger back, there was the tiniest scarlet droplet on the tip of it. You know how you walk through an airport and that smell from the Cinnabon shop bowls you over with that warm sweet spicy aroma? That's how this was with me. I could smell her blood. It was almost fruity. It was flowery.

In an instant I was upon her, seizing her shoulders with my hands and opening my mouth and I'm sure my fangs were in evidence because her eyes widened like silver dollars and she let out an earsplitting scream. She started boxing my face. She went all MMA on me. Hitting and kicking. Her little fists rained about a half dozen blows and I let go. She sprang off the sofa and ran up the stairs.

I was right on her heels. I was going to bite the hell out of her. I'd figure it out later. Maybe I'd drain her dry and bury her in the garden with the tomatoes. What came next just wasn't as important as biting her was. I reached for her pink calves and barely missed as she leapt up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs she turned left and ran down the hall. I was after her, clumsily knocking pictures off the wall. I was drooling I was so anxious to experience her red deliciousness. The chase was actually making me hungrier. She darted into my room.

As soon as I made it to the door of my room, she threw my cordless keyboard right into my face. I told you she could throw and she had good aim. It hit me flush in the nose and startled me. I stopped in place and that gave her time to fling my window open and scramble out of it. She was screaming for help and I knew I wouldn't have long.

When I ran to the window I was blasted full force by the sun. Have you ever licked a 9-volt battery? Just pressed your tongue on the top and get that little shock? That's how my skin felt all over. But I had to have her. I crept out onto the roof. She was crawling on her hands and knees up the slanted rooftop, screaming her fool head off.

I looked and saw Mr. Perkins stop mowing across the street and look over. Ms. Ramirez two houses down was unloading her car with a big box of groceries from a warehouse store. She dropped the box in shock when she heard the scream and saw us negotiating the roof.

Tabitha made it to the top of the roof and just sat there screaming. I scrambled up next to her and grabbed her shoulders. She was yelling, "Nooo!" Mr. Perkins was walking across the street now, calling my name. Ms. Ramirez was coming, as well.

The sun was sizzling my flesh. Not only was it burning but also I could feel myself growing weaker. I'd felt so strong chasing her and now it was like the air being let out of a balloon. I knew I would have to hurry and bite her now to replenish myself. I looked past her sobs and tear stained face. All I could focus on was her soft pink neck. Biting her would be like popping the top on a cold brew on a hot day.

I leaned in. But I couldn't do it. I still couldn't. How could I harm a little girl? How could I hurt anyone? What kind of life was this? What had I been sentenced to become?

"I'm not going to hurt you, Tabitha," I said and stood up on the rooftop. I slowly turned. My skin sizzled underneath the fat yellow sun. Mr. Perkins was saying something but I was tuning him out now. The neighborhood was a blur. I could see more neighbors coming out of their houses but I paid them no attention. I knew what I had to do to stop this craziness. Tabitha's sobs stopped behind me. All I could hear was the wind and my own heart.

I sprinted the length of the rooftop and leapt off the end. Below was the picket fence I'd spent all last summer building. I was sailing down right towards it, ready for the picket to pierce my diabolical vampire heart and end this evil once and for all.

Only it didn't end that way. No, I slammed into that fence and it hurt like the dickens but it didn't pierce my chest. The neighbors called an ambulance. On the way to the hospital my broken ribs healed and the ghastly bruise faded away. I was undead. And in a moment of true savagery I bit both paramedics. It was sweet. I was in a frenzy. The driver was so startled, he ran into a tree. I feasted on both of them. The inside of that ambulance looked like two people exploded.

The newspaper didn't know what to make of it. Most people assumed I was high on drugs. The police are looking for me for what they think are the murders of the paramedics. They found a lot of blood but no bodies.

A few days later I found that drunken homeless guy in the woods and bit his neck before he could fit a dirty hand into his pocket to fetch his silver cross. I did get a buzz off his blood. No lie. When I left him, he was holding his neck and yelling, "He bit me! He bit me!" to no one in particular.

A couple of days after that I found my ex and Ronnie Engle up at the lake. I was in a tree and dropped Spiderman-like down in the back of Ronnie's jeep. They were in the middle of making out. The funny thing is Ronnie, the big tough football player, screamed louder than my ex. Teenager blood tastes greasy, like fast food.

Then the next morning I caught Tabitha's mom in the shower. She was all wet and plump and pink and she shrieked louder than her daughter had on my rooftop. I took her by the hand and softly bit her wrist. Her blood was sweet. Almost like molasses.

I've found that biting someone doesn't automatically make him or her a vampire. It's like a virus. They're ill for a few days. Most people recover. Some don't. Some become undead like I did. If I drink their blood until they're dead, then they will become undead like me. Like the paramedics. They're okay with it. They took to feeding a lot easier than I did.

I've gotten over my qualms obviously. I've accepted what I am.

I'm hiding in my attic now. I'm waiting for my mother to get home from her support group. It's time to bite her. I told you. I've gotten over my qualms.

As for Tabitha...she's here with me. I bit her shortly after the paramedics. She's taken to this well. She keeps telling me she wants first bite when my mom gets home.

We'll see, Little Miss Vampire Diva. We'll see.

PRECIOUS WHITE LIES

Thomas Upshaw pulled into his designated parking space at Encephalon Laboratories at six-thirty in the morning. He stepped out into the brisk morning cold, breath billowing before him like exhaust from a bad muffler and made sure to retrieve his steaming hot mocha in a gloved hand. He hit the alarm button on his keychain and his Beemer chirped a security salute. He sipped the hot coffee while walking quickly towards the white concrete facilities.

He used a cardkey to get in and said hello to Jesus, the burly Hispanic security guard working the front desk. He wasn't used to coming in this early but Dr. Zeale had insisted over the phone after apologizing several times for waking him up. He stepped into the elevator and, after a retina scan, pressed B3 and the elevator lowered him to the lowest level of the complex.

The doors opened to a long white hallway lined with thick blue doors. Another security guard sat at a desk against the wall midway down the hall reading the sports page. Upshaw said good morning to Larry and continued past him to Lab 378. He inserted his cardkey and leaned towards the red sensor on the wall for a retina scan. The door buzzed open.

Inside, Dr. Adam Zeale was sitting at his desk. Zeale, fifteen years Upshaw's junior, sprang from his chair. He looked like a meth addict. Hair unkempt. Sweating. Pale. The top three buttons of his shirt undone, tie missing, sleeves rolled up. Pants wrinkled. On an adjacent desk was a pizza box. The trashcan next to the desk was overflowing with Pepsi cans. Zeale had pulled another all-nighter.

"Adam, what's going on? You got me out of bed early on my day off. This had better be earth shattering."

"It is! It is! May I?" Dr. Zeale asked, pointing to Upshaws' coffee cup. Upshaw reluctantly handed it over and Zeale took two quick sips.

"Are you going to tell me or did you call me out of bed to bum my coffee?"

Zeale motioned for Upshaw to follow him, while he continued sipping on his mocha. They walked into a second room that Zeale had to lay a finger on a pad for a fingerprint analysis to get into. There on a metal desk sat a brand new IBM laptop notebook running. Some kind of wiry wig-like apparatus with tiny mics all over it sat next to it on the desk connected to the firewire port in the laptop. On the screen was a screensaver of a dark haired woman having sex with a dwarf.

"I finally get invited into your inner sanctum and it's just your sick porn collection?" Upshaw mused.

Zeale laughed and wheeled a second chair up to the desk next to the black leather one that was already sitting there. He motioned for Upshaw to sit down. He finished Thomas' mocha and set the empty cup on the floor. They sat in silence and Zeale rubbed his temples. He moved the wireless mouse and the sleazy screensaver was replaced by multiple 3D screens of graphs and meters.

"Thomas, I've hit the jackpot. I know I've been a pain in the ass working so secretively on this project but this is my baby. This is something I conceived in high school and worked on through my college years. Remember the Lutie grant last year?"

"The cancer research grant?"

"I skimmed about a third of that money for this project and it paid off big time."

"Are you crazy? You can't do that! There are strict protocols with regards to grant allocations. You know this. You'll get us shut down!"

Zeale shook his head. He started again.

"You don't understand. It's paid off. All of my research, my calculations... the all-nighters. It's paid off. I needed that money to outsource some of the coding that I couldn't do. But it's okay because the programmers aren't aware of what the completed project is. By compartmentalizing the project I've been able to successfully obfuscate my real goal. It's just like when the CIA or DARPA brings us in on an assignment and we know we're really writing the code for an attack virus or creating some biological weapon and we pretend we don't know what they're up to. But we don't have all the pieces so we can't prove anything."

Upshaw was nodding and rotating a gloved hand in a circle trying to get his colleague to get on with it.

"What we had to create is what I call PFMRI. Using this technique complete fact facilitation and discrimination is now possible."

"What are you saying?"

"Thomas...I've created a polygraph that works one hundred percent of the time!"

"What?"

"One hundred percent. I've run it through thirty-two thousand simulations. But the best part is I've tested it for six months on three hundred people. I've brought in FBI polygraph experts. I've tested experts who routinely beat the old system. Most of them believed I was working on a standard polygraph or enhanced voice stress. But this technology outperforms any of those older technologies. Zero ambiguity."

Upshaw sat back in his chair, dumbfounded.

"No error rate? One hundred percent?"

"One hundred percent. This machine has never erred. It detects lies one hundred percent of the time. Once I get this patented, I'm a millionaire. I'm a gazillionaire. You too. Because you're the one who wrote the Marston Algorithm two years ago, remember? I incorporated it. This goes far beyond galvanic skin response and blood pressure, Thomas. You can literally see the changes in the anterior cingulated and parietal cortexes!"

"You used my algorithm in this?"

"Yes. Sorry I duped you. But think about the implications. Courts and the criminal justice system, cheating husbands, divorces, pedophile priests, paternity, adoptions, job interviews, Senate confirmations, presidential speeches, nations. It will render lying pointless. Everyone will know the complete and God's honest truth all the time!"

Upshaw sat in his seat, his hands trembling.

"This is huge," he finally said.

"Life as we know it will never be the same. This is bigger than landing a man on the moon. Bigger than the Internet. We're changing human history. Want to know if the JFK, RFK or MLK assassinations were a conspiracy? Use this machine on everyone connected to the event. This will either knock down whacky conspiracy theories or prove them to be true. We'll win a Nobel Prize for this, Thomas!"

"We'll be able to open our own lab like we've talked about."

"That's right. We can do it. The licensing of this technology will make us Bill Gates. Anything is possible."

"I know it's early but do you have anything stronger than coffee? We need to toast this!" Upshaw said, thinking of a world transformed by truth.

Dr. Zeale got up and went fumbling in stainless steel drawers in a corner of the room. He produced a bottle of Cutty Sark and two glasses. Their work was long and hard and rarely did they have much to toast. But when they did, Zeale always kept a bottle.

Zeale set the glasses in front of Upshaw, uncapped the scotch and poured some for both of them. He capped the bottle and set it down.

In an instant, Thomas Upshaw had snatched up the bottle and cracked Zeale over the head with it, sending him down to the floor. He straddled the stunned doctor and brought the bottle down on his head again and again with a repeated cracking sound. The bottle finally shattered and Zeale stopped moving, his head a bloody mess.

Upshaw's ferocity shocked even him. He was shaking. His heart pounded in his chest. Sweat sheened his forehead. His chest heaved as the adrenaline coursed through his body.

He found a mop in the bathroom and used it to damage most of the sprinkler heads in the lab.

He gathered all of Dr. Zeale's notes and charts and notebooks and piled them atop his body along with the broken laptop and wig like apparatus. He sprayed a chemical atop the pile of papers and books and graphs and lit it with a lighter. Then he sprayed an accelerant all over the lab and lit it.

By the time the poorly functioning sprinklers and fire department had the fire out, Zeale's body had been burnt beyond recognition and the lab was a loss. No one else died in the blaze.

As Thomas Upshaw was being led away in cuffs, the only thing he said was, "You don't understand. I had to do it. For the good of mankind. We couldn't survive his infernal machine."

FREAKSHOW

The screaming came first. It was the sound of a man screaming for his life. There were crashes and heavy footsteps. Running. A chase was on. The dressing room curtain flew open and Mr. Rothschild burst into the room, tripped over a footstool and went sprawling onto the floor. His red blazer was torn, his black slacks gaping open in the back and he'd lost his toupee somewhere during the chase.

A huge thickly muscled dark-skinned black man holding a buck knife stood in the doorframe. He wore a loincloth with a headdress of shells. His cheeks were smeared with paint. His powerful chest was heaving. His face was covered in a sheen of sweet and his eyes burned bloodshot red. From one nostril a fake plastic bone protruded, the other piece of the bone had been dislodged in the chase.

Memphis the Dwarf, all three feet of him, inched between the man and Mr. Rothschild, who was clutching his knee in pain.

Wondra the Fat Lady sat on a concrete bench. Nat the Tat, a young man covered head to toe in multicolored tattoos and at least six dozen body piercings stood on the other side of the room. Wondra thought it fortunate that a white towel was wrapped tightly around his waist so no one would have to cringe at his extra-creative piercings.

"Mandingo, you need to calm down, " Mr. Rothschild was saying.

"Don't call me that!! That ain't my name! I'm tired of it. I told you before I was tired of it. I ain't having these people call me out my name, hold up pieces of watermelon and make sport of me!" the black man was raging, waving the knife in front of him.

"We're in Georgia this week. You know how these rednecks act. What we're doing here is a unique form of entertainment, Mand--...I mean, Charles," Mr. Rothschild said, still nursing his knee.

"This ain't right. I ain't doin' it no more. I got Al Sharpton on TV calling me an Uncle Tom. Spike Lee says I'm participating in a minstrel show. That made my mama cry!"

"Charles, put that knife away. That thing is so dull you can't even cut rope with it. The protestors bothering you again?" Memphis the Dwarf said, inching towards the big black man.

"Memphis, you know I ain't got no problem with you. We always been cool. But I got them youngsters out there calling me the N word. I'm supposed to be respected as a representation of a Mandinka warrior."

"Charles...It's a job. You were a helluva left tackle at LSU. Six six. Three hundred thirty pounds. But you tore your MCL and you failed your drug tests. It happens. Mr. Rothschild has given you an opportunity," Memphis was saying, using his small hands to illustrate as he spoke.

"It's 2011. You think being paid to let people call me a nigger is an opportunity? I quit." The big black man tossed the knife to the floor, turned and left the room.

Nat helped Mr. Rothschild to his feet. And then helped him leave the room. Wondra, a woman whose body fat made her look like a porcelain mountain atop her concrete bench, sobbed into a handkerchief. Memphis grabbed the stool that Rothschild had knocked over and carried it over near Wondra. He sat atop it and placed a small hand on the woman's flabby knee.

"He scare ya?" Memphis asked. He was still dressed as a jester. A purple and green costume with lots of silver glitter. The curlicue mustache beneath his bulbous nose was real. He stroked it sometimes as he spoke like a villain in an old silent film.

Wondra looked down at him, her neck was a ball of fat. Her eyes were large and made to look even larger with eyeliner and mascara. Her hair was done up in massive blonde curls.

"Memphis, the truth is...we're freaks."

"Wondra, you know we don't use the F word around here."

"Look around...," Wondra spat, waving her chubby hand, "We've got a Dog Faced Boy. We've got a strongman. We've got gypsies. We've got a Bearded Lady for Chrissake. When Rothschild was putting this together, he made it sound so grand. A return to the sideshow. Magic acts. Medical oddities. Grand illusions. Outrageous sights never before----"

"---seen by civilized man. I know," Memphis interrupted, "And he's pulled it off. He's PT Barnum, Steve Jobs and Criss Angel all in one. We've been on a one hundred and twenty city tour. We've been on 60 Minutes. We've been on the Today Show. We've been parodied on Saturday Night Live. We've broken box office records. It's happened just like Rothschild said it would, bringing the sideshow into today's market has..."

"But we've been picketed by so many different groups. The NAACP, NAAFA, and Little People of America...We have religious crazies picketing. We're freaks! That's what they all call us, Memphis. They call us freaks because that's what we are. We're not doing anything different than our predecessors did at the turn of the last century. I mean..what? We're doing it with better production values? Better special effects, smoke and laser lighting? We're still exploiting people."

Memphis slid off the stool to his feet and left the room. He came back a few minutes later with a funnel cake. He ate some and offered some to Wondra. She resisted at first, preferring to cry into her handkerchief. But soon they were both pulling off pieces of the golden brown, sugarcoated treat.

"Wondra, when Mr. Rothschild found you, you were eight hundred pounds. The Chicago Fire Department had to knock out a wall in your house to get you to the hospital. What did he do for you? He paid for your hospital care. You lost two hundred pounds. And he's given you steady employment since."

"He still bills me as the eight hundred pound lady."

"It's showmanship."

"It's demeaning. Charles is right. We should all quit," Wondra said and started crying.

"How many jobs do you think are open to eight hundred pound women, Wondra? Little people have performed in show business for a century. We make people laugh. Is that wrong? Was having Little People in the Wizard of Oz wrong? They had to eat, too. And in 2011, if I choose to work in Mr. Rothschild's show, shouldn't I have the right to make that choice? No one else is paying my bills. And no one's paying yours."

Memphis wiped his mouth with a napkin and then ran his fingers along his mustache to make sure it was free of crumbs. He slowly balanced himself and stood atop the stool. He leaned against Wondra's massive bosom and kissed her on the cheek.

"You're a beautiful person, Wondra. You're compassionate. You're a good listener. You have the biggest heart in our company and I'm not talking physically. Though, that may be true, too. But you're no freak. Don't you ever look at the people who come to see you?"

Wondra dried her tears.

"Good heavens no. I avert my eyes. I hear their snickers. That's bad enough."

"Do yourself a favor and look. Just look. Think about that F word and look," Memphis whispered.

For the next night's show, Wondra prepared herself. She was wearing a cream-colored gown and heavy makeup. Once again, her luscious blonde hair was done up in huge curls. She lay atop a large heart shaped bed. Her ample cleavage spilled out of the top of her dress. Her pudgy calves were on full display. Pearls encircled her fat neck. She fanned herself as fog from fog machines wisped around her. Magenta lighting gave the whole thing a surreal look. The curtains in front of her slowly opened. She was separated from the gawking public by a large glass window.

Rothschild's prerecorded voice blared from a speaker, "Here she is ladies and gentlemen...step right up and see the largest human being in North America. She currently weighs in at eight hundred and twelve pounds. She's larger around than she is tall, people. She once ate six cheeseburgers, three whole chickens, three baked potatoes, and a tray of lasagna and finished with two bags of Oreo cookies and a half-gallon of ice cream at one sitting. She is massive. She is a human mastodon. She is ginormous. Stand in awe at her planetary proportions...She is Wondra the Fat Lady!"

Wondra could hear the snickers and laughter. She heard someone make an oinking sound. She couldn't bring herself to look. But she remembered what Memphis said. To do herself a favor and look. Do herself a favor. She slid the fan down her forehead to the eyes and peered over the fan at the glass.

She saw an old woman pointing at her. In the woman's pointing hand was a half smoked cigarette. The woman's arthritic gnarled fingers were stained yellow. She was using her other hand to hold onto something at her side that Wondra couldn't make out at first. But she saw a clear tube running from the woman's side to up around her face and nose. It was an oxygen tube. The elderly woman was actually smoking while on oxygen.

The elderly woman was talking to another old woman whose face was wrinkled and pockmarked. The pockmarked woman tried to say something back and her false teeth fell clean out of her mouth.

To the right was a middle-aged man eating cotton candy. His daughter, about seven, was tossing a sandwich baggie in the air. The baggie looked like it held water and a goldfish. She tossed it up high and it knocked her dad's cotton candy out of his hand. She laughed as she caught the baggie. Her dad yelled an expletive and bent to pick up his cotton candy, giving Wondra a nauseating view of his hairy butt crack. He took his daughter by the hand and pulled her away.

Next up were two teenaged boys. One wore a Lady Gaga T-shirt and sported black fingernails. The other wore a white wife beater with stains on it. An unlit cigarette was tucked behind one ear. He held up a handwritten sign that read, "Your a Rilly Fat Chik!"

A woman with a multi-colored headscarf and glasses and multiple chins who must've weighed four hundred pounds rode into view on some kind of three-wheeled cart. She looked aghast when she saw Wondra and then kept riding, the little tires squealing under her weight.

A young black kid wearing baggy pants with his underwear showing, a T-shirt and a shower cap stood with his face pressed against the glass. "Dang, she big!" was all he said until his friend, a stocky black kid with a metal rake in his kinky hair, slapped him on the back of the neck. They began pushing each other and security made them leave.

A red-haired woman wearing a too small tank top with huge hoop earrings and popping bubble gum came into view. She reached up to scratch her head and Wondra could see dark hair under the woman's arm. She yelled to her left and an older man came hobbling up on a cane. He had a huge protruding beer belly and white tufts of hair on his head. In his other hand he held a monstrous Milkshake.

"I told you not to get one of those Icees. What about your blood sugar, daddy? You don't listen. You already lost three toes!" she screamed.

Somewhere a baby started crying.

A fat boy of about ten was staring at Wondra while eating a chocolate bar. He kissed the glass with chocolate lips leaving a confectionary lip print.

A man coughing and sneezing into a handkerchief came by. He stopped to get a good luck at Wondra and then sneezed hard, spraying the glass with a fine mist of mucous. He tried wiping it with the hanky but it smeared.

Two teenaged girls came by with piercings in their nostrils, tongues, ears and eyebrows. They were sharing a cotton candy and holding hands. They shrugged when they saw Wondra and kept walking.

Two nuns in full habits came walking by. They stopped and said a prayer and kept on walking.

A man in his early twenties wearing a bathrobe and jeans, sporting spiked black hair and a goatee came shuffling up to the window. He stepped up close to the glass and let the robe fall open a bit. His fly was open and his semi-erect penis hung out. He smiled, gave it a tug with one hand and then quickly closed the robe before running off.

Wondra broke into peals of laughter. She chortled. She soon erupted like a laughter volcano. Big guffaws spilled out of her large body. Her belly shook and she threw her head back and laughed with abandon. She could barely catch her breath she was laughing so hard. Tears actually formed in the corners of her eyes she was belly laughing so much.

Instead of the usual people shuffling by her window, they began crowding in front of it now. Elderly folks, clueless, pimply teenagers, children eating gooey foods, obese patrons squeezing into the crowd...all pushing together to see the laughing fat woman.

Wondra looked up and seeing them all craning their necks with their goofy expressions of amazement and wonder, she laughed even harder, pointing at them.

"Thank you. Thank you, Memphis!"

She couldn't stop laughing.

BITCHSLAPPED

He shoved her backwards over the coffee table. She went down like one of Mike Tyson's early opponents, cracking her head on an end table. She rolled to her knees, blood dampening her dirty blonde hair. She was whimpering and trembling as she tried to get to her feet.

"Just fix me a damn sandwich and keep your mouth shut!" he barked and threw the TV Guide at her.

He retrieved his bottle of beer off of the coffee table and sat down in his recliner. He swigged some and thumbed the remote control. He found a baseball game on and left it on.

"I try to help you out by showin' you the consequences of threatenin' to leave. That crazy Denver bitch on the news was even going to take that poor guy's kid away from him. So he choked her ass to death. And what do you do? What do you say? You gotta run off at the mouth!"

She stood on wobbly knees.

"I only said the guy was going to prison for it," she whispered.

"That misses the whole point! Get my sandwich!!"

She limped into the kitchen and ran some cold water on a dishtowel and pressed it to her scalp. Still holding the towel in place, she retrieved bread, lunchmeat, cheese, lettuce and mayo from the fridge. She began preparing a sandwich with her free hand.

He turned the channel to wrestling and finished his beer. She brought the sandwich to him on a plate along with another cold bottle of beer. The dishtowel sat atop her head.

"You look like a friggin' A-rab," he laughed. He took the sandwich and beer. He ate half the sandwich and drank a third of the beer while she continued holding the compress to her head in the kitchen.

He pushed his bulk up from the recliner and moved to the doorway of the kitchen.

"Baby, I'm sorry. I don't mean to get so upset with you, Darla. You shouldn't push it when I'm in those moods. You bring this on yourself. I had a long, long day today. That Jew bastard, Lowenstein? He was riding me all day. I should've been foreman on this job and he knows it."

He took a few steps towards her and stopped when he saw she was cowering away.

"Your head okay? That was an accident, ya know. You gotta look where you're falling."

She didn't look at him.

"I'm going down to Chesterfield's and shoot some pool. Gotta blow off some steam. Look, I'll take you out this weekend. We'll go have a steak alright? Look in the papers and see what movies are playing. We'll make an evening of it. Darla, you know you're my one and only."

He picked up his sandwich and headed out the door to his pickup.

Chesterfield's was a dive. Gaudy neon lights and a haze of smoke. An old faded jukebox in the corner played the Righteous Brothers. The tables were small and the chairs were steel with cracked seat cushions. They seemed like chairs someone would have in the kitchen of their trailer. The bartenders kept the spirits flowing. Every once in a while, a band played on the tiny stage at the north end or the bar. It was usually some local garage rock band with bad amps. The owner, Nicky Chesterfield, prided himself on the fact that Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and two Rolling Stones roadies stopped in to drink the night away on October 4, 1981 after playing before a sellout crowd at Folsom Field in Boulder fifty miles away. There was an old photo of Nicky, Mick and Keith shitfaced on the tiny stage singing "Let's Spend The Night Together."

Rosie was bartending. She was a heavyset older redhead with large saggy, freckled breasts who dressed twenty years younger than she should. She wore hideous blue eye shadow and it looked as though Bozo the Clown had applied her lipstick. He was on his second beer when he called Rosie over for a shot of Jack Daniels.

As she poured the shot, the opening notes of the Stones' "Start Me Up" blared on the jukebox. Butch raised the shot glass and downed it and wiped his moist mouth with the back of his hand. He pointed to Rosie.

"C'mon Rosie, that's our song. You gotta let me have this dance!"

Rosie smirked and pantomimed like she was fixing her hair. Then she sashayed from around the bar and took Butch's hand. They maneuvered out onto the dance floor and began dancing to the music. A couple of old guys at the bar watched with big grins on their faces. A few college kids at tables turned to watch Butch and Rosie's clumsy dancing. They thought Rosie danced fairly well but Butch's moves were more stagger than Jagger. Someone started clapping in rhythm to the music and soon the whole bar was clapping and whooping and watching Butch and Rosie dance.

When the song ended, Butch pulled Rosie close, sank his face to her breasts and motorboated. The crowd laughed, applauded and hooted. Rosie went back around the bar, adjusting her shirt to hide more of her cleavage. Butch slid back on his stool, out of breath. He sat panting for a minute and then signaled for another shot of Jack Daniels.

"Butch, you're not running a tab tonight," Rosie said before breaking the seal on a bottle of Jack Black.

"Relax, Fun Bags. I got plenty of dough," he smiled patting the thick wallet in his jeans pocket. He reached in a shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Camels. He placed one between his lips and lit it with a lighter.

Rosie poured the shot of whiskey.

"Rosie, I been comin' here since Christ was on the cross. How come you never let me tap that ass?" Butch asked, blowing smoke out his nostrils.

"You remember when Nicky installed that mechanical bull in here right after Urban Cowboy came out in the 80's?" Rosie said, wiping the top of the bar down with a rag.

"Yeah. That was something. Used to really pack 'em in here on Saturday nights. I don't know why you guys ever got rid of the thing. What about it?"

"You could never stay on that for eight seconds, so I knew you couldn't handle me," she said and moved to the other end of the bar.

The two older fellows sitting next to Butch at the bar burst out laughing. "She

gotcha Butch!" one of the fellows guffawed.

Butch downed his shot and then slapped the old fellow off his stool. The man

landed hard on his back on the wood floor and every eye was on Butch, who was standing with fists clenched. The old man on the floor sat up, gingerly, pain written across his pockmarked face. Butch's chest was heaving and his face was red.

"Jesus, Butch...take it easy!" the other older fellow offered, hands out to Butch.

"You want some, old man?" Butch asked, raising a meaty fist.

Rosie had just picked up a Louisville Slugger when a slender woman half Butch's age took him by the hand. It startled Butch and he started to pull away until he looked at the pretty brunette. She was wearing a black and gold UC Boulder hoodie and tight jeans. Her hair was in a ponytail. Her eyes were large and almost sky blue.

"It's okay, Butch. Let's get out of here," she cooed.

Butch looked her up and down and then looked back at Rosie who was holding the bat like she was warming up at the plate.

On the way to the motel, he learned that her name was Jessie. She was a sophomore at the UC. She was from Crested Butte. She'd told him that she had a thing for older guys and how it had turned her on to see him deck that guy. He paid for the room slowly, wanting the geek behind the counter at the Motel 6 to notice the hot young coed he was about to bed. He hitched his jeans up over his beer belly and thrusted his chest out.

As soon as they got inside the room Jessie took off her hoodie. She wore a Colorado Buffaloes sweatshirt beneath it. She tugged that over her head. She wore a pink push up bra that perfectly framed her perky breasts. She pulled the tie out of her hair so her hair hung about her face like an auburn mane. Butch had slipped a flask out of his back pocket and sipped from it while he watched the striptease.

"I'm just what you deserve, Butch," she whispered.

"You're right. I do deserve you."

He didn't even see the punch that sent him to a knee. She threw it straight and it caught him at the temple. It sent him down, the flask flying end over end out of his hand spilling liquor down the front of his shirt and carpet.

"What the...."

"You like to hit girls. Try me," she hissed.

"What are you talking about? You one of my wife's friends?" Butch said, rising to his feet, fists clenched.

"I don't know your wife. I only know what you've done to her. And what you did to your ex-wife. She's still in the wheelchair. And I know what you did to your girlfriends before her."

"Who are you?" Butch said, taking a step towards Jessie, hands upraised.

"I'm who you deserve."

"Well, I'm gonna kick your ass! And then, I'm gonna tap it."

He swung at her head and he could've sworn he was going to connect. There was no way she could've dodged it. He expected her to go tumbling but before he could make heads or tails of his miss, she slapped him so hard, a tooth went flying. His jaw stung and his mouth was full of blood. He spat a crimson glob on the carpet.

"You little bitch!" he yelled and swung a big left at her.

She ducked it, moving like a boxer and scooped Butch up on her shoulders. He was incredulous. His feet were off the ground. He was breathing heavily. He couldn't believe where she'd gotten the strength. She tossed him into the dresser, which shattered a mirror against the wall and left him in a crumpled heap on the floor.

She put her sweatshirt back on.

"You don't seem so tough now, Butch. Go home to your wife and apologize."

Jessie grabbed her hoodie and left.

Butch drove home with his hands shaking and his jaw aching. His back throbbed. He would definitely have to call in sick in the morning. There was no way he could go to work with his back in this condition. But beyond the physical pain, he couldn't understand how she could've taken him. She was so slight. And how did she know about the women he'd been with? Perhaps she was the daughter of some girlfriend in his distant past, he thought.

The evening's events pissed him off. He was out fifty-four bucks on a room and he didn't even have sex. Plus, he'd been taken by a girl. He stomped up his walkway and stomped on some azaleas in the planter bed outside the front door. His wife had planted them, but he was good and pissed now.

He fumbled with his keys and opened the door. He shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He opened it, took a drink and then walked down the hall to the bedroom. The glow from Jay Leno on the tube illuminated the master bedroom. His wife was asleep on her side of the bed.

He set the beer down on the dresser and undressed, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. He downed the bottle and then crawled into bed, pushing up against his wife and putting his wet tongue in her ear. She wriggled and tried to move away from him. He found the remote and clicked off the television.

"What's the matter? You not happy to see me? I want some. I want....." his voice trailed off. His head whirled around.

There was a darkened figure in the doorway. He could see the outline of someone in the pale moonlight. One of their arms was up against the doorframe. There'd been some break-ins in the neighborhood. Butch had figured it was the darkies who'd moved in down the street. He rolled over, reached into his side table drawer and pulled out a chrome .357 magnum. He leveled the big pistol and squeezed the trigger.

BOOM.

His wife shrieked and fell out of bed, rolling herself up in the sheets. Butch sat up, fumbling with the lamp switch with one hand while holding the gun with the other. He clicked the light on. The room exploded into view.

He was expecting to see the body of some young black or perhaps a smoking pair of Jordans in the doorway but there was nothing. A small cloud of gunpowder hung in the air. He stood and searched the master bathroom and went down the hall and searched the rest of the house.

"Butch? What is it? What's going on?" he heard his wife calling.

He came back into the room.

"Why? What are you doing? Why are you shooting?" she asked, shivering on the floor, wrapped in a blanket.

"I had too much to drink tonight. I'm seeing things. It's okay. Get back in bed."

She stood slowly.

"Get in bed, woman!" he barked.

"Butch, put the gun away, please" she pleaded.

"You don't tell me what to do. Get in the bed and get your damn clothes off!" he snapped, waving the big pistol towards the bed.

Just then the sound of trickling water from the bathroom startled Butch.

"You see," he whispered, "Someone IS in here."

"Butch, it's just the leaky faucet. Okay? Put the gun away, baby. Let's go to bed."

Fear briefly seized him when he saw four fingers wrap themselves around the master bath doorjamb. The long pink nails said they belonged to a woman. He lifted the gun. Jessie stepped out of the bathroom.

"You followed me home, bitch?" he growled.

"Why not? You're not done, so I'm not done."

"I know who you are, bitch. But now you're on my turf!" Butch spat aiming the gun at her chest.

His wife took a step back and held the blankets tighter around her body.

"Baby, who are you talking to?" she asked.

"This bitch jumped me outside of Chesterfield's, " he lied.

Jessie stared at Butch with those sky blue eyes.

"This is the part that's going to rock your world, Butch," she whispered.

"But there's nobody there, honey," his wife whispered, trembling.

Butch turned to look at his wife like she was nuts. He looked back at Jessie, who crossed her arms in front of her.

"What are you talking about? You can't see this bimbo standing here? Are you fucking blind??" he yelled.

Jessie took a step towards Butch and he backed up against the bed. "She's telling you the truth, Butch. She can't see me. You're going to treat her with love and respect from now on. Or I'll never leave. "

"Oh I get it. You two are working together. I knew you knew my wife. You think you're going to mess with my head some? Is that what you think?" he shouted.

"Don't ever raise your hand or your voice to her again. And you will remember her birthday, your anniversary and every other special day. You owe her. If not, you get me. And I'm really who you deserve, not her," Jessie whispered.

"You're trespassing. You messed with the wrong guy. I'm completely within my rights," Butch said and he shot her.

Jessie screamed and crumpled to the carpet. His wife shrieked and backed against the wall. Butch turned to his wife.

"Call 911 and tell them that your husband just shot a burglar," he directed, "Call 'em right now!"

"But...but...." his wife's mouth was trembling.

"But what?" he asked.

"But you didn't shoot anyone," his wife said, meekly.

Butch turned back to Jessie and saw that she was still standing there, arms folded. Butch's face contorted in horror. He looked at the floor where he'd saw her fall and searched her chest for blood.

He fired four more times at Jessie's chest, emptying the revolver. His wife sank to the floor, jerking with every shot, whimpering and crying. Each time he fired, Jessie smiled.

She pulled off her hoodie and pulled off the sweatshirt exposing the pink bra and perky breasts. She pointed to her chest.

"No holes. Do you wanna reload?" she asked.

Butch dropped the gun to the floor and ran at Jessie, reaching for her neck. He ran right into the wall. Confused, he turned around to see Jessie sitting on his bed.

"This isn't real. This is a dream," Butch croaked and slipped down to the floor.

"It's not a dream, baby," his wife answered. She came walking slowly towards him, wrapped in a blanket.

"I had a life, Butch," Jessie said from across the room. "I met a guy in college. We had a kid. He convinced me to leave school and move with him to Denver. And he was just like you. He beat me. Battered me. Dislocated my jaw. Blackened my eyes. Broke my ribs. When he threatened to kill our baby, I told him I was leaving him. We would disappear and he'd never find us."

Butch was crying now in his hands. His wife knelt down and held his hands as he wept, his body convulsing.

"And he...he...choked you to death...." Butch muttered between sobs.

"What?" his wife whispered.

"She was just trying to get away....and he choked her..." he cried. His cries turned into big gasping sobs as he thought about the many women he'd hurt over the years. And for a moment, he could feel every injury. He could feel the pain of a broken nose, a black eye, a hard slap, and a fall down some stairs. His body jerked and shuddered as he experienced the pain. He moaned and curled up into a fetal position on the carpet, sobbing and heaving.

Jessie walked over until she was standing over the couple.

"You've got a lot of atoning to do. You don't deserve her. You deserve me, Butch. Mistreat her one more time and you're done. This won't end the way my life ended. Try me, " Jessie whispered, putting on her hoodie. With that she knelt and stroked his wife's hair.

His wife started and turned quickly.

"What?" Butch asked.

"I thought I felt something."

Jessie melted through the wall of the bedroom. Butch held his wife the rest of the night.

NO GOOD DEED

I didn't want to date this guy but it was a slow night. He cruised by twice already. The first time, I flashed him my ass. I like to wear short skirts when I'm working. No panties. I like to advertise the wares. But I still try to be discreet when I do it. I'm different from a lot of these hoes out here. They'll do anything to catch a trick.

The first problem was the guy was rolling a bucket. It was an AMC Spirit. Do you ever see any of those on the road anymore? So I knew he was a cheap bastard from the get go. He pulled over on the third pass and I shoved my tits in his passenger window. I'm proud of my girls. 44DD and saggy, but I make the most of them.

Hey, I'm not one of these Barbie dolls that the big spenders like to roll with from the escort services out here. I'm not embarrassed to say that I pack 185 lbs. on a 5'7" frame. I make the most with what I got and if the tits don't get 'em, the ass will.

He didn't look like a dirt bag. In fact, he looked clean cut. Slacks, a sweater over a white dress shirt. White guy with a red crew cut. The crew cut was something I tried to avoid because it was usually worn by rigid assholes that were into really kinky stuff. That's just been my experience.

"Are you dating?" I asked.

"Yeah. I'm not a cop. Half and half. I got forty bucks."

Who the hell did he think he was dating? What was it that he thought I was? Did it say Charity Ho on my forehead? This was 2011. I realize the economy isn't what it was but I'm in a recession-proof business. I rolled cheap back in the day but things were different. It was a lot harder on these streets. And for me to work my magic, I needed incentive.

"Baby, you need to come up with another forty dollars," I told him and removed my girls from his window.

"A blowjob then. Forty bucks."

I opened the car door and climbed in. We rolled off into the night. I kept glancing at him because he looked familiar as hell. Maybe he was someone else's regular and I'd seen him on the stroll before. Looked to be one of Cecilia's guys. This seemed to be the kind of square she liked to bang real quick for quick crack money.

"Where we doing it, baby?" I asked him.

"I got a room at the Riviera."

What the hell? The Riviera was one of the most expensive hotels in downtown Baltimore. Who was this guy kidding? If he could afford a room at that place, he could've called an escort service. Something wasn't right about this guy. Maybe he was one of those super freaks who liked women to play dead or use a cheese grater on his balls. I'm game for some freaky stuff but I'm not sandblasting anyone's nuts or drawing blood or anything like that. I'm not that desperate for cash, you know what I'm saying?

"What's the story with you? Hope you don't mind me askin' but how you got a room at the Riviera but you rollin' in a bucket?"

"First car I ever owned. I roll it when I don't want to get recognized these days."

He still looked familiar to me but I couldn't place him. I see a lot of men in my line of work. Maybe I sold this dude some ass a year ago and I just forgot about it.

We ended up at the Riviera. He wasn't bullshitting. Lights, gold fixtures and valets in little red jackets. The valet parked the car and we strolled right into the hotel. Big bronze statues in the lobby. Real trees growing up in there. The elevators were glass. We turned some heads walking in there that late but nobody said anything. It made me feel good that he didn't try to sneak me in or have me walk in separately like a lot of high-falutin' folks would do.

When we got to his floor, a guy said hello and asked my date for an autograph. My date scribbled his name and some bullshit sentiment on a piece of paper the other guy provided. They shook hands and we continued on to his room. He used a keycard to get in. The room was awesome, done up in red and gold. There were like pearly white Roman columns in there. There was a sofa and a plasma TV on the wall. There was a full bar and a bedroom suite.

"So who are you? You look familiar to me," I asked him.

"You, too...huh?"

"You ain't gotta tell me if you don't want to." I didn't want him to think I was the type to be all up in his business. I just couldn't place him and I knew I knew him from somewhere.

He looked better in the light of the room. You could tell that he worked out and had a pretty slamming body under those clothes. He poured himself and me a drink. It looked like and smelled like Crown Royal and after I sipped it, I knew it was indeed the Crown. He sat down on the sofa and put his feet on the glass coffee table.

"I'm Buck McDonald. That name mean anything to you?" he said and sipped his drink.

"Shit yeah. You play second base. Baltimore Orioles. I knew I knew you."

But now that the mystery was solved, it just spurred more questions. He knew what I was thinking because he invited me to sit with him on the sofa.

"You're wondering why I picked you up when I could've ordered some broad in here. Some high priced call girl."

I tried to savor my drink because I didn't know if he'd pour me another.

"I know you can have any woman you want. She doesn't even got to be a ho. You must have tons of groupies hanging outside the stadium after your games. But you know what? That ain't my business. Everybody does what they want to do," I said and took another drink. I had the feeling I was talking too much.

He looked over at me with his gray eyes. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He slipped one out between his lips and pulled a gold lighter out of his pocket. After he lit his cigarette, he tossed the pack to me.

"I don't smoke. I drank. That's my vice," I told him.

He waved a hand towards the bar. I got up, kicked off my heels (whew, my feet and calves hurt from those heels) and walked over to the bar and refilled my glass. I came back to the sofa and sat down, turning towards him.

"That's why I chose you. You looked like you had a good head on your shoulders. That's what I was looking for tonight," he said and drank some of his drink.

I ain't never heard someone say that before. Tricks usually talk about my juggs or my ass. My legs ain't what they used to be so I don't get that many compliments on them anymore. Still, I didn't know what he was up to.

"Baby, are you ready for that blowjob?" I asked. I didn't know what else to say. I mean, if I was only making forty dollars for this, as nice as the room was, I was losing money. I could be on the street trickin'.

He took a drag on his cigarette, let it out after a few seconds and took a sip from his drink.

"How about I have you for the whole night?" he said in a tired, tired voice.

"Baby, I could go through ten dates in a night. At eighty dollars a john, that's almost a thousand dollars."

"I don't' carry cash. Never have. And I doubt you take credit cards. Tell you what...." He set his drink on the coffee table and stood up. He pulled long on his cigarette and then set it on a glass ashtray. He unsnapped his gold and silver watch and handed it to me.

I took it, rolled it over in my hands and noted the manufacturer. Rolex.

"Baby, I done seen plenty of knockoff Rolexes on the street."

"You think I'd be wearing a knockoff? That's a Rolex Oyster GMT-Master II. 18 karat gold. I paid $7,500 for that watch. Don't take it to a pawn shop because they'll rip you off. "

I slipped it on my wrist. I believed him.

"Okay...you got me for the night. We'll do some of everything. I'll tell you what. We can do it all but I don't mess around with bathroom functions if you know what I mean and I don't get tied up."

He ground out his cigarette and laughed. He picked up the phone next to him and punched a button.

"You hungry?" he asked softly.

I'd had a fried chicken basket from Freddie's for lunch earlier in the day. Must've been eleven hours earlier. I could eat. I nodded yes and took another gulp of my drank. I felt like Julia Roberts in that fake ho movie that came out years ago. Every so often you have a ho on the street bragging about some rich john that treated her like a queen but we know for the most part, it's bullshit. Sometimes you do hook up with someone willing to spread a little money around but they're usually kinky as hell and your ass hurts for a week. Your pride and dignity never do come back.

"Yes, can I have two Wellingtons sent up. Yeah, with the baby greens and risotto. And an order of crab legs."

"A shrimp salad sandwich?" I offered. Hell, why not?

"And a shrimp salad sandwich. And let me get two pieces of chocolate pie. Ice water, too. Thank you."

After he hung up, I couldn't take it anymore. I finished my second drink.

"You got to tell me what we're doing tonight."

He half-smiled. He peeled off his sweater and unbuttoned two buttons on the dress shirt beneath. He unbuttoned the wrists and rolled the sleeves up. His forearms looked thick and chiseled, as did his pecs peeking out the top of his shirt. He held up one finger and disappeared into the bedroom suite. While he was gone, I unbuttoned my blouse all the way and let it drape open. My bra barely contained my massive mammaries and I wanted him to get a good eyeful when he came back.

But it was me who got the eyeful when he came back. I jumped up from the sofa, holding my shirt closed when he came walking back into the living room holding a Glock.

"What the hell's the gun fo'?" I found myself asking. I didn't like guns. Didn't like gun play. I once had a John who wanted to hold a loaded gun to my head while he did me and I got the hell up out of there. I don't do that freaky stuff.

"Relax. I'm not going to hurt you. I want to have a good night with you. And in the morning, when the sun comes up and you're long gone...I'm going to blow my brains out."

Now I don't know why I didn't walk out the door when he came back with that pistol. I don't like guns. And yeah, I was scared. But none of this made any sense. It was like that crazy Robert DeNiro... no, wait...It was Al Pacino. Yeah, that Al Pacino movie where he was a blind ex-Army general or something and went to New York to kill himself. Here I was caught up in some shit like that.

We'd ate the room service and I'm not going to lie. It was good. It was some of the best food I've eaten in a long time. Usually I grab a meal on the go. I'm not used to eating with fancy dishes and embroidered cloth napkins and shit. I'd asked general questions about him being depressed and whatnot and he pretty much assured me that he wasn't exactly depressed. I'd asked if he had a terminal illness and he told me he was healthy as an ox. I could see the man's physique. He spent hours in the gym. Either that or he was on them 'roids but that ain't my business.

Now after dinner, I was having another drink, sitting on a plush chair with one of my big drumstick legs draped over the side of it. The Glock was on the coffee table. I made him put a small hand towel over it. He was sitting on the sofa with one hand down his pants. Not in a suggestive way. Just the way some men do after having a big meal. He smoked with the other hand.

"So why you doing this? Didn't I read where you make like three million a year?"

"It's true what they say. Money doesn't buy happiness. "

What the hell did this fool just say? Money don't buy happiness? Only people who got money say stupid shit like that. This guy had it made and he's talking about killing himself? How could I relate to this? How could I let this happen? I'm not a big baseball fan but I've seen this man play ball. Kids look up to this fool. Here I am in a room with him, a nice room, and in a matter of hours he's going to throw it all away. I can't let that go down. Just couldn't do it. Couldn't have that on my conscience.

He looked straight at me and counted off his possessions with his fingers. "Looky here...I got a $3 million house in Sherwood overlooking the Chesapeake Bay. I've got horses and dogs. I've got a Hummer, a fully restored '65 Mustang, a Corvette and a Lamborghini. I've got a forty-five-foot Viking Sport Cruiser that I fish in the bay on. My wife is Sherry Bail. You've probably seen her. She's the weatherperson on WBAL. Former Miss Maryland. I've got a three-year-old daughter named Matty. She's my little princess. Beautiful girl. I've got it all. American dream."

"Baby, what's not to love?" I asked him, dead serious.

"I'm on the road. I'm living out of suitcases. I'm banging groupies in city after city. I'm giving clichéd answers to inane questions from hung-over sportswriters who wish they had one-tenth the talent I do. All the while there's a guy behind me who wants my job so I've gotta perform. Gotta perform like a trained monkey on the diamond. I'm posing for pictures. I'm signing autographs. I'm eating bad food. I'm eating good food. My family is just voices on the telephone. Then everything repeats. Everything repeats."

"You still haven't gotten to the bad part."

"I'm vacationing in the Bahamas. I'm on a cruise with the family. I'm seeing the Pyramids. The Eiffel Tower. The Great Wall of China. And it's all the same. It's planning next year's vacation. It's parties. It's a rat race. It's a fucking rat race that goes nowhere because I'm already at the pinnacle. What's going to make me happier? Winning a pennant? Maybe. But even if I never win a series, I'm already living like a rock star. Life isn't fun because in the competition of life, I've already won. I have what everyone wants. And the sad part..the pathetic part is...I realized...I don't want it so much. Is this it? Eating lobster? The ability to fly to Paris for dinner? Being in a magazine? Being on TV? Meeting Paris Hilton? Is this what everyone wants? I can no longer be impressed."

I set my glass down on the coffee table. My head was feeling woozy from the booze.

"Man, you really are talking crazy. Yeah, that's what everyone wants. You think I want to be out on the streets trickin'?"

"What was your dream?"

Suddenly I felt like smoking. I get like this after a lot of alcohol sometimes. I asked him for a cigarette and he tossed me the pack and his lighter. I lit one up, coughed like a newbie and then started smoking like a contender. He went to the bar, got the Crown Royal bottle and poured me another.

"You got any Hennessy?" I heard myself ask.

He laughed and went back to the bar. He pulled out a snifter and a bottle of Hennessy. He poured me a snort and set the snifter down in front of me next to the glass of Royal. He took the pack of cigarettes from me and lit another for himself. He took off his shirt. He was ripped. His abs were chiseled. His pecs were firm. He laid down on the sofa.

"Tell me your dream."

I reached for the snifter. Breathed it in. The real deal. I took a sip and it tingled down my throat like liquid gold.

"I wanted to be a singer. I used to sing in my church choir. I went to Bethel AME on Druid Hill Avenue. Lord, I could lift up my voice and sang like a young Aretha. I ain't lyin'. I had a gift of the spirit. Me and my baby sister turned it out every Sunday."

"So you never made it. What happened? Drugs?"

I felt my chest tighten. I don't normally talk about my baby sister, not even with the hoes on the stroll. And I have some good friends out there. Just thinking back to the church days almost made me want to well up right there but being on the streets have made me push my feelings low. I stood on 'em. I stomped 'em back down.

My hands were shaking. I finished the Hennessy and set the glass down.

"My baby sister got brain cancer and died when she was thirteen. A month later my boyfriend was shot in the head by a stray bullet and died three days later.....I was sixteen. I didn't set foot back in the church....I didn't want to hear it. My momma kept telling me I needed to pray to Jesus and I didn't want no parts of Jesus. Fuck Jesus!"

My hands were shaking again. I smoked the cigarette to calm myself down. My heart was pounding in my chest.

He sat up and for a minute, he was going to come over and maybe put an arm around me. I could see it in his eyes. But I held up a hand at him. Stop sign. I couldn't allow that. I didn't need his comfort. Plus, I was just too pissed.

"Motherfucker, you got every reason to live. You got what every brother on the street is fighting and dying trying to get. You got it. You got it right in the palm of your hand just because you can hit a baseball with a bat. You got a gold-plated life playing a kids game for mo' money in a year than most people in this country will see in a lifetime! And you don't even want it! You don't even appreciate it!!!"

I was yelling at him now. It came out in a rush like vomit. I couldn't stop it but what he'd said had hurt me so. It was so offensive to me. Who could be that selfish? Who could be that blind?

"Forget the money! Think of your wife. Think of your child. Are you gonna do this shit to your three year old daughter? Are you gonna leave her alone in this messed up world just because you're bored? At least leave her with a better reason than that. Don't your kin mean anything to you? Your daughter should be your world. There should be no question. You're going to leave behind the two people who should mean the most to you. More than all those things, those possessions you have," I was on a roll and couldn't stop myself.

He just stared at me, blinking like an idiot. He was trying to think of something to say but I didn't want to hear his voice. I didn't want to hear any more reasons.

"I was pregnant when my boyfriend died. I wasn't supposed to be having sex. I knew it was wrong but I loved him and I said yes when Jesus was telling me to say no. I wanted his baby so bad. My momma threw me out the house when she found out! She called me horrible names and threw me on the street. I drank and smoked that baby to death. Premature. Stillborn. I wanted that baby so bad. I wanted it so bad and you have a child... you have a child with everything. With everything you could hope for. And you throwing it away."

He grounded his cigarette out in the ashtray and then walked across the living room. He had his hands in his pockets. I don't know what he was thinking but he looked deep in thought. I thought maybe I'd pissed him off so bad he was going to come back and shoot me.

"You've had a life of adversity. Hardship. Pain. You're still engaged in life because life is a struggle to you," he was saying. His voice sounded far away. Like he wasn't even talking to me. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking out a big window that gave a spectacular view of Baltimore at night. I was expecting more but he didn't say anything else. He just stood there gazing out the window, his eyes going back and forth like a shark.

I got up and set my cigarette down in the ashtray. I downed the Crown Royal drink in front of me. My legs felt wobbly. I walked over to him and stood behind him. His hands were still in his pockets. I leaned against him from behind. He stood firm, just staring out that window. Deep breaths. I was shaking.

"Guess you got more than you bargained for by picking me up," I whispered.

"No....no....I needed it. I needed your clarity."

I reached around and felt the front of his pants. I started rubbing my palm against him I could hear his breathing grow louder. He turned to face me. I pulled his left hand out of his pocket and shoved it under my mini-skirt. I wanted him to know that I was excited. I was excited. And I don't get excited for any john. There was just something about letting my emotions out like that. I led him to the bedroom.

I blinked awake. My head hurt. I didn't know where I was. My mouth was dry, tongue was thick and my breath stank like an ashtray. I was lying in a king-sized waterbed with silk sheets. I was still in the room at the Riviera. The room was decorated in gold and red like Ringling Brothers had done the decorating. I looked at the clock radio on the nightstand.

8:25 A.M. Sunlight had sliced into the room from the middle of the curtains that were closed against the side window. Dust particles floated in the sliver of yellow light.

I got up. I was naked. My head pounded. I was still wearing the Rolex, at least. I stumbled into the bathroom and took a hot shower. The water felt good on my body. Reinvigorated me. The soaps and shampoos were all name brand and high quality. I washed my hair and face and body. I felt like a girl. Like a woman. And not a ho.

There were all sorts of toiletries available. I brushed and flossed. I tried various lotions on the counter. I put on deodorant. On a small pink table in the bathroom sat clothes he'd purchased from the gift shop. Black Baltimore Orioles sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He'd had my underwear laundered during the night. Now that was going the extra mile. It touched me that he'd had that done during the night so I could put on something clean. I got dressed and was surprised to find the room empty. The Glock was still under a towel on the coffee table.

The door to the room opened and McDonald walked in with a white terrycloth robe wrapped around him.

"Hey, you're up. I like to take a swim in the mornings. Let me order up some breakfast. I'll have a car drop you wherever you like. I've got a team meeting at ten."

I was brushing my hair out. I looked at him and then I looked at the gun on the coffee table. I raised my eyebrows. I didn't need to say anything. He walked over to me and hugged me. I stiffened under his hug because I'm not used to affection like that. But he felt good. He smelled like Polo and chlorine.

"You made a lot of sense last night. I just needed to talk to someone with a good head on their shoulders. I can count on you to be discreet, right? You're not going to try to peddle this story to the National Enquirer, are you?"

"Hell no. I get to keep this watch, right?"

He laughed.

"You earned it."

"Did he really say that shit about the National Enquirer?" the Enquirer reporter asked me.

It snapped me out of my thoughts. My memories. I took a drag on the cigarette and flicked the ashes in the tin ashtray on the table in front of me. The reporter sat in front of me awaiting an answer. He had his hands palm up on the table.

"Yeah, he said that."

"I'm going to go see what's keeping Phyllis with our lunch and then we'll finish up with this, okay?" he said, standing, slipping his digital recorder in his pocket. He left his briefcase on the table after shoving a folder, photos and a legal pad in it. I just nodded as he left the room.

A tear, fat and wet, sat on my check and my eyes were moist. The tear surprised me. I wiped it away and another one came. My chest heaved and burned. It was like I couldn't draw my breath. I set the cigarette down and drew some Kleenex out of the box on the table. I really didn't think I'd need any tissue. I'd done so well. I dried my eyes and blew my nose.

I reached across the desk for the briefcase. My long pink fingernails dug through the papers to the mockup of next week's National Enquirer. He'd showed it to me when he first came in but I didn't really want to look at it. I slid it out and moved it over in front of me, rotating it 180 degrees to look at it.

There was an old picture of Buck McDonald on his yacht, the Rabid Wolverine. His beautiful wife and darling daughter were on the deck wearing life jackets. The perfect little family.

The headline read, "Baseball Player Kills Family, Self. Enquirer Exclusive: The Untold Story."

I broke down in sobs. What did I do?

VICTUALS

Rooster Fallow had been driving for hours. His red 1970, Hemi-powered Plymouth Barracuda streaked down the searing hot blacktop. The two-lane road split the desert on either side. Nothing but hot sands, tumbleweeds, cacti and distant orange rock formations. He'd left L.A., streaked through Arizona and was now charging through New Mexico, the engine banging away, eating up the miles. The fat orange mid-afternoon sun hung hot in the sky scorching the desert earth below.

He had to get out of dodge. He hadn't expected the argument with his girlfriend to get physical. He didn't even remember what they were arguing about. After he'd slapped her across the face and sent a tooth flying, she'd slung a sizzling skillet-ful of scrambled eggs against his neck. Rooster had shrieked like a banshee and pounced on her as she tried to run out of the kitchen. He slammed her head against the wall. When she crumpled to the floor, he added a swift kick to her midsection for good measure. He kicked her twice more in the ribs. He hated having to get physical with her. He'd been good about not putting his hands on her. Well, at least ever since that time six months earlier when he'd choked her and caused the miscarriage. But he'd sworn to her that he'd never touch her again.

He'd even taken her out the weekend after the miscarriage. They saw a romantic comedy that he mostly slept through but afterwards he'd shelled out big dollars for a seafood dinner at Red Lobster. It was there, with a belly full of popcorn shrimp and beer, that he'd proposed to her and swore to her that he would never touch her again.

Rooster had even taken an anger management course. Well, he attended the first two sessions and spent the next four weeks drinking with buddies during his meeting times, but he'd read the book they assigned. He couldn't relate. He just didn't see himself as an abuser.

When they'd argue, and his face would grow red with that purplish vein bulging in his neck, she would remind him that he swore not to hurt her and he would punch a pillow or take a walk or smoke. Then they'd have fantastic sex and afterwards he'd say, "May God strike me dead if I ever lay a hand on you in anger."

Now, he'd gone and done it.

As she sputtered and gasped and dialed the LAPD, he was hightailing it out the door. He had two strikes and wasn't about to wait and let the State of California decide where he was going to spend the next forty years.

Rooster pushed his sunglasses up higher on the bridge of his nose and then slid an ejected cassette tape into his tape player. The Steve Miller Band exploded over his speakers. He air-guitared a bit across the steering wheel and then slid a half pack of Pall Malls out of his shirt pocket. He eased a bent cigarette in his mouth and pushed in the cigarette lighter.

He lit the cigarette and then cracked his window before inhaling. He reached for a bottle of Budweiser in a cup holder. There was only a swallow left in the bottle. He swallowed it and immediately wished he hadn't. It was warm and bitter. He flung the bottle out the partially open window and was hundreds of feet down the road before it shattered.

He was hungry. And thirsty. His burnt neck still stung. The only thing he'd had to eat in the last eight hours was a king size Three Musketeers bar. His stomach did flip-flops. His throat was dry and his lips were parched. The cigarette wasn't helping. He flicked the cigarette out the window.

Then he saw it. On the horizon. It was an establishment of some kind. He started braking and came to a sliding stop in front of a dilapidated wood diner with a sign that read "MA'S KETTLE." There was a beat up dusty Ford Fairlane parked in front of the place. To the right of the ramshackle eatery was what appeared to be a used car lot with multicolored flags and streamers. There were about twenty cars, all with stickers on them at ridiculously low prices.

Rooster stepped out onto the gravel parking lot in his snakeskin boots and into the blazing afternoon sun. There was still a cloud of dust drifting over the parking lot of cars. He looked down the roadway and could see vibrating, writhing unfocused heat waves rising from the blacktop on the horizon. When he inhaled, he inhaled dry heat and dust. He slowly walked towards the door of Ma's Kettle, his boots crunching the gravel rocks.

He pressed a finger to the side of one nostril and blew a fat snot rocket onto the ground. He hitched up his jeans and reached for the worn brass doorknob of the eatery.

Once inside, he had to say he was impressed. There were booths along the front wall and a long counter with red vinyl stools. One half of the eatery was taken up by what looked like a flea market. There were watches, rings, earrings, shoes, belts and money clips laid out on tables for sale. There were clothes hanging on racks. The prices looked very low indeed.

The bathroom door opened and an older fellow wearing overalls, a starched white shirt and yellow tie came walking out, mopping his wrinkled brow with a yellow-checkered handkerchief.

"Thank you, Ma, for a most delicious lunch," the old man said to a rotund lady with a gray beehive hairdo who stood on the other side of he counter wearing a white apron over a cream colored dress. She held a long wooden spoon.

"You betcha. You're a good man, Reverend. Good people always love ma's victuals," she smiled.

The old man nodded a hello to Rooster as he made his way out. There were no other patrons in the restaurant. He walked up to the counter like a gunslinger and sat down on a stool. He tossed his sunglasses on the counter. Ma hobbled over to wear Rooster sat. Her face was nothing but lines upon lines. Her glasses sat at the tip of her nose.

"Welcome to Ma's Kettle. I'm ma. You can look up one side of God's creation to the other, over hill and dale and hither and yon...but you will never find more tasty victuals than mine...you will eat them til they're gone."

Her voice was soothing, like music.

"I'm Rooster."

"Rooster? How'd you get such a tasty moniker?" she asked, plump fists on her hips, still holding the wooden spoon.

"Years ago, I did a little time. I was always up before everybody. Other inmates used to use me like a wake up call."

Ma just stared at Rooster, her face showing no emotion.

"Hey, I never seen cars so cheap out there. You must do a lot of business....Well, I'm starving. Can I see a menu?" Rooster asked

"No menus. We only serve my stew here. It's an old family recipe. I swear you haven't had victuals like this."

"Okay, give me a plate of that. And a tall glass of iced tea."

The woman filled a tall plastic tumbler with ice and opened a big old white refrigerator and retrieved a huge pitcher of tea. She poured the glass nearly full, put the pitcher away and she set the glass down in front of Rooster. While Rooster began chugging the beverage, he noticed with one eye open that the woman reached down and hoisted up a heavy metal container. It was about the size of the holiday popcorn containers he'd seen at the Wal-Mart.

The woman grabbed a heavy cast iron skillet and set it on an old stove. She turned on the burner. Orange and blue flames licked the bottom of the skillet. She pried open the lid of the container and used her wooden spoon to scoop out a heaping spoonful of a brownish-beige powder. She dumped it into the skillet.

Rooster set his half empty glass down and watched her work.

She used a measuring cup to measure a cup of cold water and slowly poured it into the pan. Then she adjusted the flame beneath the pan and began stirring. As she stirred she hummed a little tune. It was catchy and Rooster found himself tapping his foot.

"Where ya headed?" the woman asked, with her back to him, steadily stirring the contents of the skillet.

"I'm headed East, I guess. Don't really have a destination."

"Fleeing something?" the old woman asked, turning the heat back up on the stovetop.

"Uh..." Rooster began drinking his tea again and finished it. "Let's just say I want my past to stay in the past."

"Good luck with that, sugar," Ma said, turning only long enough to wink at Rooster.

Soon the restaurant was filled with a wonderful aroma of what smelled like beef and gravy. Rooster's stomach rumbled. Ma stopped stirring and turned off the burner. She slid a wide round plate out from under the counter and used the wooden spoon to scoop up some kind of chunk of meat and ladle some gravy over the top. She set the steaming plate in front of Rooster and wiped the counter down with a hand towel.

"There ya are!" she sang.

Rooster chuckled. She took his glass, refilled it with ice and tea and placed it back in front of him.

"This is just some kind of powder and water," Rooster mused, picking up a fork.

Ma walked away from him to the end of the counter. She slid a cigarette from behind her ear and lit it.

Rooster took a bite of the meat like substance. He chewed. It was something akin to beef but much richer. It was sweet and seasoned perfectly. He could almost feel and taste the consistency of creamy, buttery mashed potatoes right along with the meat. It was scrumptious. It was delightful. He began eating it faster and faster.

Ma smoked her cigarette and smiled down at the end of the counter. She used the hand towel at her waist to dab her forehead of sweat. She used her free hand to wave smoke away from Rooster and his delicious meal.

When Rooster was finished, he felt like licking the plate. Instead, he downed his tea and sat back with a hand on his belly.

"Whoa doggy! I ain't never tasted something as good as that. And how you made it was just dang amazing," Rooster said, standing from his seat.

"How much I owe ya, Ma?" he said, opening his eel skin wallet and thumbing through bills.

"All of it," Ma laughed.

Rooster laughed and when he did, he noticed that Ma had stopped laughing.

The wallet fell from his fingers and plunked down on the counter, bills fluttering down around it. Rooster's eyes bulged and he clutched his stomach and shuddered. His face turned bright red and sweat broke out across his forehead. He tried to steady himself by standing and holding onto the countertop but his knees wobbled and his fingers trembled. His eyes shut tightly and a thick vein snaked up the right side of his head, pulsing wildly.

"What did you---?" he started.

He tried to take a step but collapsed into a heap of dust on the wood floor!

Ma set her cigarette in an ashtray and came out from around the counter. She picked up the wallet and put all the money in the cash register. Then she set Rooster's watch, rings and wallet over on the table of trinkets for sale. She shook out his clothes and hung them on the racks with the rest of the clothes for sale. She poured the dust out of the snakeskin boots and set them prominently on a middle table and set a fair price for them.

Then she went to the back of the kitchen and returned with a broom and dustpan. She swept up the dust that was Rooster and carried it back behind the counter. She once again pried open the big metal container and emptied the contents of the dustpan into it. She closed the lid, put the container back under the counter and walked over to the end of the counter.

She started smoking her cigarette again.

A family of four, a man, his wife and two teenaged sons came walking through the door. The man used a bandana to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck.

"It's hot as blazes out there. Those are some of the cheapest car prices I've ever seen, " the man started.

The family sat themselves in a booth. Ma came walking over.

"Welcome to Ma's Kettle. I'm Ma," she smiled.

"Well, I'm famished. Can we get some menus?"

"No need for 'em. We only serve my victuals here."

UDDER NONSENSE

Old Man Crenshaw scared every child on the block. No, he didn't live in a creepy old Norman Bates style house. There was no old oak tree in the front yard with branches that looked like talons. He lived in a regular tract house like the others that dotted the subdivision. His lawn was neatly manicured like all of the other lawns since they were taken care of by the homeowners association. His house didn't really stand out at all.

But he did. He was tall. Six foot three. And the few white hairs he had were combed over his bullet shaped head. His wrinkles had wrinkles. He had two glassy gray eyes that needed hugely thick bifocals in order to operate correctly. He was old and moved slow, like a drunken two-legged tortoise. His left hand was gnarled by arthritis and he usually kept it hidden in a robe pocket. He used the other hand to wag his finger as he admonished neighborhood children to be quiet, keep their dogs quiet, to not walk on his lawn, to not bounce balls, and to not use their Heelys or rollerblades or skateboards as they passed his house.

He had a thing about noise. It was as if he expected to live in a world of perfect silence.

Once he admonished a dog walker for repetitive sneezing in front of his house.

He never smiled. Neighborhood kids overheard him berating food delivery people all the time. Evidently he had to have food delivered because he could not cook for himself. So every day there was a pizza delivery person or Chinese takeout or sandwich shop employee walking up his walkway with steamy deliveries in hand. He always found something wrong. They were two minutes late. The food was too cold. Too hot. Not spicy enough. Too spicy. He always made the person wait as he pulled a fork out of his robe to sample whatever food he'd ordered. Most of the time he grumbled about the food but accepted it. He would never tip more than seventy-five cents.

The police had been out to his house on more than one occasion because of Crenshaw's disrespect for his neighbors. He once sprayed Brian Plimpton with the garden hose when Brian refused to walk his skateboard past Crenshaw's house. He splattered the paperboy with an egg the morning after he found his paper on his walkway and not his porch. There was the time 12-year-old 180 lb. Otis Borsht waddled by Old Man Crenshaw's house noisily crunching potato chips from a huge bag. Crenshaw lobbed a remote control from his porch that knocked the bag of chips into the street.

He even took Otis' parents to small claims court for the cost of the remote. The judge threw out the case and then fined Old Man Crenshaw $100 after Crenshaw gave the judge a tongue-lashing.

He was rumored to have poisoned two dogs and three cats. None of the animals died but they were very sick and required hefty vet bills. When confronted about it, Old Man Crenshaw would angrily deny harming any animal. As evidence of his animal-loving nature he would then launch into a protracted story of the time he once saw an emaciated kitty on his porch and he felt so bad seeing it there that he almost gave it a saucer of milk. He even allowed it to stay on his porch for two days drinking from a puddle on his walkway.

To be as old as he was, he had the strangest, foulest mouth. He would launch into tirades using awful imaginary curse words that sounded worse than real ones. And he didn't care who heard his vile words. He'd shake his good fist and say the most hurtful, hateful things when he wasn't getting his way.

So it was fitting what happened that day. That Saturday morning when he'd sat down at his breakfast table with his shredded wheat and instant coffee and prune juice. He was about to take his second bite of cereal when the doorbell chimed.

"Who the hellallell is it this early on a Saturday, darnabbit?" he shouted.

The doorbell chimed again.

He reached for his walker and pushed himself to his feet.

"Goddawbit it all to heckaleck!! Lay off my doorbell!"

He shuffled his feet across the linoleum, pushing the walker in front of him.

The doorbell rang again.

"I'm coming, goddawbit! Quit ringing my fartsnab doorbell or I'll kick your fiddlypoppin' dumphole! Keep your shirt on!"

He pushed the walker over the smooth hardwood floors to the front door. He got close enough to peer through the peephole. Strange. He didn't see anyone.

"Better not be you fartsnab kids ringing my durn doorbell and runnin'. You better hope to bejeebers I can't find my buckshot, Goddawbit! I'll cripple ya!"

Just as he turned to leave, the doorbell chimed again. He maneuvered the walker around, grabbed the doorknob with his good hand and shakily opened it. He took a couple of steps backwards.

Something flew straight into the house over his right shoulder. He could hear the flutter of wings and a puff of air as it cleared his head.

Something flew in.

He knew it had to be a bee or a horsefly or maybe a hummingbird.

"Durn it!"

Seeing no one on the porch, he closed the door and inched the walker around. As he turned he saw whatever it was, zip into the kitchen. It was bigger than he first suspected. More like a regular sized bird. A durn bird had flown into the house, he thought.

As he wearily made his way back toward the kitchen, his bones creaking and all, it flew straight at him. It came right around the corner of the kitchen and headed straight for him. He couldn't believe it at first. It couldn't possibly be. He pushed the big thick glasses up on his nose.

It was a cow. It was a cow about the size of a robin. It furiously beat the air with little feathered wings. But it was not a bird. It was a cow. He could see the tiny udders as it flew. It flew straight at his face and he shrank back. Tiny droplets of milk sprayed his face. The tiny bovine bird opened its little mouth and mooed. Its moo sounded high-pitched, as if someone took a cow's mooing and played it at 78 rpm.

Crenshaw swatted about his head as the little cow flew circles around him mooing like crazy and squirting milk.

He smiled and then he found himself chuckling. It was absurd. It was crazy. Who would believe this? What was going on? He thought he must be having a stroke. The cow dive-bombed him with milk going, "Moo, moo, moo!" the whole time. The laughs came deep up from his belly and belched their way out. He hadn't guffawed like this in twenty, maybe thirty years. Maybe longer. These were big Jack Benny laughs that he'd forgotten were inside him.

"It's ridiculous!" he cried.

The cow zoomed three times around a standing floor lamp and almost smashed into the ceiling fan but it cleared the rotating blades and zipped right under Mr. Crenshaw's nose leaving him with a milk mustache.

Moo, moo, moo!

Crenshaw belly laughed and clutched his stomach with his good hand. His face turned beet red as he chortled. He began coughing and coughing in-between the guffaws. He reached into his robe pocket and produced a handkerchief. Before he could bring it to his moistened eyes and moistened milky upper lip, the little cow flew by and snatched it away. Now a flying handkerchief encircled the room. Crenshaw broke out in hysterics, laughing like an insane person and then going into a hacking coughing fit.

The handkerchief fluttered off of the cow to the floor. The little cow raced straight at Crenshaw's face. It smashed into his forehead and the old man toppled over backwards landing atop the glass coffee table, shattering it utterly, along with his hip. He moaned in pain.

The neighbors milled about wondering why the two fire trucks, ambulance and police car were parked in front of Crenshaw's place. They suspected why. No one wanted to come out and say it. After all, the old coot had to be 80 years old if he were a day. Mouths dropped when paramedics began wheeling the old man out on a gurney. One was busy trying to hold an oxygen mask over his face and an IV line straight. The elderly man was waving his arms, trying to get the mask off.

One frumpy neighbor women turned to a taller, thinner brunette next to her.

"Still fighting. That grumpy bastard can't even die right."

But they were shocked once the man pulled the oxygen mask free that he was howling with laughter. He was laughing hysterically. Maniacally. Like the Joker from the old Batman series.

"It flew. You had to see it. The wings. The wings must've been beating ten times a second. Sweetest milk I ever tasted! The sound...the sound was like...like moosic to my ears!" he exclaimed and burst out laughing.

They lifted him into the waiting ambulance.

Harvis Crenshaw lived to the ripe old age of 93 in the Valencia Home, a 112-bed facility for the elderly infirm. His laughter when retelling his crazy tale to the other seniors was infectious. He'd tell every newcomer the story and leave them holding their sides with laughter. Soon he was telling jokes and hilarious anecdotes from when he was a cook in the merchant marine or sidesplitting stories about growing up on a farm. He had a way of telling a story that hooked people and started shoulders quivering, bellies jiggling and tears of joy inching down cheeks.

On the day he died, the aides at the Valencia Home swore a bird of some sort had swooped down right past Harvis Crenshaw and out an open window. The residents liked to believe his spirit was hitching a ride on his tiny flying cow.

SECONDS

She'd been staring at him all morning. She'd started on the 2nd, about two weeks ago, a transfer. At the time, he didn't know if she was going to make it. She'd had difficulty adjusting to the pace of the work. All she had to do was write letters. He couldn't imagine what would be so hard about that. None of the other girls had the trouble she did. It was no skin off his nose. He consistently finished his work and knew he'd be in line for a promotion at the end of the year.

He didn't pay her much attention in those first two weeks. He didn't think much of her. Now, with her staring at him he was having second thoughts. She wasn't bad looking. Her hair was a mess of reddish curls and her eyes were big and green. Without that wild red hair, her nose might look too large for her face. Maybe she could afford to hit the gym and be better toned. She kind of sat by herself and ate, brown bagging it most days, probably to save money. There was a recession and all.

But now as he sketched a diagram of a new energy efficient model home, she was staring at him. He tried to focus on his work. This design had to be perfect. His brother, Dylan, had built a number of model homes. Dylan was the star in the family. Though they were twins and had both started at Haverton at the same time, Dylan was quickly promoted. Now Dylan was the talk at every family gathering. Dylan and his bowties. Who wore bowties?

She got up to get a drink at the water cooler. He thought about joining her, just bumping into her and see if anything happened. She was obviously interested in him or she wouldn't have been staring. He chastised himself. If it had been Dylan, Dylan wouldn't have hesitated to walk over and introduce himself. But something held him back.

Where would this go anyway? He thought back to Patty a year ago. That relationship had been a disaster. Oh sure she was easy on the eyes but who knew she was so possessive? She told everyone that he was the one she was going to marry. That was crazy talk. It would be years before he would be ready and willing to commit to something like that. She wanted to be with him all the time. It left no time for male bonding with the guys. After working all day, he liked to blow off some steam playing a little basketball or having a drink or two with the fellas. She just didn't understand.

He looked up from his project and she'd finished drinking at the water cooler. She smoothed out the skirt she was wearing and then shook her luscious red hair. Then she started walking towards him! He didn't know what to do. She was seconds away. He didn't want to get caught socializing on the clock when he should be working. Mr. Pittman wouldn't hesitate to write up people who wasted valuable time on personal matters. Perhaps he could invite her out for lunch and see where it went from there. He was nervous. He started perspiring. Sweating never looks good. His mouth was dry.

His eyes went to her legs. Not bad. Then he mentally slapped himself for looking at her legs. She was on the way over. He needed to keep his eyes up. She would be there in a matter of seconds. He needed to look her in the eye when they met. He was breathing quickly now. He just wasn't smooth with the opposite sex. He didn't have Dylan's gift of small talk.

She arrived at his desk with a nervous smile on her face. They locked eyes. Her eyes were sparkling green. Her smile was small but warm.

"Hi. I'm Layla. Do you have a second?"

"Dominic. Sure."

"Um...I was thinking. Do you want to hang out next recess?"

"Okay."

And just like that, in a matter of seconds, puppy love bubbled up between the two second-graders.

THE YOUNG AND THE TERRORISTS

Mohammad Amin and Salim Akkad finished their dhuhr or noon prayers and rolled up their prayer rugs. Mohammad walked into the kitchen and stated making a pita and lamb sandwich. Salim stood in the doorway of the kitchen scratching his beard.

"You want sandwich?" Mohammad asked.

"No. I not hungry. This thing we do....is big?" Salim asked, raising his black eyebrows.

Mohammad put the sandwich fixings back in the fridge and poured himself a glass of Pepsi. He took the sandwich and the glass of Pepsi and walked past Salim into the living room where he plopped down on the sofa. He set the glass on the dusty wood coffee table.

"It's not for us to know all details. You know this. Why you ask the same questions on a daily basis?" Mohammad said before biting into the sandwich.

They'd been in this dingy apartment with two other men for three weeks now, sharing it with the odd mouse and an extended family of cockroaches. . Their lives were monotonous. Order take out, watch football and soccer on TV and read newspapers every day.

Mohammad was stocky with a full head of jet-black hair. His prominent jaw worked the sandwich. He was clean-shaven and wore jeans and a white cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the top exposing dark chest hair.

Salim was his opposite. Tall, thin with delicate features and a full dark beard and mustache. He wore blue cotton lounge pants and a matching airy long sleeve cotton shirt. His movements were graceful and delicate, almost feminine. He brushed dust off the coffee table with his hand and sat down on it, crossing one leg over the other, partially facing Mohammad.

"Don't you get curious?" Salim asked.

Mohammad was hungrily eating his sandwich now with quick swallows of soda. A piece of lettuce fell onto his lap and he snatched it up and popped it into his mouth.

"The Teacher has told us what we need to know, Salim. When are you going to shave? We have to fit in with these people. You look like a terrorist! We're students. Let's look and act like it. We've been given special consideration to act like the infidels do in service to Allah."

Salim stroked his beard.

"Does it seem right that we are allowed to sin?" Salim asked.

Mohammad popped the last bite of sandwich in his mouth and finished guzzling his Pepsi. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and then hurled it at Salim, who caught it.

"Do not question the dictates of the Teacher! This victory is for Allah. This end justifies the means. The Prophet, all praise be unto him, will make it so. Now shave. Go out. Go to the bars with Malaki and Ebrahim and become one of them. Go buy one of the new iPhones...the 4G...4S...something. Start drinking Starbucks. Smoke. Buy a Playboy. Do something American. Or else you jeopardize us all."

A week passed and while Salim had finally shaved his beard and mustache, he couldn't bring himself to frequent bars with Malaki and Ebrahim. That twosome had even gone so far as to pick up women and bring them back to the apartment. Salim and Mohammad sat on mattresses in the bedroom talking while the thin walls of the apartment revealed the sinfully hedonistic moans and groans of their counterparts.

The one concession to Americanism Salim had allowed himself was daily viewings of "The Beautiful and the Brash" a soap opera about the powerful Maxwell family of Portland, Maine and their machinations. There was the scheming son Eric who was trying to take over his father, Ernest Maxwell's businesses while his father was in a coma following a boating accident. There was the Radcliff family, the Maxwell's' old money family nemesis who sought to expand into the Maxwell's business territories.. There was Arnold Maxwell, who wanted to run for governor on a platform of family values but was deeply in the closet. And finally there was daughter Erica Maxwell who was pregnant either by a Radcliff, a homeless man she'd had a dalliance with or her own father.

The other members of the cell laughed at Salim for watching such a ridiculous show but Salim fiercely guarded the TV when the show came on. The others liked to grab the remote and change the channel but after it resulted in Salim hurling a fork at Ebrahim, they stopped their horsing around.

The next week, Salim and Mohammad, took a taxicab to various sites in the city. The Washington Monument. The Lincoln Memorial. They ended up in Lafayette Square directly across from the White House. There was a demonstration of about a hundred people demanding the President sign hate crime legislation. Salim and Mohammad held hands throughout the demonstration and at two different times, shared a hug. They took many pictures of the speakers at the rally, all framed with the White House behind them.

When they arrived back at the flat, Ebrahim and Malaki were finishing their afternoon prayers. Salim and Mohammad unfurled their prayer mats and began praying, going down to their knees while facing Mecca. After their prayers, they joined the other two in the kitchen for a dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches and Pringles.

"How are our two lovebirds?" Ebrahim growled in his low voice and he and Malaki began laughing deeply.

"To hell with you, Ebrahim! We did what we had to do in service to Allah. We put on the vile cloak of the enemy not for you to humiliate us!" Mohammad lectured. Then he threw his sandwich into Ebrahim's face.

Salim and Malaki had to separate their comrades who started pushing and shoving and seemed determined to come to blows.

"It is just a joke. We know you sacrificed for the greater good. All praise be to Allah," Malaki said, patting Mohammad on the shoulder.

"Allahu Akbar!"

"Allahu Akbar!!!!!" the group chanted.

"Did you two remember to record my show?" Salim asked.

Ebrahim looked disgusted.

"Yes, it's on the DVR."

Word came back through channels that the cell was being put on ice. There were no more photography missions. No reconnaissance. Ebrahim enrolled in some community college courses. Malaki continued his job at a computer company. Mohammad started seriously dating a redhead who had two children. And Salim became further involved in his soap opera. He worked a part time job at a movie theater and got to see the summer blockbusters for free. But when he came home, it was straight to the DVR to watch the latest episode of "The Beautiful and the Brash."

One evening Salim found himself at the flat with Malaki. He'd first met Malaki in Yemen. Malaki was Yemeni and already involved with Yemani Al-Qaeda when Salim met him at the Salt Market in Sana'a. Salim noticed the deference the storekeepers showed him in the marketplace and knew Malaki was someone he had to meet. They met talking about the price of spices but soon the talk turn to jihad. It was Malaki who introduced Salim to the Teacher.

Malaki was playing solitaire on a smartphone while splayed on a purple beanbag chair.

"Malaki, are you prepared to die?" Salim asked, softly.

"Of course. Anything I am asked to do, I do," he responded, not looking up from his game.

"Can you stop playing the game for a moment?" Salim asked, sitting down on the floor, crossing his legs in front of Malaki.

Malaki pressed some buttons on his phone and then slid it into his shirt pocket.

"Have you not made your peace with death, Salim?" he asked.

"I have. I just sometimes think about what it would be like to live a long life. Have a family."

"You're trading your life so many who come after you will have that freedom without fear from the infidels. Our people will be able to live in peace because of what we do."

"I know. And I am committed, Malaki. These are just thoughts."

"Go get my iPod and listen to the sermon of the Teacher. He'll get your mind right."

Salim nodded, looking down at this floor.

Three months passed. The temperatures grew warmer and warmer and then mellowed out with the onset of fall.

One September morning, Malaki entered the apartment in a hurry. Ebrahim and Mohammad were playing chess at the dining room table. Malaki dropped a heavy canvas bag at his feet and his two colleagues looked at him intently. He was breathing hard. Malaki rushed into the kitchen and retrieved a water bottle from the fridge and drank long and hard. He wiped hi mouth with a sleeve.

"Brothers....where is Salim? I have news, " Malaki said and drank more water, his Adam's apple bobbing as he drank.

"He is at Union Station. An actress from that silly soap opera he watches is appearing there signing autographs," Mohammad said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Call him. Call him and get him home this instant."

Salim arrived home thirty minutes later. He was angry. He'd been waiting in line to meet Patricia Knowles who played Erica Maxwell on the "The Beautiful and the Brash." On the show, she had given birth to her baby but was currently awaiting DNA tests to find out if the father was a Radcliff, the homeless man or her own father. Salim had been about twenty people deep in line, clutching a book the actress had written for her to sign. He also had his Kodak digital camera to get a snapshot with the pretty brunette. When the call came, he was incensed to have to leave. But the call was urgent.

He sat down on the sofa, still clutching the unsigned book in his hands. Malaki was drinking water from the water bottle.

"The thunder of Allah will roar tomorrow. Make no mistake...This is a martyrdom mission. We will make our video messages tonight...purify ourselves in the morning...and-"

"Martyrdom? Are you sure?" Salim interrupted.

"Absolutely. Brother, we do not select the place, date or hour. This is from the Teacher."

"Then can I be excused back to Union Station?" Salim asked.

"What? Did you not hear the words of the Teacher?" Malaki said, incredulous.

"I heard and I obey. If this is my last night on earth, should I not enjoy it? All of us? If we've picked up surveillance, to stop our routines now would signal the authorities."

Ebrahim stood and cleared his throat.

"I do not understand Salim's interest in this actress or television program. But he is right that we cannot stop our normal activities. Mohammad and I should go to the Black Cat nightclub as we always do on Friday nights. You should do what you normally do."

Malaki sat down on the coffee table. He set the now empty plastic bottle down. He ran his hands through his thick black hair.

Mohammad spoke up and said, "You have operational control, Malaki. I do whatever you order."

Malaki blew into his hands and then slowly stood.

"Okay. We do our normal activities. We're back by midnight. We will make our video testimonies. We will sleep. We awake and purify ourselves for the mission. A white van will pick us up at 8 a.m. There will be five of us. That's all I know of the mission. This is what we do. Allahu Akbar!"

"Allahu Akbar!!!" the others answered in unison.

They were all back at the flat by midnight. One at a time, they went before the video camera in a stripped bare bedroom and proclaimed their duty to Allah through this act of jihad. They did away with material possessions, assigning them to family members. They quoted the Koran. Their demeanors were solemn, some defiant. Salim's was especially brutal as he waved a sword towards the camera. Ebrahim held up a pistol.

Then they broke bread, eating hummus, pita bread, lamb and couscous. After they ate, they prayed together and went to sleep on mattresses in the other room.

In the morning, they rose and shaved, bathed and scooped handfuls of water that they poured over their faces. They did this kneeling beside the bathtub. They chanted prayers with the palms of their hands facing them.

Ebrahim and Mohammad put on sunglasses. Salim pulled on a Washington Redskins cap. They hugged each other and kissed each other on the cheek and then headed out the front door. It was 7:58.

The sun, big, fat and orange was climbing into the sky. There were a few dog walkers up on this Saturday morning. Not many cars on the road. The birds, usually in full voice this time of year, were strangely quiet. The trees that lined the street held leaves that were gold, brown and orange. There was a hint of dew on the morning grass and just the lingering memory of a breeze.

A white van came slowing rolling up the street. It was nondescript. White. Tinted windows. The van rolled to a stop in front of the apartment complex. Ebrahim and the group started walking quickly towards the vehicle.

There was loud crack and the windshield shattered. The van lurched forwards, turning slightly and bumped up onto the curb where it struck a fire hydrant, sending a plume of water twenty feet into the air.

Mohammad ran for the passenger door of the van. There was a second crack and the top of his head dissolved into a red mist. His body dropped to the sidewalk. There were explosions and green fog enveloped the street and complex.

Ebrahim, Malaki and Salim hit the ground as all around them, shadowy figures emerged. Men in black combat clothing sprang from vehicles, from residences, from behind trees all holding small machine guns. On their backs in large yellow letters were FBI and ATF.

A large armored vehicle rumbled next to the van with the words, "BOMB SQUAD" on the side. Heavily armored men with sophisticated equipment poured out of the vehicle. One of them spraying the van with a chilly white mist.

Guns and boots were placed on Ebrahim, Malaki and Salim's backs. They were quickly handcuffed with plastic cuffs and black hoods were drawn over their heads. They were hoisted to their feet.

More sirens and vehicles screeched to a halt. Crime scene tape was being run. There was a mini army of men in black toting HK submachine guns. Dogs were barking. A HazMat team showed up in yellow and orange protective gear. Neighbors were ordered back into their residences. A Blackhawk helicopter circled overhead.

While Malaki was being roughly led away, he could hear a voice over the cacophony of voices. One voice over the sirens, the tires, the yelling, the boots on the ground and the thumping of the helicopter rotor. One voice stood out among the rest because he'd known that voice for so long. It was a voice he'd broken bread with on many occasions. It was the voice he'd prayed with five times a day. It was the voice that accompanied him on trips to Afghanistan and had gone through the camps with him. It was the voice he'd traveled with on their hajj to Mecca six years earlier. It was the voice of the man who'd shared stories of his hopes, dreams, family and faith. It was the voice of the man he'd persuaded to follow the path of the Teacher.

It was his comrade's voice. It was Salim.

"Did I do good? Did I do good? I was promised a cell with a TV. With a TV so I can see 'The Beautiful and the Brash.' I get the TV, right? Right? I must know who sired Erica's baby!"

AMERICAN ROULETTE

He threw the racing form in the trash with a flourish and ran his fingers through his hair. Stu Waterman was done. He sat down on a bench and dug in a shirt pocket for a crumpled pack of Marlboro. He slid one out and lit it with a chrome monogrammed lighter. He fixed his tie and smoothed it down but he couldn't hide the grimace on his face as bettors walked past him, scribbling into their racing forms. He took another drag on his cigarette and buried his face in a hand.

He wore the gold watch on this hand. It wasn't of any significant monetary value. But he wore it to remember that decent people walked the earth and he wasn't one of them. He had been on the fast track at the bank. Vice-president. Member of the Chamber of Commerce. Country club membership. Vacations in Cabo with Hollywood-like make out sessions at sunset with his wife at Lovers Beach.

His gambling addiction snuck up on him. Picking football games in college. Poker game with the fellas. Weekly office lotto pool. And he usually lost his shirt during football season. Weekend trips to Vegas. Banking conventions in Vegas. And then just any excuse to go to Vegas.

He rubbed his temple, straightened up on the bench and noticed someone sitting next to him.

It was a tan skin boy with a mop of black hair. The kid couldn't have been more than fifteen. On the skinny side wearing jeans, a black T-shirt with an Andy Warhol painted picture of Marilyn Monroe and black Air Jordans sans shoelaces. He was bopping his head from side to side and moving his shoulders to an unheard rhythm that Waterman thought came from an iPod but there were no earbuds in the boy's ears and no telltale white earphones.

"What are you, waiting on your dad?" Waterman asked, pulling on the cigarette.

The boy didn't bother to look his way.

"Nope. If I were doing that, I'd be waiting a long time. He's doing twenty five to life in Sing Sing."

Waterman kept smoking in silence. The boy kept bopping to an internal beat.

"Sorry, kid."

"Buy me breakfast."

"Excuse me?"

"Buy me breakfast. If I'm going to help you, I'm going to need sustenance. Let's take a cab back to Atlantic City. Country Kitchen on the Boardwalk. Country fried steak and eggs Benedict."

Waterman ground the cigarette out in a sand-filled receptacle next to the bench.

"Help me? Help me what? I don't need your help."

The boy turned to look at him.

"If you didn't need my help, I wouldn't be here. You're staying in Atlantic City, right? You've got to go back there anyway. Take me with you."

Waterman stood up.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Yeah, I'm staying in Atlantic City but right now I don't even have cab fare. Or bus fare. Or any other fare. I've got six dollars to my name. I'm not buying you or anybody any break—"

"Vermicious Knid," the boy said and began walking towards the exit.

"What?"

"You've got five minutes to place that bet," the boy said without looking back.

Waterman strode out of the Atlantic City Race Course, looking around at the people walking into and out of the establishment. He saw a line of yellow cabs in the parking lot. The boy was leaning against one, still moving his head from side to side as if he was listening to Top 40. Waterman practically ran to him.

"I just won two hundred bucks on your tip. How the hell did you know that horse was going to win?" he asked, grinning and panting, his forehead drenched in sweat.

"Breakfast?"

"Why don't we go bet some more? I'll split the winnings with you if---"

"You'll like their skillet plates."

Country Kitchen was packed. Waitresses struggled to keep up with the demand. There seemed to always be a crowd waiting to come in. The place was decorated in golds and reds but looked homey, not tacky. The aroma of bacon, coffee and biscuits hung in the air. There was a steady buzz of chatter in the air, along with the percussion of knives and forks doing their work.

The boy finished his plate of Country Fried Steak and Eggs Benedict and sat back in his seat. He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"Okay...this cryptic act is way old," Waterman said, sliding a cigarette out of his pack. "You wouldn't say jack in the cab. You've had your breakfast. Now at least tell me your name."

"My name is Alejandro. I can give you what you want. I'm a priest in Lovante. It's a Cuban offshoot of Santeria. I was raised in it from my grandmother from Havana. You want wealth, I can help you."

Waterman smiled. Then he laughed. He sipped some of his ice water.

"You're like a witch doctor? You're gonna cast a spell and make me win at the track?"

"You don't believe?" Alejandro asked and sipped his coffee.

"Let's just say I'm an agnostic. I believe in what I can see."

"Your belief is not required. If I don't believe in fire and I put my hand in it, will I be burned?"

"Snatch this pebble from my hand, grasshopper and..."

"What?"

"Nothing," Waterman laughed. "Alright, it can't hurt. And you did predict a race for me this morning. What do I owe you for this? Let me guess...my soul?"

"That should be an easy trade for you, trading something you don't believe you have for something you can hold in your hand. But no, I don't need a soul. I already received what I needed. A ride to Atlantic City and breakfast. "

"So what do we do? Sacrifice a chicken or..."

Alejandro's eye narrowed. Then his right nostril raised slightly, along with the corner of his mouth.

BANG. He banged on the table with a fist causing their silverware to jump, punctuating it with a staccato, "HEY!"
Patrons looked for a moment but then resumed eating.

Alejandro snapped his fingers in front of Waterman's face.

"What do you want from me, kid? I've been chasing the perfect score for decades. I've lost my family all in the quest...the quest to win."

"No spellcasting. No theatrics. You signaled your agreement by the ride and the food. It's done. Over the next three days, three of your dreams will come true."

Alejandro rose from the table.

"That's it? I'm in the money?" Waterman called. "Hey, I have a question."

Alejandro stared down at him with large dark eyes.

"If you can cast spells to make me win money, why aren't you rich?"

The boy half smiled.

"I am rich. I'm rich at heart. I want for nothing because there will always be people willing to give me what I need at the moment in exchange for what they think they want. Adios. Buenas suerte."

Stu Waterman awoke in his king-size bed in his room at the Begonia Hotel. He knew that he'd have to win some money today or move out. His sleep had been fitful. He showered, dressed impeccably in black slacks, Stacy Adams, a cream-colored long sleeve shirt and black tie. He sprayed Polo about his neck. He had black coffee and a vanilla scone and perused the New York Times before heading off to the casino. He was headed to the blackjack table.

He replayed yesterday's events. It was crazy. But then again, the boy had given him a winning race tip.

"Excuse me, sir?" a slender, dark haired man in a black and gold Begonia uniform standing near the elevator said. Stu hadn't noticed him on his walk down the hallway, too caught up in playing back the day before's events.

"Yes?"

"I have a coupon here for a complimentary breakfast buffet for our preferred guests."

"Oh, I already had coffee in the room and..."

"It's a special day. You'll want breakfast, sir," the employee said, handing him a slick coupon and walking off down the hall.

Stu took the elevator down to the buffet. It wasn't nearly as packed as he thought it would be, especially with a free promotion going on. He had a made to order spinach, ham and peppers omelet and a bagel with smoked salmon and dill cream cheese at a big table in the center of the dining room. A waitress stopped by his table with a complimentary espresso.

As he cut into the spinach omelet with a fork he thought about his wife, Greta, chopping spinach on a cutting board on their new granite countertops in their roomy kitchen. There were mushrooms, onions and peppers on the counter nearby. Lasagna noodles boiled on the Viking range.

"What are you making?" he asked, popping a mushroom into his mouth.

"Vegetarian lasagna. I'm making it with a béchamel sauce. Saw it on the Food Network."

"We're eating healthy again? What happened to your grandma's lasagna? The sausage and pepper lasagna. What's wrong with that?"

"We're having a baby," Greta said in a singsong voice. "I thought you'd like to start eating healthier. Set a good example for your daughter."

"She won't know what healthy food is for years, honey. We have time to eat junk."

She gave him that playful scolding look that she usually did when he was being silly.

"Oh honey...Look, um...I'll be home around six for dinner but I've gotta rush back. We're having an in-service this evening. Just the management on the new vault. We've got to get it down before having the regular inservice with the tellers on Friday."

Greta scooped the spinach into a bowl.

"Well, at least you'll be home for dinner."

"That I will," he said and pecked her on the lips. He grabbed his briefcase and headed out of the kitchen, through the den and out the front door.

He started his Lincoln and pulled out of the driveway. He dialed a number on his Blackberry.

"Danny-boy, yeah, we're all set for tonight. I've got the beer. Who's bringing the pizza? You tell everyone to bring plenty of money because I'm cleaning you guys out tonight. By the way, you guys in on the football pool?"

Stu finished his breakfast, wiped his mouth and left a tip on the table. He headed to the casino. The polished marble floors gleamed. The ivory columns that lined the walkway through the casino gave a Roman feel to the room. High overhead blown glass crystal chandeliers glistened over the gaming areas. The slots rang, beeped and sang. Lights flashed and swirled. Cigarette smoke cloyed at his nostrils as scantily clad cocktail waitresses flitted between gamblers perched in front of the slots. He could hear the machines paying out, the steady ching-ching-ching of coins vomiting out.

Stu sat down in one of the plush seats, complete with footrest in front of a dollar slot machine. He slid a five spot into the machine. He bet it all on one pull. He reached for the lever. He was old school. He didn't want to tap a button to play a slot machine. He wanted to feel that big ball handle in his hand as he pulled that stick down. He took a deep breath, thinking about Alejandro and pulled the lever.

The three reels spun. And in that moment, the rest of the casino sounds died away. Gone were the payouts of other machines, the chatter, the bells, whistles and squeaks that made the room sound like an ornate droid factory. Gone from his nostrils was the foul stench of burning tobacco mixed with sickly sweet perfumes and manly colognes. The windows were a blur of cherries, watermelons, oranges, lemons and red sevens.

The windows stopped spinning one after the other. Kachunk, kachunk, kachunk.

Three red sevens.

A bell clanged and red lights flashed atop Stu's machine as an indicator let him know that he'd won $500. Coins started raining into the tray, a mini-metallic thunderstorm. Other gamblers looked and then hunkered down to their own machines. A couple of nearby elderly people gave him a thumbs up. One old timer slapped him on the back.

He scooped up his winning tokens in several baskets and had them converted to cash.

He played another slot machine and within five pulls had won another $500 jackpot. He cashed in his tokens and practically ran to the craps table. He spent a half an hour there and made $15,000. He went to the roulette wheel and in no time made $35,000. He went on to the Blackjack table and by the time the casino switched to the third dealer, he'd made $100,000.

That's when two beefy men in black Valentino suits escorted him away from the table and whisked him up an elevator, down a hallway into a wood paneled room with cherry furniture, no windows and a huge desk, behind which sat another beefy gray haired man in a blue pinstripe shirt and suspenders. He was chain-smoking while typing away on a Blackberry. The men deposited Waterman in a chair facing the desk.

"Good morning, Mr. Waterman. My name is Sylvester Mancini. I'm head of gaming security for the Begonia Hotel Casino and Spa. Enjoying your stay?" The man had stopped typing on his Blackberry and stared coldly at Stu, blowing smoke from his nostrils like a cartoon bull.

"Yeah. I was until your goons grabbed me. What's this about?"

"You're on an amazing run of luck, Mr. Waterman. We don't seem to have a game that you don't excel at. Who's working with you? Name the person. I promise you, you won't be prosecuted. You'll just be banned from the Begonia for life."

Stu smiled.

"You think I'm cheating. That's funny. I'm just on an incredible run. I can't lose, guys. I win at everything I play. It's my time. I'm not working with anyone."

Mancini glanced down at his Blackberry.

"I calculated the odds of you winning each game the way you did. We're more likely to be directly hit by an asteroid within the hour than what you just did on my gaming floor," Mancini said before putting his cigarette out in a glass ashtray.

"Well, then I guess we should take cover or something? You guys got a bomb shelter in the basement?" Waterman smiled.

Stu couldn't help but notice how thick Mancini's neck was. While Mancini was easily 60 years old, he was still in great shape. Built like a heavyweight boxer. This fact kind of unnerved him, as the two men who brought him in were much younger but no smaller. They stood like silent sentries by the door.

"So is this when you guys are going to break my legs or something? I didn't cheat," Stu protested.

"We're not going to hurt you. This is a respectable, professional business. You will not be harmed while in our care. That is, if you're not stealing from us. Ernie, bring me a deck of cards. What I'm going to do is this. I've got Joe Hachem and Juan Carlos Mortenson here."

"Hash and El Matador?" Stu asked, his eyes widening.

"So you know them. Two of the best poker players in the world. We're going to have a game. Just the four of us. High stakes. I want to see how good your luck is in here. I'll bring up some cold cuts and beer. You win and you can keep your winnings. I'll even open up and pour you a drink from my 50 year old Dalmore."

"In the decanter?"

"That's right. Eleven grand a bottle. If you lose, then we never want to see your face in the Begonia again."

They played for four hours and Stu walked out of the Begonia $775,000 richer. They were kind enough to set up a bank account for him at Bank of America, although he insisted in having $225,000 in cash, which they put into a silver case. He bought a silver Mercedes Benz SLS AMG and drove it to the racetrack. He nursed a Bacardi Dark and Coke in the bar and flirted with a blonde across the bar, who was paired up with a short balding guy with more hair on his chest and beefy forearms than on his head. He wore two gold crucifixes around his neck and was on his third whiskey sour. The horse races were shown on numerous flat screen TVs around the darkened bar and patrons watched and moaned or cheered depending on which horse won. Stu told the bartender he had the couple's next round.

When the bartender, an older Puerto Rican man informed the short guy of Stu's generosity, the man glared at Stu, downed his drink and stood. His girlfriend tried to stop him by grabbing his arm but he jerked it away and walked the length of the bar to Stu, who sat using a tiny straw to stir his drink.

"Hey, pal...I buy me and my lady's drinks," the man growled.

"Just sit down and say thank you," Stu said, sipping his drink.

"What?"

"I was content to just buy you and she a drink but since you're being a prick about it, I think I'm going to take your girl."

The guy swung and Stu leaned back, grabbed the guy's wrist with his right hand and then smashed his left elbow into the man's face. As the guy stumbled backwards, Stu leapt from his barstool and sent a kick into the guy's chest. The man sailed backwards, over a table and crashed to the floor. Patrons gasped and spread out. Some left. The bartender picked up a red phone. Stu opened his wallet and set $300 on the bar.

"I apologize for the drama."

The bartender hung up the phone. For a moment, Stu marveled at his own ability. He hadn't been in a fight in fifteen years. He'd taken a martial arts class at the Y in college but never thought any of those moves would come in handy. Trashing that guy excited him. He could feel his confidence level rising. He walked over to the blonde and introduced himself and they left the bar, arm in arm.

"Pick a horse and he'll win. I guarantee it," Stu whispered to his young blonde. He'd learned her name was Anastasia and that she was a Ukrainian model. She'd recently been chosen to do a spread in Italian Vogue and would be jetting to Florence in two weeks.

"How about Osama's Third Eye?" she asked, giggling.

"Oooh...that's a long shot. I love long shots. Forty-nine to one. That's Buster Douglas-Mike Tyson odds. Let's put ten grand on him to win."

Stu walked up to the window and bet ten thousand dollars on Osama's Third Eye.

A man with a little girl of about six caught his eye. They were standing in front of vending machines. She was trying to decide which candy bar she wanted. She pressed a tiny finger to her lips and tapped it. The tapping took him back. Daphne would do that whenever he asked her a difficult question. It was so cute seeing her standing there tapping her lips, brow furrowed, beautiful blonde ringlets hanging down the sides of her soft cheeks.

He took Anastasia by the hand and led her out to the bleachers to watch the race. He ordered her a daiquiri and she fanned herself with a program. The afternoon sun was bright and full in a cloudless sky. The horses, tall, brown and powerful were led to the starting gates.

"I love horses," Anastasia said, smiling at Stu.

"Yes..they..."

Stu did a double take at the horses being assembled at the gate. For a moment, they all looked like they only had two legs. Two-legged horses? It had to be the distance. He'd been meaning to have his eyes checked. It's something his wife had nagged him to have done but he'd put it on the back burner. It probably wouldn't hurt him to go in for a full physical. Especially now that he had the money.

In a flash the horses were off, their hooves beating the track like thunder and kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. Anastasia gripped Stu's hand tightly as she smiled and squealed and cheered Osama's Third Eye on. He was currently in fourth place as the horses rounded the track in front of them.

"He's behind!"

Stu took the drink out of Anastasia's hand and set it on the ground. Then he pulled her onto his lap so she was straddling him. She complained that she couldn't see the race.

"There's no need to watch it," Stu said before kissing her soft, collagen-swelled, strawberry-tasting lips.

They made out in the bleachers while the announcer announced Osama's Third Eye the winner.

They dined at Dock's Oyster House, a restaurant boasting a hundred plus year pedigree. Anastasia had never been to such fine dining. The rich dark wood floors, were complimented with the lighter cedar ceiling. White orb sconces matched the simplicity of the bright white tablecloths.. She was doubly impressed that Stu was able to secure a fine table in the middle of the restaurant without a reservation.

First, he'd taken her to Eddie Bauer and DKNY to find something to wear before whisking her back to the Begonia, now upgraded to a penthouse suite, for an afternoon romp in the sack and hot shower.

He ordered the pecan-crusted salmon for her and a lobster tail for himself. They shared a rack of lamb. She ate in tiny bites that Stu found funny. He ate his lobster with gusto, cracking and pulling and sucking the meat out like a hungry child. She giggled into her wine glass watching him eat.

"Your business....what do you do?" she asked, tracing her fingernails around the lip of her glass.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

For a moment he thought of the look in Mr. Milborn's eyes in his office when Milborn and Davis confronted him with the evidence of his embezzlement. Sure there was a glint of anger but also, of disappointment. Milborn had looked at him as a son at Mutual Savings and Loan.

Waterman would never forget what Mr. Milborn had done for him. He allowed him to leave with dignity. It was Milborn who made up the cover story for his firing that Waterman was taking a job out of the area. The bank even had a little impromptu party with cake and champagne. Milborn had given him the gold watch.

It was a lesson in love. Stu couldn't help but break down at the party for the wonderful gesture Mr. Milborn had made for him, saving his reputation.

"Are you going to tell me?" Anastasia asked, holding her head to the side. "I've been asking you all afternoon. You blow me off."

"I win. I'm a professional gambler."

"You said that before but I did not believe you. Who makes living placing bets?"

"I do. Want me to show you again? I showed you with the horse race today that brought me a fortune. I'll show you again. Waiter? Check, please!"

Stu stopped the Mercedes in front of a corner convenience store just down the block from Dock's Oyster House on Atlantic Avenue. He glanced at his watch and marveled that it was just 6:30. The day had seemed so long. He told Anastasia to sit still and listen to the jazz CD on the stereo. He stepped out and noticed something green on the street. He could tell it was a wad of cash. He picked it up. It was wrapped with a thick purple rubber band. He flipped it in the open window to Anastasia.

"Found it on the street. Count it," he smiled and walked briskly into the store. She flipped the sun visor down and then reached into her purse and retrieved her lipstick. She applied some scarlet lipstick and then started counting the money.

Stu walked out of the convenience store with a single red rose. He walked up to the passenger window and knocked. Anastasia let the window down and he slid the fragrant bulb under her nose. She inhaled and smiled.

"For you, my dear."

She took the rose and he kissed her forehead. Then he jogged around the front of the car and slipped into the driver's seat. He clicked his seatbelt, put the car in gear and they glided into traffic.

"Fifteen hundred dollar," she said, holding the wad of cash up in one hand.

"It's yours."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. He beamed. Things couldn't be more perfect. He made a few turns and suddenly liquor stores, pawn shops and check cashing centers lined the streets. There were more and more homeless. Anastasia noticed and placed her hand on Stu's shoulder.

"Where we going? This doesn't look safe," she asked.

"Trust me. We're okay."

As the fat orange sun was sinking behind buildings, Stu stopped the car beside a playground. A dilapidated chain link fence surrounded a couple of basketball courts. Most of the rusted rims had no nets. One had a partial chain dangling from it. A group of African-American teens were playing basketball while another group watched, talked on cell phones, or bet, with wads of cash in their hands. One heavyset guy stood next to a big blue Coleman cooler on wheels. He dispensed beers to whoever came up and handed him a couple of dollars.

"I no like this," Anastasia said, furrowing her brow.

"You're okay. You're with me. Let's go."

They walked through a hole in the fence towards the game. Anastasia was clinging to him with both hands. She was having difficulty walking on her stilettos on the blacktop. The game broke up.

"What is this? You a cop?" a tall, muscular, dark skinned kid in a Michael Jordan jersey and shorts said, holding the basketball under one arm.

"No, I'm not a cop. I saw your game. I see folks betting."

A few of the youths with cash in their hands came over. About twenty kids stood in a semi-circle around Stu and Anastasia.

"I bet I can stand at half court and make a basket with a hook shot, blindfolded. I want all you guys to pool your money and if I win, I take it all. If I miss, you all get my ride over there. Just bought it today."

"What? Whatchoo talkin' 'bout? Blindfolded? You crazy. You miss it and we get your ride. We all 'posed to share that ride?"

"Do whatever you want. Sell it and split the money. It's yours. That's a Mercedes Benz SLS AMG. $180,000."

"This fool's crazy," someone muttered.

"I'll take his bitch," another said and several guys laughed.

"Let's just jack this fool," a young kid said, and twirled a butterfly knife.

"Y'all fools put in your money. Give it to blondie to hold," the kid with the ball said.

"This is all I've made this week," one kid muttered.

"So, you'll be slangin' again tomorrow."

"No way is this fool gonna hit this shot blindfolded."

The guys opened their wallets and reached in their pockets and started counting out their money. When it was all finished and they handed it to Anastasia, there was a total of $13,200.

Stu slid the shawl off of Anastasia's shoulders and tied it around his head. Several of the kids inspected it to make sure he couldn't see. Then the big kid handed him the basketball. He told everyone to be quiet. Half a dozen kids pulled out their iPhones and Droids to record the shot. Stu dribbled a few times. The murmurs and whispers stopped. The only sound was the distant freeway traffic. All eyes were on the man in the expensive suit with the cream colored shawl wrapped around his head. He held the ball in his right hand and pointed in the direction of the basketball goal with the left. He exhaled slowly and bent his knees slightly.

Stu fired the ball towards the goal. It seemed like he put too much power behind the shot. He didn't leap up and do a Kareem Abdul Jabbar-style sky hook. It wasn't floating in a soft arc. It wasn't pretty. It was sailing towards the rim with a swiftness. The kids holding their phones aimed and framed the shot as it went. Everyone's eyes were wide with anticipation, including Anastasia, who watched in amazement while clutching a large bundle of bills. The ball came down and struck the back of the rim with a loud BANG!

The sound reminded Stu of the sound his wife's shoe had made against the headboard of their bed when she'd hurled it at him and missed.

"Really, Greta? Throwing your Jimmy Choo's at me? Like that's going to solve anything?!" he said, arms out pleading.

She was standing in front of her vanity mirror, back to him, hands on the table, just seething. He could tell. He could see the tension in her shoulders and her rapid breathing. She spun around, her eyes moist and face red.

"You promised me you were going to get help with your gambling. You told me you were going to the meetings and now you've lost your job because of embezzlement? Are you kidding me?"

"I know. I know. I know I messed up."

"You think I'm going to be able to afford these house payments? The car payment? Who in the financial industry is going to touch you now, Stuart?"

"I told you that you didn't need a $60,000 Corvette."

"Oh, so this is MY fault?"

The basketball, instead of arching back, rose straight up into the air a good ten feet above the hoop. Then it dropped straight down through the center.

There was a gasp and a couple of kids said, "Oh shit!" Kids backed away, with their fists to their mouths, shouting, "Oooooh!" They laughed and some even applauded. Several wanted to see it played back on the cell phone cameras. Stu took off the shawl and draped it around Anastasia's bare shoulders. Her eyes were wide. Stu kissed her on the mouth and she just said, "Unbelievable."

Stu took the huge wad of cash from Anastasia and handed it to the big kid in the Michael Jordan jersey.

"What's this? You won it, man," the kid said.

"I just wanted to blow your minds. Keep your money."

The crowd of fellows moved in to reclaim their stake.

Stu and Anastasia walked hand in hand back towards the car.

"Man, who is you?"

"How'd you do that? This dude is some kind of Criss Angel-David Blaine-Lebron James mofo."

"I gotta put this shit on YouTube!"

"Let's jack him for the car, man!"

Their next stop was a Best Buy in May's Landing at the Hamilton Mall. They walked hand in hand. Anastasia couldn't take her eyes off of him. On the trip over she kept asking him how he made that shot. She wanted to know what was going on with him, how everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. He would just smile and tell her that he was on a lucky streak. What else could he say? He could scarcely believe it himself. But he felt different. He felt like he could do whatever he put his mind to. He felt that he could take any risk and it would pay off huge. It was such a feeling of power that he could barely contain it.

He led her to the television section. They stood before a wall of large flat panel LCD screens.

"You buy TV now?" Anastasia asked.

"No. Just watch," Stu said, glancing at his watch.

They watched a few commercials and then an Asian woman in a maroon dress on a blue set appeared on the screen. She stood between two podiums that held what looked like giant fishbowls of percolating numbered balls.

"Hello, I'm Ann Lee and welcome to tonight's Powerball drawing for a jackpot estimated at $115 million dollars," she said, smiling.

Stu held his Powerball ticket up in front of Anastasia's face. She read the numbers on the ticket. 3, 8,14,24,33 and 38.

"Okay, the first number is three. The second number is eight. Okay, the third number is fourteen," the woman on the televisions said.

"No way," Anastasia mouthed, her eyes widening.

They stopped at Baskin-Robbins to get ice cream. Stu got her two scoops of strawberry and got himself a cone of peanut butter and chocolate. On the way out of the store, he wiped ice cream on her nose.

"Oh, so you're brat!" she laughed, wiping her nose with a napkin.

"Just a lil bit."

They kissed softly on the sidewalk in the strip mall beneath a tiny high moon. He hit the alarm on the car and opened the door for her. She slid into the front seat and he closed the door. By the time he'd walked around and slid into the driver's seat, she was on her white iPhone talking to someone in Ukrainian. He sat eating his ice cream cone listening to her speak in animated tones. She was happy and took time to lick her ice cream cone so it wouldn't melt while she spoke. Stu finished his cone, started the car and pulled out of the lot.

He cracked the window and lit himself a smoke. Anastasia hit the button to end her call.

"Everything okay? You just call the Russian Mob to jack me for my money?"

"I not Russian. Not funny. I call my sister, Daphne."

Stu jerked inside.

"Your sister's name is Daphne?"

"Jess. She younger sister."

"My....my....daughter's name is Daphne."

"You have daughter?"

"Yeah. She's five. Maybe six."

"You don't know how old your daughter is?"

Stu turned on the radio.

Stu carried Anastasia into the penthouse suite, walking on several dozen rose petals that formed a walkway straight to the bathroom. In the bathroom, two dozen candles burned around the huge garden tub. Steam rose from the bubbly water in it. Next to the tub was a bucket of ice with champagne chilling in it. There were chocolates wrapped in a box sitting on a small stand next to the tub. There was also a bowl of strawberries and whipped cream.

They shed their clothes slowly, inbetween sweet kisses. They slowly climbed into the tub and kissed some more, their bodies intertwined, her teeth softly catching his bottom lip. They stared into each other's eyes, barely suppressing giggles.

"Who are you? How is all this possible?" Anastasia asked him.

"Don't question it. Just let it happen."

The noise slapped Stu awake. It wasn't just the thunderous explosion and grinding metal but the fact that the entire building shook. The bed shook. It shook so hard, it almost knocked him out of bed. The power was out. The glass sliding door that led out to a patio had shattered. Outside, he could hear sirens wailing and dozens of car alarms going off. The light coming in was dim. It was early. Stu looked at his watch on the nightstand. 5:33 AM.

That's when he noticed that Anastasia wasn't in bed. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and scratching his head. He stepped into some pajama bottoms and slipped his feet into slippers. He walked towards the patio, trying to avoid stepping on the shards of glass. The morning air was cool on his torso. It was windy this high up. He stepped out onto the patio and looked to the east.

There was a man, a giant of a man, towering over the city. He was wearing what appeared to be a court jester's costume comprised of reds and yellows, with a silly hat and bells. His eyes looked absolutely unhinged and his massive pink tongue lolled from one side of his mouth to the other, almost in slow motion. But what really caught Stu's eye was that in the giant jester's left hand spinning upright on his index finger was an aircraft carrier. From the size of the massive ship, Stu guessed that the jester had to be two thousand feet tall. In the giant's other hand spinning like Meadowlark Lemon would spin a basketball was a B2 Stealth Bomber. The giant jester raised one foot off the ground and then shrugged as he lost control of the aircraft carrier. The massive ship fell atop several buildings with a ginormous crash and explosion that violently shook the Begonia. The near-deafening crash knocked Stu to his knees.

Stu's hands were shaking. He couldn't stop them. His bottom lip was trembling. This was so far out of the norm that he felt like he was having a nervous breakdown. He stood on jellied legs and walked back inside. He tried to call the operator on the phone but the line was dead. There was no cell service either. He pulled on his pajama top and then went back out on the patio to see if the giant jester was still there. He was.

Stu went back in and looked in the bathroom for Anastasia. He found her there in the bathtub, lying naked under the water. The candles had all melted down. The champagne bottle was empty. The chocolates had been eaten. And she laid motionless, her eyes open beneath the water. Her body seemed bloated, almost waterlogged. Her hair floated out around her head like yellow seaweed.

He backed out of the bathroom, biting his fist. He didn't remember what happened. He remembered making love in the tub but that was the last thing he recalled. He wouldn't have left her there like that. His head pounded. Nothing was making sense.

He ran out of the suite, down the hall to the elevator. He hit the button for the first floor. He stood in the back of the elevator with his arms wrapped around himself. He heard another dull explosion that shook the elevator and for a moment the lights flickered and the elevator stopped. Then it continued.

Stu thought that maybe he'd been drugged. Perhaps someone in the hotel staff had laced the strawberries or chocolate with some kind of hallucinogen. It's the only thing that made sense. He thought back to Alejandro. He tried to remember their conversation. The boy had given him a great horse tip and then granted him the ability to win consistently at gambling. He hadn't mentioned any negative outcome. He must have missed something in the conversation.

This could not be happening.

He reached the first floor and the doors opened. He expected chaos. He expected people fleeing the hotel and casino for fear of the giant outside. But there was no panic. As he walked towards the casino, he just heard the beeping, whistling and chiming of slot machines. He heard Muzak playing in the background. He could smell the cigarette smoke. Patrons were busy gambling at the machines and tables. Scantily clad waitresses delivered drinks on black trays. This was madness. There was a giant outside demolishing Atlantic City and here these people sat gambling, smoking and drinking like nothing was happening.

"What the hell? What's wrong with you, folks?" he called out, his voice breaking.

A uniformed security man walked towards him.

"What's the problem, sir?" the guard asked.

Stu heard a low rumbling. It grew louder. Closer. It sounded almost like an army. Like approaching footfalls from people running. The security guard obviously heard it too because he turned and started walking towards the casino.

Outside through the glass doors he could see a mob of humanity approaching. It looked as if everyone was wearing the same thing. White shoes. White sneakers and blue jeans. No shirts. He squinted.

The people had no arms. None of them had arms. Just fleshy torsos. And their heads. Their necks just went up into a mouth. A mouth with lots of teeth. No hair. No ears, eyes, or noses. Just mouths. Their entire head was just a big mouth and the mouths were moving, snapping, opening and closing. Chewing the air. The sound of all those teeth clicking together sounded like drumsticks on ivory.

They rushed through the glass doors like ants heading to a picnic. They poured into the casino like water. They ran with their heads down and as soon as they ran up to a person, they would start biting them ferociously, their teeth ripping and pulling and tearing. Screams erupted throughout the casino as these blues jeans wearing, armless mouths came rushing in on the attack. People tried to flee, knocking over stools and blackjack tables and sending poker chips flying. The screams and shouts were horrific as the eaters attacked with their mouths, biting for throats and hands and arms.

Stu ran back towards the elevator. He punched the up button and then looked behind him. About fifteen eaters were headed for him, their mouths snapping, their feet beating the carpet. The elevator door slid open and Stu ran in pressing the Penthouse button and trying to close the doors. The eaters ran with their heads down, their jaws working, teeth clacking. The doors started to slowly close and the eaters tried to run faster, their legs pumping, heads held lower out in front of them.

The door closed with the eaters just a few feet away and the elevator started moving upwards.

Stu collapsed against the back of the elevator, his heart pounding, sweat pouring. His breath was coming out in shallow puffs. He tried to keep calm but he was shaking badly. He couldn't stop his hands from trembling. He tried to stand straight up but his legs felt like they were going to give way. All of the confidence he'd felt the day before, beating two of the world's best poker players, beating up the guy in the bar, winning at the track, showboating on the basketball court, and winning the lottery all seemed so meaningless now. And then there was the beautiful model he'd met and romanced all in one gorgeous day. This was the craziest time of his life. Nothing made sense anymore.

He walked down the hallway, buttoning up his pajama top. His teeth were chattering. The world had suddenly gone mad. He needed to talk to someone. The police. The National Guard. The FBI. Someone. He didn't know whom to call but he had to find out what was going on. He had no way to get in touch with Alejandro. And he really didn't know anyone else in Atlantic City. He needed a couple aspirin and an espresso and some fresh air. He reached into his pajama pocket and retrieved his keycard and swiped it in the door.

He opened it to his wife, Greta. She was sitting on the white overstuffed sofa in a brown pantsuit with a latte in her hand.

"There you are. Finally," she said, standing.

"Greta! H-h-how did you...how did you find me?" Stu said, looking about the suite. The sliding glass doors leading to the patio were closed and unbroken. No glass. No wind whipping in. No titanic crazy court jester playing with military hardware. And no sign of his statuesque blond model.

"What the hell, Stuart? You just up and leave your wife and kid for a fun-filled frolic in Atlantic City? You just leave us to deal with the bank and the foreclosure and the bills?"

"Greta, I'm sorry. I didn't know how to deal with it. I thought it was best if I left. I'm not well. This morning. This morning I've been hallucinating...I've...I'm sick. I need to go to a hospital. Let me get dressed."

He took a quick peek into the bathroom. It was clean and put together as if hotel staff had been in. No sign that the bathtub was ever used. He came back out, running his fingers through his hair. His head ached and he couldn't grasp what was going on. He thought maybe he needed coffee and a smoke to clear his head so he could think. Greta stared at him with contempt.

"What do you mean you're sick?" she asked.

"Baby, I would never have left if I were well. Never. You know I love you and Daphne. You're my world."

Outside they heard the whine of engines. Jetliner engines. The noise grew louder and Stu saw concern morph into panic across his wife's face. She was looking towards the patio doors. The latte slipped from her fingers and her bottom lip quivered. The sound grew louder and deeper. Stu began walking towards the sliders.

The building lurched upwards. Both Greta and Stu and various furnishings were knocked into the air. There was an enormous roaring explosion coupled with the sound of crunching and tearing and the near deafening sound of glass shattering. The building shuddered and quaked. It felt as though that giant jester had kicked the side of the building. Once again the sliding glass doors exploded, with shards of glass raining into the room. Greta and Stu landed hard on a floor that quaked and creaked. And acrid black smoke seeped up and billowed into the room from the vents and various cracks in the walls and floor. It was warm and the air smelled of stinging fuel.

An alarm was going off. A loud electronic squawking that sounded like an angry mechanical parakeet. Emergency lights up in the corner of the suite were flashing. The sprinkler system suddenly came on and water began showering the suite, soaking Greta and Stu within seconds.

Stu got to his feet but fell down again, one of his feet cut badly on glass. Greta pushed herself to her feet and came over and helped her husband to his. Her eyes were wide with fear. Her hair was slicked down to her head from the sprinklers. The floor beneath them shook and the building rocked.

"A...a...a plane," was all Greta could say.

Stu knew that it had struck several floors down but close enough that they could feel the heat beneath them. Outside, black smoke billowed past the patio. There was a banging at the door. On second thought, it was like someone was kicking at the door. Stu knew it couldn't possibly be help that quickly. They were in the penthouse suite after all, forty stories up. He leaned into his wife, keeping his hurt foot off the floor.

The kicking at the door grew louder, with what sounded like multiple feet. The door shook and cracks began to appear in it. Stu had a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. It sat there like a lump of leftovers.

"Let's move to the patio," he said.

"Why?"

"Please."

They started limp-walking through the shards of glass. Stu tried to ignore the tiny pieces of glass slicing his good foot. He tried to lean against Greta but didn't want to put all of his weight against her and knock them both to the floor. The floor jiggled beneath them and the building felt like it was swaying. All the while there was this roaring and crackling sound. The door shook with each violent thumping noise.

It gave way, popping open. There stood four or five of the armless, jeans and sneakers wearing eaters.

Greta screamed.

"Jesus, what are they??"

"Run!!!"

The eaters ran into the room. They ran straight towards the couple. Stu began running through the glass out onto the marble patio. Greta froze in her tracks, their hands coming apart. She turned to look at the eaters, shrieking. Stu reached the stone wall. The sky wasn't visible through the black smoke billowing up around him. The heat was fierce. He spun to look for his wife.

He saw an eater biting her left arm.

For a second he thought of her at the 24 Hour Fitness center doing curls with her small pink free weights. She was so proud of herself and he was so proud of her for working out, losing the weight she'd gained when she was pregnant with Daphne. He could see her in her pink, Susan G. Komen workout suit, with her dirty blond hair in a ponytail.

She was screaming and trying to run as another eater started gnawing on her right bicep. A third got down on its knees and fastened his teeth on a calf. They brought her down to the floor. She was wailing and writhing as they feasted. Two other eaters headed straight for Stu.

"Greta!" he yelled, his voice breaking. He couldn't believe he left her. He left her.

He flipped himself over the railing.

He toppled end over end, the massive hotel was blackened and burning with a huge hole torn into the side of it. He could see the boardwalk. Below him the ground rushed quickly upwards. He could see people and cars. He was tumbling as such a rapid rate that he couldn't catch his breath. The wind ripped his pajama top off of him completely and his cheeks filled up with air. His arms flailed about.

His thoughts were of Greta and Daphne on the beach in Malibu. Sand castles and rubber floaties. Sunshine. His family. He could see Daphne's smiling face with her little button nose right in front of him. He could almost hear her tiny voice squeaking, "Daddy." He closed his eyes.

Stu Waterman slammed onto the Boardwalk in a crumpled heap, actually bouncing two feet off the ground and landing again. People strolled past him, oblivious, eating ice cream cones or reading the newspaper or jogging with an iPod fastened to an armband. Someone skateboarded by.

A hand reached for his arm. He opened his eyes and was stunned to find himself intact and unharmed. Someone helped him to his feet. He looked and it was a dark haired kid wearing a black Ripley's Believe It or Not T-shirt, jeans and brand new, unlaced white Jordans.

It was Alejandro.

"W-w-what? What's going on? Am I dead?" Stu asked, panting, out of breath.

"No."

Alejandro began walking down the Boardwalk towards a hot dog vendor. Stu jogged to keep up, shocked that he wasn't any worse for wear. In fact, his feet were no longer cut or bleeding from the glass sliders. He looked up at the Begonia and it was still burning with a huge gash in its side. Black smoke curled into the blue sky

.

"What's going on? Are you going to answer me? Yesterday, I'm on top of the world and today I'm in a nightmare!"

"Precisely," Alejandro said purchasing a hot dog with extra sauerkraut from the vendor. He bit the hot dog and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"I don't get it. You promised me riches."

"I promised you that over three days, three of your dreams would come true."

"Do you think it's one of my dreams to have monsters attacking? A giant juggling military hardware? A recreation of nine eleven?"

"Yes. You're not following me. Your dreams are coming true."

Stu thought about it and then took a step back.

"You mean...dreams. Not fantasies. Not wishes. Dreams!!"

"Bingo," Alejandro said, biting the hot dog again.

"That's crazy. This is a dream?"

"Of course it is. You just survived a forty-story fall. The three dreams always starts this way. The good, the bad...and then the ugly."

"It gets worse??"

Alejandro finished the hot dog and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

"Yes. Make it through the dream and when you wake up, you will have everything you dreamt of in the first dream."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

Alejandro just smiled.

"So it gets worse then? The final dream?"

"Unimaginably. If you survive it..."

"What do you mean? I can die in the dream?"

"Oh no. It's just a dream. Although, some people are driven mad."

"Why would I take that risk?"

"Because you're a gambler, Mr. Waterman. That's why you're here."

Stu looked out at the water. On the horizon he could make out a dozen objects. He put a hand over his eyes to shield the sunlight and squinted. They were troop transports heading for the beach.

"You a military buff, Mr. Waterman?" Alejandro asked, looking out at the approaching vessels.

"Y-y-yeah. I watch a lot of History Channel. You know what? I don't think I can do this."

"It's the ultimate gamble. Risk your very sanity for the riches you've always wanted."

The transports were getting closer, spewing water from spouts in the back of them. And in the air in the distance, they could see warplanes. They could hear the sound of the jets as they approached. People tanning or playing volleyball on the beach noticed the incoming military hardware as well and started packing up their gear. While some stared with interest, others started to quickly leave the beach.

There was a whistling sound that grew louder and louder until something on the beach exploded, spewing smoke and sand and knocking Alejandro and Stu off their feet. They climbed to their feet. People on the beach began screaming and running. More whistling and a huge chunk of the Begonia exploded off the building in a ball of orange flames and black smoke. The sound made Stu's ears ring.

Alejandro and Stu began running down the Boardwalk as more bombs thunderously exploded on the beach. Incoming machine gun fire from planes tore up the beach and gunned down a dozen or so people. Stu and Alejandro ran along with other screaming tourists on the Boardwalk. Behind them, they heard what sounded like a herd of people running. At first Stu thought it was people from the beach running trying to escape the incoming bombs and invading military. But he glanced back while running and saw a multitude of eaters in jeans and sneakers chasing them, their mouths snapping and chomping.

Alejandro ran straight to a yellow taxicab and jumped in. Stu wasn't far behind him. He tumbled in the backseat next to Alejandro. They screamed at the cab driver to drive. He floored it. Behind them they could hear machine gun fire, explosions and the whining of jet engines, as well as the screams of scores of people being victimized by the eaters.

Stu was panting and sweating. His hands were trembling.

"I can't....I can't do this. I can't. Stop it. Call a stop to it," he begged.

Alejandro stared at him.

"If I stop this...that's it. You will never be lucky in games of chance. You make it through today and tomorrow and you're a multimillionaire."

They were stopped in traffic now. Stu looked ahead through the windshield and his mouth slowly sagged open. A wall of water, some fifty feet high was surging towards them, taking out cars and buildings in its path.

"Stop it, Alejandro. I-I- don't want it. I don't...please just stop it. Stop it."

"Going back to your old life, that's the biggest gamble you can choose. Trying to deal with your gambling, hoping your wife takes you back, trying to find someone to hire you....Are you sure, Mr. Waterman?"

There was a thud and the cab rocked. Stu was startled that the eaters had caught up to them. They surrounded the cab and were slamming their mouths against the glass, biting and snapping. Some were trying to bite the door handles. People around them who had their windows open were unlucky. The eaters bit them, fastened their jaws on them and dragged them out of their vehicles and feasted on them.

All the while, the water in the distance was surging closer, scooping up buses and garbage trucks and fast food eateries like they were nothing. The eaters were atop the cab now jumping up and down in a frenzy trying to find some way in.

"Alejandro, stop it NOW!"

The cab driver turned around and he was now an eater, biting at the wire mesh that separated the front of the cab from the back. He was snarling and snapping and his pink armless torso was contorting and writhing.

"Tell me that you quit, Mr. Waterman, " Alejandro said, amazingly calm with all the chaos surrounding them.

"I quit! I quit!!!!"

An eater kicked in Stu's window.

"I QUIT!!!!!"

His hands shook as he filled the Styrofoam cup full of steaming black coffee. He set the cup down and poured some powdered CoffeeMate into it. Then he tore open a blue package of artificial sweetener and let the crystals fall into the hot beige liquid. He used a red plastic swizzle stick to stir it and, leaving the stick in the cup, carried the cup to his seat, a hard gunmetal gray folding chair. He brought the cup to his mouth and blew across it, making ripples on the surface of his drink. He took a tiny sip.

A heavyset black woman wearing a red flowered muumuu sat at the head of a circle of a dozen seats. About nine of the chairs were occupied. She had a clipboard in front of her and she was busy writing on it. She stopped and removed her glasses. They hung around her neck on a chain.

"Okay....would you care to start?" she said, pointing at him.

He blew across his coffee and took another sip and then lowered the beverage to his lap. He coughed into one hand. He cleared his throat and swallowed. He set his coffee down on the floor and reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. With trembling fingers he slid out a small photo and held it up. It was of a woman and a small child.

"I'm here today with six dollars in my wallet. I'm here today to get my life back. And the most important thing in my life is right here in this picture. My name is Stuart and I'm a gambling addict."

COMING HOME TO ROOST

Blue Hill, Nebraska

1955

The noonday sun hammered down upon the white and gray farmhouse and big red weather-beaten barn. Near the barn was a smaller wood shack next to a pear tree. The acres of corn stalks reached skyward soaking up the solar nourishment. Two sprawling sycamore trees stood in front of the house almost like gargantuan plant sentries. A herd of cattle grazed in a meadow a half-mile to the south while closer to the barn was a large chicken coop painted to match the farmhouse. Several dozen chickens strutted in a fenced in area, but most congregated under the shade of a huge apple tree. A hint of a breeze barely moved the wooden wind chimes hanging above the front porch where a large Golden Retriever laid on a straw welcome mat.

In the distance, in the midst of a dust cloud, a turquoise Dodge Town Wagon came barreling down a long stretch of dirt road. As the vehicle got closer to the house, passing a rusty mailbox on a bent stand, the Golden Retriever bounded off the porch barking and kicking up his own dust clouds.

From inside the small shack near the barn, two thirteen-year-old boys dashed out, one holding an over inflated football. The wagon stopped in front of the farmhouse sending a brown dust cloud billowing towards the barn. The front door of the vehicle opened and a woman in oversized white sunglasses, a white floppy hat and a powder blue dress stepped out.

The two boys, in jeans and T-shirts came running over to the car. The one with the football was a bit taller with red hair. The other was blond. Both sported crew cuts.

"Chip, what were you and Donnie doing in your father's shed? You know you're not supposed to go in there when your father's not home," the woman said to the red haired boy.

"The door was open. We...we were looking for this football," Chip said, tossing the ball in the air and catching it.

"Strange place for your ball to be. I have groceries in the back. You and Donnie can tote them into the kitchen for me," she said, slamming the heavy car door and headed off in the direction of the shed.

As the boys began carrying the boxes of groceries into the house, the woman walked up to the small shed and peered inside the ramshackle wood doorway. There were various tools on different hooks on the walls. Hammers, saws, hoes, rakes, files and hoses. In the center of the shack was a wood table that had newspaper spread on it and atop the newspaper was an open bottle of beer. She stepped inside the shack and walked over to the table. The bottle had moisture droplets up and down it and it was half full. She reached and touched it.

It was cold.

Picking up the bottle, she stepped out of the shack and walked quickly across the yard. It was hard because she was wearing her good shoes and the yard was uneven.

Stopping on the porch, she yelled through the screen door.

"Chip! Donnie!"

The two boys came outside. Both were chewing bubble gum.

"What's the matter, mom? We toted the grub just like you asked," Chip said, his hands in front of him as if he were holding a large bowl, the big football secured between his knees.

"What is this? Did you sneak one of your daddy's beers? Were you boys drinking beer?" she asked, holding the bottle up between them like Exhibit A.

"No. I told you," Chip started, "We just went looking for the ball."

"Well, this bottle is ice cold. It must've come out of the ice box not ten minutes ago and your daddy has been to the farmers market in Lincoln for three hours now."

"Could've been the colored, mom. Huh, Donnie?" Chip suggested, elbowing Donnie in the ribs.

"Yes. It probably was Jonah, Auntie, " Donnie agreed.

"We're going to go play football now."

The two boys sprang off the porch running towards acres of grassy fields. Chip spiked the football off of Donnie's head and laughed while clutching his stomach. Donnie grimaced, picked up the ball and they both ran off to the fields.

Just then a well muscled, dark black man wearing dirty overalls and a tattered straw hat came walking out of the barn holding two large heavy buckets.

"Mr. Johnson? Can you come here a moment?" she called out to him.

He looked over at Mrs. Baumgarten and nodded. He came walking, still carrying both buckets, over the uneven grass with thick but dilapidated work boots. He stayed on the lawn about ten feet away while Mrs. Baumgarten stood up on the porch clutching the beer bottle with both hands in front of her. He set down the buckets and, using a rag pulled from a back pocket, mopped his forehead and back of his neck.

"Yes, ma'am?" he said in a rich baritone.

"Um...you didn't go into the main house here and take one of Mr. Baumgarten's beers from the refrigerator, did you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Are you sure? I found this bottle in the shed and it's cold."

"I'm sure, ma'am. I never go into the main house unless Mr. Tom invites me. As a Christian man who wants to keep the temple of his body pure, I don't partake of libations. You carried me out some iced tea before you went to the store and that's the only thing I done drank. I wouldn't lie to you, Miss Jillian."

"I know you wouldn't, Mr. Johnson. Thank you."

Tom Baumgarten used a metal ladle and a soup pot to wake the two boys at four-thirty in the morning. The cacophony caused by the banging ladle sent both boys flying out of bed, rubbing their eyes and flailing for their dungarees. Tom ordered them downstairs to get some victuals into them.

When they got downstairs and into the kitchen there was a plate holding four pieces of cold toast and a jar of homemade apricot preserves sitting on the kitchen table. Chip went to the icebox and pulled out a glass decanter of milk.

"Eat up, boys. We've got a lot of work to do," Mr. Baumgarten said, standing in the doorway wearing a clean pair of overalls over a plaid shirt. He held a pair of thick gloves in his hands.

"Pa, why are we up so early? I thought Mr. Johnson---" Chip started.

"I gave Mr. Johnson the day off. Seems you boys got into my beer yesterday and then lied on old Jonah."

"Pa, it wasn't like---" Chip started, pouring milk into a glass.

"Don't lie to me, boy. Your mother didn't wanna tell me about it when I got home yesterday because she knew I'd beat hell out of both of you. So she told me last night. And you, Donnie, I thought you'd be a good influence on Chip. Now the two of you are going to go collect the eggs and then clean out the chicken coop. Then feed and water the chickens."

Chip groaned as he slathered toast with jam. Donnie ate a plain piece of toast without looking up at his uncle.

"And then you're gonna pedal your bikes down to old Jonah's shack and formally apologize for accusing him of stealing. Jonah's a good colored man. He wouldn't take without asking. You done him wrong."

Chip slung chicken poop on Donnie's pant legs, causing him to jump backwards.

"That's not funny, Chip! I'm going to tell your dad."

"You tell him and I'll give you the biggest knuckle sandwich you've ever eaten," Chip said, balling up a gloved hand in front of Donnie's face.

Chip filled another bucket full of chicken poop and Donnie, wearing gloves too big for his hands, picked it up and hauled it out of the henhouse. Chip looked around at the chickens milling about in the coup. Orange light was starting to slice in through the spaces in the wooden planks of the henhouse. He wore a bandana around his nose and mouth to cut down on the smell and feathers. Flies swarmed around the henhouse. Gathering the eggs had been a long process, but shoveling the poop was exponentially harder.

Three fat white hens scratched around his feet. He nudged two of them away with his boots. For the third one, he swung his leg back and kicked it end over end, feathers flying.

And right at the moment he kicked it, he heard a thin but clear voice say, "Ow!! Shit!!!"

The chicken landed amidst a dozen similar looking chickens.

Chip dropped his shovel and took a tentative step forward, craning his neck, waving away the feathers that fluttered before him on the way down to the floor. The dozen or so chickens ran to the back of the building, where several dozen chickens congregated, all clucking and cooing and scratching.

"Donnie!" Chip called.

Donnie came walking in with an empty bucket that reeked of chicken droppings.

"Yeah?"

"Donnie, you're not going to believe this," Chip said, pulling his bandana down so he could be heard more clearly. He quickly told his cousin what had happened, even pantomiming the kick and using his hands to show the chicken flying end over end. Donnie listened in rapt attention until Chip finished. Then he laughed and laughed.

"I'm not fooling, Donnie. It talked. I swear on my pa's life!" Chip added.

"Oh, you're mad at your Pa so you want him to die."

"Take it back," Chip said, taking a menacing step towards Donnie and raising a fist..

"Okay, I take it back. But chickens don't talk, Chip."

"This one did."

"How do you know it didn't just squawk and you thought it talked?" Donnie shrugged.

"It said, 'Ow!' and then the S word."

"What kind of voice did it have?" Donnie asked.

"I dunno. Like a chicken. Kinda high pitched. Look, I know you don't believe me, but I swear. Let's just kick all these chickens until we find the one that talks."

Chip kicked a nearby chicken that clucked and fluttered its wings. Donnie grabbed him by the arm.

"We can't. It's cruel. Plus, there's like a hundred and fifty chickens!"

"So what? They're chickens! It won't take long if we're both kicking."

Donnie shook his head, looking around at all the chickens strutting, preening, pecking and clucking.

"It's not right. Especially not for something so silly," Donnie said.

"You're just chicken to kick chickens! It won't take long. Let's just do it."

"No."

"YOU don't tell me no! I'll pound you into the ground!" Chip said, taking a step towards his cousin.

A shadow fell over them and they both turned and saw Mr. Baumgarten in the doorframe. He was sweating and his overalls were dirty already. The backlit morning sunlight bathed his shoulders and head but left his face in darkness. He pulled a rag from his pocket and scrubbed the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead..

"What in tarnation are you two yammerin' about? I sent you boys out here to work!"

Chip bent down and picked up the heavy shovel.

"Sorry, Pa."

"Sorry, Uncle Tom."

"I'm serious. What is so important in here?" Mr. Baumgarten asked in a voice that signified he wasn't leaving without an answer.

Chip started scooping chicken poop into the bucket. He glared at Donnie, squinting his eyes tightly.

"Chip says he kicked a chicken and it talked," Donnie volunteered.

"Donnie!" Chip exclaimed in a voice two octaves higher than his speaking voice.

"What? First off, what are you doing kickin' my hens? I pay good money for 'em. Second, what are you talkin' about, Donnie? Chickens do not talk," Mr. Baumgarten said, taking a few steps into the henhouse.

Chip turned to face his father.

"Pa, it did talk. But Donnie's lying. He was the one who kicked the chicken. He kicked it and it talked."

Donnie's mouth dropped open.

"You mean it squawked and it sounded like it was talkin'," Mr. Baumgarten offered.

"No, sir. It talked."

"I'll play for a minute. What did the chicken say?"

"Uncle Tom, I didn't kick any of your chickens, sir, " Donnie offered.

Chip scooped up some more poop and emptied it into the bucket.

"What did the chicken say?" Mr. Baumgarten repeated, his face growing redder.

"I'd rather not say, dad."

"Y'all brought this chicanery up! What did the chicken say, Chipper?"

Mr. Baumgarten's neck was red. He looked like he was going to slap Chip. That would've surprised Donnie, though. He'd never seen Mr. Baumgarten slap anyone. But the tension made his stomach churn.

"It said, 'Ow! Shit!'" Donnie offered.

Mr. Baumgarten's face flushed red and his brow lowered and his steel gray eyes narrowed.

"You know we don't use that language in this house, Donald! What would your mother say? I have half a mind to whip tar out of both of ya! That's what my father would've done if I'd stolen one of his beers, lied on someone and cursed out loud. I don't know what's gotten into you boys but I'm going to work it out of ya. After you're finished with the chickens, I want you boys sloppin' the hogs. And then give them both a bath! Understood?"

"But Pa, I thought we was supposed to go down to Mr. Johnson's place after we're done with the chickens," Chip said in a weak voice.

Mr. Baumgarten's head looked like it was about to pop.

"You'll go down after you're done bathin' them hogs. Now get to work and knock off this tomfoolery! There's no future in it!"

Mr. Baumgarten stomped out of the henhouse and disappeared past an apricot tree.

As soon as his father was out of earshot, Chip slugged Donnie in the shoulder.

"Ow!"

"Can't believe you did that to me," Chip said, shaking his head.

"He wasn't leaving until he knew. And you didn't have to belt me one."

"Shut up and work."

"You lied on me and said I kicked the chicken," Donnie whimpered.

"Shut up or I'm going to kick you!"

While Chip scooped poop, Donnie went around putting fresh straw in the chicken coops. They worked in silence tidying up the henhouse. They dragged a fifty-pound bag of chicken feed out, opened it with a pocketknife and fed the chickens. Then they went out to the well to draw them plenty of water to drink. By now the midmorning sun was adding a nice warmth to the day. Chip's mother's sunflowers were stretching skyward.

They stood at the door to the henhouse admiring their work. They were both tired but knew the hogs, Laurel and Hardy, awaited. The back door to the farmhouse opened and Mrs. Baumgarten came out holding two tall glasses of lemonade. The boys dropped their gloves and raced each other over to her. Chip won. They thanked her profusely and raced each other finishing off the tall, refreshingly sweet beverages and Chip won again. They handed their empty, glasses back to her.

As they walked back towards the henhouse, Chip let out a huge belch and laughed uproariously.

"Not funny, Chip. You keep getting me in trouble. It was your idea to take the beer. I didn't even drink it."

"You had a sip," Chip shot back.

"But I spit it out because it tasted terrible. It was your idea to blame Mr. Johnson. You came up with that chicken lie that got me in trouble with Uncle."

"I didn't lie about that chicken. And it's about time you get in trouble. I'm sick of hearing, 'You should be more like Donnie.' Just because your dad got himself killed in the war and your mother is a head case in the nervous hospital up in Omaha, everyone feels sorry for you!"

Donnie stopped in his tracks and turned to face Chip, his hands balled into fists.

"Take it back!" he ordered.

A flurry of noise erupted from the henhouse. Clucking and the fluttering of wings. A half dozen chickens flew out the door onto the yard, strutting and scratching the dirt.

"I won't take it back!"

"Take it back!"

More chickens spilled out of the henhouse, clucking louder.

"Or what, Donald?" Chip asked.

Donnie threw an awkward punch that Chip dodged. Chip sank a fist into Donnie's stomach that lifted the boy off his feet and down to the ground. Dozens more chickens came out of the henhouse, flying, flapping and screeching. It startled Chip that so many hens poured out of the door at that moment. They beat their wings and clucked and gathered round them. Donnie laid in a fetal position, coughing and crying. Chip tried his best to console him and stop him from sobbing before his mother, or worse his father, heard and gave them what for. Finally, Donnie stood up and angrily shook off his cousin's attempts to check on him. He marched off in the direction of the faraway barn. He turned and looked back. Then he angrily walked back towards Chip. He stopped inches from him, staring him in the eyes.

'My dad was a hero. My mom lost her true love.....I'm not following your lead anymore. I'm not afraid of you anymore. I'm going to be my own person," Donnie said, his lower lip quivering. He turned and stomped off towards the barn.

Half a dozen chickens fluttered around Chip, squawking, pounding their wings with feathers flying. Chip threw his arms up to shield his face as the chickens swirled and swarmed around him. Chip stumbled backwards and fell to the ground. Chickens surrounded him, clucking loudly and he could've sworn they were trying to peck him. He pushed himself to his feet.

"Shoo! Let's go!" he barked at the chattering poultry, clapping his hands. He was pouring sweat.

Chip herded the chickens back into the henhouse, threatening to kick them if they didn't move fast enough for him. He walked across the uneven ground back towards the wood building, clapping his hands and swinging his fists at the birds. Once he got them all back inside he stood leaning against the doorframe looking at them. He waved flies away from his head. He took a few steps into the coop.

"One of you talked. I'll be back to kick all of you."

Most of the chickens were eating their feed, drinking water or back in their nests. Some scratched around the floor of the henhouse. Some strutted and preened for one of the two roosters in attendance. The place looked better than when they'd started over it. Good enough, he thought. He wasn't doing anymore in there today. He would let the colored do it when he came back tomorrow.

Three fat hens suddenly flew towards his face, beating their wings and squawking. One of them scratched Chip's cheek with a sharp toe and Chip stumbled backwards falling to the floor of the coop onto fresh chicken droppings. Once down, the three chickens began pecking him furiously on the arms and face. Chip swatted at them and cried out. The fluttering fowl pecked at him relentlessly, scratching his arms and hands. He scrambled to his knees, his back covered in slimy chicken poop. He got to his feet, stumbled out the doorway onto the ground.

He stood up, brushing the dirt, straw and poop from his pants. He was crying but didn't want to wipe away his tears for fear of getting chicken poop in his eyes. His face was covered in welts and tiny pink cuts.

As he slowly closed the weathered wood chicken coop door, an unmistakable thin voice said, "Asshole!"

SWITCHCRAFT

Jacob's Corner

1693

Anna Marie Solomon swung the ax with all her might and it split the log with a big THUNK, splinters flying. She carried the logs to the side of the cabin and stacked them neatly with the rest. A perfect triangle, four feet high of fresh firewood. She wiped her hands on her smock and walked to the front of the cabin where the well was. The evening sun was just slipping past the tree line as she sent the bucket down to retrieve some water. She cranked it back up and poured some into a tin cup, which she drank in two gulps.

She walked in the cabin, her work boots thudding on the dusty wood floor. Her pa was sitting in a rocking chair next to an end table with a lamplight burning. He was carving a piece of wood with a knife.

"Woods all chopped and stacked, papa. Wouldst you like me to fetch a bowl of stew for your supper?"

"No...no...no, Anna Marie. After I sold the hogs this morning, I had lunch at Ma's Kettle. Venison and lentils. Two big plates. Enough for any man."

She fetched a wood bowl and a silver spoon from the kitchen in the corner of the shack and then walked to the fireplace where a black kettle hung from an iron rod over a low flame. She used the spoon to ladle herself some stew and sat on a low stool across a heavy circular rug from her father. She scooped some stew, blew on it and ate a bite.

"May I ask what it is you're whittling, papa?"

The man continued to work, shaving little pieces of wood off his carving. He held it up to his lips and blew on it and particles flew off. He turned it around in his hand and looked at it closely. Then he began carving some more.

"Tis a bird. For you, Anna Marie."

He finished carving and then placed it in a small sack on the end table. He set the knife down and picked up the sack. Holding the end tightly closed, he vigorously shook the bag. He stopped, retrieved the wooden bird and used a rag to polish it. He held it up to his eye and turned it slowly, examining every curve of his craftsmanship. Then he tossed it to daughter and she caught it with one hand.

She set her bowl of stew on the floor and looked at the tiny wooden bird in her hands. Its wings were outstretched like it was soaring. The detail was complete down to the bird's eyes. She turned it over in her hands and looked at it from different angles.

She stood, walked across the floor and kissed her father's cheek.

"It's beautiful, papa. Thank you."

When she sat down, her father rose from his rocker and stretched his back, raising his arms towards the roof. He exhaled forcefully and went to the front window and drew the curtains closed. The sun was beginning to set and the soft orange light faded away as the canvas curtains overlapped each other. He slowly walked back to his rocker and sat down.

"Anna Marie...push the bird to me."

She seemed startled. Worry flashed across her face. Part of her wanted to ignore his request entirely. She didn't want to believe that he'd said what he said. She set the bird in the lap of her dress and began tightening her blond ponytail while nervously looking about the sparsely decorated room.

"Did you hear me, Anna Marie?"

"But you told me not to do that. You said that if ever anyone saw me use my gift, I'd surely be rounded up as a heretic."

She finished fussing with her hair and picked up her bowl of stew but found she'd lost her appetite.

"What I said before was true. We live in times where man doesn't understand half of what he thinks he does. We live in superstitious times. Madness and witchery carries sway over science and humanity. Outside these walls you are never to use your gift under any circumstances. Now with that said...No one will see. I want to see if you still have it."

Anna Marie picked up the small wooden bird and placed it in the palm of her right hand. She swallowed. She extended her arm out towards her father eight feet away. She nervously glanced at the shuttered window and swallowed hard.

She stared at the bird for a minute, her father's gray eyes also fixated on the bird. It wobbled and her father's eyes widened. The bird twitched and slowly rose into the air about a foot above her hand. A smile stretched across her father's face. The bird turned around slowly, doing a complete 360 and then began floating towards her father. It's wings dipped from side to side to simulate flight. He caught it in his cupped hands.

"Splendid, Anna Marie. Splendid indeed. It's astonishing. It's truly a gift. It's unfortunate that you must never share it with anyone. Never, Anna Marie."

"Papa, how do I know this isn't the devil's work?"

He rose from his chair and walked over to a bookshelf on the wall and retrieved a King James Bible.

"You know your mother was devout. I'm a man of science. But this is what comforted her. This is how she explained your gift to me. First Corinthians twelve four. 'Now there are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit. And there are differences of administrations, but the same Lord. And there are diversities of operations, but it is the same God which worketh all in all. But the manifestation of the Spirit is given to every man to profit withal. For to one is given by the Spirit the word of wisdom; to another the word of knowledge by the same Spirit; To another faith by the same Spirit; to another the gifts of healing by the same Spirit; To another the working of miracles; to another prophecy; to another discerning of spirits; to another diverse kinds of tongues; to another the interpretation of tongues: But all these worketh that one and the selfsame Spirit, dividing to every man severally as he will.'"

"My gift is of God? Do you believe that, Papa?"

"Your mother believed it."

"And you, Papa?"

"There are things about the human mind that we don't understand. This could be some congenital anomaly. Like some people are born deaf or dumb."

"I have an affliction?"

"It's a gift, Anna Marie."

She smiled and rose with her bowl.

"Papa...the sun is setting. Do you think I could rush down to Mr. Proctor's store and fetch us a pair of apples so I can make candy apples?"

"It's late, Anna Marie."

"I shant be but a moment."

Her father looked at the little wooden bird in his hands and smiled again.

"Hurry."

She walked quickly alternating looks ahead with looking down at ground. She stopped to say hello to every adult she saw on the street. She even added a little curtsy. She hated doing the curtsy because it made her feel like a little girl but the adults seemed to like it. Their expressions were always serious and dour. Someone's crops were always being ruined or someone's hogs got out or something. It seemed like there was never good news to share. She tried to keep herself out of everyone's business. Her father had taught her to keep to herself but be respectful.

The street was dirt but lined with some cobblestones to help with carriage wheels when they got stuck in mud after the rains. The shops were wooden and drab. The sun was barely visible over the hills. The sky was a hazy mix of pinks and orange.

She walked into Mr. Proctor's General Store. Mr. Proctor, a heavyset man with a thick beard, was sweeping the floor. He greeted Anna Marie warmly and asked her what he could do for her.

"Do you have two apples?"

"Do I have apples? You've come to the right place. Some people get their apples from across the street at Smithee's. But if you want plump, juicy, sweet apples, you come to me. Got an Indian boy who grows them nice and big down by the river. "

He set the broom against the far wall, wiped his hands on his apron and picked out two large red apples from a crate full of them. He handed them to Anna Marie.

"You take those apples home to your pa. No charge today."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Proctor," she smiled, curtsied and left the store.

Outside, seated on a bench in front of the store were two girls around Anna Marie's age. They wore blue elegant dresses with long buttoned bodices cinched tight at the waists with short sleeves gathered into puffs. Their dresses were large and puffy with two layers of lace under the silk material. One girl wore long white gloves and sported hair in curly blonde hair.

Anna Marie recognized them at once. The girl with the gloves and blonde hair was Millicent Parker, daughter of Crown's Attorney Haywood Parker. Her sidekick was Louisa Faulkner. Parker walked around Jacob's Corner like she owned the place, making people step off the wooden walkway into the mud when she passed by. She had bulging eyes like her mother and all the small children called her Toad Eyes behind her back. No one dared say such a thing to her face. She would most assuredly go complaining to her father who worked for the Chief Magistrate.

"Anna Marie...your father let you out of your hole this late in the day?" Millicent said, fanning herself with a paper fan that had a depiction of the Last Supper on it.

"Hello Millicent. Louisa. I've no time to talk."

"Of course. Must be terribly burdensome to be the daughter of a drunken hog farmer and...well...your mum. Shame what happened to her."

Anna Marie could hear her father telling her again and again not to talk to Millicent Parker. He would always tell her to just keep walking, that nothing good could come out of bantering on with someone so callous-hearted. But she was stubborn, like her mother. She wanted to continue on home. The sun had faded behind the hills and indentured servants were busy lighting lampposts.

"Millicent, please do not talk about my mother," Anna Marie said and began walking, clutching her apples to her bosom.

"I just think tis must be a shame to have no mum to instruct you in how to properly dress," Millicent called after her.

Anna Marie stopped and turned. She took two steps back towards the girls, who had just stood from the bench and were smoothing their dresses.

"'Round the 'morrow you may find yourself in my predicament. Whilst you be half the woman I am?" Anna Marie said and walked off, her heavy work shoes clomping along the wooden walkway.

The two girls laughed among themselves.

The next morning, Jesse Solomon sat up in bed, wiping his forehead. He stood up and smiled when he saw the pail of water, thick bar of soap and rag on the floor at the foot of his bed. He listened and could hear Anna Marie's soft snoring on the other side of the wood partition between their beds. He stripped out of his bedclothes and used the water and soap to wash his body. He put on a clean shirt and undergarments and stepped into a thick pair of brown pants with suspenders. He put on socks and then buckled his boots on.

Outside he could hear approaching hoof beats. There must've been five horses. He could tell they stopped in front of his house. He could hear the snorting and whinnying of the horses and their feet clopping on the scattered cobblestones out front. He could hear the footfalls of the men and hushed voices talking. There was a heavy pounding on the door.

Anna Marie appeared from around the partition in her bedclothes, her hair tied up inside a large embroidered handkerchief. She was rubbing her eyes.

"Papa, what is it?"

"Let me handle it."

He walked to the front door, unbolted it and opened it. There were five men. Two held muskets. The man standing in his doorway holding a rolled up piece of paper was Crown Attorney Haywood Parker. He wore a powdered wig, a long sleeved ruffled white shirt with a multicolored cravat and black waistcoat. His pencil thin mustache was waxed to a point. His face was red.

"Jesse Solomon, I am Crown's Attorney Haywood Parker and I have a warrant for the arrest of Miss Anna Marie Solomon on the charge of murder through witchery!"

"What? The murder of whom?"

The two unarmed men entered the house over Jesse's objections and walked to the back of the shack where Anna Marie was wriggling into her bodice and seized her. They manacled her wrists in front of her with heavy iron chains. Her mouth hung open in shock. Her ponytail hung down in frizzy disarray.

"Unhand her!! How dare you!! Whom is she accused of murdering?" Jesse asked again.

"My wife! Last night, she was trampled by a runaway horse and carriage only an hour after your daughter cast her devilish spell!" C.A. Parker said, pointing a shaking finger at Anna Marie who burst into tears.

"This is an outrage. It's madness! My little girl isn't a witch!"

Jesse lunged for the men holding his daughter and one of the men with the muskets leveled his weapon at him.

"Stand down, Jesse Solomon. Or I shall clap you in irons and charge you with obstruction!"

"Papa, no! Please!" Anna Marie sobbed.

Jesse stood back, his face melting. His eyes red. His hands shaking.

The men left with Anna Marie.

Annie Marie was locked in a cell in the jail near the town center. When they'd rode up on their horses, a small crowd had already gathered even though roosters were just now welcoming the day and the first slivers of sunlight were peeking out through the faraway hills and trees. Word had spread fast that a witch had been arrested in Jacob's Corner. They'd followed the stories of witches being arrested in nearby Ipswich, Andover, and Salem's Village. Many couldn't believe one of their own had been arrested.

She sat in a cell on a wood cot. She was chained by one wrist to a rusty ring set in the stone wall. There was the jangle of keys and the jail door opened. Crown's Attorney Parker entered and sat down on a stool across from Anna. In his hand he carried a large leather bound bible.

"You can make it easy on yourself by confessing your sin. When did you first make contact with the demonic?"

"Excuse me?"

"No need to play games, child. I know what you did. I have my daughter's testimony. I have Louisa Faulkner's testimony. 'Round the 'morrow, you shall be without your mother' is what you said. Two witnesses."

Anna Marie tried to think back to the night before and the ugly encounter with Millicent. It had gone so quickly. She'd gotten the apples only to be accosted by Millicent and Louisa outside. She went home and made superb candy apples. She'd quickly put the incident behind her and hadn't even bothered to mention it to her father. It was of such little import. She licked her lips.

"Mr. Parker, the girls quoted me incorrectly. That is not what I said. I did not do anything to Millicent or Louisa or your wife."

"'Round the 'morrow, you shall be without your mother!' It's plain as day. That's foreknowledge of a murderous event. You were not there when the horse and carriage..." Parker put his fist to his mouth and his face turned bright red. "You were not there when the incident happened but you did not need to be. You had already cast the spell."

"May I have some water?"

"You have the temerity to ask me for water after you killed the mother of my child?"

"I did not do this...I am not a witch," Anna Marie said in a soft voice with tears slowly rolling down her pale cheeks.

"Godfrey! Bring me water!" Parker shouted, scaring Anna.

In a couple of moments, one of the men who had put the wrist shackles on Anna appeared in the cell holding a glass and a wooden pitcher of water. He poured a glass.

"Confess your crime in front of me, Godfrey and the Lord Almighty....then you can have some water."

Anna Marie stared at the glass in Godfrey's hand. The water looked clear and cold like the water she was used to drawing out of their well early in the morning. She could almost taste it in her mouth, moistening her lips and tongue and going down the back of her throat, filling her belly. Her throat was so dry and achy. It was right there, an arm's length away.

"I went to the store to get apples. When I came out, your daughter, Millicent and Louisa Faulkner were sitting...sitting outside. Millicent began taunting me about my parents. She taunted me about my mother because she knows my mother hanged herself. And I should have walked away.....but I turned....I said...I said 'Round the 'morrow..." she began.

"Yes."

"'Round the 'morrow you may find yourself in my predicament. Whilst you be half the woman I am?' That is what I said. It was not a wish. It was not a spell. I was trying to---"

"No, you cast a spell. You said, 'You SHALL BE WITHOUT YOUR MOTHER.'"

"I most certainly did not."

Parker slapped her face. It startled Godfrey who sloshed some of the water out of the glass. Crown's Attorney Parker took the glass and drank it down in one gulp in front of Anna and handed the glass back to Godfrey.

When Parker rose from the stool, the glass shattered in Godfrey's hand, raining glass all over the bottom of the cell.

"Godfrey, what in the world?" Parker spat.

"I didn't..."

"Get a broom and clean this up. She gets no water until I say."

Around 4PM Jesse Solomon was allowed to see his daughter. The jailer opened the heavy door and locked them both inside. They sat side-by-side on the cot and hugged, Jesse taking in the sweet fragrance of her hair. Anna Marie was given to taking fresh lilacs from the garden and using the mortar and pestle and soap to make her own shampoo. He took in the fresh bouquet holding her tightly. His face was stern and red. Anna Marie sobbed softly.

"They feed you?" he asked, pushing her hair out of her face.

"They brought me crusty bread and the worst onion soup. I'm okay, Papa."

"These charges are outlandish. I want you to understand something though. This is personal for Crown's Attorney Parker. He believes you killed his wife. He had Reverend Doggett bless him and Millicent with an anti-witchery blessing just to protect them from you. Last month, he was up in Salem Town helping with the witch prosecutions there. They're hanging people at Gallows Hill, Anna Marie. This is serious."

"Papa, I did not harm anyone."

"I know that. I know. But listen to me..." Jesse leaned close so his mouth was near his daughter's ear. He spoke in a whisper. "The townsfolk are going mad over this witch talk. You should use your gift to break out of jail. I spent this morning stocking the wagon. We will leave this infernal place. Push them. Use your gift, Anna Marie."

She looked around nervously and stared into her father's eyes before hugging him and whispering back.

"Papa, I shant use this to harm people. If I use this that will just prove to everyone that I am a witch. Besides, I can only push small objects. I do not see how my gift could be used to free me."

"You have tried to push larger objects?"

"In the woods...long ago. I tried to push a log. It would not budge."

"Anna Marie, they're going to conduct a farce of a trial and hang you by your neck until you are dead. I am not going to let that happen. We must do all we can. Push them. If you won't do it, I will bring my flintlock into the courtroom and shoot the Crown's Attorney dead and rescue you."

"Papa! No...no...Papa, let me pray on it. Let me pray on this and figure out what to do."

"I will not let them hang my little girl."

He kissed his fingertips and pressed them against her forehead and then stood and knocked on the door to be let out.

That night was a full moon. It hung high in the sky, fat and yellow. Anna Marie sat with her back against the cold wall and her feet drawn up on the cot. The moonlight shone through the tiny window on the wall. She could see something moving in the shadows on the floor of her cell. It was small and made squeaking sounds. She looked hard, trying to see through the darkness, holding her breath to listen to the squeaking sounds in the stillness of the night. A fat rat stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight. It peeped, rubbed its face and then turned and ran back into the darkness.

She drifted off to sleep, her hand still chained to the wall. Her back was against the stone wall and her head lolled from side to side as she slept. She was awakened an hour later by a smell. It was a pungent odor that cloyed at her nostrils, permeated the back of her throat and made her retch. She clamped a hand over her nose and mouth and tried to fight the urge to vomit.

The clanking of her door lock turning startled her. The heavy wooden door slowly swung open in the limited moonlight. Beyond it, it was dark. She started trembling. She didn't know what to expect. She could hear her own heartbeat.

"Mr. Parker?" she called out. Her voice hung in the air like a body from a noose.

That smell was still tickling her nose and she retched. She slipped her feet down to the floor and slowly inched towards the open doorway. Her right wrist was still shackled to the wall with two feet of chain. She moved closer to the door in the darkness, trying to see out into the hallway but there wasn't enough moonlight and it appeared that the hallway lanterns hadn't been lit. The chain rattled as she stepped closer to the doorway. The chain extended out from the metal hoop in the wall to her wrist. She was at the doorway now. Her pulse pounded in her temples. She held her breath. Sweat dripped from her forehead down the bridge of her nose. She pushed her head forward around the doorframe and looked down the hall.

With the aid of a single lantern in the hallway, she saw a tall man with what looked like bullhorns coming out of his head. He clutched a spear that he held at an angle across his body. His powerful legs were hairy like a goat all the way down to his cloven hooves.

Anna Marie shrieked, leaping backwards and slamming the heavy door closed. She pushed against it, screaming as something pounded on the other side of it.

"Papa!!! Lord save me!!" she cried out.

There were two more knocks on the heavy door and then she could hear whoever, whatever it was clomping down the hall.

The following day thick gray clouds had rolled in from the West dumping rain across the valley. It came down steady, raining on the fifty-five people who came out to Salzburg Cemetery for the burial of Emma Josephine Parker. Crown's Attorney Haywood Parker stood stoically dressed in black with shiny brass buckles. He rigidly held an umbrella over he and his daughter Millicent, who wore a drab black dress and black bonnet. Reverend Doggett gave an impassioned eulogy, finishing up by damning Anna Marie Solomon to eternal hellfire.

As the crowd dispersed, heading to their horses and carriages, shielding themselves from the rain with a sea of black umbrellas, Haywood Parker pulled aside two men. Godfrey and Joseph Ryerson. The three men huddled under a large Eastern Hemlock tree.

"Godfrey, the test last night. Did you receive a usable confession?" Parker asked, stroking his thin mustache.

"I had Joseph here wear the costume. We certainly scared her badly what with the moldy Limburger cheese and the goat hooves."

"Yes. Did she hail the demon? Did she cry out for Satan?"

"She cried out for her father. And....and...the Lord," Joseph Ryerson added.

"Are you certain? Perhaps she was crying out for her Lord Satan. Might it have been that way?" Parker asked Godfrey.

Godfrey shook his head no.

"She was terrified. To be completely candid, she sounded innocent to me," Godfrey said.

"What? Are you mad? My own daughter...mine own flesh and blood heard the incantation! Louisa Faulkner also heard the spell. She's a crafty witch. She reminds me of Sarah Good. Everyone thought that this poor ignorant child couldn't possibly be a witch but we convinced a jury otherwise. Before I came to Jacob's Corner I helped arrest twenty-two witches. Do not forget this. She's a witch! As God is my witness, she'll hang like a witch!"

Anna Marie Solomon sat in her cell with a bowl of porridge in her lap. It wasn't that bad. She'd grown up eating similar porridge for breakfast. They hadn't always had enough money to get by but they always had porridge. She was about to take a second bite when she noticed something black wriggling around in the cloudy goop. She used the spoon to fish the cockroach to the surface of the porridge.

She stared at the bug and pushed it. The insect rose from the bowl into the air with its legs wiggling about. It slowly sailed across the cell and down onto the floor in the corner near her waste bucket. Then she stared intently at the bucket. Her brow furrowed and she clenched her teeth.

The bucket slowly began to lift on one side. It came up about two inches, wobbling and trembling. Anna Marie watched it, gritting her teeth and straining. Her face was red and she began to sweat. The bucket slid two inches over, shadowing the immobile cockroach. Then she exhaled and the bucket dropped, crunching the bug beneath it.

She was about to take a bite of porridge when a stone came sailing in the window and smacked against the heavy wood door. It rolled to a stop on the floor of her cell. She set the bowl down and stood, She climbed up on the cot and peered out the open barred window.

Outside in a steady drizzle was Millicent Parker and Louisa Faulkner. They stood under a single umbrella. Millicent pantomimed hanging by the neck and both girls giggled.

The next day the courtroom was packed with townsfolk. The rain outside was light. It was standing room only inside, with two dozen more people turned away at the door. Jesse Solomon sat on the back row wearing his Sunday best, a black waistcoat and black ruffled shirt with his silver buckles cleaned and shined. Haywood Parker in a bright red waist coat and pants with white shirt and a white wig sat at a table in the front of the room writing on parchment with a quill. Millicent and Louisa Faulkner sat in the front row behind him.

Townspeople sat on rows of low oak benches. On the right side of the judicial podium stood two flags. One was the old red Massachusetts Bay Colony flag and the other was a similar flag of New England which boasted a red St. George's Cross on a white canton and a green tree in the canton of the cross.

All rose when Chief Magistrate Lucius Pettiford entered the courtroom in a flowing purple robe and a powdered white wig. He sat down and then the townsfolk retook their seats. He banged a gavel on the lectern.

"This court will come to order. Bring in the accused," the Magistrate ordered in a nasally voice.

A side door opened and Godfrey and Joseph Ryerson escorted Anna Marie Solomon in. She wore an oversized black and white striped gown with her hands shackled in front of her. Her ponytail had been tightly tied and hung lifelessly down her back. She was seated at the opposite table from Crown's Attorney Parker.

The Chief Magistrate raised some parchment before his face and began to read loudly: "Anna Marie Solomon, you are accused of the high crime of witchcraft. You stand accused of turning your back on our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, communing with the Devil himself and casting a spell causing a horse to render itself uncontrollable and pulling an empty carriage, viciously and maliciously ran down and killed Emma Josephine Parker. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty, sir," Anna Marie said in a voice barely above a whisper. There was a hushed murmur throughout the onlookers.

"Mr. Parker, you may continue."

Haywood Parker stood, coughed and excused himself.

"The colony would like to call Millicent Parker to the stand."

Millicent stood wearing a regal purple dress with a tight bodice with shiny gold buttons. She also wore a white hat with a lace veil and long white gloves. She glided to the witness chair and placed a hand on a leather bound copy of the King James Bible.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you almighty God?" her father asked.

"I do."

Millicent leaned down and kissed the bible and then made herself comfortable. Several of the onlookers were waving fans. The room was stuffy and humid with so many people inside and the drizzling rain outside.

"Please tell us what happened on the twelfth day of April."

"Louisa Faulkner and I were sitting on a bench outside Mr. Proctor's General Store late in the evening. Anna Marie came walking out of the store carrying two or three apples. I said hello and she snapped, 'Don't take that tone with me.' I asked her what she was referring to. She asserted that I knew. I told her I had not taken any such tone and perhaps if she still had a mother, she would instruct her on how to be a proper lady."

"Were you mocking Miss Solomon?"

"Absolutely not. It is dreadful that Anna Marie's mum passed away in such an unspeakable manner. However, I was just making an observation. That's when she pointed at me and said...." Millicent choked up but no tears flowed. "That's when she said, 'Round the morrow, your mother shall be dead!'"

The room erupted in gasps and murmuring. Someone shouted, "Hang the witch!" and several others concurred.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The Chief Magistrate used his gavel to pound his table.

"Say it again," CA Parker said, pointing at his daughter.

"'Round the morrow, your mother shall be dead!"

"Thank you. You are graciously excused. I shall call Louisa Faulkner to the stand."

Louisa walked slowly, in a beautiful blue gown with pink sash, clutching a handkerchief to her mouth. As she walked by Millicent, Millicent whispered, "Just as I said."

Louisa nervously took the oath and sat down in the chair, avoiding eye contact with the seventy-five or so spectators. And she avoided looking at Anna Marie, who sat straight and tall in her chair, staring right at her accuser. Sitting next to her was Oliver Jacobson, her barrister. He was fat but impeccably dressed in a long brown coat with enormous cravat. He sipped tea and obsessively ran his fingernails over each other.

Crown's Attorney Parker walked her through her testimony that Jesse Solomon thought sounded quite rehearsed. He sat staring a hole in the back of Haywood Parker's head. And in just moments, might put one there permanently. His triple barreled flintlock was hidden in an inside jacket pocket. He could slip it out in a matter of seconds. He had a direct line of fire to the man accusing his daughter of this unspeakable crime. There were two bailiffs with muskets by the door. Jesse figured he could shoot them both before they got a shot off. In the pandemonium of the aftermath, he figured he could make his way to Anna Marie and carry her, if need be, out to their stocked carriage. They'd be chased, no doubt. But Jackrabbit, their mighty horse, was the fastest in Jacob's Corner. They'd have a good head start on whoever came after them.

"She said, 'Round the morrow...I shall kill your mother.'" There were murmurings among the onlookers. "I meant to say, she said, 'Round the morrow...your mother...shall be dead.' Yes."

"Thank you. Now I shall call Anna Marie Solomon to the stand."

Anna Marie stood slowly. She turned and looked at her dad who smiled at her. She mouthed the words, "I love you, Papa," and slowly walked toward the stand. Louisa walked past her without looking at her. In fact, she had her eyes to the floor and her handkerchief to her mouth.

"I suppose swearing you in would be a shockingly futile endeavor, Miss Solomon," Haywood Parker said with a smirk.

"That is up to you, Mr. Parker," Anna whispered back.

"Just take a seat."

Anna sat down, the heavy shackles clanking as she did so.

"Miss Solomon, what evil spirit have you familiarity with?"

"None."

"Have you made a contract with the Devil?"

"No, sir."

"How long have you practiced the Dark Arts?"

"I do not practice any Dark Arts, Mr. Parker."

"On the twelfth of April, you did sojourn to Reginald Proctor's General Store?"

"Yes, I did. To buy apples."

"And what transpired?"

Anna Marie peered over Haywood Parker's shoulder. She could see her father slowly standing up in the rear of the courtroom. He began inching his hand inside his coat. Anna's eyes widened. She slowly shook her head from side to side.

"No? You are not going to tell us what transpired, Miss Solomon?" Parker shouted, taking a few steps towards her.

Jesse, his hands trembling, slowly sat back down on the bench.

"Yes, I shall tell you, though I am a trifle bit scared."

"Scared of what, Miss Solomon?"

"Millicent. When I came out of the general store, I overheard Millicent speaking with Louisa Faulkner. Millicent said, 'I am tired of momma controlling my life and I will soon be finished of her.'"

The courtroom erupted in gasps and shouts. Millicent sat upright with her mouth open. The Magistrate hammered on his desk with the gavel, his bushy gray eyebrows furrowing. Haywood Parker walked back to his table and poured himself a glass of water. He drank it while the Magistrate and the bailiffs quieted down the townspeople. Louisa whispered into Millicent's ear and the two girls held hands.

"These are lies of the demonic! Are they not?" Parker bellowed, pounding his fist on his table.

"No, sir. Millicent said, 'I am tired of momma controlling my life and I will soon be finished of her.' Then Louisa said, 'Do you have the incantation ready?' And Millicent said, 'Yes.' That's when she saw that I could hear what they were saying."

The onlookers erupted once again with shouts of, "She's a liar!" "The Devil speaks through her!" and a shout of "Listen to the girl!" came from Jesse Solomon in the back.

"This is not what you told me in private!" Haywood Parker shouted, his fists clenched, an ugly vein bulging in his neck.

"Tis most certainly what I told ye. Ye didn't want to hear it but I told you. I spoke the truth."

"Is the Devil making you accuse my daughter of witchcraft?" Parker asked.

"My Papa could ask you the same question, Mr. Parker."

"Blasphemy!" someone shouted and the onlookers grew restless. Millicent covered her mouth with a hand. Louisa was busily kneading her handkerchief in her lap.

"Answer the question! Is the Devil making you accuse my daughter of witchcraft? Making you accuse my daughter of killing her own mother? Are there demons within you?"

"Absolutely not. Those two girls..." Anna Marie said, pointing at Millicent and Louisa, "...accused me to cover up their own witchery. There is no evidence against me but the word of those two. There is sorcery and witchcraft afoot in Jacob's Corner and Millicent Parker is a witch, not me!"

"That's a damnable lie!!!" Millicent shouted, standing and pointing at Anna Marie.

And in that instant, the small jar of ink in front of Millicent on her father's table flew across the room, striking the front of the witness booth and splattered black ink on Anna Marie's chest and face. The quill, which had separated from the jar as it flew, softly sailed back towards Millicent and embedded itself in her hair.

Many people stood and fled to the exit at the rear of the courtroom. There were shrieks and screams. Those sitting closest to Millicent and Louisa clamored to get away from them, their eyes wide with fright. Millicent reached up and removed the feather and dropped it but it fluttered up, sailed around her head twice and tucked itself into Louisa's hair. Louisa shrieked and pulled it out and dropped it to the floor. A man yelled out, "Millicent is the witch!" "We've seen witchery with our own eyes!" a woman exclaimed, backing out of the courtroom. Reverend Doggett started reciting the Lord's Prayer.

"No. No....my daughter...my daughter is no witch, " Haywood Parker said in a small voice, as if he were trying to convince himself.

"Bailiff, remove these chains. Anna Marie Solomon is not guilty. Release her," the Magistrate said and pounded his gavel one time.

A group of two or three men started chanting, "Seize the witches! Seize the witches!" and soon the whole room started chanting and stomping their feet on the wooden floor boards. The bailiff released Anna Marie from her wrist chains and handed her a handkerchief to wipe the ink from her face. She ran past Haywood Parker, who had collapsed in his chair, looking at his hands. She ran past Millicent and Louisa without looking at them, pushed through the crowd to her father, who hugged her close at the back of the courtroom.

"Bailiffs, seize the witches!" the Magistrate ordered and the crowd cheered.

Louisa tried to run but a bailiff tackled her to the floor. Millicent looked dumbfounded with her mouth agape as another bailiff clamped the shackles on her wrists. Haywood Parker stood with his mouth open but no words coming out. He pantomimed trying to hug his daughter but he could not. He had doubts in his own mind.

"Daddy, you do believe me, don't you?" Millicent asked.

The bailiffs led her away.

That evening, as the sun was settling down for the night, Millicent Parker and Louisa Faulkner sat in a cell on their respective cots. They were kept in individual cells but Millicent got her father to move a cot into her cell so Louisa could join her. They ate their dinner, a thin soup and crusty bread, in silence. Louisa had fat tears rolling down her cheeks the entire time.

Outside they heard approaching hoof beats and the squeaking of carriage wheels. They continued to eat in silence. It could be more townspeople. They'd had about a dozen people stand outside their cell chanting, "Burn the witch! Burn the witch!" Millicent had stood on her cot and showed them an obscene gesture, to which the people gasped and scurried away.

As Louisa lifted a trembling spoon to her lips, a rock came sailing through the open barred window and ricocheted off the wood door to the floor. It startled Louisa into dropping her spoon into her soup and it splashed on her gown. Millicent immediately set her bowl on the floor and Louisa followed suit. Both girls clambered up on their cots to look out the high barred window.

In the fading light, they saw a horse and carriage. In the carriage sat Jesse Solomon with a straw hat on his head. He was holding the reins of the horse and looking straight ahead. Next to him sat Anna Marie in a white dress. She was eating an apple and staring at them.

"Just wanted to say bye. We're leaving Jacob's Corner for good," she said and bit another piece of apple.

"You know we're not witches, Anna Marie Solomon!" Millicent spat.

"Oh no. You're both witches. Good luck."

Anna Marie took a last bite of the apple, held the core out towards them and let it go. The core hung in the air. Jesse Solomon snapped the reins and Jackrabbit, their mighty horse, trotted off pulling the carriage away down a dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust that billowed up around the dangling apple core.

"God in heaven...she's a witch!" Louisa said, her mouth hanging open.

Millicent stared at the core, her eyes wide.

The apple hung for a moment more. Then the core rotated end over end and fell to the dusty road.

GODSHOT

Beanie D, Big Larry and Malcolm were walking down Martin Luther King Blvd at eleven-thirty PM. The three African-American teens' gait was unsteady because they were drunk and high. They had left the party earlier than they'd planned to because a fight had broken out between two guys over a girl. It never failed at one of these parties that someone getting their feelings hurt would interrupt the loud music, free flowing alcohol and weed. It didn't take long before it turned into a brawl that knocked Cyrus' flat screen off the wall. When that happened, everyone put his or her backs to the wall as Cyrus whipped a gauge from under the sofa. He cleared the house with a swiftness and the party was definitely over.

"Man, ten mo' minutes and I woulda got dat fine ass bitch's digits, belee dat, " Malcolm said, puffing his chest out like a peacock.

Big Larry put a fist to his own mouth and laughed his deep gravelly laugh. Beanie D just looked skeptically at Malcolm as they walked along the dark sidewalk, passing closed liquor stores, pawnshops, quickie marts and Laundromats.

"Nigga, dat bitch wasn't feelin' you. The big ass one...Karen? Hell no. She was all about Beanie D," Beanie D said with his arms upraised like a referee signaling a touchdown.

"Both y'all niggas trippin'. If dem fools hadn't acted up, I would be easin' up in that shit right now instead of walking with y'all two stupid asses," Big Larry grunted before putting his fist again to his mouth and chortling.

POP!

There was a loud POP and the front glass window of the liquor store to their left shattered. They all turned to look and saw a gold '64 Chevrolet Impala convertible with the headlights off rolling almost silently down the street with a hooded shooter in the back seat aiming a pistol. The threesome broke into a run as the gun went POP, POP, POP!

Glass shattered and blood streaked as Big Larry crumpled to the cold sidewalk with a nasty wound to the head. The POPs continued and Malcolm felt something sting his arm. He felt what seemed like a red-hot hammer hit him in the thigh. He kept running. Beanie D had quickly darted down an alley. Before Malcolm could follow, a round caught him in the back of the neck and dropped him onto the sidewalk.

Beanie D heard one last POP and something that sounded like a high-pitched bumblebee buzzed past his ear. He heard tires squealing behind him as he ran. He took big strides, pumping his arms as he ran. He remembered a special he'd seen on ESPN with Jamaican relay runner Usain Bolt talking about how to achieve maximum speed. He swung his arms, pushing the air past him. His Jordans slapped the wet pavement as he sprinted through the alley, hurtling two garbage cans, continuing across a street, dodging two cars and down an empty sidewalk.

He wasn't aware of his own breathing. He had no thought but escape. There was the urgency of now as he ran, not knowing if gun-toting rivals were pursuing him on foot.

Up ahead there was a bus stopped at a bus stop. He forced his legs to keep churning, running on the balls of his feet, swinging his arms, pushing the air, panicked that any moment a bullet was going to catch him from behind and bring him down like a hunter's prey. He slapped the side of the bus as he ran to make sure it wouldn't pull off without him. He made it to the door and leapt up the steps. He fished in his pocket for the fare, threw it in and walked down the aisle in a crouch, still looking out the wide windows to see if he were being pursued.

There were only two old black ladies, an older Hispanic man and a younger black man on the bus. He sat down on a bench that was sideways against the bus wall, facing the younger man. He put his head in his hands, panting. His heart pounded in his ears. Sweat covered his body and he could barely catch his breath. His hands were trembling while his shoes tapped the floor.

"Not my niggaz...." he said to no one in particular.

The young guy across the way from him was very dark skinned and sported dreadlocks. He wore a black and blue long sleeve flannel shirt, khaki pants, and new Reeboks. He was finishing some kind of sandwich. He ate the last morsel, balled up the cellophane wrapper and put it in a large brown paper back on the seat next to him. The guy looked at Beanie D, grabbed his bag and walked across the aisle and sat down next to him.

"What's up? My name's Raheem," the guy with the bag said.

Beanie D hoped that this fool wasn't going to ask him what set he claimed. He didn't want drama to jump off on the bus after escaping the drive-by. He needed to catch his breath, to clear his head. He needed to find out what happened to Malcolm and Big Larry but he was fairly sure they'd been smoked. He heard Larry go down behind him but never saw what happened to Malcolm. A twinge of guilt made its presence known. But what could he do? He wasn't strapped. Big Larry had been but there was no time to do anything but run. He looked over at Raheem next to him.

"What do you want, nigga" Beanie D asked, expecting the worst.

"Nutttn'. You just look scared as hell. The way you was runnin', you had to be runnin' from the po-lice or some shooters. Wassup?"

Beanie D decided to tell him it was the police. He didn't know what set Raheem belonged to and if he were affiliated with the crew that just blasted him, it would be on once again right inside the bus. He was in no shape to fight with all the alcohol and weed he'd consumed at the party.

"One Time rolled up when I was tryin' to jack a car. Ditched they fat asses."

Raheem pulled a Michelob Dark from the bag and handed it to Beanie D. Beanie hesitated and then took it, cracked it open and took a swig. It was cold and stung his throat on the way down but it was delicious. It refreshed him. It was what he needed at that moment. Raheem opened one for himself.

"Thanks, man. Good lookin' out. They call me Beanie D. Raheem, was it?"

"Yep. Fo' sho'."

They drank in silence for a minute as the bus rumbled on.

"Thanksgiving night and you out boostin' cars? Why ain't you with yo' peoples having dinner?" Raheem asked and took a pull on his beer.

"Shit. My peoples? My momma ain't studying me. I ain't been home in three years. I don't even head dat way no mo'."

"Fool, you need to be with family. Especially after a night like tonight," Raheem said and drank long from his beer.

Beanie D stopped drinking.

"Whatchoo mean a night like tonight?"

"You were almost killed, fool," Raheem said.

"How you know dat?"

Raheem finished his beer and put the empty bottle back into the bag on the seat next to him. He turned and looked into Beanie D's eyes. They both sat in silence, eyes locked. Beanie D expected Raheem to pull a nine from his waistband. Beanie's body was taut, ready to react, ready to scuffle for his life if need be if this fool started set tripping.

"You hear the gunshots?" Beanie D asked, still fixated on Raheem's dark eyes, trying to sense what his next move was going to be.

"I don't normally tell people this but I think you need it. You ain't ready to hear this but I'ma just th'ow it out there. I'm God, nigga," Raheem said quietly.

Beanie D sat staring and then laughed a nervous laugh before staring again at Raheem.

"Whatchoo talkin' 'bout? You know everything around here or something? That's what your homies call you?"

"Nigga listen. Now I told you who I am. There's a reason your black ass is sitting on this bus and not leaking blood into the gutter."

"Fool, what the fuck you talkin' 'bout? You God 'n' shit. You mean like GOD? Like the Holy Spirit and shit. You GOD?"

"I am."

Beanie D leaned away from Raheem, looking at him out of the corners of his eyes, his mouth and nose in a sneer.

"Nigga, you sick. You crazy or something?"

Raheem just stared at Beanie D.

"Okay, if you God, then make me win the lottery," Beanie D offered.

Raheem dug into his bag and pulled out another beer. He twisted the top open and took a swig.

"Fool, I said I'm God, not a damn genie. I ain't here to grant your wishes. Another Doubting Thomas. So many times throughout human history when I've revealed myself you humans have to have proof."

Beanie D finished his beer.

"Am I supposed to take your word for it? Do a miracle. Turn this brew into liquor. Talk to me from a burning bush. Walk on water, Nigga."

"Look what street we crossin' right now," Raheem said pointing out the window. Beanie D saw that the cross street was DAMASCUS.

"That ain't shit. We would've crossed that street whether your black ass was on this bus or not. Make something appear."

Raheem drank from his brew.

"I did. I made you appear on this bus so I could talk to you."

"You stupid. So God ain't some old white man with a white beard. He a Nigga wearing Reeboks and offerin' brews on the 101 Bus," Beanie D said and laughed into his hand.

"If I came at you as a white man in flowing robes or Mother Teresa or a priest in a collar, would you still be talkin' to me, Nigga? But I come atchoo like a peer and you listen," Raheem explained, using a hand to slice and dice the air as he spoke.

"You drunk fool. So if you God then of all places to be in the world, why you on a bus in the hood dealin' with me?"

"Nigga, I'm doing rounds in an AIDs hospice in Minneapolis. I'm helping deliver a baby to an aborigine family in Australia. I'm pulling an all night shift with an M-16 in Helmand Province in Afghanistan. I'm feeding homeless people in Calcutta. I'm with the President of Russia trying to get him to stop drinking and go to bed before he causes an international incident. I'm in the West Bank and Gaza trying to soften hearts. I'm with a man standing on a bridge in Wuhan, China who's thinking about taking his own life. I'm in an auditorium at Oxford listening to a professional atheist prattle on to a packed hall the reasons I don't exist. I'm with a chubby freshman at LeHigh University listening to his prayers about passing chemistry. I'm in Nairobi working on a cure for Ebola. I'm in a room in a house in Waziristan with people who are planning bad things trying to persuade them not to do it. I'm holding the hands of your friends as they bleed out on Martin Luther King Boulevard. And I'm sitting here with your skeptical ass."

Beanie D sat staring at Raheem, who betrayed no smile, no grin to signal that he was in any way joking. There was no sound save the grinding diesel engine as the bus moved on.

"Niggaaaa...you almost had me. That was good. Almost had me believin' it.... Look, what if I th'ow yo ass off this bus at the next stop, whup the crap outta you and jack your shoes and whatever else you got? An angel gonna stop me?"

"I gave you free will. You can do dat. But if you stay in the lifestyle you're in and one day, ya caught slippin' like earlier tonight and someone smokes you....how stupid you gonna feel when you reach the next world and I'm right there to greet you, shoeless and everything? Now if you don't believe I am who I say I am, then why did you call me?"

"I didn't call you, Nigga," Beanie D said, standing up.

"You all but shouted for me as you ran down that alley. You were asking me, begging me not to let those bullets pierce your flesh. You wanted life more than anything. You wanted a second chance. You made me all sorts of promises as you ran. You told me that you'd give up gangbanging for good if you could only live. You were praying so hard, so earnestly. But you're not punkin' me, son. I hear that kind of shit all day every day from people who've stepped in it too far. Now I didn't stay that shooter's hand. He just missed. But I heard what you said to me. I know you only meant it at the time. But I'm offering you something now. I'm offering you the chance to go home to your family. To leave this life behind. To make something of yourself. To stand up for me because I've always been standing with you."

Beanie D sat back down. He sat, rocking back and forth with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped and his mouth on his thumb knuckles. He was sweating, his eyes darting around but looking at nothing in particular.

He thought about earlier that evening when he, Malcolm and Big Larry were pouring some of their 40 ounces out for Scotty Black in the backyard of the party. Scotty Black had been crazy. All he did was smoke weed from sun up to sun down. Weed and 40's. He'd bum French fries off someone but other than that, he appeared to live off weed and beer. He was skinny with a fade that everyone told him was played out in the 90's but Scotty Black didn't care. But put a gun in his hand and he would smoke anyone you told him to. Scotty got popped for a double homicide and was doing life without parole when he was stabbed to death on the yard in Folsom.

Beanie D didn't want to end up like that. But how was he going to ever get out of the gang and go straight? Who would he depend on? Was he supposed to just go home and expect his momma to forget the past and welcome him with open arms? This wasn't the movies. Who could he count on? Someone he just met on the bus?

"I heard enough of your bullshit. You some street preacher trying to get into a nigga's head, coming at me with all that religion shit. Ain't no God. Ain't no miracles. You know what would be a miracle? You know what would be a fuckin' miracle, nigga? Me walking into my momma's house and her being happy to see me. THAT would be a miracle. Do that. Make that happen, nigga. I ain't never caused her nothing but pain. She cursed the day I was born. She told me to get the hell out so I wouldn't lead my brother and sister down the same path. Thank you for the beer. I'm out!"

Beanie D hit the button next to him and the bus dinged. The driver pulled over at the next corner. He exited the bus without looking back at Raheem. He stepped off into the cold night and the bus hissed and then rumbled on.

Up the street about half a block, there were several people crowded near a late night taco stand. Beanie D walked up the street and got in line. He blew into his hands to warm them up but he couldn't stop the chill that ran through his body. His head ached. He had to circle back around and find out what happened to his homeboys.

Raheem had messed his mind up. Got him thinking about home and his mother's sage sausage and raisin stuffing. He thought of Thanksgivings in the past. They hadn't had too much money but his mama had always put on a respectable spread. Sometimes his auntie would come down with his cousins and help cook. He could see the two of them in the kitchen, his mom peeling potatoes for the mashed potatoes and his auntie rinsing the greens in the sink. The whole house would smell like turkey and the game would be on in the living room. A lifetime ago.

"What you want, homes?" the Mexican server in a black T-shirt asked.

"Give me one of dem big ass chicken burritos. Put extra guacamole in it, too," he ordered, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

"Five fifty eight."

He reached into his wallet and...something made him look over his left shoulder down the street. What appeared to be a gold Chevy Impala pulled up to a stoplight. He was sure it was the car. His heart thudded in his chest. Beanie D ran to a parked car on the street and ducked down on the sidewalk. He wedged himself between the parked car and the curb. The half dozen people at the taco stand looked at him like he was crazy. He put a hand to his lips.

"Don't look at me! Don't look at me!" he said. "Please..."

"What about your food, homes?" the server called.

"Don't talk to me! Don't look at me!" Beanie D said, his mouth suddenly running dry.

The light turned green and the car began slowing moving towards the taco stand. Beanie D couldn't see it but he knew it was coming. He could hear it rolling. He could hear the thumping rap music. His breathing became shallow and his spine stiffened. His teeth clenched and sweat beaded his forehead and face in spite of the cool night. The crowd outside the taco stand ate their food and talked and averted their eyes from the black guy laying on the ground ten feet from them behind the parked car.

As the gold car pulled up even with the taco stand it stopped. Beanie D's pulse was racing, his breath coming out in puffs. It reminded him of the first few days on the street, when a big brother had bought him a plate of chicken and waffles and said he would help him get off the street. Beanie D had thought he'd found a Good Samaritan but what he found was a man who wanted to have sex with him. He'd run as fast as he could and ended up hiding in a dumpster in an alley.

And again, shortly after being jumped in with the Rollin' 800 Crips, on his first joyride in a jacked car, five oh had spotted them and Malcolm had pushed that Prius to the limit. They'd bailed after Malcolm lost control and slammed into a minivan in an intersection. They ran in all directions. Beanie D, Malcolm and Lil Floyd. Beanie D had hid in a drainage ditch. He didn't know how the cops didn't find him. If they'd had a K-9 Unit with them, he would've been toast.

Jackin' and runnin' and hidin'. That's all I do, Beanie D thought to himself.

He shifted his right leg and placed both hands on the cold pavement, to try to get ready to spring up and run if he had to. The small movement of his leg caused him to start urinating. Once he started, he couldn't stop until his bladder was empty.

The passenger side door of the gold car opened and a man stepped out. He wore khaki pants and a white wifebeater T-shirt. He jogged over to the taco stand. Beanie D sprang up and the guy jumped back. Several of the people crowding the stand moved out of the way, sensing a fight or something was about to go down. Beanie D had no weapon. But he soon realized he didn't need one. The guy in the khaki pants was a twelve year old clutching a twenty-dollar bill.

"Dude, you scared me," the kid said.

Beanie D looked at the gold car stopped in the street and saw that it wasn't gold after all. It was brown. A brown Cadillac. An elderly man was behind the wheel.

"Dre, don't forget the salsa!" the elderly man called. He waved two cars around him.

"Did you piss your pants?" a teenaged girl holding a half eaten taco said, pointing at Beanie D's wet pants.

A couple people laughed.

"Fuck y'all!" Beanie D spat and began walking down the sidewalk, quickly. He started to jog along but returned to a walk because he knew running could attract the attention of LAPD. The dim streetlamps barely illuminated the dark street. Shadows were everywhere. Beanie D was struck by how empty the streets were. Maybe most people were inside enjoying the holiday with family. Maybe Raheem knew a little something.

Beanie D didn't know anything anymore. He knew his homies had been shot. He knew he was tired and hungry and cold. The cold piss saturating the front of his pants just served to remind him of his humiliation...his fear. He wanted to get off the street. He needed to sleep and then find out what happened to Malcolm and Big Larry in the morning.

There was a taxicab parked up the street and he walked towards it. There weren't too many people on the street. There was the odd homeless person wrapped in cardboard near the closed stores along the street.

He rapped on the back window of the cab. The driver, a bearded Pakistani man let the passenger side window down an inch.

"Not in service!" he shouted.

"Hey, I know you in service. Ya light's on. I ain't gonna jack you. I need a ride. For reals. I got money. Ima pay ya."

"Show me the money."

Beanie D reached in his pocket and pulled out a money clip. He peeled two twenty-dollar bills off and let them fall through the sliver in the window. They fell down to the front passenger side seat. The Pakistani man snatched them up and produced a pen to mark on them, checking to see if they were genuine. He leaned over and looked at Beanie D for a full minute and then unlocked the back door. Beanie D slid into the backseat and closed the door. A Plexiglas partition separated them. There were small holes to communicate.

"Where you going?"

"To an address in Whittier."

"What? That's twenty miles. I no go to Whittier."

"Hey...listen. I'll pay you another forty bones once we get there. I'm serious. I need to go. It's a good neighborhood. This is your lucky day. I could always find another cab and that fool can make eighty bucks."

The Pakistani man asked for the money up front. Beanie D peeled off two more twenties and rolled them up tight and slid them through the holes in the Plexiglas. The Pakistani man turned on the engine.

The drive had been uneventful. The cabbie took 105 to 605 N to Whittier. Traffic hadn't been that bad, surprising for a holiday night. They made the trip in a half an hour. All the while, Beanie D was replaying the conversation with Raheem and more importantly, thinking about Big Larry and Malcolm. He felt bad for leaving them but that's what one did when being sprayed by a rival set. He'd have to find out later what went down. He'd have to find out if they'd made it, what hospital they were at and then find out who had perpetrated the drive by. By the weekend, he imagined he'd be out with the rest of his posse seeking revenge. He couldn't let this ride.

But then he thought about Raheem. He knew the fool wasn't God but he meant well. Any brother who rides the buses on holiday with brew looking to help people out can't be bad. He couldn't be mad at him. Raheem was just coming at him hustling religion trying to get him out of the gang. No different than the probation officers, cops, social workers and people from the mission who are busy trying to do the same thing. But Raheem's approach was new.

It got a brother thinking.

When he stepped out of the cab on Hosana Street, he didn't know why he'd come. It was dark with row after row of cookie cutter houses, well-kept lawns and nice cars. The street was black and glistening from a light rain. It had been three years since he'd been on this street. His house was five houses down. For a moment he felt nauseous. It would just be a repeat of three years ago when he and his mother had a screamfest that woke the neighbors and ended with him running down the middle of the street with both arms raised with two upturned middle fingers. And now...

Twenty feet away a bush was burning.

It can't be, Beanie D thought.

It snapped and crackled like kindling. Something cold spilled down his spine. He felt like he might lose his mind. His mouth ran dry and his knees went week. He took a tentative step towards it but then closed his eyes tightly, hoping that when he opened them the sight would be gone.

He opened his eyes and the bush still burned. He could see the orange flames licking up the branches of the bush. He thought of Raheem and church. He thought of going to church when he was a small child and listening to the congregation sing such sweet music. Such joyous hymns. As he walked towards the bush, he felt more and more naked, ashamed. Ashamed of the things he'd put his mother through. Ashamed of the crimes he'd committed. He felt exposed, as if the God of centuries of humanity's existence was watching him and his every flaw laid bare.

He was within ten feet and he was trying to remember all of the bible stories he was taught. He didn't know what to say. He wondered if he should simply wait until he heard the voice of the Lord God and...

He saw wiring in the bushes. Suddenly there was a small pop and arc of sparks in the bushes and at the same time, a row of plastic orange and brown turkeys flickered on and off in the bushes. He was witnessing a fire started by a short in some holiday lights.

All at once he felt stupid. Foolish. Naïve. This was no sign. No miracle.

He walked up on the lawn of the house and turned on the garden hose, he used the water to put out the small fire in the bushes and then turned it off. He slowly walked down the driveway to the sidewalk.

"Fuck you, Raheem!!!" he yelled to no one in particular. "Go home. Quit gangbanging. I'm God. I know every fucking thing. I'm in Calcutta. I'm in Gaza. I'm in China. You ain't nowhere!! What the hell am I doing in Whittier??"

There was a Big Wheel on the sidewalk and Beanie D picked it up and tossed it out into the street.

"Ain't no miracles! Ain't no God! My niggas was smoked and I'ma bust a cap in everybody's ass!! Beleee dat!!!"

Lights were switching on and people were peering out their doors. A man across the street said, "Hey, it's 1 AM. Can you keep it down?"

"Fuck you!!! I'll beat your ass!! I should've stayed in Watts. Ain't shit here for me!!!"

Beanie D kicked some garbage cans over. Then he collapsed on the sidewalk. He sledgehammered a fist into the pavement in his frustration, barely wincing at the pain. He did his best to choke back tears. He was too hard to give in to that kind of emotion. He'd seen people die on the street. He'd sent people to the hospital. So much havoc in three years came bubbling to mind.

"Fuck you, Raheem!" he barked to the black night sky.

A police car rounded the corner, red and blue lights flashing. It rolled to a stop right in front of Beanie D with its bright 500,000 candlepower searchlight aimed at him. Beanie D stood up.

"What!?! What???"

Two cops exited the car and slowly walked towards Beanie D, their hands on their weapons.

"I ain't got nothin'. I ain't got no gun. Ain't slangin' shit. What??? Whatchoo want wit' me???"

"What are you doing here, man? You got ID?" one cop asked.

"Keep your hands where we can see 'em," the other said.

"I ain't done shit!!!!"

"Durell?" the voice came from behind him. It was a voice Beanie D hadn't heard in three years.

He slowly turned around and the police rushed him, grabbing him by the arms and slamming him to the sidewalk. He wriggled beneath them while they tried to handcuff him.

"Durell?" the female voice came again.

"Mama!" he cried.

A heavyset black woman in a nightgown was walking across a well-coifed lawn towards him.

"Is this your son, ma'am?" a cop asked.

"Mama, I wanna come home..." Beanie D whimpered.

The woman paused and folded her large arms in front of her. Her hair was in curlers. On her feet were big puffy pink house shoes. She hesitated. The police lifted Beanie D to his feet, his arms cuffed behind him.

"Yes, that's my son Durell. Durell Jenkins," she said in a strong voice.

"We just got a call of a suspicious person. Do you want us to take him in or release him to your custody, ma'am?"

She swallowed. Beanie D couldn't look at her. He looked down at his shoes. She took a step backwards and then turned, looking back to her doorway. Her other son and daughter stood in the doorframe looking out, eyes wide. Across the street, several neighbors had come outside.

"Um....please let me have him," she said quietly.

The cops uncuffed Beanie D and he walked towards his mother, still looking down. When he got close to her, he could smell her lotion. That apricot lotion she always wore that made her smell like the farmers market. She wrapped her arms around him and a wail started deep inside her until it came out of her mouth. Tears rolled down her puffy cheeks. Durell's brother and sister ran out of the house to hug him as well.

"Thank you, Lawd. It's a miracle. Come on in this house," she breathed.

"I'm hungry, mama," Durell said as they walked towards the house still hugging.

"Let me fix you a plate. I made a turkey. "

"Did you make that stuffing with the sage sausage and raisins?" Durell asked.

"You know I did, child. Let's just go on in. Thank you, God."

THE NEXT BEST THING

Father Brooks parked his Ford Taurus in a parking spot at Rice University. He pulled a rolling briefcase off the backseat. He got out and started walking across the lot, rolling the briefcase along behind him. He sported a blue sweater over a white long sleeve shirt and jeans rather than suit and collar. To the few students left on campus at this hour, he appeared like any other student, which was his intent.

He bypassed the tree-camouflaged Allen Center for Business and walked purposely past Rayzor Hall. There were many students walking different directions, some toting their own roller cases, others sporting backpacks as they walked to their destinations.

He admired the thick green trees and shrubs and well-kept greens of the campus. The Humanities Building was like most of the others, large, Byzantine with sand and pink-colored bricks with columns and archways. He entered through a heavy wooden door.

He paused in a hallway at a vending machine to buy a Coca-Cola Zero and continued on walking until he reached 225a.

He was surprised that they were already there. He glanced at his watch. He was five minutes early. But there sat the rather portly Dr. Elmer Gladwell, head of the religious studies department, Saul Barak, professor from the Rothberg International School at Hebrew University of Jerusalem and ten year old Eli Aljafari. The boy was playing with an Apple iPod Touch. He didn't look up when Father Brooks entered the room.

The three men exchanged greetings and handshakes.

"I would've had you up to the rectory but this little hobby of mine ruffles some of the feathers of the hierarchy," Brooks said, sitting down and opening his briefcase.

"Politics is politics," Barak noted and then tapped Eli on the shoulder, "Eli, this is Father Brooks."

The boy looked over at Father Brooks and then looked down, uttering a barely audible hello.

"Hi. Eli, this is going to be over before you know it. I am a priest. And I investigate claims of miracles. I generally do this for my own edification and research. But in your case, if I can verify the elements, we can submit it to Rome...to the Vatican."

The boy was back to playing his video game. Gladwell shrugged his well-rounded shoulders. Saul Barak cleared his throat and then slowly removed the video game from the boy's hands.

"That's rude, Eli. This man has come a long way to hear from you. Please show him your respect, " he said and the boy nodded.

Father Brooks set a digital recorder on the table and turned it on. He also pulled out a legal pad and started writing.

"This is Father Linus Brooks. It's nine fifty-nine A.M., Friday, September 11, 2009. I'm here in room 225A at the religious studies department at Rice University in Houston, Texas. Present with me is Dr. Elmer Gladwell, director of religious studies, Dr. Saul Barak, who chairs a similar department at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and ten year old Eli Aljafari of Rubale, Iraq. Eli, can you tell me what happened February 28, 2006 in Rubale?"

The boy looked at his hands in his lap. He took a deep breath and exhaled. He started to speak in his native tongue and Barak translated.

"Rubale is on the outskirts of Samarra. We knew we should have fled Rubale long ago because we were Sunni in the heart of Shia. About a week earlier, Sunnis destroyed the al-Askari Mosque in Samarra. The Golden Dome shattered. We knew things were going to be bad after that and they were."

Dr. Gladwell opened a can of Mountain Dew and set it on the table before the boy. Eli picked up the can, sipped some and set it down. He continued looking down at his hands in his lap.

"It was dark. Night time. There was pounding on the door. My mother take me, my two brothers and two sisters in the back room. My father opened the door. I heard angry voices. Bad men. They cursed my father. I heard gunfire and my father cried out. My mother screamed. We all cried."

The boy was breathing heavily now and he was cracking his knuckles. His eyes were barely open and his gaze was affixed to his lap. He continued.

"The police came in. Angry men. They came and laid hands on my mother and all of us. We screamed and cried. They carried us all outside. Our father lay on the ground and in the faint moonlight his blood looked black."

"These were regular Iraqi police?" Brooks interjected.

"Yes. The kind that ride with the Americans during the day. They shoot my mother and we all cried. My oldest brother attacked them and they shot him down. I called out for help from the Prophet and Allah himself. Then it happened."

The boy started trembling.

The room was silent save for the air conditioning whirring in the background. Everyone was leaning forward. Saul Barak laid a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. Father Brooks slid his digital recorder closer to the boy and Barak.

"I hear a noise like a hundred chariots. Lightning bolts rained down from the sky. The bad men...they came apart. They exploded. Some ran screaming that it was Allah's vengeance. I hit the ground and covered my head with my hands. My mouth was full of dirt. Smoke was all around. I prayed and prayed. I tried to dig a hole to crawl into the earth because I was so afraid. The ground trembled. There were hands upon me, lifting me into the air. And I could feel the rush of air from the beating of angel wings. At first I thought the hands were lifting me to my feet but they kept raising me. Raising me into the air."

"Did you open your eyes?" Father Brooks asked.

"Yes, briefly. I opened them and I could not believe what I saw. I was in the sky, above my house. There was no longer the smell of blood and death but the sweet smell of the angels. The smell of hyacinth. I passed out."

The boy had wrapped his arms around himself at this point. The men sat in silence. Finally, Saul Barak pushed his glasses up on his nose and started talking.

"Hyacinth is mentioned in the Koran. The Koran praises hyacinth. A proverb says that if you have only two loaves of bread left, eat one and sell the other and buy hyacinth to feed your soul. This boy's mother was known to have visions. She always told her boys that six angels watched over the family."

"Yes, I received that information in your fax, Dr. Barak, " Father Brooks said, shuffling through papers in the briefcase. "And we're sure the U.S. Army wasn't operating February 28th in Rubale?"

"Yes. Despite it's proximity to Samarra, the city is one of the Iraq success stories. It's heavily Shia. And the police and militias have worked well in keeping Sunnis and Al-Qaeda terrorists at bay. There's been no U.S. Army presence there since December. I faxed you those papers, I believe. No private security was working that area either. "

"Eli, the hands that held you...did you see them?" Father Brooks asked.

"Yes. Briefly. They were strong like a man's hands but gentle like a woman's. "

"Did the entity that was holding you speak?"

"Yes. He said 'Peace, be still.'"

"You said 'he.' So this was a man that had hold of you?" Father Brooks asked.

"I don't know for sure. I think man because of the strength."

"The voice was deeper? Like a man's?"

"It was hard to hear but I think like a man's."

"Okay, he said, 'Peace. Be still.' Did he say this in English or in Arabic?" Father Brookes inquired, poised with his pen to write down the answer in his legal pad.

"In Arabic."

Father Brooks wrote and wrote, sipping his Coke Zero from time to time. Saul Barak gave the boy back his iPod Touch. Brooks sat back in his chair, chewing on the tip of his pen.

"So, what do you think, Father?" Dr. Gladwell asked.

"It's vague. All we have to go on is the secondhand visions of the boy's dead mother. Lightning from the sky. Hyacinth. A boy floating above the village. We've got no other witnesses. His siblings were all killed. I'd like to believe the heavenly father stepped in...interceded and sent a legion of angels to save this boy. But why? Why would God do that? With all the carnage going on in that country...I'm a man of faith but I need more to go on. I can't take this to Rome."

Gladwell nodded his large head.

Barak seemed offended. He sat back in his chair.

"You're calling this boy a liar? You're saying he did not see what he says he saw? He felt the hands of an angel upon him. He felt the beating of the wings. He smelled the sweet fragrance from the presence of God. This boy saw the angel. He saw it with his own eyes."

That jogged something in Father Brooks' memory. He started thumbing through his briefcase. There were affidavits and faxes and Xeroxed pages of tomes on angels and archangels. Father Brooks desperately wanted to believe but most of his investigations ended up with very routine explanations.

He thought about the time he'd flown out to Sacramento in 2005 to visit the Vietnamese Catholic Martyrs Church to examine a statue of the Virgin Mary that was weeping blood. His findings were inconclusive but he was suspicious that the weeping began during the run up to Christmas.

Father Brooks reflected on the trip he took to St. Louis, Missouri to interview a 15 year old girl said to be demon possessed who turned out to be an untreated bipolar ADD sufferer with a bad drinking habit.

He thought about the time he sat for two hours trying to convince a middle aged chain-smoking housewife that the Virgin Mary had not appeared in a three egg omelet she'd cooked that morning. Oh, if one had an overactive imagination, they could probably make Mary out in the lumpiness of the cheese and onions but Father Brooks didn't want to encourage her. She ended up selling her breakfast item to some online casino. No, he desperately wanted to bring home proof of a miracle that would bolster the faith or millions and reinvigorate a church that had been whipsawed by scandal.

He found the page. It was from one of Eli's earliest interviews. Father Brooks read it aloud.

"'I saw an angel with feathered wings like a bird standing on the earth.'" Saul Barak translated it.

The boy looked up at Father Brooks and stared him in the eyes for the first time.

"Yes, that is what I saw," Barak translated the boy saying.

Father Brooks drank some diet soda and then quickly thumbed through the papers in his briefcase.

"I can't find the drawing. I thought I had a copy. A drawing of the angel. Can you draw what you saw for me, Eli?"

After Barak had translated, the boy nodded. Father Brooks turned the page on the legal pad to a clean sheet and slid it over to the boy along with his pen. The boy took the pen with trembling hands and drew. He slid the tablet back in front of Father Brooks.

"You're sure this is what you saw that night?"

The boy nodded.

Gladwell, Barak and Brooks huddled around the picture the boy had drawn. It was indeed a large winged entity literally standing on the earth.

Father Brooks tossed his papers back into his briefcase and closed the lid.

"Gentlemen...let the record show he's drawn a winged creature standing atop the earth," Brooks said into the recorder.

"So you believe he's telling the truth?" Saul Barak asked.

"Oh, he's telling the truth. He saw this that night. It's an eagle standing atop the globe. It's just missing an anchor. This is the insignia of the United States Marines Corps. I've no doubt the lightning from the sky was from a gunship and a jarhead pulled him to safety from a rope ladder under that chopper. Maybe he was wearing some hyacinth scented cologne."

The boy looked at Father Brooks and said in broken English, "I see angel?"

Father Brooks placed his hand on the boy's head.

"You saw the next best thing, Eli. Semper Fi."

THE END

About the Author

Kelvin J. Wade is a 45 year old freelance writer who has written a popular political/community interest opinion column for the Fairfield Daily Republic since 1992. He's also designed, written and published many newsletters, flyers and documents for nearly a dozen homeowners associations from Pacific Grove to Roseville, California

He resides in Northern California with his significantly better half Catherine of 14 years with their three pooches: Beagle brothers Tyson and Theo, and canine queen Maltoodle, Rafi.

He enjoys Oakland Raiders football, cruising, tinkering with computers, producing music and corrupting his grandchildren.

Special thanks to Joyce Tucker, and Samantha Emigh for their invaluable assistance with this book..

Morsels Vol. 1 and 2 are available in ebook format at http://www.smashwords.com.

Print versions can be purchased at online retailers.

Reach Mr. Wade at morselsman@att.net , on Twitter @kelvinjwade and on Facebook at <http://www.facebook.com/kelvinjwade>..

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