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Let me tell you

Please believe me

When I say

Delicate Insecticide

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For Turquoise

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He was Earth, and we were the fruit of that Earth.
Though he had eaten us, he would never, ever, digest us.

-Harlan Ellison

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The attacks on New York changed everything.

-George W. Bush

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ONE

Christian Inferno sat quietly on the bed next to his


rifle and stared at the wallpaper leading to the bathroom.
The wallpaper was gold fleur-de-lis patterned. The
shapes where somehow connected to a childhood
memory. His fifth birthday and a he-man cake. But the
connections had long since been lost or severed.

He thought of his own self than. Tried to become


nothing more than what he was. First he thought himself
as a boy out of habit. Than an Eagle, Cannon, and Armor,
burst into his head. The brand on his chest. The top of
the letters US ARMY RANGER peeking out of his brown
skivvy shirt up on his collarbone. The taste of a postcotial
cigarette on his lips. His Army Combat Uniform Trousers
unbuttoned, and the vague salty smell of Ena still on
him. Another title, Pussy Eater. Sex addict. Finally, the
vest he was wearing. The 12 magazines for his M4 A3.
The goggles on his head. Ranger Scout. Biker. Whopper
Junior. All of these titles deserved and earned.

He decided to avert his eyes to the wall. The was a


art print that he liked. It was called Hylas and the
Nymphs. A youth was looking into a pond filled with
Beautiful women, topless women. With dark red lips, and
auburn hair. Nipples so light and pink that the seemed to
disappear. He could still taste Paula on his lips. One of
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them was Ena and one of them was Paula. He could not
choose which any more than he could choose between
them.

The new Motivation and Morale program had


chosen him as a winner. He would be assigned to military
personnel for morale boost. Two fuck-buddies. Two
whores in uniform, college girls, and which could he say
was the best? He was living the dream. Killing people in a
lesbian bisexual polyamourous fuck buddy relationship.
He had qualified for it as a reenlistment bonus.

Of course, his score hadn’t hurt. The camera on his


helmet had recorded 1300 insurgent confirmed kills in
the month of July ’14. That had been a divisional high
score. The highest ever for a mere rifleman. It had
earned him an interview with Fox News. Not to mention
McFarlane Toys making his own action figure. President
Hussein had recommended him for the Homeland
Security Medal of Retribution. It would be another year
before he would find out if he would get it. The highest
honor, in military or Private Contractor could earn. Even
senators had to salute you if you got it.

The last one had gone to a dead guy. Jumped on a


hand grenade. Private Gibbs. The rumor was that he was
a real fuck up, and had been thrown. But who could
really be sure? Dead was dead. Ripeness was all.

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Underneath the art print there was a small theater
poster for Devil’s Angels. A group of rough looking men,
in brown and white ink. With a beautiful, rough looking
woman. Starring Vivian Sheraton and S. Wall Jackson. His
second picture. A biker leader. Christian stared at it,
wishing for kinship.

At the feet of Jackson was a dog, a full sized pit.


The dog was either blind or the camera had done him a
disservice. Its pupils were blank slits out of which
whiteness poured. The face was a contortion of rage. It
looked to be amidst a deep throated howl. Unusual for
the animal.

He leaned closer. As if to decipher a hidden


message. Whose blood did the dog require? What sort of
appeasement? Of sacrifice?

At that moment in time Ena Duhon walked in. She


was nude and Nubian. He surveyed her up and down.
The deep tan. The oblong brown nipples, like Hershey’s
kisses. Her pubic hair. Always her pubic hair. He was
drawn to that thorny kinked up patch of pussy. She was
shaped like a coke bottle, deep curves. Her hair was
worn in its natural curls.

“Are you leaving?” She said, softly.

“Another patrol.” He said. “I heard mortars last


night.”

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“There are mortars every night.”

The red dog growled behind his eyes. “Stop doing


that.” She said.

“Stop doing what?”

Your making that face again. That angry face.”

“Sorry.” He tried to muzzle his feeling. To placate


the animal.

“Its scary.”

“Okay.” A twinge of annoyance. If he had the


blond, would she treat him like this? He didn’t know. Ena
and Paula were his first and only. The black girl and the
Mexican girl. Ethnic. Changing standards of beauty.
Secret standards, the traditions of American presidents
late and night in the slave quarters. Hemmings family
reunion. She smiled and all was well.

He checked the equipment. Helmet, weapon, body


armor. His daypack. MRE Rations. A water bladder. The
Meditations. More Ammo. Secure. The dental floss was
still holding the hole on the bottom together. An ancient
piece of Army folklore. Dental floss makes the strongest
thread. Sewing a necessary skill. If there were no holes it
would be new. Then he would be in the army.

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He checked his surroundings once fully geared.
The bedroom looked to belong to a young adult of sorts.
One with ambiguous and eccentric taste in music and
art. Miles Davis shared shelf space with the Fugs. Lots of
Offendalism. Crosses in urine and such. Otherwise, spick
and span, lower middle class tediousness. Here he was.
Punk metal militainment adventurism. A bull in a
Tupperware shop.

At the stairs he stopped for a moment. Another


mortar was coming. The thunder echoed off. He was in
long beach and probably safe. Most of the fire usually hit
downtown. Nothing had more craters than Wall Street, or
what was left of Upper Manhattan.

As he paused he admired his weapon. The M4 rifle


had a fine scope atop it, a very expensive hunting scope.
It had some Italian name. He had found it in a random
care package one day, amidst bottles of PowerAde and
crumbled bits of chocolate chip cookies. There was no
note, and the address on the box was a post office box. It
had undoubtedly helped him with his score.

The camera on his helmet beeped expectantly. It


was time to move. In the old days, they had headsets in
the helmets. The army still did. That was how they told
you they wanted you to move. But the new helmets with
the cameras simply beeped. They were always watching
whatever you were watching. In the green zone, in Santa

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Monica, there were teams editing footage. For whatever
value they could find. Most of it would end up on the
web, training videos and such. The pornography would
be sold to appropriate vendors. Cheaper now that van
Nuys was occupied.

He resumed his walk down the stairs. On the couch


in the Living room Paula Rodriguez was watching TV
news. It was Fox, interspersed with pirated insurgent
broadcasts. She was nude, and Christian took a moment
to admire her.

She was so tiny, so still. Only five foot and ninety


eight pounds. Long black hair. Piercing brown eyes.
Nipples slightly pink against her tan. Ena was Lady sings
the Blues and Paula was Breakfast at tiffany’s. Billie
holiday and Mexican Aubrey Hepburn. The Motivation
and Morale agency had done good work.

“Did you know the Army is confiscating books in


Nevada?” She said.

‘What kind of books?” Christian asked.

“The ones on this watch list. They can check the


records if you bought them. They have a Homeland
Agent show up and take them. No warrant or anything.”

“Its under the patriot act.” Christian explained.

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“They tore up this one woman’s house that
wouldn’t give them up. Tore apart the walls and knocked
out all the windows. She had to stay with her children in
Utah. What do you think of that?”

“I think she’s a fucking idiot.” Christian answered.


“for living in a shitty place like Arizona.”

He then realized the futility of it all. The dumb


bitches would never get it. They lacked the capacity to
understand. He was done with this shitty house in
Brooklyn. Out the front door now. To the bike. A
helicopter would pick them up later.

Parked outside was his pride and joy. A Harley


Davidson 1200N. Combat model. Able to navigate the
craggy potholed streets of the DMZ. He took in the site.
The smoking, newly bombed out skyscrapers. The thrice
boarded windows. Sandbag and razor wire. A street
vendor table with fake Rolex watched and blood smears.
He cranked the throttle. The V-twin engine roared to life,
screaming its rhythm, potato-potato-potato. He holstered
the M4 in its special scabbard. And pulled away.

An RPG sailed past the rear fender as he did so.


There was a hand shoving the bike on its side. He could
hear nothing. He stood up and fell back over. Paula was
in the street, naked and covered with blood. Screaming.

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She held something in her right arm. It took him a while
to determine it was her left arm. He righted the
motorcycle and pulled away. Behind him a second RPG
whistled, cutting short the two story walk-up in the
Brooklyn green zone.

The handlebars were crooked and he had to


compensate. How had they found him so fast? Was
mullanix giving him up? There were wires and sandbags
ahead. A pick-up truck lumbered behind him. He cut hard
left into a half constructed building marked FREEDOM
PINES.

The bike cut deep into the building, across cement


and past red girders. He leapt off for a staircase. AK47
fire rattled behind him on cement and girder. He caught
a glimpse on the second set of stairs. Three. No, two.
Three.

On the landing he turned and waited. The first man


ran up heedlessly and he shot him in the neck. There
was a spurt of arterial red, then a “blurp” as the
insurgent expressed his dissatisfaction at the idea of
drowning in his own blood. The second man screamed
“Bill Fuck!” And grabbed the first man’s jacket. He shot
the second one twice, once in the chest, and once in the
eye, a magnificent shot, that pierced Bill Fuck’s cornea
and ruined the perfect blue orb of a terrified deer, and a

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chime sounded in his earpiece that his camera had
confirmed a kill.

There was no second chime. The first man had not


died. Christian took in the scene. The smell of the
gunpowder. The chime of the metal shell casings on the
cement, by his boots. The sweat forming, under his body
armor and helmet. He came close. There were footsteps
below him. A mocking clap, then another. Followed by
the chime.

Christian came down the staircase, weapon at the


ready. An Insurgent was there. Long Hair and long beard.
Long black trench coat. MP-5 slung across his side. Red
john Lennon frames.

“Hello, Christian.” Christian said.

Christian reached into his pocket and Christian


flicked off his safety. The noise was loud and very
audible in the silence of the half built structure. Slowly,
Mathew Mullanix drew out a deck of cards.

“I thought we might have some spades.” He said.

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TWO

They decided to risk a fire as it grew dark. It was


scarcely bearable for either of them. “Last year, a nor-

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Easter blew in.” Mullanix said. “Both us and you guys lost
a lot more men to that than anything else.”

The first hands were played in near complete


silence. It was house rules, joker-joker-deuce-ace. Big
joker pulls. Some of the cards had names on them, or
crude obscenities. When the word FUCK came played on
a five of spades atop the name BILL written on a jack of
clubs, Christian asked Mullanix for a cigarette.

“All I’ve got is weed, Chris.” Mullanix told him.

“That’s fine.” Christian said. Mullanix raised an


eyebrow. He reached into the trench coat and brought
out a plastic baggie contained three joints.

“Don’t they piss you guys, anymore?” He asked.

“On the first of the month.” Christian told him. “It’s


the second today.”

Mullanix nodded reluctantly and handed the


Marijuana over. Christian lit it from a commemorative
Zippo. On the polished metal two towers stood over
Manhattan, gleaming. He passed the lighter to Mullanix
who looked it over. “I had one of these, once.” He said.

‘Why did you guys do it?” Christian said. Mullanix


looked at him oddly. His head was cocked to one side,
and his reddish grey hair brushed off his shoulder. “Do
what?” He inquired.
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“Those attacks.” Christian told him. “The ones that
started the war. In new York and the pentagon.”

“Let me see that.” He handed the joint over to


Mullanix. It was good weed and his head was floating
slightly. Mullanix took a deep pull, and let out a little
cough. “Is that what they’re telling you now?

0 “They taught us that terrorist did it.”

“And all terrorist are alike.”

Aren’t they?”

Absolutely not. It’s a blanket description. Like


soldier. The term can encompass many things. It is, of
course, a bit loaded.”

“So it wasn’t you guys?”

“No. It wasn’t us guys. It was someone else the


government conveniently saddled with that label.”

The talk mixed with the marijugloria cigarette was


bringing Christian right to the edge. It was where he
wanted to be, where he felt the most comfortable.
Mullanix was apparently quite comfortable himself, as
well. He promptly leaned back on his sofa chair of
sandbags, causing a few loose grains to spill into cracks
in the cement. The cracks led to a fissure where a
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hapless construction employee, Carlos Ruiz-Fernandez of
Nueva Laredo, lay entombed for eternity. The right hand
of Carlos lay outstretched before himself in a pastiche of
a certain chapel for the Sistine. The grain finally rested
itself on a whorl of his index finger, vibrating slightly in
time with the sound waves of Mullanix’s tenor, thusly:

The history of the world, my love.

Is those below serve those up above.

Christian took the pause as an opportunity to


present his manifesto. The meditations had not been
damaged in the explosion. He quoted a passage:

All things are woven together and the common bond is


sacred, and scarcely one thing is foreign to another, for
they have been arranged together in their places and
together make the same ordered Universe. For there is
one Universe out of all, one God through all, one
substance and one law, one common Reason of all
intelligent creatures and one Truth.
Frequently consider the connection of all things in the
universe.
We should not say ‘I am an Terrorist’ or ‘I am a Soldier’
but ‘I am a citizen of the Universe.

“Nicely done.” Mullanix said. “I can see your


enjoying that book.”
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“Very much so.” Said Christian. “I think it’s better
than the Bible.”

“In what way?”

“Well- it fits me better.”

“I’m not arguing with your statement. Overall,


there are many books better than the Bible. Leviticus
and Numbers are nothing more than lists of who birthed
whom, and how big, exactly, the tent for the Ark of the
Covenant was to be. It required a very certain number of
dolphin skins to pull off.”

“So what you’re saying, then, is that the Bible


needing an animal rights representative.”

“An editor, more like.”

“An editor.”

“Of course. It would be a much briefer tome.


Psalms, Proverbs. The gospels. Song of songs, your
favorite.”

“My favorite?”

“Of course. Woman to her lover: I am black, but


comely.” Mullanix laughed. A slight blush inched its way
up Christians neck. He spoke softly.

“You didn’t have to kill them.”


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Mullanix froze mid chuckle, smile still embedded.
“And I didn’t. The rockets where already fired when I
arrived. I merely hopped on the back of a pick-up.”

“Why were you helping those two?”

“They were on my side.”

“You didn’t stop them from getting killed.”

“I damn well tried to. I told those two idiots not to


follow once I saw you go in this building. Those two were
on meth, I’m fairly positive.”

“Eighty percent of manhattans gross domestic,


huh.”

“Probably a higher number than that.”

0 “How high.”

“The secret economy? Unknown. Unknowable. It


greases our wheels. It greases yours as well. Keep
talking, but look past the train tracks.”

Christian’s hands moved slowly toward the M4 in


his lap. There was movement, barely perceptible
movement, beyond the overhead railroad. He lowered
down his night vision goggles and stared at green static.

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THREE

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She sat on the very edge of the softball field,
observing the light. It had to be friendly; no one else
would be bold enough.

Behind her on the bleachers lay the found art of


the Lionesses, the other women sent with her to search
female detainees, mangled and twisted within the shell
of a humvee. By her foot was a lucky charm. It was the
Kevlar shell of her helmet, clove neatly in two. It had
chopped at the scrunchie holding her hair in place. She
knew its presence now by feel alone. Night had come in
the DMZ. She welcomed its being. When the sun was
setting the light had danced upon the aluminum
bleachers, held out like terrible long clawed silver
fingers, belonging to some terrible eldritch spider around
the wreckage of the humvee and the bodies of her battle
sisters.

The event wiped her completely. It was not


supposed to happen. She had joined the Air Force
specifically for a kind of shelter. The sense of which her
mother could not provide. She acquired an
administration position to work as far from combat as
she could, far as a pretty light skinned black girl with
blond hair in a long weave, a good weave, and hazel
eyes could get. Miss March ’13, officially the US Military’s
playmate. Instead they sent her to this location. It turned

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out that Administration meant Disbursing and Disbursing
meant giving grunts their money. All of whom were on
the Island. In the DMZ. There was no rear echelon in New
York. Everywhere was Ground Zero.

She heard voices from behind her. She held her


breath and wished herself very still. The scavengers had
already come and gone. They had picked the hulk clean,
and one of them had even stripped the vest from Lisa.
That was the name of the driver, she was halfway sure.
Underneath her shirt had been ripped and her pink tits
sagged out for all too see, with the light and the sun and
the blood and the aluminum claws her mouth open the
greasy touch of the scavengers filth on her hand and
mouth which must have been cold. She had vomited in
the dugout where she hid. As she slid asleep she
wondered what the scavenger would do.

When she woke up there was piss on the front of


her ACU’s and it was cold and dark. The darkness was
cool and total save for the prick of firelight. It was time to
leave now. She tried to hold in her head whatever
thoughts of bravery or survival lay in there.

“Heroism consists of hanging on one minute


longer.” She said. Her voice was shockingly loud. What
was the name of the book for that passage? The young
readers junior classics? The junior readers young

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classics? Lost to time. A red cover, a boy and a girl.
Scavenged. Alone.

She still had her pistol and she chose to place it in


her hand. It was surprisingly heavy. When she glanced
back at the bleachers her nerve almost went, at the sight
of blackest carnage. But her legs moved forward. One
and then the other. Halfway to the building she could
make them both out. A soldier and a hippie. They were
standing in a neutral fashion. Expectantly.

She was everything Christian could think of. An


angel. A paragon. Something he had saved some part of
himself for, secretly. Away from the Department of
defense whores. He ran down a list in his head of all of
her attributes.

One. She was black Playmate materiel. There were girls


and there were women, and there were the paragons,
the unbelievably desirable women with light brown eyes
and dark brown nipples and straight, shoulder length,
natural blond hair. A black woman with blond hair. His
angel.

Two. She was Air Force. The Air Force got all the best
women. The ones who weren’t mere dykes or whores.
The ones that could read and write well.

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0 There was a question of becoming. What would he
have to become for her? The romantic comedy version of
himself? Something pastiche and likable? Inoffensive?
Often he thought there was no real self. Only a pool of
water, filling whatever container he was placed into.

“Hi.” She said. “USA...friendly?”

“Same here.” Christian tried to give a nonchalant


wave with his shooting hand. The rifle jerked up and
down and she jumped slightly. Air Force. What were they
used to? It was only a tool. Like a jackhammer. Loud and
hole drilling.

“At this moment in time.” Mullanix gave a curt nod


to his head.

“Can I sit down, you guys?” She asked.

“Yeah, sure.” Christian answered. She went over to


Mullanix’s sandbag cushions and sank into them. She
was much lighter than the insurgent, and no grains
spilled from the loose bag.

“You don’t know how happy I am, too see you


guys.” She said. “Todays been a total fucking
nightmare.”

“Were you on that convoy by GravesEnd park?”


Mullanix asked. She nodded. “Is there anyone else left?”

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“No.” Her lip quavered briefly. She took a moment
to bury her head in her hands, then quickly brought them
back, in a gesture which suggested she merely wished to
fix the loose strawberry blonde strands that had
detached their way from her ponytail. Christian saw the
wet streaks of tears, however. The DMZ got to her, he
thought. This must be her first time in. Her first real
event. You have to stay with it. Let it wash through you.
You cant let it overwhelm your senses.

Mullanix patted Christian on the shoulder. “This is


Sargeant Inferno.” He said. “A real high scoring soldier.
He has- well, had, a nice house on Dyker Heights. Your
not that far from it now, only on 65th and 18th. In
Mapleton. The bright side to all this, is if you head
southwest, I understand there’s a Fob on Staten Island.”

Christian suddenly remembered the motorcycle. It


was still tipped, near the staircase. Why had he left it
tipped? He put his back into it, and the bike lifted off its
side. The kickstand came down and he looked it over.

There was a series of scratches on the timer cover,


and the gas tank. Nothing terrible, but it would need to
be repaired. He sat on it experimentally. His heart sank
into his stomach. The handlebars were bent. How much
would that cost him to fix? Would he have to scrounge
the zone for parts? Hopefully, Curry in the motor pool

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could get it back into shape. Curry was smart with cars.
Beyond that, he was a fixer. In more ways than one.

He looked over his left shoulder and Mullanix was


gone. The woman had nodded off in the chair. He went
over to her and shook her shoulder, regretting the
action. Spoiling a moment of peace and beauty. When
she opened her eyes, he could feel it again. Hitting him
in waves. A trick of her eyes.

“Hey, its time to go.” He said.

“Did I fall asleep?” She asked.

“A little.” He answered.

“No, you can’t fall asleep a little. I fucking blacked


out. I don’t believe it.”

“It happens.”

“No it doesn’t.” She shook her head. “None of this


happens. They don’t put any of it on the brochure when
you’re in the Air Force. When you’re in Disbursing in the
Air Force. And, I mean, that isn’t even it. It’s just, when I
got here-“ She moved her hands animatedly, gestures
meant to emphasize her words. “- when I got here, it was
in the back of my head, that this might be, you know,
possible. But it wouldn’t happen like this. I’m sorry, God.
I must seem like such a fucking-“ She took a deep breath
“Such a fucking girl.”
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“Not really. I know plenty of grown men who take it
the same way. Including myself.”

“Oh yeah, okay.” I little laugh. Meant to be jaded,


but failing that, pretty. “I know who you are. I’ve seen all
the Fox News updates.”

“No, it’s true.”

“Seriously.”

“Yeah. The thing-“ He leaned close. Intimately,


conspiring, “The thing you have to remember, is that’s
what it’s all about. This place. Places like this. War. Its
about there being no plan. No way to make a plan. Too
much that’s unknowable. You just have an idea. And you
hang on to that by your fingertips. And you don’t look
down.”

The speech had gotten some of the desired effect.


He eyes had brighten. She seemed to be gaining energy.
That was good. It was a long ride to Staten Island. If they
even could make it across the V-N bridge. Where the
markers still there? He hoped so.

He went back to the Christiane black and metal


bike. He gunned the engine, and the pipes roared. She
choose this moment to stick out a hand.

“Staff Sargeant Gloria Viva.”

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The name stuck at him. Viva. Like Paula? Another
Latina? She was Black. Cuban or Rican? The ugly image
swelled back to life. Mullanix lied when it suited his
needs. Was he lying to him now, about not shooting the
rockets? Was that what he meant with the song of
songs? Wasn’t it I am dark, yet comely?

She stared awkwardly at her own hand, and then


Christian reached out with his and shook it. I am being
an idiot, he told himself. She doesn’t think that I like her.
She thinks that I am being mean.

“Sargeant Christian Inferno.” Even with the glove


on his hand, he felt an electric tingle from her. A
gorgeous hand. Flawless. Long and slender, like the rest
of her.

“There’s only one seat.”

He glanced at the back and mouthed an obscenity.


Fuck. Of course there was only one seat. He had never
let anyone on the back, never let Paula or Ena or any of
the other Dod whores ride. Thinking quickly, he slung off
his day pack and rifle. “Here” He handed them to Gloria.
“Put these on, and hold on to me as tight as you can. I’ll
try to ride as far forward as possible, so you wont slip.”

So I wont get another one on me conscience, he


thought. Another woman I knew dead because of me.
Another woman I

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The L-bomb went off silently and suddenly in his
head. It kept resonating as he felt her pull tight against
his back, gripping him as hard as she could. He tried to
rob it off its power, but there was no use. Ove, it
screamed. Ove, Ove, Ove, Ove.

Harley Davidson was one of the few government


contractors who had not been placed by virtue of being
the lowest bidder. They were, in fact, a response to an
incident. That was the way of the federal goverment
from before the war: Incident, response.

In May 28th of 2013 all communication was lost


with the town of Allen, Pennsylvania. Satellite, internet,
television, radio. Everykind of communication possible. It
had fallen off the grid. State Trooper Nate Jennings was a
twenty year man on the Highway Patrol and among the
first responders to the area. He was also the one to
name what had happened. “I called em the New
Hampshire Angels.” He told a news team from
Philadelphia, on account of their using that flag, and
those bikers.”

Like many important events in history, much of


which is written by the winners, many pieces remain
unexplained. There are several conflicting accounts.
What can be nailed down is as follows:

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Officer Jennings and five fellow patrolmen came to
the center of town when the noticed an unusual
gathering. It was a crowd of mostly men, ranging in age
fron seventeen to early fifties. The men were dressed in
a variety of uniforms, and some of which appeared to be
wearing civilian attire. Many of them were wearing body
armor, and most of them were armed.

There was, in fact, a man with a heavy beard, who


stepped forward waving a flag that bore a coiled snake
and the expression LIVE FREE OR DIE. He made a
statement to the effect of “This is what it is all about.” Or
“This is what you get, you bastards.” Again, conflicting
reports. There was adieu, but it was garbled. Yet the
video made it around the world. 0 The video report next
saw the man with the flag shot dead. The Police on the
scene claimed he was armed. Later, a significant
minority would claim he was not. As he fell, the back of
his leather vest proclaimed FREE STATE.

Afterward, there was a firefight. Officer Jennings


was the sole survivor. “I hid among the dead.” He told
the camera team. Later, an unedited version of his
commentary would be leaked on the internet.“We
couldn’t stop em, and the SWAT couldn’t stop em, and I
hear they’re fuckin up the National Guard real good. Just
what the hell are we going to do about these guys?”

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There was enough left to this end of Brooklyn to
suggest that once, it had been a neighborhood. Until you
took in the details. The houses with missing roofs. The
kids running around barefoot. The ones that had feet, Or
hands. Christian took all this in as he roared down the
streets. The familiar details of the DMZ.

He was seeing too many of them out now. It was


around one A.M., and there was little around to attract
them. There wasn’t even a hint of electricity in this
sector. That meant nothing was around but him.

He was enjoying the speed. The sensation of being


on his bike. What if they took it away from him? Put him
back on foot patrols? He pushed the thought aside. In
two blocks, the V-N bridge was coming up.

There was a sudden large explosion. Gloria


spasmed and let out a little scream. Even with the body
armor vest, she mgloriaged to dig her nails into his skin.
There was smoke ahead, covering the bridge exit.

The bridge was on fire.

He saw the mob. People screaming angrily.


English, Spanish, Arabic. Generally pissed off.
Demonstrating. Someone dragged something that looked
like a hunk of meat forward. Eventually he registered it
as a body. Torn to pieces. Possibly two bodies. Now the

33
pieces were being hung from the bridge trestle, and the
people were screaming and pointing to the other side.

He nearly had the engine on idle. Someone was


noticing him. There was no time, only a decision. He
gunned the engine. “Shoot the rifle!” He yelled back at
Gloria. Shoot it up, in the air!”

He worried that his words would have no effect.


Then he heard the Pop Pop of his weapon. Someone ran
up to them with a chain and then fell down. She was
shooting it into them. She was shooting them. Good girl.
Good soldier. They might make it. The mob fell back. The
tires lurched up to the bridge. They were almost in the
free. Through the flames. He made the mistake of
looking up to the trestle.

It was them. The whores. Ena and Paula. They had


found the pieces, and they had done this to them. What
was the point of it? He was throttling down now, nearly
still underneath the swinging meat. In his anger and
confusion he released the clutch. The engine cut off
suddenly. The scene was very unreal to him. The
blackened colors of the corpses swinging in the flickering
fire, looking to be swallowed up from the grey green
trestle into the impossible black. Someone was calling
out “Sergeant Inferno.” He looked behind him, and it was
a pretty blond. She tried to point, and ended up
gesturing with the rifle. There were flashed of light in the

34
distances. A blue streak of light lined past, cracking like
an especially loud pair of fingers. They were shooting.

AK tracers were blue. He forgot the bike had


stalled and tried to gun the engine. He cranked it again
and it howled to life. Another crack, this one closer.
Something clanked off the girder overhead. He
accelerated quickly. Into the fire.

It grew hotter the further he got across the bridge.


Through the toll. Faster now. Smoke was up ahead.
Gloria was drawing in her breathe. The bridge was out.

There was a chasm up ahead at least fifty feet


wide. How could he make it? It had to be too far. He
gunned it anyway. Better to go out this way. The cool
drink of the Hudson below. Their necks would snap on
the fall. Their brains would rattle around their skulls and
they would black out. Better.

When he approached it he saw that the chasm was


not even. The explosion had etched out an enormous V
in the bridge. Wires were exposed. But on the right, a
thin strip remain. Hulks of cars long abandoned, gave
him a maze with which to work with. He could smell the
toxic fumes. The acrid smell of concrete and tar. All the
way to the right now. Half a lane.

He looked down halfway. It seemed to go forever.


There appeared to be a movie at the bottom about

35
water. The motorcycle proclaimed its fury. Wind
whipping on every side. Gloria said, “Oh god.”

There was a five foot gap ahead.

It was hopeless. He had come this far, and it was


hopeless. How would this work? Could he mgloriage it?
He throttled up as hard as he could. When the front tire
looked to run out of asphalt bridge, he jerked up.

It did not happen in slow motion. It was quickness,


and he kept his eyes fixed ahead. It was a fast stretch,
across nothing. Then he saw that the front tire was too
low. The bike hit the other side and lunged its rear tire
forward, and they both spilled over. He was rolling rolling
rolling, and suddenly he hit something and stopped. His
head spun. He looked around. Gloria was there. She was
laying very still. The bike was dangling on the side of the
bridge, tottering back and forth. It finally choose to leave
with a scraping noise. The head light dangled up and
down, up and down and gone. An endless time later
there was the splash of contact below.

He got up and felt like shit. Gloria was rolling on to


her pack. She was breathing now, deeply. He could see
the shock of the adrenaline going through her body. She
looked over at him.

“Are we dead?” She asked.

36
“Not yet.” He answered. ‘We still have to make it
to the Fob, and see if they’ll shoot us.”

37
FOUR

38
Drill Sergeant S. Wall Jackson tucked over the brim
of his “Smokey the Bear” hat and looked around for his
pouch of chewing tobacco. It sat on the edge of the
command center conference table. He inserted a large
wad into the his cheek and he waited for the two dykes
to show up.

The two dykes were men, he believed, of


indeterminate age and possibly gender. One of them
represented Yoyodyne, a significant weapons contractor.
The other represented Substance D, a large healthcare
conglomerate. Both of them had a large stake in this
conflict. Thus Washington had determined that their
presence was necessary whenever christianers of
“critical importance.” would occur. Which was to say,
whenever they wished to be there.

He stood up and pulled down the front of his dress


shirt. Appearance was everything. The dykes were
snappy dressers. He had arranged his ribbons and
medals just so. He still had to prove to these clowns that
he could do this. That he was not, in fact, a clown
himself.

After Completing eighteen years of military


service, Staff Sergeant Jackson was drummed out of the
Army for what his commanding officer called “questions
of moral turpitude.” Which really boiled down to two
things: He had not made Sergeant First Class in time,

39
and one of the recruits he had buggered had snitched on
him. Having no mgloriageable skills, he eventually
ending up driving a taxi in Fayetteville, North Carolina.
This prospect worked well until he was recognized by one
of his victims, who shyly propositioned him for another
round of glorial amusement.

He was both infuriated and deeply disturbed by


this offer. After obeying his first impulse to strangle the
private he noticed a certain sexual satisfaction being
derived from the punishment. The only thing for it was
flight. The only mode of transportation he had available
was his employment, thus he abs combed with the
Carolinee Yellow! Taxi.

After driving for a week he found himself both


without funds and in Los Angeles. He spent a day living
in the stolen cab, like a zombie, unshaven and unclean
for the first time in his career. He was urinating on the
yellow door the next morning, when a fat, bespectacled
man quietly got into the backseat. S. Wall offered this
advice:

“You trying to look at my pecker, maggot? What’s


your malfunction?” He continued with a diatribe in which
the individuals maternal parentage and orientation was
severely questioned, followed by an offer that he should
perform an impossible act of self immolation.

40
The passenger, one Larry Duplo, a savant director,
was enormously pleased. After such films as
“Childhood’s End” and “the Long Walk” he was ready to
pursue a more serious, factual work, and offered Jackson
a leading role in “Half Tin Overcoat”.

The shooting of the picture was a simple thing, no


acting was required. They flew him back to Boot Camp in
Texas, and he was put to work. The director wanted
everything for the film, and in a climatic moment in the
first act, he was able to perform his signature climax,
surrounded by recruits clubbing the victim with bars of
soap. The recruit in question was, in fact, Duplo, who had
agreed to be penetrated to assure historical accuracy.

After the final scene, S. Wall had enough funds


secreted away to purchase a garage for his cab, as well
as a jar of yellow paint, to obscure its east coast origins.
Providing transportation in this region was a far more
amusing pursuit that driving in North Carolina had been.
There were many attractive people for him to curse and
ridicule, some of whom where “in the know” to quote the
local parlance, who asked him “Aren’t you in the new
Larry Duplo?”

The film itself was a rousing success. Earning


several Academy awards and twice as many
nominations. It became a part of popular culture in
militainment, and S. Wall became an iconic film figure.

41
He received a promotion to Sergeant First Class, the rank
he had worn in the picture. In boot camps across the
world, Drill Instructors showed his film to recruits, and
talked about the Good Old Days when things were hard
and the world spun in the right direction and everything
made sense because Old men were fucking Young men
that looked up to them in the ass.

Dyke Number One made its way through the black


double doors of the conference room. He or she was
wearing a string tie with a deadwood clasp and a black
suit coat. Its hair was styled in the fashion of the “mop
top” Beatles period. Black square frame glasses
completed the ensemble. Dyke Number One coughed
and looked around nervously. It always looked nervous,
in its fat chubby face, with pockmarked acne scars, and
big black eyes. Like a scared frog.

“Where’s the other one?” S. Wall asked.

“Feeling a little under the weather” Number One


answered, in its froggy, neutral, voice. S. Wall felt the
prick of annoyance. Again, a reference to He or She was
avoided.

Dyke Number Two choose the moment to stride in.


It was the more “butch” one, with close cropped spiked
hair, freshly gelled. Two was wearing a light blue polo

42
shirt and athletic shorts, and a pair of running shoes.
Several yellow bands hung from its left arm. There was
an embroidered name above its left breast but there had
been a sort of accident to render the writing
indecipherable. Number Two threw a thick folder on the
conference table which landed with a smack. In bold
black letters YOYODYNE LOSS REPORTS was etched
across.

“The condom trucks can’t get through.” It said.

“Why’s that?” S. Wall queried.

“Because your fucking bridge blew up.” Number


Two threw out the profanity casually. Number One
seemed to shrink at the sound of it. Scared back into its
hair shell. In the early Days S. Wall would go toe to toe
with number two, which grew angry, to the point where
number one started to cry and scream. Both S. Wall and
Number Two had found out the sound was unbearable,
alike to a sack of drowning kittens. So the Drill Sergeant
remembered his bearing and came up with a proper
answer.

“It was a terrorist attack.” He said.

“The numbers are down on the highest score


show.” Number One answered.

“How are they down? Best thing on cable


television! After, of course, Liberty Call.” Liberty Call was
43
S. Wall’s old program on the Winner’s Channel, in which
he displayed advances in military technology. His
celebrity from the program had been a key factor in his
receiving his current position.

“There’s a protest going on.” Number One pointed


to one of the screens in the command center. Christian
was on the bed, naked. A woman was naked above him.
A Motivation and Morale Whore. The next scene on the
video was the same woman in a chair, naked and
screaming. A clear liquid was being poured over her
head. She shivered under it, as It splashed over her skin,
over the duct tape used to bind her. There was a roar of
fire. She screamed and screamed and then stopped as
her skin was ate away by ever hungry fire. As her
features sank in and pieces of flesh fell to the ground.
The final scene was the corpse, dangling from the V-N
bridge. Exit credits: HIGHEST SCORE.

“They mgloriaged to Pirate the feed.” Number One


pointed out.

“You’ve got to lose the whores.” Number Two said.

“I like the whores.” S. Wall replied.

“Do you like to fuck?” Number One asked.

“I love to fuck.” S. Wall answered, his voice


dripping with secret lust. Number Two leaned in close.

44
“We need the trucks.” She said. “To get the
condoms, so you can fuck. If we don’t have the trucks,
you can’t screw these nasty whores-“

”Adult Entertainment Professionals.” Whined


Number One.

“Nasty Whores.” Continued number two “That we


send you to pleasure your troops. Do you have any idea
what kind of professional will follow an army around?”

“Not Really.” He spit a stream of dark red juice


onto the conference floor. It crept between the tiles.

“The cheap kind.” She said “Willing to trade a


sense of personal safety for a six figure payoff. Most of
them have Syphilis. Many of them have HIV. These
whores will spread that to you men. Then who is on the
hook to provide that healthcare? Us. Substance D. As
many as six thousand of your men, dying slowly in a
hospital. One medical loss after another.”

“I thought you people were good at avoiding that


sort of thing.” S. Wall commented. Number One flashed
an ugly grin of mostly straight, yellowing teeth. The kind
found on antisocial young people.

“We are pretty good.” He said. “And we would be


able to whittle down that number some. Most of them
would give up and expire, and we wouldn’t have to
expend so much funds. We could minimize the losses
45
that way. But there would probably be a documentary. It
would blow up on the net, at least.”

“And then” S. Wall capped off, “The terrorists win.”


The trio stood around silently, and nodded. A moment of
silence was given.

The screen behind his “Smokey the Bear” hat


ruined everything by flashing to the front gate by the V-N
bridge. Two GI’s a male and a female, were standing
there with their hands behind their heads. Both of them
were young and attractive. “USA friendly coming
through!!” They said.

“Get the fuck down on the ground!” Was the reply.


The two got on their knees. “Get the fuck down on the
ground!!” Was repeated to them. “I have a weapon.” The
female said. “DO YOU HAVE ANY WEAPONS?!!?” A voice
in a loud speaker said. “Yes, it’s in my holster, a nine
millimeter automatic.” “USA friendly, guys,” added the
male again, helpfully. “GET ON THE GROUND?!!?” A
young private screamed. He enthusiastically tackled
Gloria and began roughly patting her down. “SARGEANT!
SHE HAS A WEAPON!!” He exclaimed.

“I just told you that.” She said.

S. Wall decided to add to the scene behind him


with such helpful candor as what in tarnation, Sam hill,
46
etc. etc. He subtly struck a dramatic pose by flaring both
his elbows out and bringing his hands down to his
hipbones in fists. He couldn’t look behind him to see, but
he was certain it had the desired effect on the two dykes.
A commanding presence. One firmly in charge of all
Oscar winning situations. 0

“These two are good.” Said dyke number one. “We


can use this.” Or was it number Two? He couldn’t tell,
the entire thing was long since out of his hands, out of
his control. Spiraling ever under, downward across. A half
life of its own.

It seemed like an eternity until Gloria was allowed


to go back to her own trailer. They stripped her and
checked her, interviewed her and cross examined the
story. She nodded off once or twice in that room, with its
white walls and its cheap brown picnic table. Finally, she
was allowed to walk across the Fob and find her own
trailer to sleep in, with the threat/warning that another
interview was likely tomorrow.

Once she was there, she found it impossible to


sleep. It was adrenaline or something else. She tried to
consume her mind with thoughts of Caleb. It would be
painful, but it would be better than this. The picture in its
broken frame was under the sofa chair where she had

47
left it. She stared, and tried to unravel her thoughts on
her son.

It was difficult to do. It might be borderline


impossible. It was obvious that he was her flesh, or at
least her heritage. He had the kinky hair and dark tan
that labeled him African American, or it least not white.
The deep brown eyes, darker even than hers, like black
pools. And the gap between his front teeth like her
mother. But the picture was torn on its right side, and
that was where Caleb’s father stood. So much of him was
there. Irish. Her kid was a mutt, Irish and Black. What
would he think about that? Beyond that question lay a
harder one. One that kept the picture under the sofa.
One that kept the frame broken. Why had she done what
she had?

There were several logical factors. Her


employment being one of them. She was deployable, the
father was not. It made sense. But she didn’t visit. She
never attempted to call. Why? What was she feeling?
How did it work? There was something dark in her that
tried to speak for her. It told her the truth. Or what she
hoped was only A truth. You never wanted a son, it told
her. You never wanted a child at all, and you never
wanted a son. Beyond that, you never wanted a mate, or
even a lover. The truth to your being is this: I HATE ALL
WHO ARE NOT ME.

48
Sometimes she could not dispute the voice. The
feeling came to her, like when she was with that moron
on the bike. He was cocky and arrogant, two traits she
hated in a man. She would hate them in anyone, but
especially in a man. He had a big forehead and a sharp
nose. He had dark black hair and she hated that. He had
gel in the dark black hair and she hated that more.
Obviously he was not used to doing any work to make a
woman happy. Why should he? The motivation and
morale crew would provide him with all the whores he
could eat. A fresh hole to stick his dick in. That was all
they needed, That was all David had required. That, and
a wad of padding for his ego.

David was beautiful, to be sure. She loved how it


offended him when she called him that; beautiful. She
put the frame back, under the sofa. Something sliced her
finger. She shook off the smart and sucked at it. A paper
cut. It was an unconscious tic she had, ever since the car
accident. Somehow she had passed it on to Caleb. She
waved the list in the air and unconsciously flexed her left
hand open and closed. It was something done often
before sleep. Suddenly there was a knock at the trailer
door and light pouring through the boarded up window

Someone slid a package under her door. They went down


the haphazard wooden stairs, creaking all the way. She

49
delicately walked across the room to fetch it. There was
broken glass in the carpet. For some reason she was in
stocking feet, but could not remember having removed
her boots. She tore upon the brown paper to reveal a
black notebook There was a plate inside the cover which
read

The history of an ominous notebook

Mole’s Skin is the ominous harbinger of destruction


used by European despots and warmongers for the past
two centuries, from Napoleon to Hitler, from Jack the
Ripper to Herman Goering. This trusty, pocket sized
travel companion held sketches of torture victims, notes
on casualty numbers, stories to be readied for
propaganda, and ideas sent to them in dreams, from
satanic voices or family pets.

50
Originally produced during the Black Sabbath in
the basement of an English Meat Pie shops, who received
assistance in their trade from certain vengeful barbers,
by the end of the twentieth century the Mole’s Skin
notebook was no longer available. In nineteen eighty-six,
the last manufacturer of Mole’s Skin, a blood diamond
smuggling ring in south africa, closed forever.
“Molehaut ist ein Gräuel” Were supposedly the
fuhruers last words on the christianer. Or, rather, the
thought waves received from his preserved brain. The
German writer had ordered a hundred of them before
leaving this life, he had bought up all the Mole’s Skin he
could find, but they were not enough to preserve his life.

In 1998, a Saudi Arabian Oil Prince brought Mole’s


Skin back to life. As the self-effacing keeper of an
extraordinary tradition, Mole’s Skin began once again to
travel the globe, and hell followed after. To assault
reality, to fudge details, to impress upon paper aspects
to horrible to experience, Mole’s Skin is a dark reservoir
of ideas and feeling, a battery that whispers of plagues
and Atomic ruin, and whose energy only builds over
time.
The ominous black notebook is once again being
passed around from one pocket to the next, with its
various page styles it accompanies terrible professions
and the imaginations of the disturbed. It continues on,
until all its still blank pages drip red with ichors.

51
(Mole’s Skin contains fifty percent animal products.
Like the lampshades)

After that terrible description, she felt disinclined


to turn the page. She did so anyway, and found smooth,
mostly blank pages. They were unlined, and the corners
were distinctly rounded. In the middle stood this
passage:

..

EQUIPMENT LIST- FCS-INVASION


-MICH Helmet – Tan
-Crye Precision Combat Shirt – ACU-Crye Precision
Combat Pants – ACU-Crye Precision Blast Belt
w/Suspenders- ACU
- M4 Mag Pouch - ACU x 4-Double Pistol Mag Pouch -
ACU-Crye Precision Armour Chassis - ACU
-Hydration Carrier w/Tube –ACU
-Large General Purpose Pouch Horizontal – ACU
-General Purpose Pouch - ACU
-MBITR Radio Pouch – ACU
-Water Bottle/General Purpose Pouch – ACU
-SERPA Drop Holster w/Mag Pouches
-Riggers Belt
-1911 .45 Pistol w/Rail
-1911 .45 Magazine x 4
52
-Pistol Lanyard
-P-Mag 20 Round w/Ranger Plate x 4
-M4 Magazine 30 Round x 4
-416 Rifle w/10.5 Inch Barrel
-Single Point Bungee Sling Coyote

-MBITR Radio w/Peltor Headset and PTT switch


-Patches
-Desert Boots
-NOMEX Gloves – Tan
-1911 .45 Pistol w/Rail
-1911 .45 Magazine x 4
-Pistol Lanyard
-P-Mag 20 Round w/Ranger Plate x 4
-M4 Magazine 30 Round x 4
-416 Rifle w/10.5 Inch Barrel
-Single Point Bungee Sling Coyote
-MBITR Radio w/Peltor Headset and PTT switch
-Patches
-Desert Boots
-NOMEX Gloves

She shook her head in confusion. How had this


gotten there? What did it mean? She recognized none of
it. The words were foreign. ACU was Army Combat
Uniform. What was a 416 Rifle? Pictures would have been
immensely helpful. She had never heard of a 416 Rifle.
All of this was immensely confusing. She flipped through

53
it some more. There was only one more item, near the
end:

The Burqa Ghost

High Fidelity Stereo

First Platoon

A series of novels

By M.T.S.

She slammed the book shut. There were other


things to worry about. How would she keep up her
weave? There had been a hairdresser on the Air Force
base who had been able to accommodate her. She was
African, true African . With the clicks and everything.
They had done a great job on the weave. Hair was
inexpensive to buy these days. With the war and all. Lots
of blond girls willing to help a sister out. Many of them

54
from within the DMZ. The hair venders set up shop
everyday with the Blu-ray discs and the I heart NY shirts.

0 She concerned her grey christianer with ideas of


dead strands of tissue until there was another knock on
her door. Immediatedly she crawled on all fours and
stared under the gap, at the feet of the stranger, clad in
Nike athletic cross trainers, hoping to glimpse the hands
of her new postmaster. The door opened seemingly of its
own accord, and a stocky woman of indeterminable age
or gender peered out at her between thick pink cheeks
and a close cropped “buzz” haircut. She wiped soot from
an explosion off her baby blue polo shirt.

“Hi.” Was offered in awkward greeting. Finding


herself suddenly tired from the events of the previous
day, Gloria chose not to raise herself to full height.
Instead, she crawled to a spot near enough to the couch,
and then sat with legs folded under her “indian style”
beside it. “Can I come in?” The thing at her door was
asking. She nodded assent, and it strode in a powerful,
controlled movement. Choosing not to sit, but to rather
stand, hands alternately swinging freely at its side and
placed on hips. This position meant that Gloria had to
strain her neck upward to make eye contact. Instead she
chose to peer belt level, at its strange and mystical
groin.

“I hear youve had a hell of a night.” The thing said.

“Whats your name?” Gloria replied.

55
“Marks.” The thing said.

“Are you a contractor?” She asked.

“I represent a firm that acts as a government


supplier.” It said.

‘Supplier of what?”

“Our primary aspect is pharmecuticals. We actually


exist as a conglomerate of firms.”

“Substance D.”

“Thats right.”

“I hear you shut down the whore tents.” She said.

“We cant get a fresh supply of condoms through.”


Marks replied.

“What if the men turn on us?” Gloria asked.

“We have an overabundance of rape kits in


supply.” Marks answered.

“What about getting pregnant?”

“Enough birth control for several months, as well.


Would you like to try a sample?”

Gloria agreed, and Marks opened up a small white


fishing tackle box it had brought. Inside were many
different tablets and pills, Picking at last a small purple
oval with D imprinted. Marks dropped it in Gloria’s palm

56
and she tilted her head back, dry swallowing the
instrument, which tasted distinctly of semen.

Marks calmy sat on the couch and folded its hands.


“Is it working yet?” Was asked.

“Im not pregnant.” Gloria dizzily replied.

‘Thats irrelevant.” Her head was swimming. Colors


appeared at random intervals from behind the boarded
up window. How was this position reached? What would
change it? In the beginning of all effective christianer,
who was the reciever? Thing were revealing their true
natures. A flower blossoming. Clock without a craftsman.
She used to ask her mom to tell her a story, when she
felt like this. “I know a story.” Marks volunteered.

“There’s this book in the command center library


that someone dropped off. Its missing its cover and title
page. No idea what its called, or who wrote it. Its fantasy.

Its about this guy called a Nord. Arturus. He is a


Nord, not called a Nord. The Nords live in the frozen
spine. Arturus is a prince.

The Nords believe their god is dead. They have a


written language, and print books. They exist mostly as a
group of communities.

Arturus is a real good looking guy. Tall, muscular.


Long blond hair and blue eyes. He fucks his cousin, and
she gets pregnant. When she tells him, he gets real

57
scared and punched her in the stomach. Then he runs
away.

Down the hall his father is having a feast. Arturus


decides to get shitfaced. His Dad makes a joke about
hearing him and the cousin fuck, and he gets real mad.
Loses his shit, stabs his father in the gut with a sword.
Kills him.

After that, he’s exiled. Goes into the cold. Into a


mine shaft. A witch is living there. She tells him of a
country to the south, in a land called Ghan, accross the
sea. A city called Uruk. Tells him about the Uruk men
that live there, Real barbarians. Run around naked,
yellow teeth and grey skin.

So, he gets an army of these outcasts. Sails


accross the sea. South. Arrives in the desert. Some of his
men are dead. When he gets there, he finds these tall
city walls. And the Uruk men. Like the witch described.
He kills them. Burns the carcasses.

Im not very good at describing some of this stuff.


Some of the language is really great. I wish I knew what
the authors name was. I mean, the way he talks about
the snow and ice with the Nords, or the faces of the dead
sea Wyrms staring up at the ships, mouths wide open,
and the way the sailors drown themselves and go mad,
dissapeared down the throat of the giant wyrms, its
really great stuff. The reason why I bring all this up, is,
the way he described Uruk.

58
Uruk is this huge city with huge black walls. And
the city is built in circles. Each circle has a higher wall
than the last one, with the fortress in the center being
the tallest. It’s a presence, really. Like nothing anyone
has ever seen before. That huge black city in the middle
of an endless beach without an ocean.

So, Arturus takes the city. Kills its ruler, takes his
bride Salome. Fucks her. In the night she takes a knife
and hacks away. Cuts his throat, and cuts off his left
hand. Tells everyone that she killed him. The people riot.
Arturus’s men kill and die, but they are stuck in the city.
Their leader is gone. They don’t know the way home.
And Arturus lives in the basement of the palace, wrapped
in an old blanket, pissing on himself.”

Marks cleared its throat, having reached the end.


Gloria was coming out of it now. She still felt funny, and
knew things to be different than normal. “What does any
of that mean?” She asked.

“I don’t think it means anything.” Marks answered.


“I think its just a story. Something light to read, during
the more boring moments in life. There are plenty of
those, in the Fob.”

“I think its an glorialogy.” Gloria said. “But Im not


sure how, or to what.”

“Anything can be an glorialogy. If you stare at a


Rorshach test, eventually you’ll see a pattern. It doesn’t
mean that one’s there.”

59
“What do you have for me?”

“An employment offer. With Motivation and Morale.


Standard contract.”

“Im not a prostitute.”

“No ones a prostitute. Everyones a prostitute.


Everyone has something for sale, a good or service for
sale, or trade, in advance of favors given-“ Marks
brought out the picture of Caleb from underneath the
couch “For selves or loved ones.”

60
61
62
FIVE

At that present moment in time, Christian was in


the garage on- base, watching corporal Curry rummage
across huge piles of scrap metal for needed parts. Curry
was elbow deep in a carbonator for a broken humvee,
that had taken a glancing blow from a land mine. “They
don’t have any more twelve hundred N in stock.” He told
Christian. “The Army discontinued that motorcycle
program, while you were in Brooklyn with your whores.”

“I heard they discontinued the whores, too.”


Christian said.

Curry pulled his arms out of the engine and wiped


them off on his ACU pants. He unzipped his fly and
whipped out his penis. The think was covered in blue-
black growths, genital warts as big as the tip of a pinky
finger on his fat cock. “A nasty bitch did this too me,
right after the rubber trucks got blowed up.”

63
“Well, I guess you don’t care about whores
anymore.”

“The hell I don’t. Im going to give it to every one of


those cunts. That way, every one on base can have this
shit.”

“Not me, though, right?”

“Not you, your whores are dead.”

“Well, thanks, dude. Thats a load off my mind.”

Curry tucked the yogurt slinger away. A vesticle


popped as he did so, and the pus formed a dark stain on
his crotch. “You have no idea what this pain is like.”

“Get some stuff from Motivation and Morale.”

“Fuck that. I don’t do drugs. Wont put that shit in


my body.”

“You smoke weed.”

“Weed isnt a drug. Its natural. Comes from the


earth.”

“There are natural poisons.”

“I’m tired of arguing shit with you, Christian.” Curry


sighed. He was a big soldier, big around the belly and big
and tall. He had a weak chin, hidden by a thick red
goateebeard, and a slight line which was the remants of
a harelip. He had a daughter who had the whole cleft
palate, a monster baby that Christian involuntarily
64
shuddered at whenever he passed around photographs.
The child was always so sunny and cheerful. Completely
oblivious to the ichor raised by its presence.

Curry asked Christian if he had any marijugloria on


his person, and Christian presented the half-joint that
remained from his palavar with Mullanix. They sat on the
thick rim of a humvee wheel and smoked. Curry
produced a playstation portable and began a racing
game. They passed it back and forth, taking turns at the
various tracks. Along the way their Lamborghini was
upgraded, until the lithium battery ran out of juice. Curry
cursed and pitched the game accross the garage, where
it landed silently behind a long dead Mercedes.

“I need my Harley, dude.” Christian said.

“Look in the Hudson Bay.” Curry told him.

“Then I need a new one.”

“Like I said, they discontinued the program.”

“Can you just, get me one? I know theyve got bike


rangers in Jersey.”

“They’ve got a lot of shit going on in Jersey. Right


now, its worse than Brooklyn. It could be the next
Manhattan. You want a bike? Get them to start the
program again. You’re the big hero.”

Christian looked down sheepishly. “They cancelled


my show. The insurgents pirated in an execution feed.”

65
“I’m not talking about the show. Im talking about
that Eivel Knievel stunt you pulled on the bridge.”

“You saw that?”

“Everyone saw that. They’ve been running it on a


nonstop loop on Fox News. They wanted my to tell you
that.”

“Who did?”

“Those two guys that work with Sargeant Jackson.


Marks and Ingles. The gay one and the Lesbo. Theyve
got big plans.”

“Like what?”

“They told me to tell you that your getting a


commision.”

“What?”

“They heard youve got some college. Your getting


a commision. Theyre going to make you an officer.”

It was a sudden blow from the left, or behind. “A


lieutenant.” Curry added helpfully.

‘Why would they do that?”

“It happens sometimes. Enlisted going to college,


turning into officers. They called them Mustangs. Look,
you know what I think?”

“Maybe.” Christian answered, in antagonism.


66
“I think theyre making this stuff up as they go
along. The regular army hasnt been back that long. Not
but two years ago, they kicked everyone out and decide
its MPC’s only. Than the free states come along, and they
all quit. They don’t know whatever the fuck theyre doing.
They see you, they think, solution. And they need a
solution. Theyve been losing bad.”

“I don’t think.” Christian said.

“You don’t think what?”

“I don’t think I want to do it.”

Curry handed over a brown manila government


courier envelope. “They told me to give you this.” He
said. “If you would say that.” Christian started to unrap
the cord and Curry yelped. “Not here.” He said. “Go open
that in your own damn trailer. I don’t want to have any
idea of whats in that.”

Christian took his leave and exited the garage. A


tank was rumbling idly next to him, coughing up thick
plumes of smoke, in dire need of repair. He found the
trailer in similiar condition to what he had left it in.
Whiskey bottles and Playboy mag askew. He picked up
the one for Miss March, 2013. Miss May took that
moment to walk through the door.

Gloria had dressed herself in a black halter top and


a short denim skirt. Slitted on the sides. Her hair was
done nice, her lips were glossed, and she had glitter
underneath her eyes.
67
“Ove, Ove.” Christian said. 0 “What does that
mean?” Gloria asked.

“Its french.” Christian answered. “Pig french. From


polynesian.”

“Your polynesian?”

“Im Puerto Rican and Irish.”

“Thats cool. Caucasian and African American,


here.”

“You look nice.” He said. She gave a little twirl. A


small pirroette.

“Im ready to go out.” She told him.

“Go out where?” He asked.

“Your taking me to the E-Club.”

“Don’t we have to work or something today?”

“We’ve got liberty until Monday. Come on, get your


civvies.”

Her taunt did its job and he lept forth with to a


duffel bag, where, buried near the bottom, lay an
abercrombie shirt and a new pair of designer blue jeans.
Hurriedly he changed, within sight of her, noticing she
did not turn away or flinch. The voyuerism gave him a
small erection, a half chub he sought to conceal. When
he was done she took his hand and led him off.

68
They arrived early at the enlisted club. It had once
been an actual nightclub called the Tango. When the
base had been built all the rest of the buildings had been
razed to the ground, to be replaced with trailer houses
with sandbag and cinderblock roofs. Only Club Tango
remained undisturbed. Initially there was a question as
to what it would be put to use as, until the clubs full
supply of liquor and intoxicants was discovered. Then the
question was removed. Motivation and Morale snapped it
up quickly, stocking the bathroom condom dispensers
and adding bowls of Substance D brand pharmaceutical
party aids.

The atmosphere was listless when they arrived. It


was only eight-thirty, much too early for things to get
started. Most of the men were out of patrol, and most of
the women were hiding from the sex starved men. The
disc jockey was one Pames “Hack” Jatterson, a middle
aged warrant officer with a grey donut and a pot belly.
Once in the sixties he had been the top entertainer in
San Narsica, but he lost it all in a Vice case. After that, it
was Nam, and since he had mgloriaged to secure a dull
job which translated well to civilian employment, he
elected to stay with the California National Guard. This
had worked well until 03', when he found him self
approaching fifty and in the desert of Iraq. Then he fell
down a rabbit hole of stop-losses, extended
deployments, involuntary activations, divorces, and
depression meds. All of this had led to his current
predicament, where he had mgloriaged to secure enough
rank to avoid doing anything save his old pastime at Club
69
Tango. For his first record of the night he decided on the
latest track by Gentlemen GooGoo, “Rummy
Expression.”

The music pulsed and pounded in syncopated


rhythm. Christian drunk his beer and Gloria slurped at a
long island ice tea. They leaned in close, to talk above
the din.

“Where are you from?” Christian asked.

“Palmdale.” Gloria said.

“Where’s that?”

“Its in California. The Antelope Valley.”

“That’s cool. I’ve never been that far west.”

“How about you?”

“I’m from a town in southeast Texas called


Lumberton.”

“Do they make lumber there?”

“They do, a little. The biggest thing is a paper mill.


That whole area, its nothing but chemical plants and oil
refineries.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“I know.”

“Are you going back?”

70
“I’m not sure. They offered me a commission.”

She chose that moment to place her hand on his


forearm, calculated tenderness. In order to reinforce
which direction things would go. “Your going to be an
officer?” she asked. The manila envelope was in his
brain. “Maybe.” He replied.

“Why not? That’s a great deal.”

“Maybe it is. Look-“ He flailed his hands. It was an


awkward gesture, a useless gesture. “All I joined the
Army for was to ride motorcycles. They took that away,
and, I think I want to get out.”

“Aren’t you stop-lossed?”

“Sure, like everybody else. But there’s ways


around it.”

“Like what?”

He leaned forward, close enough for her to smell


the stale beer on his tongue. “When I was twelve.” He
said. “I spent some time inpatient at a psych ward. They
don’t know about that.”

“Oh.” A small twinge of panic ran down her back.


They really didnt know about that. Marks had explained
nothing to her about it. If she failed, the deal wouldnt go
through. Her mind raced, hoping to poke holes in his
scheme. There was nothing immediate, so she asked him
if he wanted to dance.

71
They danced in the early twenty first century style of
bump and grind. He lacked rhythm, and merely swayed
back and forth. Other couples joined in. As the night
wore on the alcohol swam and the room grew hot and
crowded. A foam machine projected millions of soap
bubbles and they continued to dance, sometimes with
each other. At one point she kissed him and they started
making out, standing there on the floor, pressed against
the wall, and finally on the bar stools. At that moment in
time, suspended between imperfections, he bent her
head back and told her. The L-bomb dropped, and things
moved quickly, hazily, in between drunken sheets of
sweat and love juice, in rutting movements slow then
fast. As if the fate of the world could be determined by
their bodies. The truth of the glory for which they were
born. When he reached her door, a familiar sight greeted
him. Gloria stood there, her arms crossed, with that
same steely look of contempt on her face that had
greeted him the first time he came to her apartment. In
fact, she had on the same silky pajama pants with the
little hearts on it and a tank top that exposed a hint of
midriff. It was like déjà vu and as such, Christian didn't
see the harm in recreating the scene a little more.
Gloria looked up into his smoky gray eyes and knew that
she was in trouble. Before she could react, his lips were
upon hers and his tongue was pleading its case for
entrance. He backed her into the apartment, closing the
door with his foot, before whirling them around,
effectively trapping Gloria between himself and the door.
The basket in his hand dropped to the floor as his hands
made the familiar journey, under that flimsy tank top
that drove him crazy, to cup her luscious breasts and
tease her chocolate brown nipples.
Gloria gasped as his digits began to roll her nipples,
pulling and teasing, a moan escaping to be swallowed by
72
Christian's mouth. His tongue was in her mouth,
exploring every nook and cranny before inviting her own
tongue to do the same. Their lips met again and again
and Gloria couldn't even find the willpower to break away
and bitch at Christian for interrupting her studies. She
would much rather be kissed senseless than study
anyway and besides, she wouldn't let it go too far. She
could hear the little voice inside her head laugh at that
thought, but she ignored it.
Christian's mouth moved lower, nipping her neck and her
shoulder, before it latched onto a nipple. His hands
worked her tank top off and threw it over his head.
"Christian..." Gloria's breathless plea was answered with
a soft bite on the side of her breast.
Christian worked her entire tit over before moving on, his
tongue playing in the valley between her breasts and
then encircling her other nipple. Tonight, there would be
no interruptions and Christian was glad for that. His
hands almost met around her waist as he picked her up
and settled her against the door. Gloria wrapped her legs
around Christian's muscular body, locking her feet
behind him.
"Mmm, Gloria, the things you do to me. You make me
lose my mind when I'm around you," Christian murmured
into her hair.

Gloria's reply was engulfed by the squeal that she let out
as Christian's jean encased cock rocked against her clit.
Her hands, shoved between their bodies, frantically
undid the button on his pants and worked down the
zipper, while his tried to pull her pajama pants down as
far as he could mgloriage with her legs positioned as
they were. Christian's frustration built quickly and he
ripped Gloria's pants and her panties along the sides,
exposing her to his eager ministrations. Her fingers
73
wrapped around his cock while his stroked the outside of
her wetness.
Gloria panted, hoping she wouldn't hyperventilate as he
plunged two of his fingers inside of her. He twisted his
fingers, playing her like a well-tuned instrument,
wringing loud cries of ecstasy from her. Copious amounts
of her juices coated his fingers and made him wish that
he could taste her there, with his mouth or his cock. The
longer her slim digits danced along his dick, the more
desperate he became until he couldn't stand it.
"Gloria, please."
Gloria was pulled out of her frenzy by the sound of his
pleading. Her eyes shot up to catch his gaze, watching as
the blue that signaled his arousal started to overtake the
gray of his eyes. Oh. Shit.
"Please...God, please, baby. Shit. I need..."
He didn't even need to say the words. She knew what he
was asking. She continued to stare into his eyes,
struggling with the decision momentarily. His fingers had
stopped their probing and were now gripping her thighs,
subtly adjusting her body for penetration. She could feel
his desperation battling with his control and she knew it
was a losing battle. Part of her wanted to hold out and
make him wait longer, to not give it up to him so quickly
in their relationship. The other 90% of her was screaming
to let him in. Her body wanted him and her heart needed
him.
Christian groaned as he felt Gloria rubbing his hard-on
through the wetness of her pussy, back and forth,
teasing him. "Gloria, please."
She gave him a cheeky smile before answering, "Please?
What would you like me to do?"
"Stop teasing me."
"Oh, is that what you want?" Gloria giggled as she moved
his cock away from her naughty bits and repositioned it
74
back between their bodies.
Christian thrust up against her, his dick sliding against
her clit and causing a delicious heat to rise up through
her body. He spoke over Gloria's moans. "Why you
little...I want my cock buried in that sweet snatch. I want
to watch you dance on my cock while you scream for
me."
Gloria was panting again, his movements hadn't slowed
and she was on fire. "Do it...I want it. I want that too."
Christian hiked Gloria's body up and lined his dick up
with her pussy. "You sure, Gloria?"

"Fuck me, damn it!"


Christian thrust up into her waiting hole, burying his cock
deep within her depths. It felt so good, he thought he
would lose it right there. He could feel her pussy
contracting, squeezing his pole. He was inside of his
Gloria and she was coming for him. "Baby, it's so good.
God, it's so good. Fuck."
Gloria couldn't answer, she was busy trying to muffle her
screams against his shoulder. In the back of her mind
she remembered that she was pressed against her front
door and she had neighbors. She bucked against him and
he started to move, his cock finding its rhythm as he
pounded her cunt into submission. There was no doubt in
Gloria's mind who her pussy belonged to now. It was
Christian's as long as he wanted it. And she told him so.
Christian reveled in the sounds of his dick bottoming out
in his Gloria, the smack of his balls as they slapped
against her ass, the intelligible babbling that followed her
loud profession of his ownership of her naughty bits, his
grunts and groans, and her screams. Now that he had
her, he would never leave. She was his forever.
"Gloria, tell me again. Who's sweet...oh, yeah...pussy is
this?"
75
Gloria tried to gather her thoughts. Christian was saying
something, but she couldn't focus on his words with his
dick hitting her spot as it was. Her answer was a keening
cry, she was so close, she was going to come.
Christian slowed his strokes, almost coming to a
complete stop, pulling a moan of pure frustration from
Gloria's lips. "Tell me again, angel. Who does this pussy
belong to?"
"It's yours, Christian. My fucking pussy belongs to you.
Fuck me harder. Make me come," Gloria called out, her
neighbors forgotten.
"Don't you forget it, Gloria. You belong to me now."
Christian's devilish smile was paired with his renewed
thrusts up into Gloria's welcoming snatch. Her screams
rose in a melodious crescendo before she came apart in
Christian's arms, her orgasm overtaking her.
Christian tried to hold on, but he couldn't fight off the
churning in his balls caused by his Gloria's pussy milking
him. He came, sighing her name against her hair, his
head resting on the door. His pumping slowed and then
stopped. He listened to his Gloria's huffing breaths as
she tried to regain her composure. He let her slide down
his body onto shaky legs before scooping her up into his
arms. Christian carried her down the hallway to her
bedroom and placed her gently upon her bed.

Stripping off his jeans and pulling off his shirt before
joining her, Christian climbed onto the bed and cuddled
his Gloria against his chest. He laid with her like that for
long minutes before speaking, taking time to soak in the
feel of her pressed against him, her nipples grazing
against the hard planes of his chest.
"Mmm. You are positively irresistible, Gloria," Christian
spoke into her neck.
"Well, I could say the same thing about you. I wasn't
76
planning on letting you ravish me like that for at least
another week. But, what can I say, you're very
persuasive."
"I'm sorry, Gloria. I didn't mean to come here and take
you like that. I just wanted to feed you and help you
relax."
Gloria laughed. "Well, I think this is the most relaxed I've
been all day. So I guess you've achieved your goal in
that respect."
Christian chuckled. "So, was I amazing or what?"
Gloria smirked. Of course he was going back to being
cocky, but he deserved his props because he had put it
down right. "I'll admit that you were pretty amazing.
Keep that up and you might get lucky every time I see
you."
Christian grinned and rolled over on top of his Gloria.
"I'm feeling pretty lucky right now. How about it?"
Gloria stared up at him incredulously. "Really? Now?"
Christian ground his hard-on against her still exposed
pussy. "Really. I told you before, angel, you make me
crazy. Every time I think of you and your sexy little body,
I get hard. I think the brothers thought I was some sort of
sex fiend last weekend, as much as I jerked it."

Gloria giggled. "You're bad."

"Maybe I am, but you love it. So, how about it?"

"I have to study, Christian. As much as I would love to


feel you rock my world again, I've got to get back to work
or I'll fail my test."

"You won't fail, you're way too smart for that, but I
understand. Can I still stay for awhile or are my five
minutes up?"
77
Gloria cast a glance at the clock on her dresser. "Your
five minutes were up like 40 minutes ago. I'm surprised
your legs held up as long as they did."

"You know, I'm a little surprised I lasted as long as I did.


Your snatch is heaven and the way it was working over
my cock was so fucking hot. But, now that you mention
it, my legs are kinda stiff."

"Seriously? You dumbass, why didn't you say something?


And how can you want to go again if your legs are all
cramped up?"

Christian grinned lecherously down at his Gloria. "A man


will go to many lengths to get inside of a beautiful
woman, especially one as amazing as you. I'm feeling
good enough to want to bury my cock in that sweet
pussy of yours, that's for sure. And, if you're really
concerned about my legs, you could always ride me,
Gloria."

Gloria rolled her eyes. "I could, but I'm not going to right
now. I'm going to get back to studying as soon as you
stop trying to persuade me to have sex and get off of
me."

Gloria started squirming, trying to get some leverage so


she could slip from under Christian. Christian tried to
ignore the way Gloria's movements made him want to
flip her over and take her from behind. He really wanted
to let her study before he gave in to his body's demands
again, but it was so hard to restrain himself. "I can't wait
to get in you again, Gloria, especially when you writhe
beneath me. Wanna take another study break in an
78
hour?"

Gloria felt her face heat as she stilled her movements


and took notice of the throbbing member that was
pressed so intimately against her. "Well, now I think
you're a sex fiend. Get off me. You can stay, but don't
distract me. That means you'll have to put some clothes
on when you leave the room."

"You find my body distracting?"

"Hush. You know I do. Now, move it or lose it, buster.


And you know what 'it' I'm talking about."

Christian rolled off Gloria and watched as she slipped


from the bed. Her pajama pants and underwear slid
down her legs, causing Gloria to glare at Christian as she
stepped out of them. She grabbed a new pair of pajama
pants and slipped on a new top.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll replace that pair of pajama pants
and the panties too," Christian stated sheepishly as he
hid his satisfied grin behind his hair. He liked ripping
Gloria's clothes from her body and would probably
indulge in it again soon.

Gloria shook her head and walked towards the bathroom


in the hallway by her room. Christian willed his cock
down. How had his desire for a simple kiss turned into
him humping her brains out against the door? Christian
rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He really
was going to have to learn to control himself around his
Gloria or they'd never make it anywhere. He'd keep her
naked and in the house for years.

79
"Hey, angel, are you hungry or do you want to wait for
your snack?" Christian called from the bedroom as he
stretched out his legs.

Gloria was once again perched in front of her textbooks


and study guide and for some reason, she didn't care
that he was interrupting her right then. "Later, babe. I
want to get through some of this while I'm feeling
mellow. You won't even want to be around after I get
stressed in a few hours."

Christian thought about this. "When you start feeling


really stressed, let me know. I've got something to help
with that."

Gloria shook her head. Christian really was a sweet guy


when she thought about it. She wasn't going to let him
know she thought so because it would go to his head.

Gloria worked diligently on her study guide for a few


hours, pleased at the progress she was making because
she was so relaxed. She took a break to eat after
Christian spread a blanket out on the floor and laid out a
picnic lunch. He made sure to make her laugh and kept
her mind off of her studies. She even let him wring
another orgasm or two from her body as he devoured
her pussy after exploring her smooth skin with his lips.

After a few more hours, when night had fallen and Gloria
was starting to get wound up about her final, Christian
pried the pencil from her hand and pulled her from the
table. Before she could fuss at him, he kissed her into
submission and laid her down on the same blanket he
had used for their picnic. He pulled out the massage oils
and rubbed Gloria down until she was nothing but a
80
puddle of flesh. And while she was spread out,
luxuriating in the feel of his fingers stroking and
kneading her tense muscles, he read to her from her
study guide, occasionally asking comprehension
questions that Gloria easily answered.

After Gloria was content with the amount of studying she


had done, Christian herded her into her room and into
bed. He wanted to take her again, but he knew she
needed rest before her test. So, he settled for burying his
fingers in her hot snatch, bringing her to orgasm quickly,
and watching as she drifted off to sleep after her climax.
Christian sighed, happy to be able to fall asleep with his
Gloria in his arms. He would have to get up early so he
could drive to work, but it was worth it to be next to his
angel, to hear her deep breathing and the occasional soft
snore that slipped out as she slept. He was in love. There
was no doubt in his mind now. He had only known her for
five days and he was already head over heels? He let out
a quiet snort. His old man had ended up being right
again. Christian remembered that his dad had claimed
that when a Rosenbloom male met his match in every
way, his feelings and heart would get tangled up almost
instantaneously and the desire to claim her and keep her
would overwhelm him. Christian had laughed it off
because he didn't believe in love at first sight. But, now
he knew, it may not have been love at first sight, but
there was that need to protect her, to claim her from the
very beginning that he couldn't shake off. She was his
match and he was going to keep her by his side no
christianer what.

"Gloria, you're so wonderful. My angel, my sweet,


I..."Christian began in a voice barely above a whisper.

81
"Christian, stop mumbling to yourself and go to sleep.
This isn't family share time. Save it 'til tomorrow," Gloria
grumbled.

Christian laughed. He had thought about professing his


love to her sleeping form to practice for the real thing.
Apparently, his Gloria was either a light sleeper or very
good at playing possum. "You're right. I'm sorry.
Goodnight, Gloria."

"Night, babe. Sleep tight."

****

Gloria could barely contain her excitement as her pen


flowed almost effortlessly across the test in front of her.
Because of Christian's help, she had been able to relax
before the test and even that morning he had woken her
up with a massage to keep her loose. She walked into
the test feeling confident and where as before she would
freeze up sometimes during her finals, this time, she
finished without hesitation. Christian had worked
wonders and she hoped that he would stick around so
she could take advantage of his pampering more often.

She looked over the test to make sure she hadn't


forgotten anything and once she was satisfied, she
gathered her materials together and stood. Gloria
stretched upwards, working out the muscles of her back
that had tightened while she was hunched over. With a
smile, she handed in her test and walked out of the
room, feeling free and excited because she was meeting
up with Maia to get an update on her new relationship
with Jesse and divulge some juicy tidbits of her own.

82
She walked across campus and settled on hanging out at
an outside table by the student union until it was time to
meet Maia. Because she had been so confident, Gloria
had finished well before she thought she would and now
had time to kill. She decided to work on her paper, so
she could finish it quickly. Christian was coming back up
later that night and she wanted to be able to focus on
him. Now that they had gotten their first time out of the
way, Gloria was looking forward to fucking Christian into
submission. She shook her head at herself. One day
she's claiming that she was waiting to have sex, the next
she's being drilled against a door. Oh, how she was
mistaken.

Gloria's lips curled into a half-smile as she sat thinking


about all the deliciously naughty things that she wanted
to do with Christian and to Christian. She was lost in a
seriously sexy fantasy where Christian was begging for
release as she teased him, when a voice broke into her
thoughts.

"Hey there, Ms. Gloriagloriaa Jones. Long time and all


that."

Gloria looked up and into a pair of warm blue eyes that


were partially hidden by a mop of red hair. "Jeremy
Carter! What are you doing here? I thought you were
done."

"Just out roaming campus. My flight doesn't leave until


tomorrow. But I'll be back in two weeks."

Gloria nodded. She felt somewhat bad. Jeremy was the


guy she was supposed to attend the Alpha party with
before Kathy stepped in and convinced her to change her
83
plans. And, although it worked out for her in the long run,
she couldn't help but feel a little sorry for Jeremy. They
had been flirting and hanging out with a group of mutual
friends for a while before Jeremy had decided to go for it
and asked Gloria to meet him at the Alpha party. She
knew he was probably planning on making his move that
night, but fate stepped in. Christian had come through
and swept her off her feet before Jeremy even had a
chance to run his game.

"You want to sit down? I'm meeting Maia in a few, but I


have time to talk if you want to," Gloria offered. Maybe
this would give her a chance to tell him that she was off
limits.

Jeremy took the seat across from her, sweeping his long
red locks back so he could get a better look at Gloria. He
had heard the rumor that Christian Rosenbloom was so
far gone on Gloria that he was tripping over himself and
that they were now an item, but he wanted to hear it
straight from the source. If he gave up and the rumor
proved to be wrong, he would be majorly pissed. But,
then again, if the rumor was true and Gloria was taken
by Christian on the very weekend that he wanted to lay
his claim to her wonderfully curvy body, it would be a
damn shame.

His eyes took in the way her hair fell over one eye before
traveling down past her shoulders and the way her
breasts seemed to suck him in before he caught himself
and raised his eyes back up to hers. He could feel his
entire face flush as he realized that she had caught him
staring as well.

"Sorry, Gloria. I can't help it. You're so beautiful, you


84
know?" Jeremy wished he was smoother, or could ignore
it, but he didn't want to come off as a complete pig to
the girl who had captured his attention.

Gloria fought the urge to giggle. Jeremy was adorable


when he blushed, his fair skin turning almost as red as
his hair. If Christian hadn't barged into her life, Gloria
knew that there was a good chance that Jeremy would
have been her boyfriend right then. She was a sucker for
redheads, after all, and his muscular swimmer's build
and pert little ass didn't hurt either.

"Well, you sure know how to flatter a girl."

Jeremy tried to think of something clever to say, but he


felt tongue-tied. That was one of the reasons he wanted
to meet up with Gloria at a party. What he wouldn't give
for some booze right then.

Gloria took pity on him and changed the subject. "So,


how was the party this weekend? Did you have fun?"

Jeremy cleared his throat. "I did. It was a lot of fun. A


couple of the guys were doing keg stands and then
trying to see who could spin around the longest without
falling over. It was pretty entertaining. Although, I must
say, I probably would have had a better time if a certain
beauty were there on my arm. But, as I heard it she was
off at another venue, kicking ass and taking names."

Gloria laughed. "Hardly. More like getting mauled by


drunks and having to be saved from their attacks.
Apparently, some guys don't handle rejection well."

"So who was doing the saving? Did Jesse swoop in to


85
save his favorite girl from sure destruction?"

Gloria shook her head. "No, actually it was a guy named


Christian. He's an alum who was in town for the
weekend."

"Christianhew Rosenbloom? That old hound dog was


back in town? I bet he had a girl on each arm and
another few chasing after him." Jeremy winced
internally.

'Sure, go ahead and make the guy sound bad just


because he might be with your curvy beauty. You sound
like a jealous ass.' Jeremy continued to beat himself up
mentally.

Gloria quirked an eyebrow at Jeremy's familiarity with


her new beau. "Yeah, that knucklehead is the one who
saved me. He's a nice guy underneath that dirty frat boy
exterior. And I have it on good authority that he was able
to successfully repel most of the girls chasing after him.
Do you know him?"

Jeremy nodded. "Not really well or anything. He was a


friend of my older brother. They were the same class
year and in the same program. We've only met
once...when we were both incredibly drunk, but my
brother had some pretty crazy stories he liked to tell
about his and Christian's escapades."

The conversation lulled for a second, the question that


was plaguing Jeremy's mind was hanging in the air.
Jeremy didn't know how to ask about it tactfully and
Gloria wasn't really itching to tell him, but it had to come
out somehow.
86
Gloria knew that Jeremy brought Christian's name into
the conversation because he probably heard that they
were an item from someone who was at his lake party.
They could beat around the bush all day or she could just
tell him what he wanted to know.

"So are you two dating or was that just some wild
rumor?" Jeremy beat her to the punch.

"Yeah, he convinced me to be his girlfriend after chasing


me around like I was the last piece of tail on Earth. He
was persistent, I have to give him that," Gloria
answered.

Jeremy's bottom lip protruded in a pout momentarily


before he sucked it back in and smiled at Gloria. "So,
how serious are you guys? Are you just dating or are you
in it for the long haul?"

Gloria was almost shocked at Jeremy's forwardness, but


then she remembered that was why she had liked him in
the first place. He was direct, honest, and he wasn't
afraid to tell Felicia that she was full of shit, which
earned him many brownie points in Gloria's book.

"We're as serious as we can be for a couple who started


dating two days ago. We both agreed to be exclusive and
we're going to see how things turn out between us,"
Gloria smiled at the thought of just who was turned out
the day before. Christian sure did know how to put it
down.

"Damn, he beat me to it. That sucks. I wanted to be


yours, you know. But, I can see that he means a lot to
87
you already. That little secret smile of yours is very
telling," Jeremy commented, leaning forward as if they
were sharing secrets of their own.

Gloria stared at him like he had grown another head.


Was it that obvious?

"It's pretty obvious, Gloria. But, you deserve that smile.


You deserve to be happy and if Christian's the man that
can make you feel that way, so be it." Jeremy stood up
and stretched his lithe body out, hints of his auburn
happy trail peeking out from under his shirt.

"But if he trips up and makes a mistake, you let me


know. I'll either knock some sense into him or pick up the
pieces and show you how a man is supposed to treat a
lady."

Jeremy gave Gloria a quick wink before turning to walk


away. He turned back around and walked to Gloria's
side, scooping her up in a tight hug and dropping a kiss
on her forehead. "I mean it. If he does anything, you let
me know and I'll straighten him out."

Gloria leaned in briefly to return his hug before breaking


away. "Will do. I'm going to hold you to it. I can't do all
the ass-kicking by myself."

"You do that." Jeremy smiled again and with a deep sigh


of regret, he turned and walked off. It really was a damn
shame that Christian got to her first.

Gloria smiled after him. He was a sweet guy. She hoped


he would find someone special that would be worthy of
his attention. As for her, unfortunately for Jeremy, she
88
was stuck on Christian.

Gloria returned to working on her paper, relishing the


quiet atmosphere. It didn't last long.

"Who was that guy?"

Gloria glanced up, already knowing who the voice


belonged to. She looked into an incredibly handsome
face that held a pair of gray eyes that, at the moment,
reminded her of granite, hard and unyielding, and a
scowl that conveyed just how unhappy Christian was
about the situation he just witnessed. Gloria fluctuated
between wanting to scowl back at him and laughing at
him for being so possessive.

Christian flopped into the recently vacated seat across


from her, trying not to cause a scene or chase after the
guy and beat his ass. How dare he put his lips on Gloria?

Gloria continued to regard him with a wary eye. Then she


smiled warmly at him, remembering that he was the
reason she was feeling so good that day and she wasn't
about to let him ruin it.

"Hey baby, enjoying your day so far?"

Christian crossed his arms and continued to glare. "You


didn't answer my question."

"You didn't answer mine either, but I'm feeling generous


today. That was Jeremy. Now answer my question."
Gloria tried to hide her smile. Christian was so cute when
he was being all angry, jealous boyfriend. That pout was
adorable.
89
"I was enjoying my day immensely until I left work early
to be with my girlfriend and surprise her, only to find her
hugged up with some guy who thinks he can put his lips
on her for some reason."

"It was a brotherly peck on the forehead."

"It was a KISS. He put his lips on you and he's lucky I
didn't run over and rip them off. I know a guy on the
prowl when I see one." Christian accented his words with
a jab in the direction that Jeremy walked off in.

Gloria sat back and shook her head. "Christianhew, you


are over-reacting."

"I wouldn't be over-reacting if you told me who that guy


was and what he thought he was doing pawing you like
that."

Gloria sighed. She could see the rage building inside of


Christian. She watched, amused, as his face reddened.
His angry face was almost as cute as Jeremy's blush.
Now she understood why he pushed her buttons. As
much as she hated to, she was just going to have to give
him what he was asking for before he exploded.

"That was Jeremy Carter. We've known each other for a


little while now. And he was a potential suitor until about
five minutes ago when I let him know that he didn't have
a chance because I was falling for a sweetheart in an
asshole suit. I thought you were going to take that suit
off today, but I see that instead you have paired it with
your 'jealous douchebag' hat and your 'I'm-a-total-
dumbass' tie. It's such a lovely ensemble."
90
Christian sighed and dropped his head into his hands. He
was never the jealous type before and the depth of his
desire to lay claim to Gloria's body and fight off any man
that came sniffing around her was a little frightening. It
must have been the Rosenbloom possessiveness kicking
in. Plus, it was hard to mgloriage his emotions when she
was around since he was using most of his self-control to
fight the urge to throw her over his shoulder and take
her somewhere to fuck her brains out.

"Gloria, I'm really sorry that I acted like a total jerk when
I came over here. It's hard, you know. I mean, I spent so
much time trying to get you to be mine and the thought
of some guy trying to take you from me makes me see
red. It kills me to think about not being with you."

Gloria heaved a sigh. Christian had his moments, but he


really was a sweetheart. "I understand, Christian. I do. I
know how I felt when I walked into your room and found
that floozy crawling on your bed. I wanted to choke her
out and we weren't even officially dating then. But, just
as I gave you a chance to explain the situation, I expect
the same courtesy. Don't jump down my throat and pout
because things look a certain way. Find out the facts,
trust me enough to give me the benefit of the doubt. If
I'm not interested in being with you anymore and I want
to move on, I'll let you know face to face, not sneak
around behind your back."

Christian nodded. "I'm a major ass. I really am sorry for


being so gruff. So, how about I take you out to lunch off-
campus to make it up to you?"

"Negative."
91
"Negative? What?"

Gloria giggled. "I'm meeting Maia for lunch today. We're


going to compare notes about how good the sex has
been, how many orgasms we've had, and see whose guy
has the biggest equipment."

Christian's mouth dropped open. "You're not serious are


you?"

Gloria's giggles evolved into full belly laughs at the


combination of Christian's flabbergasted look, complete
with a gaping mouth, and his response. She could feel
tears start to run down her cheeks.

Christian started to pout again. "It's not that funny," he


grumbled.

"No, I'm not serious. And, it's really funny to me. You look
like a fish with your mouth opening and closing like that,"
Gloria responded in between laughs.

Gloria eventually calmed down and regained her


composure. They agreed to meet up with Maia and both
go to lunch with her. Then they would head back to her
apartment and hang out or make out, whichever struck
their fancy.

Maia, for her part, took it in stride, letting Gloria know


that she was going to call her later so they could dish on
their respective guys. Over lunch they chatted and had a
good time. Gloria and Christian walked Maia to her next
final and then drove over to Gloria's apartment in
Christian's car.
92
Christian felt like the sight of his Gloria's jean encased
ass was hypnotizing him as she walked up the stairs in
front of him. He was going to bend her over the arm of
her couch and enjoy the sight of her ass as he crammed
his cock into that sweet pussy of hers as soon as they
got in the door. No chance for her to deny him and no
mercy. He was going to fuck her hard and long.

Gloria turned to look back at Christian as they ascended


the stairs. She could see the lust burning in his eyes, the
fiery orbs seeming to almost be overtaken by the blue.
She knew what he was thinking and she knew that as
soon as she opened her door, all bets were off. Hopefully
they'd make it past the door this time before her pants
were off.

"Christian..."

"Keep going, Gloria. We're almost there."

"You know, I do have a paper to write."

"I know. I also remember you saying that it was due on


Friday and you had all tomorrow to work on it. No more
excuses."

Gloria tried to protest one more time, for the sake of


appearances. "Christian..."

She didn't get any more out before she was hoisted over
Christian's broad shoulder and carried the rest of the
way up to her apartment. He took the keys from her back
pocket and opened the door. He let her close it, since
most of her was behind him, before he walked over to
93
her couch.

"Gloria, I hope you realize your entire afternoon and


evening are shot. You're going to be spending it naked
and on multiple surfaces around your place. Starting
now."

Christian stripped her quickly, throwing her clothes over


his shoulder, and then disrobed himself. Gloria drank in
the sight of his body and felt her juices begin to flow.
Before she could blink, she was looking at the floor of her
apartment, the arm of the couch digging into her
stomach and Christian's hands roughly massaging her
ass.

He moaned and started mumbling incoherently, caught


up in his arousal and his need to take his Gloria and lay
claim to her body again. His eyes traveled up her body,
taking in her slim waist, smooth back, and graceful neck
before he leaned forward, whispering into his Gloria's
ear. "You seemed to have forgotten whose pussy this is.
But don't worry, I'll remind you, over and over again. I
doubt you'll have problems remembering after I'm
through tonight."

Gloria felt his cock rubbing against the cleft of her ass
and luxuriated in the way his body covered hers before
his words sunk in. Oh. Shit. And those were the last two
words that made sense to Gloria for the rest of the day
and most of the night, as Christian slid his penis deep
inside of her and showed her just who he was and how
efficient he was at staking his claim. Over and over
again.

94
SIX

Times Square was cold and empty. Mullanix sat in


the top floor, awaiting his mark. He stared at nothing

95
through the scope. War was a game of patience, and the
one who could hold out the longest, would win.

Long ago he had been in college. Virginia Tech. An


asian man had come through the door and methodically
mowed down the teacher, and then the students. He had
fallen to the floor. There was a girl in a pink v neck
sweater who was staring at him from a sideways position
on the carpet. He could see her pulse fluttering. The blue
vein in her neck. She became very still, yet continued to
look at him.

Afterwords he had been in the apartment. There


was a coherent philosophy he was trying to piece
together. Bits of Aurelius and Thoreau. It remained
elusive still. The true face of things appeared chaotic and
formless. As if he were staring into a fountain pool filled
with chunks of meat. Bits of flesh caught in the current.
He packed the nothing that he had and drove west.
Leaving the radio off, and the window down. Through the
open road he found a beating American heart.

Things were different than expected. People were


better. He stopped in bars, motels, roadhouses. Trying to
pry open what was underneath. Now and then an
unexpected confession. An abortion, perhaps, or a lack of
faith. Accross the wheat fields of Kansas Eddie Vedder
had sang

Such is the weight of the world,

that you never know

96
just where to put all your faith,

and how it will grow

Gonna rise up,

find my direction magnetically

The first time he tried to camp it was by a water


reservoir. He stripped off all his clothes and decided he
would skinny dip. It was clear and cool and cold next to
his bare skin. Occasionally he would feel the vibrations in
the water in the wake of a passing trout. There were
reeds in the middle. Beyond that, heart landers talked in
clear voices about white boats, while their children
laughed and played He went back to the tent and
attempted to read, cooling his skin atop his sleeping mat.
There was much yet to discover about this backpacking.
He awoke before dawn that morning for the first time in
his life, to press onward.

In Wyoming all the hotels wear taken for Western


Days and he had to camp again. He decided to test his
gear. He found that he was unable to fire the rifle. He
also found the weight to be entirely too cumbersome,
and shed useless entrapments down the trail. He could
not bare to part with the weapon.

He had chosen it for the color alone, wood stock


with a bluing barrel, single shot, breech loaded. Atop it
97
sat the most expensive scope he could find, with a
german name. There was a depression in this, sitting
alone in his tent, at the bottom of the red hills and rocks,
trying to imagine an end to this state, and thusly, the
American experience.

He had grown up in Kansas. Kansas was flat, flatter


than Tennesee or Oklahoma, at the time the only other
points he had for reference. The accident had happened
two weeks previous to the start of this memory.
Everything happened for a reason, someone said at the
service. The funeral service. But the coroner had told
Dad about Moms head being partially imprinted in her
stomach, and he had overheard. Imprinted was the word
he had used. He waited for his father to do something,
but he didn’t. He just stood there.

He was fifteen and his parents, mister and missus


Mullanix were both gone, him to a transfer job in New
York City and her to a closed casket grave, courtesy of a
drunk in a eighteen wheeler mack truck. He was living in
his Aunts house and had started to have sleeping
problems. Aunt Jean took him to her doctor, a head type
doctor that prescribed pills. But the pills made
everything loopy during the day, like someone had
pulled a thin blue blanket over his eyes. So he rolled the
dice and went without them. And then he woke up.

He looked at the clock. It was three hours since he


had lain down. Scratching his groin lazily. The hand
slipped down to his dick and he thought about Sarah

98
Shahi. Sarah at school with her half shirts and no bra.
With those great tits.

The world came in cold through the window, and


his dick went limp again. He sat up. There was an imprint
of sweat on Aunt Jeans white sheets. He looked over the
bedpost and out the window. The fields of corn and
wheat, he couldn’t tell which, maybe neither, were lit up
by a huge moon. A perfect slice of white, the night sky
wasn’t black, more like a deep blue.

The floor of Aunt Jeans farm house was made from


hardwood, it was scuffed and scratched by countless
blows from long grown cousins. He had met them both
only once, during his Grandmothers birthday. Neither
one of them had smiled. Troy, the older one, had a look
in his eyes both nervous and angry, which he attributed
to the drugs mom said that he did. Had said. She was
past tense now. He thought about the sounds that had
accompanied whatever had happened to the floor. He
thought he could actually hear a low scratching.

His feet rested on the floor as he sat up with hands


cradling his head, elbows resting on his thighs. The floor
was smooth, a lot smoother to the bare skin than it
looked. When he stood up, it was freezing cold. He saw
himself shiver, as if it were happening to someone else.
That’s a pretty good way to describe how he felt about
what happened next.

His toes were tingling, like they were about to go


to sleep. He looked down, and couldn’t see his feet
99
anymore. His legs ended in stumps. He was super awake
and yet not. He heard a voice saying oh shit oh shit and
recognized it as his own. Eventually, that is to say,
afterward. At the moment he knew nothing. He tried to
pull his feet out of the floorboard quagmire and sank up
to his waist.

His legs were kicking free. There was a dink dink


sound and he registered it as the chandelier in the living
room, bouncing off his knees. For some reason his hands
were firm on the floor. He struggled a moment. As if the
bottom half of him had found a crack in the ice sheet of
the universal fabric, and had betrayed him. He pulled
and tugged. On the bottom floor there was a sight of
blue white pajama legs furiously windmilling beside the
light fixture. Witnessed by nothing of account. I good tug
and he dropped clean through.

He was in free fall, and Aunt Jeans rug rushed up to


greet him in all its paisley glory. He could feel it in the
passing, feel the fibers scratching his face. The pain was
alike to jumping off a diving board, into a pool of wool
fiber. There was a loud slap.

After that it was dirt. He was in dirt and dirt was in


him, in his mouth and face. All he could see was dirt. He
couldn’t breathe. There was a mental image of his
mothers face behind him. Staring at the back of his skull.
His hands were thrashing up, in a sort of dog paddle in
the muck. Seeming to catch suddenly on a rock, a root, a
handful of weeds. The fingertips of the left hand came up

100
to nothing, came free. Then he sank again, and could
feel nothing but earth.

The memory stirred in time. At the rock in


Wyoming. In the derelict room in Times Square. He could
place that clearly as the moment when he chose to go to
sleep. Giving up, and going to sleep.

When a house lacks a basement but possesses an


elevated foundation the space between is termed a
crawlspace. That was where he was pulled from, in the
span of one week. He remained asleep throughout. There
was something that remained and pushed through. Little
more than an imprint, the core of all memory, imprints,
on neurons, tinkered and changed throughout time. He
was lying in dirt, and in his own shit, and a square of
light. A hand, reaching. Behind him, the left hand cornor
of Aunt Jeans pool. Blackness. The hospital.

101
SEVEN

102
The hospital was made of cheap yellow flowers from Wal-
Mart that told him GG NORA seyz GET YOURSELF
BETTER!! The first thought in his head was annoyance at
how his grandmother now called herself GG just because
his sister had gotten herself knocked up in college. His
second thought was that he was unbearably thirsty.

He asked for water and his voice sounded pathetic


in his ears nothing more than a thin scratch, an
expiration breath. Someone in pink hospital scrubs said
“Get the family, he’s talking.” There was the squeak of
white loafers on scrubbed cement tiles. Faces that
blurred in and out. The sister and her kid. Aunt Jean. The
guy she was boning from church, Bill or Hill or
something. His dad wasn’t there. For a minute he
thought he saw the thick grey mustache, the too-tanned
skin, looking over him. His father was tall, damn tall for a
Mexican. But he wasn’t really there. The stream of
questions was ignored while he sipped hospital tap water
from a bendy straw. Aunt Jean was rubbing his forehead,
talking about how much he prayed. “Hours and hours,
Jimmy, and it is a miracle, I don’t know what your father
told you it is, Jesus does provide, praise his name….”

There was a mute button in his mind and he


pressed it. Watching from a distance at the performance
his Aunt was putting on. She was wearing what was
undeniably a church dress, carrying a little Bible,
alternating between clasping her hands in front of her
and waving them in front of her face.

103
It’s the same color as her rug, He thought, and
immediatedly didn’t want to. He coughed and let out a
retch of phlegm. The water went back up for a return
trip. The mute button went off and on, giving him
snippets and flashes of conversation(s) being held on his
behalf,

“A DOCTOR LORD JESUS DOCTOR FOR MY BABY DOC-“

“Shouldn’t have given him that shit:

“Ah-huugh ughuagh”

“Said he was brain dead. Total vegetable.” 0 He came


out of his violent reaction to the sippy cup just in time to
place voice to the last burst of speech. It was Violette,
half holding her two year old, her eternal damnation in
the eyes of his father. Aaron was trying to imitate the
spasms, which made him very difficult for her to hold.
The childs dark brown curls bobbed back and forth on its
head. He wondered if the boy resembled his father. It
was impossible to see any of his sister in its makeup. Or,
by approximation, any of himself.

“They had to pump it out of his lungs and stomach.


Tons of it. Said he’d never get better, right? I mean, how
much of all this is he getting, anyway?” She was talking
to Will/Hill and Aaron was on the floor pulling at the bed.
On the other side, the nurse was punching buttons on a
machine that stood next to him. They were all linked
thusly, in a physical chain, Jean to Will/Hill, Will/Hill to Vi,
Vi to Aaron, and Aaron to the side of his bed. The childs

104
little hand crept up to the invalids face and became
aware of the nose tube.

The scene played itself out as he was confident it


would. He was told that he had dissapeared for a week,
and Aunt Jean was pulling weeds in the flower bed when
she heard an animal underneath the house. The animal
was, of course, himself, and the proper authorities were
called, and he spent another couple of days laying in the
hospital bed not saying anything. He listened and tried to
smile when he though it was appropriate, nodded at the
right times. Eventually they all started to make their way
for the door.

Vi was the last one to go. She handed Aaron off to


Aunt Jean and stuck around, waiting until even the nurse
left. She spoke on the que of the hiss-click the hospital
door made when shutting.

“Dad called me.” She said.

“Really?” He asked.

“Yeah.” He had been present at the last


conversation between Vi and Dad. It had been a brief,
tense matter, in which the general conclusion was drawn
that no daughter of his would fuck a nigger, much less
carry the niggers baby. The conclusion of this was made
by Dads fist, Moms screaming, and the sudden arrival of
the police, at the neighbors behest, who presumable

105
were listening to the whole thing. That had been three
years ago.

“What did he say?” he asked.

“Not a lot. That you were in trouble. That he was


too busy to leave.”

“Thats all.”

“Yeah. It was pretty definiteve. I mean, Im leaving


maybe out a snide jab here or there, a if you care, or one
of those people, probably left out the upening What the
fuck do you want, but thats basically it.”

“So thats it, then.”

“Pretty much.” Vi studied her nails. They were


painted black, the same color as her hair. She ran her
thumb accross every digit, twice. “That, and Mom was
helping me out.”

“Really? What about-“ He stopped in mid sentence,


unable to place a name to the boyfriend. All he could
came up with was a vague outline, and something with a
G or D. It was impossible to know which. He looked at her
helplessly, hoping she would pick up on his vibes and
save him the struggle.

“Devin left a long time ago. I tried to file on him,


but the child support people, they just,” She let out a
deep sight. “They just don’t give a shit. Your just another
dumb mexican bitch, probably a fucking illegal, who got

106
knocked up by some black guy on his way in or out of
jail. And fuck the kid.”

“Oh, okay.” The look on his sisters face was


heartwrenching. It was an old look, tired and old. Weary.
“Im sorry.: He offered, immediatedld stuck by the irony
in the comment. After all, he was the one in the hospital
bed. On the way to vegetable land. Why did he need to
apologize for her mistakes?

“Look, I gotta ask, though.” A cigarette was


suddenly in her hand, dancing between black fingernails.
“Did you do it because of Mom?”

“Do what?”

“I don’t know. Whatever puts you enderneath a


house in your boxers caked in dirt. Which, I gotta say, is
a freaky way to do it. I’ve always thought about pills, you
know?

‘I didnt do anything. I just-“ The feeling flushed


over him again. The cold floor. The rug fibers. The dirt.

“Why cant you smoke in hospitals? Vi was gone


again, lost in another tangent, orbiting different moons.
He was stuck beneath the huge white orb hovering over
the wheat corn field.

“Hey, its whatever.”

“No, Im listening. You just don’t make any sense.


Not doing anything doesnt get you here, right?”

107
The nurse in the pink scrubs came back into the
room to inform Vi that visiting hours were over and that
there was no smoking in the hospital. Vi put the smoke
back in her purse, a big heavy tan leather purse, with a
big gold clasp. A mom purse.

She walked to the door and stopped, watching the


nurse fuss and fret and mess with the dials and tubes
that had become a part of him. Her look was calculated
indifference, the look he remembered growing up, when
she would run from him and he would cry. It was the
same look he remembered her having with the final face
off with Dad. The struggle between his will and hers.
Between her will and all others.

“Aunt Jeans helping me out.” she said. “Im going to


be here a while.”

The door shut with a final hiss click. He reached


out for the water cup, and the nurse brought the straw to
his lips. She had filled the Styrofoam with crushed ice,
and it was good and cool.

A week and a hald later he was done with the


allotted amount of physical therapy his HMO prescribed,
and back at the farmhouse. He asked to move into a
room downstairs and she said yes, without asking any
questions. He walked through the kitchen, to avoid the
living room and its paisley rug. Vi and Aaron took the
room up top. They passed daily but did not talk, as if the

108
weight of all that had come before were blocking them.
Aaron went to church with Aunt Jeant, and Vi sat in his
old room on Sundays, drinking Vodka and crying out the
names of the men who had been at the other end of her
train station, passing by while she stood still.

109
EIGHT

Draw a line on one piece of paper.

_______________

At one end place a dot indicating past.

. _______________

At the other, a dot for the future.

.________________.

110
Let the line in between represent the now, the
present, the life being lived. Let it also stand for the
bottom of a square.

.☐.

Let the square be a building, a house of learning. A


single place where time can be spent within. A single
building between two flagpoles it will never touch. This is
how his life was lived. In its earliest form, the building
was known as Opha May Memorial High. What would
happen later, in the dot to the right, had happened
previously, in the dot to the left. A child walked through
the front door with his father’s guns and redecorated the
science lab with the intestines of a substitute teacher
and two students, followed by his own brains. What
followed was a Nightly News rotation on two subjects,
the body count of the “horrible tragedy”, and the inane
contents of the killers final youtube video, in which a
cheerleader and a popular rapper were credited as
inspiration.

Aunt Jean was a devote woman of God, and did not


Believe in such worldly things as Public Schools. She had
personally Home Schooled both of his cousins. A fact that
he would thing of later, in Wyoming. It was a factor that
most likely had contributed to their constant sadness,
111
and possible drug abuse. Yet the subject of alternative
education was never brought up for him. He carried
inside the taint of his parents, of his hispanic bloodline,
that which bound him to his Aunt and that which pushed
him away. And so he was enrolled into the closest
institution of public learning. And so he was consigned to
his fate. At this moment in time.

He is walking into something that resembles an


idea of what the Federal Prison that holds his father is.
There was a cop on either side of the entrance door. All
students went through metal detectors, all students had
their bags searched. Black t-shirts were banned. Ipods
were checked for rap music. Yet it was familiar and
comforting to him. Back into the same anonymity. He
floated comfortably between the social groups and a
member of none. There was one line that threatened to
pull him from the Ether. Her name was Sarah Shazia.

He had met Sarah during the first week at Opha


may. He tried not to think excessively about her. Out of
respect for himself. She was impossible, five foot three,
freckled dark brown hair and dancing hazel eyes. She
moved with bouncy energy, as far as he could tell she
didnt wear any makeup. She didnt bother with a bra
either, her usual attire was short skirts or tight pants,
with cut-off tops. “Im walking blue balls.” she confided in
him. “Mom wont let me date.”

He could not tell the reason why he was chosen as


said confidant. He suspected that she thought he was
gay. She definently defined him as harmless. He helped
112
her through an english class and she started to talk. He
enjoyed the talking. He could not figure out what else to
do, yet he learned how to talk to a girl. 0 It was a shock
of lightning itself when she pulled him to her locker and
hugged him close and tight, enveloped him with her
slight body and pressing herself close to him so her
ample chest crushed against and he could feel the points
of her tits hard against his t-shirt. He could smell her
perfume and her shampoo in the hair that grazed his
face. His dick grew hard and pushed against the front of
his jeans and he tried to shift, uncomfortable. But she
held him tight.

She pulled back and lifted her hair up and he saw


past the hazel and the freckles into her soul. At that
moment he wanted to kiss her. To press his lips to hers
and taste her lip gloss, and teeth and tongue. If I was a
man, he thought, I would do it. And so, thinking of
himself only as a boy, he did not.

“I was so sad.” She said. “I thought you died.”

“Im ok.” He told her. “I fell.” The look on her face


froze, and grew darker. A hazel storm was brewing in her
mind. Panic was growing on his behalf. He had fucked
up, and knew it.

“How did you fall under the house?” She asked. It


was a simple question of physics, and science was her
favorite subject, the one she could turn the tables and
help him on. If only he could help her onto that table,
and out of her precious yellow heart panties!
113
(Numbered? Lettered? Souviner Japanimation characters
tucking all nether regions away, away, in rosy cheeked
abandon. The “Purpiosetrew” So very popular in the late
twentieth century rekindled again by non adults in their
thirties as memories of stunted growth. Passed on,
herein and now, to the middle link, the actual teenager,
who now wears a symbol of childhood as a aspiration of
nothing. Cool has always been the lack of action, of
ambition, and now the lack moves to not wanting to
leave grade school. Soon it may devolve further, back to
diaper shitting, and from there, the womb, and cellelar
growth, and finally a generation of Americans may lay on
the floor and attempt to replicate fond genetic memories
of ameobahood.

“I don’t know.” He answered. Completely


unacceptable. “I fell earlier.” He groped. “And then I
went there.”

“It was the first time he had been asked the how of
what happened. The why of it had been debated with his
sister. Neither question was on the mind of Aunt Jean,
who accepted the whole thing under the banner headline
of divine will of God. But this was pure mechanics.
Thankfully, he had a perfect clincher from the brain dead
tube nosed vegetable land.

“I really don’t remember.” He said. During the


conversation they had gone from intimate to platonic,
her embrace leveled to a hand on his arm, his erection
scared away by the frantic workings of his mind to
explain an impossibility.
114
“I’m glad youre okay.” She said. I got two D’s in
English since youve been gone, and Moms grounded
me.”

“She doesnt let you do too much anyway, right?”

“I know, seriously.” She laughed and her eyes


darted away. A bell rang somewhere. He could see two
seniors eying her, and him from an extension, from a
corner, in the way of the meat. She told him she would
see him in class. She left and then he put his head down,
and attempted to become less than he was, to fade into
the red rows of lockers, where a drug dog would open up
his chest and stare into his heart for traces of coke,
weed, or meth.’

Yet he did not. Rather, he went to class.

And of course, the event occured.

What is the event? The lines that can be drawn are


very thin, indeed. The lines are almost existential, ideas
more than physical things. Only the smell remains, the
all consuming smell that haunts and frames the memory,
and gives thought images a sense of being.

What was the event? It started with a line, and two


dots, and a square, that was a house, that was a school,
and children in a schoolbus, always a schoolbus, being
foolishly herded to a square. From there it becomes
another square, and another school, followed by another

115
school, or a job, that is still in fact the SAME SQUARE,
followed by a complete dropping off the planet. The
desert of non-existence. And the stench is the only solid
thing that can be grasped.

Laying there, among the dead. Smelling the


mixture of shit and bile Sarah has vacated. Smelling the
gunpowder, of the bullet meant to kill you. Smelling the
salt of the killers tears. All sense of structure breaks
down. A clock rings. All numbers given to define length of
time are now arbitrary. What is an hour, when there is no
day? What is a day, when there is no week-end? Only the
event serves to spur things forward, to give a reference
point.

He could tell the killer did not plan the event. He


was the last one left, to bear that knowledge. It had
occured to him in his sleep. He walked through walls. He
stole money. He bought camping gear. He left for Alaska.

116
NINE

117
The Alaskan highway restored another sort of
confidence in him. Its beauty was substained and
eternal. The many colored leaves. The sort of calm that
could only be found from a complete radio silence, from
stretches of highway with near a full tank of gas in
between rest stops.

At the Canadian border he had been advised that


under the patriot act he would have to present a
passport to get back in the country. He ignored the rule.
In his mind there was no reason he would wish to come
back to the land of perpetual death and sorrow. Of lost
mothers and fathers. A frontier awaited him, elsewhere.

It was mid summer and the land was lush with life.
He found that he would not need many of the supplies he
had brought due to the unexpected warmth. The coat,
for example, proved to be too heavy. The boots were
overly insulated. Yet he thought that erring on the side of
caution would be wise. After all, he did not know yet how
long he might remain.

A park area in Fairbanks was his destination. He


left the civic in a tangle of woods, and left to cross a
stream. The sounds of the wild were all that occupied his
time, that and the falling of his own footsteps. He had
taken no compass or map with him. Presently he came to
the bus.

The bus read FAIRBANKS LINE 118 and looked to


be built in the fifties. Inside was a cot, a small stove,
assorted pots and pans, and outdoor equipment. He
118
stripped down to his flannel shirt and lay back on the
bed. There was a perpetual warmth and calmness to
things around him. He resisted the urge to make
unnessasary movements, to unpack his things, to write
in his journal. Gradually he drifted off into a afternoon
slumber. A sleep fell over him, calmer and more full than
any he had felt since the event.

He awoke to a slap in the face. A paperback book


had fallen off a makeshift shelf atop the window edge. It
appeared to be an old pulp fantasy novel in ragged
paperback. The cover showed a dwarf Viking in battle
against an Arabic Goblin. URUK, the title proclaimed. It
was written by one Max Trevor. He decided to save the
novel for a later date. Now, while the sun was still mid
way, it was time for exploration.

The green appeared to be the truest green, the


long straw colored grass swayed slightly and swished in
time to his thoughts. He stared at this through the bus
windows before venturing out. The first time he only got
halfway down the clearing before feeling the need for the
rifle. He slung it around a shoulder and set out again.
There was no living thing around him, no bird or squirrel
of any kind. A voice seemed to be speaking to him
underneath the wind, telling him of a great lie. That
magnificent desolation was simply nothing. It was cold at
night, as he stoked the fire to boil his rice. It tasted harsh
and flat.

119
After a month of living in this manner he was as dead as
his half live body had let him get. He had simply run out
of food. This was a swing moment, on which history
would be later decided. A tree falling in the woods, heard
by one man, and so across the world. The one man
simply called himself Nomad, and he was hunting moose
when he came upon The half sunk not corpse of Mathew
Mullanix. Anyone else would have called the police.
Probably the police and the FBI, given the corpse’s state
in not wanting to stay solid on a molecular level.

There would be an idea forming soon.

120
Working together, we can keep America safe.

-Barack Obama

Are you such a dreamer, to put the World to


rights?

-Thom Yorke

121
ONE

The room was an apartment, which was a


statement to the effect that it was not a closet. It looked
as though it wished to resemble a closet. Not a small,
damp feature stuffed with womans shoes and mod
stained suits, but a wardrobe portal to yet another world
entirely. It was the only room available to him in the
entire city, and, in some way now, it would serve his
point.

Maxamillian Trevor Smits, “Max” to his family,


“Trev” to his friends, both long unseen and unknown,

122
carefully put down both suitcases in deep walnut leather
onto the hardwood floor. Despite everything, there were
details to this place that he found innovative. The floors
were hardwood, not lacquer. The walls were painted a
canary yellow except for one red wall, next to a
collection of dust that must have been the sofa. There
was elegant white trim around the doors and windows,
with neoclassical swoops and curves near its edges. The
ceiling was high. It was what the book had bought him,
and he would live with it.

He looked to the right and the left, hypervigilant


now as ever, and closed the heavy brass door knob,
turning the key, and only then undoing the collar of his
suit. Loosening the tie in a fashion that meant to express
individuality and creative freedom. He took both
suitcases out and placed them in the middle of the floor,
undoing the clasps. Sitting indian style, the heavy wool
of his overcoat smothered him in folds. Grey asphalt
curves, the name of the color, the lightened darkness. In
the first case was a small card table between the piles of
clothes. He stood up the telescoping legs. In the second
case was a typewriter. He set both up in the center of
the room and then backed away from them. There was
another instance of the near perfect moment between
moments, when you could see and hear and feel
everything by virtue of little movement and near zero
energy expenditure, the sunlight was shining at a perfect
right angle onto the large white bathtub and illuminating
quantities of dust. The dust appeared to be composed of
small bits of golden string. He felt compelled to drag his
123
feet accross the floor on his way to the tub, the hard
soles rasping, hush hush.

In the tub there was still water drawn, and he took


that moment to stare upon his youthful countenance. His
face was smooth and he knew it to be pleasing. It was
long and lean, with hazel brown eyes atop. Mid Length
long straight brown hair, parted in the middle, swept
behind his ears. All of it carefully cultured and cultivated.
He drew his hand down into the water to release the
silver stopper. It was freezing and seemed to bite him.
Somehow he misjudged the length, and managed to get
his sleeve sopping wet. He heard the whirlpool of fluid
down the drain, the wasting of a resource. There was a
slight tap tap outside the window, and a light spring
drizzle came up to greet the departing bath. He wanted
to look accross the city, and yet, decided to delay the
peasure. In his minds eye was a million swirling visions of
king kong and spiderman all coming together to cross a
vast space for him.

By propping up both suitcases on their side he was


able to fashion a sort of seat for the card table. He
unfolded a brass screen behind the computer. It was
anachronism on purpose, a made artifact of the
unknown. A writer should write on a heavy typewriter.
Yet he felt the need for a computer. Why could he not
have both? The thing was made in Illinois by an
enthuisiast. There were enthuisiast for everything,
apparently. Most importantly of all, for his book. He
flicked the on switch and the machine hummed to life. As

124
he did everytime he wrote anything, he wrote accross
the space

I, M.T.S., will be a novelist

There were many variations to this theme. I, _____


will be a bestselling novelist. I,_____will be a literary
novelist. I,_____will be an influential novelist. Even
I,___will be a memoirist/poet/scholar. Sometimes he
spelled out his entire name. Other variations were “Max
Smitty” and “M.Trevor Smithson” But, as it were, he
thought it important not to rob the incantation of any
power it possessed. MTS seemed to be the most
important way of saying what had to be said.

In the late Nineties the popular cartoonist Skott


Dadams created a series of popular books based on his
creation Dillernie. The book that catapulted Smits
delusion, and launched his career, was called the
Dillernie Future. The majority of the literature was simple
observations on murphy’s law and pointless bureaucratic
practices, much of the humor that had made Dadams so
very popular around late twentieth century water storage
devices. Just before publication, Dadams suffered a
massive brain anerysim from an overdose of DMT, in a
popularized pill format known on the street as “Dillies”
featuring a plaigurized branding of his own creation as
stolen trademark. Panicking, a quick thinking secretary
ended his manuscript with some of her own ideas on self
realization, realizing that the royalties from the book sale
would be needed in order to pay for Dadams’
hospitalization and detoxicafication treatments, or,
125
failing that, more “Dimebags” of Dillies. The incongruety
of the last chapter was a pivotal moment in Smits
existence. And so he always began his writing with the
mantra, continuing even now after it seemed to have
succeeded.

That was the funny thing about success: You went


from wanting to having, and in between, if the search
was somehow insufficient, you were stuck out. That is
where Smits is now, stuck out, looking at the black liquid
crystal display. Forever and a day he seemed to only
harbor a solitary desire, to write a novel. And now, he is
a novelist. And in between the two, he went from being a
student and being an aspiring to being a have, to being a
writer. And writers are expected to write. But how is that
even possible? There was only ever one story.

Jarel’s story, and jarel’s words, and the Burqa


Ghost went to instant bestseller status. Not instant.
There was a small self published run. Three hundred
volumes, now all of them worth $120 each, going ebay
rate. Smits knows, he checks there often. Often and
always. What would be the point in not knowing?
Everything seemed to be charmed with the book. The
cover, with its pale green eyes, over a pale blue Burqa.
The lone soldier, lonely and beautiful, strolling down a
foreign street. Someone had called it a modern gatsby.
That was Smits favorite compliment. Everyone else was
talking about red badge of courage, or naked and the
dead. He took those as justly as he could, then put them
aside in cool storage. In his heart of hearts, he wanted

126
the great american novel, and the great american novel
was never, ever, about war. At least, not directly.

But with the room in the city the money was


almost gone. There was one expensive thing and then
the next expensive thing, or place, or idea. He had been
to Europe, and then the dutch carribean. Swain had
wanted him to go to Kabul but he had declined. Now
there was a deal, and a book, somewhere. In truth, he
was mostly surfing the internet vis a vis the typewriter
searching for the next great realization. He had even
purchased several earlier books in the Dillernie series
(Tragically, there had been no later ones, Dadams had
succombed to his imbibements) in hopes of more gems
or nuggets. Failing that, he went to wikipedia, continually
hitting random article in hopes of stumbling upon a brain
churner. Maybe something, with regards to Eastern
Europe?

No, not that. Simple Failure.

He rose from the legs of his luggage-chair and


stretched mightely, arching his back and shaking his
legs. He could feel the beginning of sweat stains
underneath his arms, taste a sicklly sweetness in the
back of his throat. Over to the window he went.
Everything seemed wonderful from that angle. The room
was maybe fifteen stories up, and gave a spectacular
view out and accross the city. This richest of American
cities, this metropolitan gotham! Fused by industry and
entertainment and commerce! He tried the window and
slid it open. The city was full of ideas and life, Next to his
127
a gothic square of building mass, blackish red, accross
from it a revived tenement, behind that the train, layers
over layers, this city. In the backdrop downtown with its
few skyscrapers, its sparse skyline, and yet it was a
skyline. He looked accross at the ants below. Then down.
Sudden absolute Cary Grantlike Vertigo spun his head.
The fall would take forever. Forever and forever, and
then over. The terror of it, before god and the earth
conjointly turn of the light switch. Back away. Slowly. The
window slid closed. There was a faint rasp to it, the
beginnings of the room betraying him to how much it
wanted his presence. He went back to the computing
typewriter and dazedly checked accross several social
networking sites. Searching for new commentary, hoping
to communicate thoughts and ideas But the room was
closing on him, and he felt the need to get out, and
away.

128
TWO

He had scouted out the neighborhood around his


apartment for the comic book store. This was an old
ritual, one born of habit and need. He collected the
books sporadically, not subscribing to any one title, but
instead picked up whatever cover fancied him at that
moment in time. There were two signs up front for the
shop, a neon sign in the window that said TIME CAPSULE,
and a painted sign above the door that read BOOK STAN.
129
Sometimes Smits imagined the two as warring concepts,
a book stand placed in a time capsule for the future, or a
row of time capsules sold at a book stand, behind the
newspapers maybe, near the dirty magazines.

Rick greeted him with a wave and an affable nod,


then returned his gaze two his lap. Rick was a pleasant
longhair follow named Rick Santini. Once he had been an
investigative reporter with the Metropolitan-Gotham
Times-Dispatch-Courier. He had started back in 78 with
the Metropolitan Times. In the mid eighties profit
margins had fallen, and a merger was declared with the
Gotham Dispatch. This paper saw with itself a fair margin
of success, and this had been the golden age for him,
writing about the chemical plant and tobacco factories
that abused their priveliges around the city, poisoning
water and air, about the southern conservatives who
were being replaced by the northern liberals moving in
for therelatively inexspensive housing, of various natural
disasters, a hurricane in ninety-one, a tornado downtown
in ninety-five.

During this time he secretly wrote and submitted


several stories to both EC and Fawcett Comics, the two
large publishers with a chokehold on the funny-book
industry. Most of them were considering a Captain
Marvel Junior/the Escapist team up, which would have
been a revival for the Kavelier and Clay character, or a
Black Freighter storyline for EC that was somehow set in
a “modern” time, a sort of timeless modern time,
somewhere in comic book land of the nineteen fifties. All

130
of these submission were promptly returned to him in
the self addressed stamped envelopes they were sent in,
and eventually, he withdrew completely from writing
such fancies. At around this time his paper merged yet
again with the Pennysaver Courier. It was the dawn of a
new millenium, and print journalism in his city, like in so
many cities accross the country, was in the process of
being completely dismantled. The new M-G T-D-C
decended on its editorial and literary staff like a plague
set on Egyptians or Canaanites from a jealous and
Wrathful Old Testament God. Cuts were made quickly
and ruthlessly, and Rick was not shocked when he
recieved the paisley slip, but he was deeply hurt.
Somewhere, in the back of his thoughts, he had
imagined himself as being the last to go. Instead, they
had kept on Peggy Dursten who wrote those god awful
“human interest” pieces, on who was the oldest resident
in the city, or who had the most interesting pet. In salute
to our veterans and the luxury cappacino market, it
always seemed to be a Llama named “General
Starbucks”.

This had led to a very low moment in his life,


where he found himself wrenched in constant battle with
his own self loathing, and the loathing of his employer,
Sam Wartstome. He found himself a cashier in Wart-
Mart, a horrible place of blue vest and yellow smiling
faces. The job had offered no benefits of any kind, as Mr.
Wartstome found the concept of such things to be
unamerican. Rick had also written a piece years back on
how there was no union available to Wart-Mart
131
employees, and no retirement given. He envisioned his
employment to be a sort of punishment granted to him
by Wartstome as fitting the crime. In truth, the entire
hiring process had been automated years ago, to reduce
any possibility of favoritism. The entire placed seemed as
if it were a penance. He that thought so even in days
before, even, when he had been in there simply to
purchase a loaf of bread, or a jar of mayonnaise.

The job left him with little money, and his previous
employment had left him with a failed marriage and no
social life. Somehow, he had managed to avoid drinking.
By chance he had come upon the Book Stan-Time
Capsule, the dual signs reminding him so much of the
days of newsprint. He had talked to the owner, cashed
out his 401K, burnt his blue vest, and settled down.
Something had been robbed from him, however. Some
essence of his character So here he sat, staring at his
hands, resting in his lap....

“When are they bringing back the Escapist?” Smits


asked.

‘Whats that?”

“I read online that theyre bringing back the


Escapist. I want to make sure I can reserve a copy.”

“Do you have a subscription box?”

“No. I mean, not yet.”

132
‘I can reserve it if you open up a box.” Here Rick
gestured behind himself, at a small row of narrow
shelves where piles of comic books lay.

“I might. Do you think It’ll be any good?”

“Its Bendis. Did you pick up Ultimate Fawcett?”

“No. Was it good?”

“I’ve got an extra one. Basically, they reinvent


Captain Marvel Junior. Theyre calling this new one CM3,
and its pretty good. Theres also Mr.A in it. I think theyre
trying to create a whole Fawcett Superhero universe in it,
like the one they had in the sixties.”

‘They don’t have one now?”

“Let me guess, you’re an EC Zombie, huh?” Rick


regarded the young man in front of him, in opposition to
himself. Young instead of old. Clean Shaven instead of
his salt and pepper beard. Wearing a jacket and tie
instead of his sweater and t-shirt. Shorter than he.
Serious in a way.

“I like the Pirate books.” Smits said. “And the


crime.”

“Well, back before all that, Superheroes used to be


big. And no one was bigger than fawcett. They outsold
everyone, bought atlas and national comics. But then in
the fifties, it was all crime and pirates and horror. EC
captured the lions share. It’s a big, story, the story of
comics.”
133
“I saw that Mary Marvel thing.” Smits said. “I
thought it was okay. With Jessica Alba, and all.”

“That wasnt a fair shake at the Marvel Family.”


Rick sniffled slightly. “In my opinion, at least. Theres a
whole wealth of Comic movies that could be made. Weve
just barely had a pirate one.”

“Max Smits.” The youth stuck out his hand and it


was engripped, in one just larger than his own. “I think
I’ll be coming here regularly.”

“You just move in?”

“Right. I used to live over in Chester. My work kind


of brought me to the city, and I figured, why not.” It was
the closest he kind come to bragging on himself.
Purposefully downplayed, with just the right pinch of ego.
He had practiced the speech alone, in the room, for
nearly an hour, occasionally looking at himself in the
mirror to see if it was better that he smiled or kept his
face plain.

“Really.” Rick said. “You work at the plants? Or the


port?”

“No. Im a writer, actually.” He thought the


dissapointment could show. The first thing being, and
always was, legitemate occupations. Engineering of
some kind. And then, the terrible way he had delivered
his proffesion. As if it were a defeat rather than a victory.

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“You trying to write comics or anything?” The
hidden question, the subtext, is this your day job? Isnt
that just a silly hobby?

“I’ve thought about that.” Smits had never thought


about that. “Right now, Im working on novels. I just had
one published.”

The last word in that sentence caught in Smits


throat and hung in the air, and somehow melted an
imaginary glaciar that ran between his own island and
the island of Rick Santini. There was a twinge in facial
muscles, a relaxing under Rick’s eyes, an unconscious
effort to become, if not actually friendly, than less
hostile. “Congratulations.” He offered. He thought of
recounting his own history but decided against it. “You
should buy some comics. To celebrate.”

“All right.” Smits said. ‘Whats good?”

“Ultimate CM3. Like I said before.”

Smits attempted a little more banter and then


walked around the store awhile, taking in the shelves of
books and statues and action figures, and tried to force
his mind to turn in a more creative direction. What would
the new book be about? He thought instead of a comic
version of the Burqa Ghost. He thought that absolutely
EC would have to publish it, what with their standard
take on more literary fare, and of course, war comics.
Maybe he would have control of that. How would such a
135
thing go about? Something in him made him deny the
possibility. No comic book, not ever. And no movie. His
was going to be pure fiction, literary fiction. Alright,
maybe a movie. Something nice, by the Coens and the
Wienstiens. He was jolted out of the thought train when
his first credit card was denied. He brought out cash and
only purchased fifty dollars of the comics he had
selected, made some sort of joke about the sign, and
left. Why had that not gone as well as he expected?

Inside Ricks stomach turned over with self-


revulsion. The kids ego was fragile, and he was in a
position to shatter it, and he damn near had done that. A
nice kid. With a nice face, and a nice life, and a measure
of success that perhaps he had tasted once. What was it
in him? What was it in him, that made him unable to
share happiness, unable to enjoy pleasure, unable to
drink deeply from anything but the bitter pool life had
left him? In his lap were nothing but his hands. He
studied them now, the folds and lines and wrinkles.
When the door tingled with a new customer he did not
look up.

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THREE

Smits read Ultimate CM3 on the couch at Jarels


house, where Smits own housewarming party would be
held. Jarels house was as neat and clean as he imagined
any gay mans being. He had met Jarel in Curucao on his
twenty-seventh birthday, obsessing over being the same
age as the dead rock stars. Here he was, the most
beautiful man he had ever laid eyes on.

137
EIGHT

Gloria Viva sat naked in the cage and dazedly


picked at the IV in her arm. The mirror in front of her
brought up a reflection that she did not understand.

“Your hair was the first thing we worked on.” The


voice said. A bright spotlight shined down. She became
aware of her nakedness, and made half hearted
attempts to cover up her breast. Which were better than
138
they had been. More full. The nipples smaller and
perfect. “It will stay like that. You wont need to many
chemicals. Your skin was already perfect, you’ve got the
right trace of Croele in your genes, to show off that really
nice exotic look.”

She put a hand to the face. Her face. Things had


changed there. “Your nose and lips.” The voice
continued, “Those we changed. We had to make them a
tad more suitable. A tad less ethnic.”

NINE

President Khalid Saddam Husseunni Sat calmly in


the Oval Office, smoking opium and watching replays of
his inauguration speech. After swearing allegiance to
Allah on the Koran, he cleared his throat and swept back
his head covering.

“My fellow Americans.” He began. “I remember


when I was a little boy, running past tanks and throwing
rocks at the troops. On occasion I would notice a
particular young soldier, his face bronzed and handsome,
and I would think to myself, he truly comes from the
greatest country in the world. Of course, after that, I
would pick up a nice sized brick, and try to avenge
139
myself of the damned crusader. It seems so long ago,
when I started. This truly is the greatest country in the
world. To think that a poor immigrant, a terrorist
detainee, can gain his citizenship, and then one day lead
a nation, that truly tells us one thing: the system works.”

The crowd went wild, clapping and cheering. The


camera panned back to show scenes from across the
world, the international response. So much love.

“Because of my background.” He continued.


“There is so much I understand, about what needs to be
done, in order to keep America safe. Only one who has
spent so much time taking something apart, can know
what has to be done in order to put it together. And of
course, let us not forget our energy crisis: only I can
make the neccasary deals to put things back together.”

The camera turns again, to the losing Republican


candidate. Am aging hunchbacked stiff, in front of the
losing convention center. The room all aging, and mostly
white. A giant cross behind him.

140
TEN

It was cold and he wanted to be warm on the


Helicopter. The newly minted gold bars on his shoulders
showed his position as a Lieutenant. He had enjoyed the
Officers School in Khandahar and now it was time to be
blooded. The red dog preyed on his mind behind his
eyelids. Next to him was a replacement Paula Rodriguez.
Gloria Viva in all her glory. His first Sargeant, with her
pretty little Air Force Stripes. There was the promise of
War and then there was the fact. The helicopter would
fulfill the promise. He shifted back and forth. In his new
boots and new Uniforms. Everything was different and
wonderfuel.

The psych doctor had helped him put a wonderful


handle on it. Imagine a dog, a red dog, a hell hound.
Behind the back of your eyelids. In between the
moments when you talk. Underneath him roared the
engine of his new motorcycle. They had given it back to
him. All this was part of the new way of doing things, the
new push for public acclaim, for popularity. The rest of
his platoon would be dropped similiarly, hell-bikers from
the sky. Military tactics never existed as solid objects.
Why not drop Harley rider from heaven? Why not televise
the event? Why not hold everything together with duct

141
tape and twine? There was a red dog behind his eyes
that was one part rick james, with sequined red
intestines, with horrible narrow squinting countenance.

Promptly, the training exercise ended. They would


not board the helicopter today. Christian turned to his
battle buddy, Jarel, and let out a lazy yawn. Jarel rolled
his eyes then batted his lashes. It was to be that sort of
night tonight.

The signal was to be no. 73, and then the escape


would be made. To the free states. The academy was
proof enough. Enough of the madness of the military, of
the feds. But after tonight. He had been in contact with
Mullanix, and set the whole thing in motion. All he had to
do was not take the pills. To break the fog, the inevitable
haze.

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