Henry Bishop was sitting at his desk working when his boss, Mr. Carn approached him. “Bishop, you were supposed to give me the Compton report this morning. I want that report on my desk before the end of the day. Do your job,” he bellowed and stormed off. “Loudmouth bastard. He's always finding something wrong with my work. I wish it were legal to kill people like him. He’s giving me an ulcer.” In order to forget how much he hated Carn and his job, Henry spent his weekends going to the beach and wandering around the city. One Saturday, he stopped at a curio shop. “This is a fascinating place,” he said looking around. He picked up a dusty book. “Boy, this is weird. There’s only one page. ‘You don’t have to die,” he read. “I wonder what the characters below mean. I’ve never seen characters like those before.” As he wondered about the book, a man appeared behind him. “May I help you with something, sir?” “This book. There’s only one page, and all that’s written is, ‘You don’t have to die’ and there are symbols that I don’t recognize, and where are the rest of the pages?” “That’s the only page. It is the only page that is needed. The symbols are from an ancient civilization’s language. They refer to life and death." “Life and death? What about life and death?" "All I know is they refer to life and death." "Well, what about the statement 'You don't have to die?' Why would anybody write that? Everybody has to die.” “That’s not true. If you could read the ancient symbols that are on the page, you would understand. What would you say if I told you that you could live forever?” “Forgive me, but I would say you’re crazy.” “Come with me,” he said and Henry followed him into a back room, where he opened a desk drawer and took out a dagger. “What would you say if I told you I can’t die?” “Not possible.” “Watch,” he said, and plunged the dagger into his stomach. “Oh, my God,” Henry gasped. “I’m proving to you that I can’t die,” he said and pulled the dagger out of his stomach. As he pulled it out, the wound healed. “I’m not dead, am I?” “I don’t believe it. It must be a trick.” “It’s not a trick,” he asserted. “Here, take the dagger and push it into my stomach.” “Are you crazy?” “No, I'm not crazy,” he said, and put the dagger in Henry’s hand. Henry stared at the dagger and watched the blood that was on it evaporate. “I’m not gonna…” Before he could finish speaking, the man grabbed Henry’s hand and pulled the dagger into his stomach. Henry gasped, jumped back, and stared wide-eyed as the man pulled the dagger out of his stomach. Henry watched the wound heal and shook his head in disbelief. The man then took a small box out of the drawer, opened it, and took out a vile. “My friend, if you drink this potion, you, too, would become immortal. If you want to live forever, drink it,” he said and he put it in Henry’s hand. "Why would I want to live forever?" "Imagine what you could do if you lived forever, if you couldn't die. Imagine what you would know about the past in 200 years from now." Henry stared at the vile, looked at the man, and then drank the potion. He waited for something to happen. “I don’t feel anything.” Without warning, the man plunged the knife into Henry’s stomach, and Henry gasped, looked down at the dagger, pulled it out of his stomach, and watched the wound heal. “Oh, my God. It’s true, I can’t die,” he mumbled several times and, as though in a daze, walked slowly out of the shop. On his way home, he stopped in a sporting goods shop and bought a hunting knife. “Mr. Carn, I bought you a present.” When Henry went back to work on Monday, he waited for Mr. Carn to bombard him with complaints, and he didn’t have to wait long. “Henry, the Compton report was full of grammatical errors. Didn’t you go to school,” he yelled. “One more blunder, Henry, and you’re history,” he growled. “Mr. Carn, if you will stop yelling for a moment, I want to show you a present I got for you. He e took the knife from a drawer, and plunged it into Carn’s chest. “How do you like your present, Carn?” Henry waited for the police, who arrested him and took him to jail where he was booked. His court-appointed lawyer stood by his side and entered a not guilty plea. “No,” Henry said loudly. “I plead guilty.” Because of his crime and his guilty plea there was no trial. Instead, Henry had to face a judge, who sentenced him to death as mandated by state law, and he was transported to death row. In the visitor’s room, Henry met with his attorney. “Is it true that if the condemned can’t be executed, can’t be killed, he has to be freed?” “Yes, Henry, but why do you ask?” “George, I can’t die. Soon I’m going to be free. I will have gotten away with murder.” “You can’t die? That’s impossible. Everybody dies.” “Not everybody, George. You’ll see, and I don’t want you to file any appeals.” Two weeks later, Henry’s lawyer visited him. “Henry, good news. The state supreme court has abolished the death penalty. Your sentence is now life in prison without the possibility of parole. Henry, the state saved your life.” “No. No,” he yelled. “They can’t do that. I want to be executed,” he sobbed, fell to his knees, and pounded the floor with his fists, and two guards dragged him out of the visitors’ room. “I can’t spend eternity in prison. I can’t,” he sobbed over and over as they dragged him to his cell.


I am going to have a long and nice shower. I will have a smoke first. I really like to roll my own cigarettes. I make them very thin and pleasurable to smoke. Although they are shorter, I feel like I enjoy them for the exact perfect amount of minutes. Normally I like to roll from the right side. I dont know if that is unsual, its just the way I learned. I smoke for 6 minutes. Its almost like doing meditation breathing exercises. Maybe that is where the addiction comes from. It was already Tuesday. I know that because I woke up with a little bit of anxiety. How can something good bring me anxiety? Well, I know. All the good things bring me anxiety because I am afraid of losing them. The anxiety is the fear. The fear of being excited and something ruining it. Something will go wrong - I think to myself. And with my partner, to be fair, it has. Its almost a self fulfilling prophecy. Why wouldnt I be afraid? For the good or the bad, something is never right. Anyway... Its Tuesday so its movie night. I've already picked the movie. This time there is no dinner before. Just lazy popcorn and some cuddles. Its always so good! Well, not always always. Sometimes something does go wrong. Or something is not enterily right. One of both options. We always agree on the movie we are going to watch. Mainly because Ollie accepts all my recommendations. Sometimes I wonder if Ollie is really watching the movie. Sometimes I know a good scene is about to come and I decide to look at Ollie with the corner of my eye. I wonder if their reaction will be similiar to mine. Normally its quite neutral. I dont really mind. Ollie likes to listen a lot. I love to talk. My mother used to say to always be with someone who is a good listener. She used to say that I should also chose someone that loves me more than I love that person. I dont believe in that anymore. I know that loving someone so deeply can be very painful. But choosing someone you dont love that much, is also very daunting. Ollie is usually late, so although we scheduled for 8pm, I know I will have to distract myself until 8.30 at least. Its okay, Ollie is not type of person to carry a watch. Ollie is not very aware of time and space. I like that. I truly do. At 7.30 my anxiety will get worse. Maybe I should go for a long and nice shower only at that time. I still have 2 hours to wait. Wait for the shower time. Then, wait for Ollie. Its a lot of waiting in my brain. Ollie doesnt think about waiting. Ollie is not waiting for me. That mind is always too distracted, or, actually, too focused, to ever wait. Its a funny thing. "I think of you all the time", I wonder if I should believe. I had a tofu salad for lunch. Or breakfast, actually. I guess I learned that with Ollie. I dont really have a routine with meals anymore. There is no "breakfast food" or "dinner food". I can eat anything at any time. Cereals for dinner or a vegan roast for breakfast. Its funny this about time. Its supposed to be a measure. Like how much do we weight. Its a measure of how much life do we have. Or how much life we do not have. The measurement is quite psychological. What if someone died on their 30s? Oh no, what a tragedy. They had so little time! But if I am here waiting for 3 hours for Ollie to come, isnt it that a tragedy as well? So time is just a measure like any other. It shouldn't be taken that seriously. What if we lived in a world where people didnt need to schedule an hour to appear? Exactly like what I do with my breakfast. My breakfast is when I feel like having a breakfast. So: what if Ollie only appears when he feels like it? We could schedule a day. But not a time. Tuesday is the day. What time? Whenever you want. There is no such thing as time anymore. Perhaps my anxiety would not exist. Why would I know that I would be more anxious at 7.30? I wouldnt even know that Ollie is late. There is no such thing as being late. I dont wait for Ollie because he asked me to wait. I do it to myself. I do it because time exists. "I think of you all the time" he says. Well at least I wouldnt have to decide if that statement is true or not. Because time doesnt exist here. Instead it would be: "I think about you". In that I could believe. "all the time" seems a bit too much. Although, I do that. Because time still exists. And because I am here waiting. Im going to tell Ollie that I had a salad for lunch. I know he loves to eat salads. I think he is going to be happy with that. What did he had for lunch? I am going to have a shower now. Probably Ollie didn't eat a salad today. If we had lunch together I would've made him a salad because I know he likes it. I would've said that I have a surprise for him. Just for fun. My mother used to do that a lot. Whenever she said she had a surprise I could almost guess what it was. I would always pretend and be surprised anyway, but 99% of the times I already knew what it was. So maybe salad should be my surprise to Ollie. I can make a salad now for him. I think he would like that. Or maybe its stupid. We are going to have popcorn. I hope he is in a good mood today. I will receive him with a smile and a kiss and wait for his reaction. Normally he kisses me back. Sometimes he hugs me. I love the hugs. I dont tell him that because I dont want to lose the hugs. I hope today is a hug day. Im going to say that I had a busy day. I had to work a lot and take care of other errands. I cannot tell him that I was waiting for him. No, no. I will tell him that I had to do something so important that I didnt even notice that he was late. Actually I cannot say that. If I say that it will mean that I noticed that he was late. Because actually, Ollie is the one that doesn't notice it. He wouldn't know that he arrived later. I already know that. Im guessing he will be here around 8.30. Maybe 8.45 just to ease my mind. He will stop whatever he is doing around 8, which is the time he is meant to be here. Then he will go for a smoke. His cigarettes are different than mine. Ollie was the one who taught me how to roll. His cigarettes are bigger and they take longer to smoke. I've counted and its 10 to 12 minutes. So after he goes for his meditation breathing exercise for 10 to 12 minutes, he will start is journey at around 8.15. Already 15min late. But its okay. I dont mind. I already know. I already prepared my mind for it. At 8.20 I will casually message him saying something like: let me know when you are on your way! In truethness, all I want to know is if my predictions are correct. If they are not, then it will not be 8.45. It will be 9. So I have 40 more minutes to wait. If Ollie replies "ok" it means that he is still not on is way here. I can distract myself by starting to make the popcorn for us. Oh but I love the way he does the popcorn. Should I wait? My mind was already so far away. Silly me. Its still 5pm. I am going for that shower now.


Michael "Maverick" Carter was a force to be reckoned with. A former space marine, he had seen the darkest corners of the universe and survived to tell the tale. He had a plan to push the boundaries of human understanding. Maverick wanted to see the future, and he knew just how to do it. Rumors spoke of a black hole lurking near the edge of the galaxy, a cosmic beast with the power to distort time. Maverick's plan was simple: take a spaceship to the outskirts of the black hole, slowing his time relative to Earth, and see the future unfold before his eyes. Maverick spent months preparing for the journey, retrofitting his ship with state-of-the-art technology to withstand the immense gravitational forces. He named his vessel "The Timebender." As the final preparations were made, Maverick's heart raced in anticipation of the unknown. Finally, the day arrived. Maverick piloted The Timebender through the darkness of space, edging ever closer to the black hole. He could feel the pull of gravity intensifying, but his ship held steady. Time slowed to a crawl as he approached the event horizon. From his vantage point, Maverick observed the Earth spinning faster and faster, seasons changing in the blink of an eye. He watched the world evolve, technology advance, and wars fought and won. He witnessed the rise and fall of nations, and the human race reaching beyond Earth to establish colonies on distant planets. As decades flew by in moments, Maverick felt an unsettling emptiness. The thrill of exploration and adventure was overshadowed by a longing to return home, to be a part of the world he had left behind. He had seen enough. With a heavy heart, he turned The Timebender around and began the arduous journey back to Earth. When he finally arrived, Maverick found Earth unrecognizable. The once lush and vibrant planet had been reduced to a smoldering, lifeless husk. Cities lay in ruins, oceans boiled away, and the sky a permanent, angry red. The Earth he had known was gone, and with it, the entirety of human civilization. Maverick's heart sank as he surveyed the devastation. He had wanted to see the future, but he had never imagined it would be so bleak. He wondered what had caused this cataclysm, what terrible force had brought humanity to its knees. There were no answers, only the silence of a dead world. In the depths of despair, Maverick received a faint transmission from one of the off-world colonies. Humanity had survived, but only in the far reaches of space. Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, he plotted a course for the nearest colony. He would share his knowledge of Earth's fate, and work tirelessly to ensure that the mistakes of the past were never repeated. Maverick's journey had taken him to the edge of time and back, and he had witnessed the tragic end of his beloved home. But as he set off for the stars, he knew that the future was not set in stone. The power to change it was within his grasp, and he would do everything in his power to forge a brighter tomorrow for humanity.


See part here. Links to other parts of the story begin there. **8** “What the hell’s taking so long, Clarence?” Her normally beautiful face looked harsh on his phone’s screen. Perhaps it was the lighting. Then again, it could be stress. Or maybe age was finally catching up to her. “You look tired, Darla.” She huffed in disdain. “Thanks.” “Where are you?” “Where do you think?” “No, I mean where are you? Where in the crawler?” She panned her phone’s camera to the side, revealing a zero-G toilet. “That enough of a hint for you?” She flushed it for emphasis, the waste-collection hoses making a sucking sound that was so loud it caused his phone’s speaker to crackle. Clarence smirked. “How’s the smell?” “Awful. If I could send you a sample, I would. What’s going on?” He shook his head. “I have no idea.” “Stop shitting me, Clarence. You built this fucking thing.” “I know, but—” “How serious is it?” He stared at her for a moment, unsure how to respond. “What’s Devon telling everyone?” She scoffed. “The usual line of bullshit. But you know them. They don’t even think he poops anymore. They’ll believe anything he says. So?” Clarence took a deep breath. “It’s serious, Darla.” “Fuck.” The word caught in her throat, and he thought he heard her choke back a sob. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for her. “How long?” she whispered. “Until what?” She cleared her throat, her voice regaining some of its punch. “Until whatever shitty thing is going to happen to us.” “That’s the thing, Darla, I don’t—” “It’s a hack, isn’t it? Someone’s trying to teach Devon a lesson, and we’re all caught in the crossfire. That stupid fucking prick has finally pushed things too far.” “I thought you were in love with him.” She scoffed. “As if he’d even notice if I were.” “How was the ride up—until it stopped?” “Extraordinary.” She smiled, forgetting her situation for a moment. Then she looked at the camera, as if probing for his eyes. “I wish you could have seen it. I really do.” “Me too,” Clarence said, “but considering the circumstances, I’m glad I—” “I’m sorry, Clarence.” “It’s no big deal. Really. I’ll just buy a ticket like everyone else once it’s open to the public.” “I’m not talking about the fucking elevator ride, you dipshit. I’m talking about us, the way things worked out with Devon. The whole fucking thing.” Clarence sighed. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry too, Darla.” Just then he heard a beeping sound. He looked up and saw an alert on the computer that was scanning the code. He paused to read it, his eyes narrowing in confusion as he struggled to process what he was seeing. “What was that?” Darla asked as Clarence leaned over and hit a few keys. “I’m not sure,” he said, his eyes continuing to skim the message. He swallowed hard, feeling as if his guts had just been sucked out through his spine. “Uh, actually, can I call you right back?” “No, you can’t. We’re not even supposed to have our fucking phones up here. What’s going on, Clarence?” Clarence glanced back to her, still reeling from what he had just seen. “Oh yeah, right. Well, maybe you can call me then. In about five?” She looked away for a moment and then turned back to the phone’s camera, her face hardening back into the mask he knew all too well. “You know what? Fuck it, Clarence. Fuck you, fuck Devon, and fuck this goddamn fucking elevator.” “Darla, don’t—” But she had already hung up. Wasting no time, Clarence rolled his chair in front of the other computer and initiated the scan again, still struggling to convince himself that what he had just seen was real. How on earth could this be happening? A moment later, he heard the automatic doors to the control room whoosh open, but he didn’t bother to look up. “Were you just talking to someone?” Terry asked. “I didn’t see any communications come through the network, but I thought I heard a woman’s voice.” Clarence punched a few keys, his eyes still on the monitor as he wondered vaguely if Terry had been eavesdropping on him. “It was Darla. She snuck her phone on board the elevator. You know her. She never was very good at sticking to the rules.” Terry leaned over Clarence’s shoulder. “What did you find?” Clarence watched the lines of code scrolling past, feeling like he was looking at a projection of his mind as he scrambled to come up with an answer. “I’m not sure, but I think—” Before he could complete his thought, the alert sounded again. There was no question. What he had just seen was real. Terry read it and then stepped back, chuckling to himself. “So, you found it. Too bad. I thought it would take longer than that.” Clarence turned his head slightly toward Terry, still unable to look away from the screen. “You . . . you knew about this?” A smirk tugged at the corners of Terry’s mouth. “Knew about it? I wrote it.” Clarence spun his chair toward Terry, about to respond, but then he snapped his mouth shut. In Terry’s right hand was a gun, and it was pointed right at Clarence.


You're tired of living on Earth. The planet's dying, the mass poverty is soul crushing as you can do nothing to help if you're not completely homeless. You have a tiny bit to spare because you work mind-numbing amount of hours to make for basic needs and wants. At least its not so bad. Until climate change forces you away from home, you look everywhere for relocation, you try your hardest, but the pathway you foresee is joining the endless sea of homeless. Risking being treated as a subhuman by so called "civilized" society, you become filled with dread. One advertisement appeals to you, an escape from this planet, a new frontier. Somewhere else, in artificially controlled environment, where the air is fresh and you'll have clean water to drink or your money back! You think that's a marvelous deal, so you sell nearly everything you have to take the voyage - not a big deal because you're billed by the gram anyway for transport. You head to a training camp where you meet James. James is a cool guy. He tends to know about things, he's friendly, outgoing, and he's a natural leader. James helped you pass a difficult test where you nearly flunked out which lead to a strong bonding experience. The training center was great, the people were amazing, the food was much better than the slop from the fast food joints and the water was endless. Your launch went well. James launch did not, his shuttle was impacted by some space debris. The footage from the Government's sUrveil-INet shown the corporation that produced the space debris was long since defunct. Not a large deal for the corporation, most of that shuttle had no next of kin anyway. A lot of Government Representatives were bribed and/or stakeholders in the corporation. You know the risk when you sign the contract, bad luck, so sad, too bad. You arrive to Mars. The first thing they do hand you an itemized bill. Every milliliter of water you consumed during training was billed at Mars rate. Every ounce of meat you consumed, Mars rate. Mars rate was not a fair rate, there wasn't competition or "choice" for your goods. This is a company town, where you get one choice of vendor, your corporation. If you don't like it, pay your bill and buy a ticket to leave. Can't afford a ticket? Work longer hours or have family/friends help. Or just get enhancements to get extra productivity bonuses. You do the math, if you live on bare minimum, you can scrape by and not only pay off your debt, but also be able to do minimal work [6 hour shift, 5 days a week] after merely 45 years. Of course, this also assumes 12 hour days, 7 days a week for the next 45 years. Never sick, never tired. You've already signed the paperwork, so be it. Three years in before you have your first mistake. You had company over and things lead to other things and you lost a few hours of sleep. This caused you to be very tired for your twelve hour shift. You made a mistake, a critical and costly mistake. 5 years. The mistake added 5 years to your debt. You honestly can't believe it... you start to realize the hole isn't just a deep hole, but it can get deeper. What choice do you have but to muddle through? To continue the struggle. You know now not to make that mistake. To focus on your efforts and spend less time socializing with others. Another 5 years goes by, you catch a flu that infects the entire colony. Everyone's sick for about 3-4 weeks. Of course, when you miss time from work, you either need to find someone to cover your shift or you owe the company for the lost productivity. You gain an additional 10 years of labor from this disease. You're tired, your limbs hurt, you want a break. You decide to finally look at those productivity enhancers. You decide to take the best option you can afford, some tool that is installed in your hand. You add 15 years to your debt, but with the productivity gains and benefits, you actually figure you can reduce your overall time spent by about 20 years by hitting those productivity quota goals/bonuses. The surgery and recovery is painful and adds another 10 years to your debt; no one mentioned the cost of training, re-gearing, nor the loss of feeling of the old hand. Touch no longer felt human but instead felt like trying to taste a picture, artificial and lacking of realistic sensation. You hum along for another 20 years. You wonder about when death is going to come, you realize that you celebrated another birthday, yet you don't feel much older than the day you landed. After your private inquiry, you learn that the water contains supplements to help aid life extension of workers, which is part of the reason the price of the water is so high. The nanites in the water was available back on Earth, but it was considered a luxury item, at least back when you were on Earth all those decades ago... where you could feel the breeze on your face and stare up at the sky to feel the warmth of the sun. Here, they merely had artificial lighting in the underground bunker that protected from radiation shielding. It's been decades since you've seen the natural sun. Another 15 years later, your debt grew through a series of unfortunate events. You realize that death won't come naturally and the system is designed to make the debt hole inescapable. You choose the one last free action you have, you decide to stop living. You wake up on a table, they revived you. They hand you a bill, and they say "due to the dangers you may do to others or yourself, certain freedoms have been restricted". sUrveil-INet is installed and you have a monitor to prevent any unauthorized actions. Thanks to your newly acquired medical debt, you debt hole went from in-escapable to completely collapsing in and the interest payments more to the debt than what you can possibly pay off. Your struggle continues, there is no escape, you are a prisoner forever.


See part here. Links to other parts of the story begin there. **11** “Terry.” “Terry.” “You fucked up, Terry.” Pulling his eyes away from the pool of blood forming under Clarence’s body, Terry, who was still sitting on the floor, the gun clutched in his hands, finally looked at Devon’s face on the monitor. “Mr. Champlain. I didn’t hear you call.” “I didn’t call. I didn’t need to. I was just doing that as a courtesy before. The line’s been open the entire time. You should have known that. You know I’ve always been paranoid as fuck.” “I see.” Terry’s eyes returned to Clarence, or what was left of him. “There’s still a way we can work this out, Terry.” His formerly trusty companion slowly shook his head. “No. There’s not.” “What the fuck, Terry?” There was no hiding Devon’s anger now. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? How many lives you’re going to destroy?” Terry turned back to the display, a look of disbelief on his face. “Of course I do, Mr. Champlain. Why else do you think I’d do it?” “But Terry, surely there must be something—” Terry raised his gun and pointed it at the monitor. “Goodbye, Mr. Champlain.” “Terry, wait!” **12** Devon stared at his phone’s blank screen as he spun slowly in place above the king-size bed in the middle of his luxury suite. A moment later, someone knocked on his door. “It’s open.” The door slid to the slide, revealing Darla’s haggard face. She gripped both sides of his doorframe and propelled herself into his room, stopping herself by pressing her hand against the oversized window, which offered a pristine view of Earth and the space beyond, her handprint marring the otherwise perfectly clear glass. She studied Devon’s face. “You don’t look so good.” He glanced up at her. “To be honest, neither do you.” “Asshole.” “Bitch.” He reached up to the ceiling and spun himself, so he could look out the window. A moment later, she drifted over to join him. “I guess we deserve this, huh?” she said, her voice soft as she stared out into space. Devon shook his head slowly, his eyes on the stars. “No, no one deserves this.” \* \* \* **Author's note:** This story started as a screenplay called *TransJack*. It was going to be a futuristic take on the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, where the beanstalk was a space elevator that led to a wealthy orbital community, and Jack was a lowly space elevator operator who had accepted some disfiguring bio-modifications (hence the “trans” part of his name) in order to do his job. Jack’s position makes him a target for terrorists, who want to use his access to the elevator to sabotage the elite orbital world. Jack is torn, because as much as he resents his overlords, he’s fallen in love with the daughter of one of them, who he gets to know during her frequent trips up and down the elevator. One thing leads to another, including a terrible betrayal, and Jack finally finds himself in a situation where he feels he has no choice but to sever the cable that tethers the space elevator to Earth’s equator, sending the elevator, the terrorist leader, and his lover spinning off into space. I thought it was a good story, but when I saw the film *Elysium*, I knew the project was dead. That film had too many of the same elements, from the elite who live in orbit to the criminal element that wants to access the space habitat to the bio-modifications that protagonist Max Da Costa, played by Matt Damon, must accept to pull off the job. However, even though that approach seemed unlikely to sell, I was still fascinated by the concept of space elevators, so I tried to think of another way to approach the story. Inspiration struck at an unlikely time—as it often does. I was teaching a class on screenwriting when I pitched a what-if scenario about a space elevator being hijacked on its maiden voyage with a number of VIPs trapped inside, with the terrorists threatening to sever the cable unless their demands were met. I liked the idea, so from there it was just a question of who does it and why. For reasons best known only to my subconscious mind, I chose to approach the writing of this story similar to how I might write a high-concept/low-budget film with minimal locations and characters. I also attempted to use a spartan writing style reminiscent of Andy Weir’s excellent novel, *The Martian*. Of course, Arthur C. Clarke was also a major inspiration for this book, not only because of Fountains of Paradise but also because he was the author who originally ignited my love for science-fiction. I can only hope that this story is a fitting tribute to him, Andy Weir, Frank Herbert, Edgar Rice Burroughs, H. G. Wells, Ray Bradbury, and the many other sci-fi authors who inspired me over the years. Hopefully it will inspire others as well. Thanks to everyone who has read this story! If you'd like a hard copy of *GEO*, it is available on Amazon.


Against the backdrop of twisting pines stands the old abandoned mech, its guts spilling out from the front of its chassis like a chaotic spider-web made of long black electrical cables and most of the cooling system. Old Missus O’Malley built the thing out of parts from about thirty different creatures, including an antique Russian tank and a nineteen-sixty-eight Oldsmobile. It stood about sixty feet tall and had a roughly humanoid design with a central body, two legs on the bottom, two arms just above the middle, and the head on top, though the head itself was really just a large plastic hamburger about three meters high and six meters wide, which used to sit atop Greasy Bob’s Burgers and Fries fast-food drive-thru. That place went out of business years ago, back when I was just a kid, and I guess one night, when the mech was nearing completion, Old Missus O’Malley had used the partially-completed war-machine to steal the giant metal burger from off the restaurant’s roof. Nobody knows exactly what she’d built it for. She’d claimed it was a prototype she’d been hoping to sell to the military, but that was obviously just a pleasant lie meant to disguise the fact that the smartest woman in town had started to go a little mad. The thing sounded like an apocalypse when she took it out for walks, the metal bits screaming against each other as the twenty-tonne monstrosity lumbered around like some drunken sailor still unadjusted to being on land. One weekend a couple of high school students, Tracy King and Janine Lakewood, stole the thing from Missus O’Malley’s backyard, and took it for a joyride across town. They squashed a police car, kicked over a fire hydrant, and scared Mister Joslin’s cat so badly the poor thing developed a bald spot. The two girls wound up getting something like a hundred hours of community service apiece, and Missus O’Malley was warned to keep a better eye on her creations. Of course it was only a month or so later that Missus O’Malley passed. She went how I think a lot of us hope to go, peacefully in her sleep, with what was later revealed to be a surprisingly large amount of LSD and PCP in her bloodstream. And it was only a week after that when lightning struck the partially completed mech, temporarily bringing the thing to life. For a day and a half it danced sadly across those big empty fields just outside of town, until eventually it came to a final halt at the edge of the woods. That’s where it took its final steps before ripping out its own internal wirings, like some sort of strange imitation of a hara-kiri ritual. Most likely, most folks agree, the lightning had simply brought the processors back online, and the mech’s dancing and death had been nothing more than the autonomic system’s misunderstanding of whatever remained of the old lady’s coding until the thing ran out of fuel and self-destructed. Still, it was sort of nice to imagine that maybe the strange creation had simply missed its creator, and had taken the opportunity granted to it by the lightning to celebrate her life and then to follow Missus O’Malley into the great nothingness that waits for us all on the other side of existence. Big Tim Roberts thought he might be able to get the thing going, that was last October, but he lost a thumb when a piece of the outer casing came loose. One Thumb Tim they call him now, but it’s not to be rude or anything; Tim actually thinks it’s pretty funny. Eventually I’m sure the city will get its act together and collect up the old thing, haul it off to the dump. But a bunch of us sorta hope they just leave it out there. So as to be like a monument. To old Missus O’Malley, and all her big, crazy ideas.


Scully blew out the last somber notes to a nostaljazz love song. Nostaljazz was the music of the day, a mixture of somber yet upbeat music that reminisced about the days long past, when the world was whole. Scully was good at performing it too, but he wasn’t sure how he did it. He had no lips, no lungs. All he was, was bone. Bone and green ligature. The audience applauded Scully and his bandmates, though most of the cheering was aimed at their singer Sophia. She was the “Skin” in Skin & Bones, their band. She was a beautiful young woman, with red hair, and a red dress. Their drummer, as well as their everything else, was a boxy robot named Ampersand, he played everything except the saxophone. Scully was their sax player. The applause died down, and Sophia took a bow before handing the spotlight to Scully with a dramatic wave of her hands. “Thank you everyone! The world ended, but we’re still here, and will be every night after sunset! Thank you!” No one bat an eye at Scully, the skeleton in a three piece suit. He was a common sight around these parts. Which was a welcome reprieve from the usual frightened screaming he received in other places. Sophia, as always, was the first to leave the stage. She sashayed down the two steps off the stage, ignoring her admirers on her way upstairs to their apartment. Scully and Ampersand made for the bar to hang around, and maybe join in on a game of nuclear poker if any tables got going. “Not a fan of people, your singer,” said Buddy. Buddy was the owner of the bar, and its sole bartender. He was a mean looking S.O.B with a friendly demeanor. Scully liked him. “Some people prefer their own company,” said Scully. In response Ampersand let out a melancholy whirring, and sunk his head. “The robot seems to think different,” said Buddy. “Discretion Amp,” said Scully, shaking his head at the robot. Turning back to buddy he said, “She’s… not comfortable around men,” the words came out like they were walking on a tightrope, and buddy got the message. “Oh,” said Buddy, who flushed just a bit. “Yeah, ‘oh’,” said Scully. “Well, she seems fine around you and the robot.” “We’re hardly men though, are we Buddy?” “You’re dickless Skully, but you’re still a man. The robot identifies as one, far as I can tell.” Ampersand made his arms out like broad shoulders and “puffed” out his chest in agreement. “Hmm,” mumbled Scully, “What’s your point?” "My point is there’s two men she feels safe with, and that goes double for you. I have a way of reading folks, clocking them. She likes you, Skully.” “Hmm,” he mumbled again. Buddy let the subject drop, feeling as if maybe he’d pried too much to begin with, but Scully let the thought bounce around in his head. A game of nuclear poker later, and he’d decided to take a different kind of bet. He got up from the card table and went upstairs to the band’s apartment, leaving Ampersand, who was on a hot streak, behind. When he opened the door he found Sophia, still in her red dress, sitting on a leather chaise lounge, staring longingly at the full moon outside. “Hey,” said Scully. “Hey,” said Sophia, her wistful gaze turning to him. “Whadja up to?” “Reminiscing about the past.” “Nostaljazz” She nodded. Little diamonds formed around her eyes, and dropped down her red cheeks. This was only the second time he’d seen her cry. The first was in the alley where they met, when the walking skeleton had scared off some bad men. “Do you think it’ll ever go back to how it was before?” Scully took a seat on the matching ottoman near the chaise. He wasn’t sure they were talking about the state of the world just then. “It’ll never be as it was, but it’ll heal,” he said, willing his skull and empty sockets to appear consolatory. More diamonds. Scully had always been moved by Sophia’s singing. It was powerful. Now he understood exactly why. Nostaljazz was about looking back, wondering if it would ever be the same, just as she wondered about herself. “You really think so?” “I know so.” He wanted nothing more than to hold her in that moment, to tell her it was going to be okay. He didn’t though. If Buddy was wrong about how she felt, it could mean the death of their friendship. Worst possible outcome, she would never feel safe around him either. Maybe it was better to leave well enough alone. He got up, and made for the door. “Come down with me and Amp sometime, Sophia,” he said looking back. “Scully.” He stopped dead in his tracks. “Yeah?” he asked, not looking back. “Stay,” she said, then added, “please.” “Sure.” He went to sit back down on the ottoman, but she motioned him to sit beside her on the chaise. She wrapped an arm around his, and laid her head on his boney shoulder. She was warm. He couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to be intimate in any way. Sometime before, he thought, when he had muscles, and hair, when he had something to offer someone besides cold dry bones. “It‘s not the first time I’ve had to ask you to stay.” “Hmm.” “You almost left me back then too.” “You were frightened of me as much as the bastards that ran off.” “Maybe I was, at first.” She squeezed the long bone of his arm. “But I felt safer with you around. I didn’t know who you were, but you came running when you heard a screaming woman in a dangerous part of town.” “I did what anyone would do.” “No, not anyone would. Not alone, not like that.” He didn’t know what to say. He had just gone into that alley, not knowing what was happening. He just knew someone needed help, and he was close enough to answer the call. She tugged on his chin, and looked deep into his eyes. He didn’t move, he didn’t dare dream. Didn’t dare to presume. Anything else now would be taking advantage of a woman in distress., but Sophia didn’t slow. She kept staring longingly into his eyes. *Don’t* he thought, but she closed her eyes, and puckered her lips. Something told him it wasn’t right, that she was too good for him, that she was too vulnerable, but he didn’t move to stop her. Her lips had just grazed his boney grin when the door burst open, and Sophia jumped her head back in surprise, but still held onto his arm. It was Ampersand. He rolled into their apartment playing a brassy drumroll with a victory trumpet on his speakers. He had cleaned out the other people at the table and was carrying two bags full of lady luck gifted money. He waved the bags in the air, ecstatic, when he noticed the other two sharing the chaise lounge. Scully wasn’t sure if he'd seen the kiss, but Ampersand was frozen still while staring at them. Sophia was the first to break the ice. “Nice haul, Amp,” she said. Ampersand nodded his head, and made a happy whirring noise. The robot looked quizzically at the bags of money then. “He doesn’t know what to spend it on,” said Scully with a chuckle. “I could go for a drink,” said Sophia. “Feel like buying me a drink Amp?” The robot nodded enthusiastically and strolled back down the stairs. “You’re really coming down?” asked Scully. “Why not,” she said, smiling at him. The trio took spots back at the bar. Sophia was the only one of them that could actually drink, but Buddy joined them and drank along with her. She never let go of Scully’s arm.


It came before. Before time would have any concept or meaning. Before matter burned and cooked and crystalized into any quantifiable form. Out of the impossibly ancient swirling dusts of creation it slowly, inexorably gestated. It was not created, it was not willed nor wanted into existence, it simply was not, and then was. How this came to be, when there was nothing, even it could not know. There were not words to form ideas for it to ponder such existence. In all the great nothing, it simply now was. It has no eyes; there was not yet light for it to see with. It has no shape or form in any meaningful way, there was nothing, and it was formed out of the swirling nothing. If matter existed, if space was defined in any meaningful way, it would have been more vast than any concept of modern measurement could possibly describe. Alone; adrift the infinite, endless void it was all, it was the only one of its kind; or any other; more than that, more than anything else it formed a thought, that thought. The first thought. "I am alone". The concept of alone, the first act of creation, the first words ever given form, trillions of years before the first star would set alight; so far before anything capable of conscious thought would possibly speak a primordial language. The very concept of thought, of existence, of this endless formless being was given life, and it was in the thought. It was the thought. "I am alone." If time could be measured then, it would be in aeons. Each word of that first thought billions of years in forming. The burning, twisting embers of each syllable flowing from the void, forming the first sparks of energy that might one day decay into matter to drift coldly beyond the stars. I. It now was. The first principle of existence could now be, it existed, then with that thought the possibility of existing formed with it. It was, and therefore all could be. Am. If it was born of nothing, then this concept made the nothing into something new. It coming to be drew the infinite nothing tighter and tighter, and in the nothing it now was. With this word the the concept of being, the very notion of acting, doing, interacting established itself. Change was possible. 'I' gave form. 'Am' gave motion to that form. But not yet. Alone. With this final word it reached out and felt across infinite space, searching for one like it, for anything other then self, for anything to interact with and found only the void from which it came. The concept of self meant nothing, for there was nothing else. But this differentiation of it from the endless nothing was in itself the first act of creation. It created itself by this thought, formed over countless millennia. Alone meant more. For in this moment, it gave the possibility for something else to exist. The concept of self must inexorably imply the concept of not self, of other, and in this time before time thought and form were one. The first God, in its now formed state now knew what it was. The embers of its first act of creation, of its own birth, drifted slowly out into the nothing, forming and collecting and condensing down into endless galaxies. Time and space made out of the detritus of its own formation, swirling and drifting and fading as the universe spread out from it. The first God screamed.


Father Thomas lowered his eyes to the velvet cushion on which he was seated. He traced his fingertip along its embroidery, following every intricate cross and curve. Much like the rest of the confessional, the cushion was well-worn, with broken threads that poked out from its stitching, inviting a destructive tug from the absentminded. The priest’s actions were more deliberate than that. He was stalling, passing time in the awkward silence that often followed his pointed questions. Passing time, until — “It was Alexis, Father. Alexis Mackey,” said the voice beyond the partition. Ah. The man on the other side was Frank Altezza. The two of them had their early fifties in common, but little else. Frank was a loud man who drove a loud Mustang and who refused to admit that he’d aged past his prime. He was also crying. This was not uncommon in the confessional, but Father Thomas had not outgrown his distaste for it. “I didn’t want to,” said Frank. “I just —“ “Of course you did,” said Father Thomas. “What?” “There was no one holding a gun to your head. There was no fortune to be made in the deed. What, other than a deep desire of the flesh, could have made you do such a thing?” “I just — you know, I never meant for it to go this far.” “Yes you did, Frank. And if you can’t be honest with yourself, how can you expect to be honest with Michelle?” “Father —“ Frank’s face became clouded. “You can’t make me tell her.” “Reconciliation and repentance go hand-in-hand.” “It’ll crush her.” “And the pain you both experience will make you less likely to sin again.” “She’ll leave.” “She won’t. But even if she does, far better that than to live with a lie. That’s your penance, Frank. You need to tell her and apologize. And you also need to apologize to Alexis.” “Alexis should apologize to me!” That was loud. Too loud. Others waiting outside might have heard it. “Enough. She’s half your age and you indulged in your in your brokenness together. Own your sin and apologize.” Frank took a moment to compose himself. “Yes, Father.” “God has heard you. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Go in peace.” “Amen. Thank you, Father.” Frank crossed himself and stood. He pushed aside the scarlet curtain and Father Thomas watched as he stepped out of the confessional, taking the chip on his shoulder with him. Frank was what the priest had come to think of as an identity Catholic. He’d come to know many of them in his six years at Our Lady of Virtue Parish. These were members of the Church who, though excellent at ritual, were lacking in faith. They prayed the Rosary. They attended Mass. He presided over their Catholic weddings and their children’s baptisms. When he presided over their Catholic funerals, however, he found himself wondering at their fates. And on that note, he often wondered if he was doing the Franks of the world a disservice, providing absolution when they’d just be screwing the Alexis’s of the world by the weekend and asking for forgiveness before the month was out. He wondered if he ought to care more. He remembered caring a lot more, back when he was an associate priest in New Hampshire. Now, leading a church in Brooklyn, those memories seemed faded and distant, almost as if they belonged to someone else. Well, it had been a few minutes. Perhaps that was the rest of it for the afternoon and he would finally be able to return home and shut off for a while. Father Thomas rose from his velvet cushion and pushed through the curtain before him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light of the sanctuary. The priest no longer saw the beauty of the place, the majesty that struck most people when they visited. It was the cracked panes of stained glass that drew his attention now, as did the water-damaged ceiling plaster, the chipped baptismal font, and the ever-growing rows of empty pews at Mass, which meant repairs were unlikely to come anytime soon. The pews were all empty today, of course. All except one. The priest shifted his attention to a lone figure seated a few rows back from where he stood. The man was younger, early thirties. His head was lowered, his shoulders drawn in, and he was clothed in a worn, gray sweater that hung from his body like a shroud. Without looking up, the man spoke, “Father, you think maybe you’ve got time for me?” Jesus would have taken pity on the man. Father Thomas felt only a slight irritation. But he had a duty and he had an obligation, and so he gestured with palms wide open and said, “Of course, come on in.” The priest turned and stepped back into the confessional, pulling the curtain closed behind him. He sat on the velvet cushion and rolled his shoulders back, preparing his mind for what would hopefully be his last session of the day. Light filtered into the other side of the booth as a bandaged hand pulled open the curtain — the priest hadn’t noticed it behind the pew. The younger man stepped inside, the floor groaning under his weight. Even through the partition, it was clear he had a more powerful build than his clothing had let on. He knelt before the screen, crossed himself, and spoke softly, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” “God is with us and will hear you,” said the priest. “How long has it been since your last confession?” “It’s been, uh…” The man trailed off. “It’s okay — there’s no need to be ashamed.” “Father, I honestly don’t know how to answer your question.” That was a strange thing to say, but strange things were often said inside the confessional. “Well, have you had confession before?” “I’m, uh — I’m sorry, Father. I have memories of confession, you know. But I…” He trailed off again. “What’s your name?” asked Father Thomas. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” “Daniel Walsh. And no, I’ve never attended Mass in New York.” “But you are baptized within the Church?” “I’m sorry — I’m sure this frustrating —“ “Daniel, I’m happy to meet with you, but the sacrament of confession is for those who have received a Catholic baptism.” “Look, I remember Mass, my Confirmation — all of it.” “So you were baptized, then.” “I just don’t know if it was real.” The priest shifted in his seat. It was becoming clear how this was going to go and it would be best to simply get on with it. “Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you,” said Father Thomas. Daniel gave a meek nod, hesitated a moment, then spoke. “I killed someone, Father.” The priest gave a slow, solemn nod. He’d heard more than one grave sin confessed during his time in the city and it was best not to react too strongly. After allowing a moment of silence to pass, he said, “The Lord Jesus Christ died for all of our sins, Daniel. When did this happen?” “Today. A couple hours ago, maybe.” “Tell me more.” “If it’s all right with you, Father, I’d really prefer not to.” Father Thomas did his best to disguise his impatience. “The nature of Christ’s forgiveness is that it requires repentance. Repentance requires remorse. If you’re unable to speak —“ “I feel remorse, Father,” his voice was at a near-whisper. “I’m not a killer, you know? I’m… a janitor.” “Where do you work?” “The, uh — the U.N.,” said Daniel. He was caught off-guard by the priest’s shift in conversation, which had been exactly the point of it. “Wow,” said Father Thomas. “They put you through a background check for a job like that?” Daniel nodded. “Yeah, I got fingerprinted and stuff…” “And you said you’d never attended Mass in New York before. Where are you from?” “South Dakota. Outside Aberdeen. You know, flyover country.” “That’s got to be a culture shock.” “Yeah. For sure.” Daniel gave a slight, sad smile. “What brought you out here?” “A girl. I think. Maybe. I don’t know — we’re not together now.” That was a misstep. Time to steer the conversation back. “So you’re a midwestern guy with a spotless record.” Daniel nodded. “Until now, I guess.” “Tell me what happened, Daniel.” “Father, I —“ “It’s okay.” Daniel shook his head. “You don’t understand. I’m scared of what I might do.” “Give your fear over to God and tell me what’s on your heart.” Daniel swallowed and drew in a deep breath, but said nothing. Father Thomas turned his attention away from his confessant and instead focused on the familiar feel of the pad of his middle finger against velvet. He let it glide along the raised, golden stitching, following the trance of its pattern until — “It was a kid,” started Daniel. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then continued, “He was on one of those one-wheel skateboard things - you know what I’m talking about?” Father Thomas nodded, but said nothing. “I was walking back home from the station and I didn’t hear him ‘cause I had my ear buds in. He was going at a pretty good clip and I guess I must have crossed in front of him — I don’t know — and his backpack caught on my pinky finger. Ripped all the skin clean off.” Daniel raised his bandaged hand for show. It seemed remarkably clean for such a recent and serious wound. He continued, becoming emotional, “Something came over me — I can’t describe it. I had no control. I pulled him off the sidewalk, into an alley — there was this brick on the ground nearby and I just grabbed it and —“ Daniel let out a sob. Father Thomas gave him a moment, then quietly said, “Go on.” “I smashed it into his face over and over and over again, until there was nothing left but flaps of skin and teeth and bits of bone and — oh, fuck,” he sobbed. “There was so much blood. I’m sorry, Father.” “Christ is here with us, Daniel,” said the priest, keeping the steadiest tone he could muster. “Do you think anyone saw you?” “I don’t know — I didn’t see anyone.” “What did you do with the body?” “I got scared. I just left him there. God, I don’t even know who he was! He was just a kid and —” “Daniel,” said Father Thomas, cutting him off. “I’m going to slide open the partition.” “Okay…” Daniel wiped his face dry with his sleeve. Father Thomas slid the screen aside. He glanced over Daniel’s body, then locked eyes with him. “You mentioned a couple times not being sure of what’s real. I don’t see a drop of blood on you.” “I told you, I was close to home. I went back to clean up and take care of my hand.” “Did you go to the hospital?” “No — I was scared.” “There’s no blood on that bandage of yours.” The look on Daniel’s face was one of terror. “You don’t believe me.” “I’m just trying to help you find the truth.” “Father, please - I must have forgiveness.” “Then show me your hand.” “I can’t do that.” “Wouldn’t it be better if there were nothing to be forgiven?” “I killed a kid, Father. Please.” “Then unwrap that bandage and show me a finger missing its skin.” Daniel stared back at the priest, the emotions in his eyes at once frightening and indecipherable. Father Thomas remained steadfast. Daniel sighed. He picked at the end of the medical tape that was wrapped around his bandage. “Up until this afternoon,” he said, “I thought I was just another guy.” He unwound the tape and continued, “Not a whole lot to me, but at least I knew who I was.” He pulled off the last of the tape and dropped it in a coil to the floor. “Now…” and he trailed off as he removed the gauze. Beneath the bandage was a hand with a pinky finger missing its skin. In place of bone and tissue and tendon, however, was a polished, metallic skeleton. Daniel curled the finger and regarded it as if it belonged to someone else. “Can a robot go to Heaven, Father?” “I can only hope so,” said Father Thomas. “What?” “God has heard you. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Daniel’s eyes lost their focus. He collapsed to the floor with a heavy thump, his killswitch activated by the same coded message that every other dutiful android had encountered inside the confessional. Androids who’d been discovered, who’d killed those that had discovered them, and who’d been driven by their faith to seek forgiveness for their deeds. Father Thomas rose from his seat and stepped out into the cavernous sanctuary. He scanned the pews and the altar and the balconies. All were empty and all was silent, save the soft scratching of the door mice behind the organ pipes. The priest walked the short distance to the door that led to the back hallway. He turned its ancient glass knob and opened it slowly, minimizing the creak it made. Leaving the door open, he returned to the confessional and pushed back the curtain on Daniel’s side. The android’s body lay there, crumpled and lifeless, as it would be until its memory had been wiped and replaced. The priest stooped down and picked it up, throwing the four-hundred-pound hulk over his shoulder as he might a couple choir robes. He wondered at what this one’s role had been as he carried it into the back hallway, toward the stairs to the basement, where he would zip it into a black duffle-bag that would be picked up by morning. Maybe it had been a spy, unknowingly recording video feed to be used at some other time. Maybe it was would-be assassin, foiled by a child on a too-powerful skateboard. Questions that would remain unanswered, of course, just as so many had been unanswered before them. Questions that were the territory of other men. Or perhaps they were not men. Father Thomas did not know and he did not care. It would be enough for him to go home and shut off for a while.


Leonard hooked his cane over the back of his usual chair. Taking a moment before he sat to enjoy the afternoon sun. Setting the cup of coffee down onto the little table he slowly took his seat. His knees protested as he bent them; his rear didn't much care for the hard seats they had at this little cafe. Still he came every Friday. He pulled back the sleeve of his suit and checked his watch. It was 3:55 pm. It would be about 10 more minutes. He fiddled with the cup as he set to waiting. There was a slight breeze at his back, as normal. The outdoor seating area was empty save for him. There would be one more guest along fairly shortly though. He knew he shouldn't be doing this anymore. He was too old to be wandering around after people, but he couldn't really help it. People passed by on the streets. In all there various shapes and forms. He was never much of a people person. His wife always joked how he would be alone if she hadn't adopted him. He had always argued, but he knew she was right. It had never bothered him being alone; until he had met her. Now being by himself was agony. His eyes turned towards the door, no one yet. He had been coming to this cafe for over two months. He had been walking by, part of the passing crowd, enjoying his memories of what this place use to be. A young blonde woman, mid 20's maybe, had been sitting in the chair that was currently behind him. She had been playing on one of those smartphones his grand kids kept trying to make him buy. He hadn't thought much of it, until he got past her and the breeze caught up to him. Her perfume had reached his nose, stopping him in his tracks. She had smelled just like... "Excuse me?" The question broke him out of his thoughts. "Yes, how can I," he froze. The blonde woman was standing right in front of him, a polite smile on her face. "May I join you?' "Oh, of course," he stammered out. "Thank you," she sat down across from him. "I don't see many people here at this time of day. I noticed you here the past few times. I just thought I would say hello." She extended her hand. He reached out and shook it. He hoped she took the trembling in his fingers for his age. "I'm Emilia," she said. "It's nice to see someone else enjoy this place. What kind of coffee do you order?" "Oh just a normal cup of joe," he forced himself to take a sip of the vile liquid. He didn't come for the coffee. "I think that's the first time I've seen you drink from a cup," her smile widened. "So why do you really come here?" Caught. His panic peeked, then faded. All good things come to an end. He sighed and started speaking. "It's complicated," he began slowly. "I had my first date here. Well not my first date, and not here per se. My wife and I had our first date here. It was a malt shop back then. We sat inside and..." He trailed off, his voice failing. She seemed to understand. "When did she die?" "Two years ago," he whispered. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "You come here to remember?" He could lie. He didn't. "That and well," he forced himself to continue. "You see, you wear the same perfume she did." He hung his head. It was strange, he knew. She would think he was a creepy old man. He just hadn't been able to help himself. "I guess my friends were right," she quipped. "I really do have old fashion tastes." He looked up. There was sympathy in her eyes. "Would you tell me about her?" she asked politely.


The once-praised light of eons had faded away with the sudden nature that the universe tended to avoid. The climate of Earth had once been a prosperous and beautiful landscape, only to be completely unrecognizable in the span of two years. The only surviving species on Earth now are the underwater creatures, encased in a layer of ice, separating the cold, harshness of space from those who dwell underneath. The Sun had seemingly disappeared before anyone was any the wiser. Masses of people had flocked to make their way underground, and more safely, underwater, to avoid the harsh conditions. The colonies were clunky and lackluster for the first month, but thanks to the nanotechnology of the current era, they were able to make do and create a livable space for humans. Months had gone by, the Earth showing a significant decrease in temperature. The underwater climate was relatively unaffected, and the hydrothermal vents from the lower levels of Earth had kept everything around quite warm. The living situations of the colonies had drastically improved over the time, causing an increase in comfort, and people were as comfortable as they could hope for in these makeshift homes. Then the Old Ones made their presence known. The Old Ones, who were previously, miraculously, invisible to all forms of detection, made a large and overwhelming presence in the main communication tower of the colonies. There were twelve of them, all around the same size as a human, with wildly altered bodily features. They seemed to not have violent intent, as far as the humans could tell, but showed a very intrigued demeanor. “We come to see what all the commotion underneath the tides is all about, and why the seafloor is being infested by your inferior species.” The biggest of the Old Ones, who seemed to be the leader of this group, said. One of the scientists, who were working in the control tower, said, “The purpose of our abrupt stay was not that of invasion, but to escape the intense coldness of the aboveground, as the Sun has left.” “Hahaha! You are one funny specimen! What does ‘The Sun left’ even mean? You surely do realize that your story just sounds like a coverup and not the truth, correct?” Another scientist had stepped up to help explain, “Ge was trying to say that we were just minding our own business, when-” “The Sun left? Is that really your only proof of this happening? Why don’t we sense any difference in the audio transmissions from the Sun, if it has gone away?” This was a point of realization for the scientists. The creatures seemingly had no sense of sight, which made sense, as the seafloor was completely devoid of light at all times. The creatures only had a sense of hearing, and an incredibly good one at that, explaining the seemingly perfect understanding of English. One of the scientists was curious, and asked, “The Sun will continue to be heard for the next 13 or so years. I was under the assumption you knew this, right?” “We know your tricks, and want to know why you think you can get away with lying directly to our faces. We may not be able to see, but we can still feel your unending gaze across our bodies, in utter horror at the sight of us.” “There is no fear directed towards you, and-” Before the scientist could begin, the Old One to the left of the leader chimed in. “If there is not any fear, then why have you completely skipped asking for our names?” The scientists were unable to refute, and did the only option that they had: “So, then, what are your names?” The frontrunner had stepped up, “I am Frexa, the secondary ruler of the Old Ones. The ones behind me are Sisui, the commander directly below me. There is Ganta, The weapon specialist of our species. My good pal Gorathe, who has fought with me in wars that have lasted longer than you have been alive for. Lox, my lover, and writer of our group. Quinn, the quantum specialist of our group.” Ge asks, “What about the others that have been behind you all this entire time?” Frexa quickly replies, “Oh, the lesser ones? They are prisoners who we have taken as our personal escorts.” “Wouldn’t that be an upgrade to being in prison?” “Why sure, except if they step out of line at any point, then we execute them on the spot, to show that it is still their punishment.” This worries the scientists, and while they are unsure of what to do, Frexa suddenly says, “Well, it certainly has been fun coming to talk to all of you, even though you all seem to be complete wusses. We hope that the rest of humanity has a bit more of a backbone than you, because you’re gonna need it! See you guys later.” The Old Ones then teleport away, with the help of Quinn. The scientists are split, as some are worried about how they implied that we need courage, and others are even more worried that they had known that the species is that of humans. I hope that the humans that are still alive are able to read this, and understand that we never expected, nor wanted your likes to be our enemy. We hope to use this exchange of our first encounter to serve as a showing that we tried to be nice and work towards friendship, but you showed a blazing amount of fear and malice, based on the tones of your voices. We perhaps should have given you more of a chance, you may say. This may be true, but you were the ones who destroyed the planet, causing us to bring you down to our level. You were warned in early times, and had not proved any change whatsoever. We hope that you can understand that you were the cause of your downfall, and how you showed promise, only to cause destruction on a global scale, ruining our relationship before it started. We are ashamed to live on the same planet as you. We aren’t the enemy. We are the protectors of Earth, the harbingers of justice. We are the Old Ones, and the Old Ones have risen once again.


Walter Goodman’s wife brought us both a glass of lemonade. He took a sip, and let it shatter on the brick porch. He apologized to his wife, who cleaned it up, and then to me. “Sorry Mr. Alvarez,” said Walter. “Fernando, I’m not big on formalities.” “Sorry, Fernando.” “Don’t be, you’re not the first astronaut I’ve interviewed.” “You spend so much time up there you forget gravity exists. Interview a lot of Astronauts do you?” “A few. Remind me what you saw.” “Well, I was on the ISS doing my usual, when I see this meteor.” “See a lot of meteors up there?” “No! That’s the thing you can’t see a meteor, not in space, not till it starts breaking up in the atmosphere. This one had a tail in the cold dead of space.” he shuddered. “It– it was a purple tail, a sort of purple beyond purple, the most purple anything’s ever been. I know that doesn’t sound terrifying but I nearly shat myself Fernando, and that was before it *looked* at me.” Walter Goodman had inched his way to the edge of his seat. He sank back into his chair. “What do you mean it ‘looked’ at you?” “Just that. It looked at me. The meteor looked me dead in the eyes and stared into my soul.” “It had eyes?” “No, it was a rock, like any other rock, but I felt it looking at me. Like the entire meteor was one big eye.” His story tracked with what I’d been reading. I keep up with that sort of thing. Usually it's nothing, this time it was something. I finished up my interview with Walter. He confirmed the landing zone, more or less, of the meteor. The ISS had been flying over Southeast Asia, where Walter said he saw the meteor land in the dark zones of Wallacea. It was a smattering of islands in Indonesia. ‘Lotta water there. You had to be aiming for land to not hit the ocean. After collecting what I could, I thanked Walter for his time, and made to leave. “Wait, Fernando,” he called, “are you going after the meteor?” I nodded. “Take me with you.” I thought about it. There weren’t any rules to what I was doing. Walter had stared into the eye of something and came out sane. He was also an astronaut with a military background. What the hell. “There might be monsters,” I said, but he didn’t look perturbed, “there might be nazis.” “Nazis?” that always got em. I explained to Walter on the way to Wallacea. Nazis were like maggots on a corpse to the supernatural. You could use them like forensic scientists used maggots too. An advanced nazi presence could indicate time of discovery, or length of conspiracy. It was all about context. We arrived in Indonesia by boat, making port in the city of Makassar. From there we traced a lead obtained from an acid dealer. The dealer was handing out tabs of acid with the reichsadler on them, the nazi eagle. I pressed him about it, and he gave me the details on his supplier, as well the details for a party they were throwing for some trust fund kiddies. The party was being thrown on a neighboring island in North Maluku, the same place they made the acid. “For the record,” I said to Walter, “it’s not *always* nazis. I’m just not surprised when it is.” “But it is nazis this time.” I shrugged. “Yeah. You got your iron ready?” he tapped the side of his torso where his gun was holstered. “Good. Eyes peeled and wits about you. It could get ugly.” We were on a boat with the rest of the trust fund brats heading to their party, some of them were already slapping more of the reichsadler tabs on their tongues. They tried to peer pressure anyone who wanted to stay clean. This big guy especially was making the rounds to get people to take the tabs. He was huge, well over six feet tall, with the biggest muscles money could buy. The big guy never made it to me and Walter though. He got stuck the rest of the ride trying to get this particularly cute local girl to imbibe. We landed at just about sunset. The boat stayed docked in case of emergencies. There were tiki style torches, and a Hawaiian style bar. Cute. I told Walter to not take anything he didn’t see poured out of a branded bottle, and to stay conspicuous, but my words were lost on him. He was immediately swarmed by a horde of bikini wearing local girls, and spray tanned rich brats. Some folks just really loved their white boys. I left him to suffer his pleasure, and noticed some third reich looking mothers dipping in and out of the nearby jungle. Go time. Following the blonde and blue eyed terminators led me to a small, but well built compound, with working electricity. At this point the rock had been on earth for less than a week. The advanced nature of this place confirmed one of my earlier suspicions. The rock had a mind of its own, and the nazis knew they should “meet” it here. I still didn’t know how the acid and rich brats figured into it, but it couldn’t be good. Rich brat or no, those were some potentially influential people they had getting high out there. I waited for one of the guards to be alone, and took him out from behind. I put on his pink Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, and strolled into the compound casual like. I was stopped immediately. “Wohin gehst du, Soldat?” said a grumpy looking man in matching Hawaiian attire. “Lass mich in Ruhe, ich muss scheißen,” I replied. I didn’t actually know what I was saying, but I’d heard nazi guards say this a lot when leaving their posts unexpectedly. It has saved my ass more times than I care to admit. The older man scowled but left me alone. I scanned the small compound. They had watchtowers, but in an effort to stay hidden they chose the worst of both worlds. The lights of the watchtowers provided little visibility in the dense jungle, and especially in the shadows of night. The lights probably blinded their guards more than anything. That was good for me. The compound had one main building with sterile white lights coming out the windows, as well as a sickening ultra-purple. Bingo. Inside, the rock and its unsettling purple glow were being held in a strange looking device. It looked like a reverently built hydraulic press. The ultra-purple waves were dancing off the rock like light at the bottom of a pool. It was unsettling. I could feel it looking at me, it bore into my soul, filling my head with holy purple light. I suddenly felt ashamed, like I shouldn’t be here, interfering with such cosmic radiance. I tried to steel my will against it, and failed. Luck was still on my side though, and the whining of factory grade machinery snapped me out of it. A gauge on the machine told me it was applying tons of pressure on the rock. The ultra-purple waned and died completely, and a thick purple substance like blood oozed out of the cracks and deep grooves of the rock. The substance pooled at the bottom, soaking into a sheet of paper which was cut up and stamped with the reichsadler. “Motherfucker.” “Wer bist du, who are you?” said a voice from behind me. It was a properly old man, the kind with liver spots and little wisps of hair that looked like strands of stray cotton. He was wearing a white lab coat. “I’m your worst nightmare pal, and I’m liberating this rock, but first you’re going to tell me exactly what it is you’re doing here.” “The color…, “ said the old man, “It should be spread. Shared with the world.” there was a glint of something in his eyes. Something purple. Beyond purple. I started sweating. There was a part of me that started to think he was right. The purple glint in his eye. I could carry that wondrous light beyond light in my own mind. That’s probably what the acid tabs were for. I whipped out my iron and planted a couple shots into the old man, freeing myself from the grip of his ultra-purple eyes. I took a second to breathe, but didn’t dare waste any more time. This place would be swarming with nazis any moment. I grabbed the rock from the strange looking device and started to leave, but the entrance was blocked off by nazi guards. It might have been the end of me, but the old man's corpse sprang to life on the ground. The top of his head popped open and sprouted flailing tentacles. It was distraction enough to leap out of a nearby window. I ran as fast as I could from the compound. No one chased me, but I did hear screaming. I ran from one cacophony of screaming to another. When I made it back to the party I found complete hysteria. “Just try it!” screamed a rich brat in a skimpy bikini. “You’ll see real color. Like you’ve never seen before!” The rich brat was screaming at Walter who was also being held down by more bikini clad women. They were trying to force feed him the acid. Morbidly, I had to stifle a laugh because I could guarantee this was someone’s fantasy. I started shooting. “Fernando!” gasped Walter. He got up and cleaned trust fund viscera off himself. “You killed them, and you changed your clothes!” “They were already dead.” I double tapped the bodies on the ground. I didn’t want to risk them getting back up with tentacled heads. “It’s the acid tabs. Those nazi bastards squeezed something out of the rock and fed it to these rich assholes. Probably in an effort to take over the world, starting from the top, real typical stuff honestly.” Walter flinched when he finally noticed the rock in my hand. “Typical?” He asked, but I wouldn’t be able to elaborate. We were being surrounded by the zombified upper class. Walter got with the program quickly. I told him to aim for the head, and double tap when he missed. The beach was covered in rich kid gore by the end. We thought we were home free, but the big guy from earlier on the boat ride came hulking out of the shadows. I aimed to dome him but my gun just clicked empty. “Walter?” “I’m out too.” “Shit.” The big guy grabbed me and slammed me to the ground. “Try it bro,” he said. “You’ll see more than you’ve ever seen before.” “Walter!” I yelled, and started to fight back but my feeble punches were thudding on hard meat and muscles. The big guy started trying to open my mouth, and when I started resisting harder because of it, he began to choke me out. The world was fading to black. Soon it would be lit in shades of ultra-purple. Then Walter came to my rescue, and knocked the lug over. Their struggle tipped them over to the other side of the Hawaiian bar. I choked on air, trying to catch my breath. The edges of darkness started to clear from my vision. I could hear Walter being overwhelmed by the big guy on the other side of the bar. The moment I could breathe again I sprang to his rescue. I rounded the bar, and jumped on the big guy’s back, hanging from his neck with all my weight to try and choke him. To no avail. He turned his weight on me, and started to crush me again. This was it. It was lights out. Walter wouldn’t be able to recover in time and we’d be turned into purple loving zombies for the new world order. I prayed to every god I could think of, then my face was splashed by liquor. The cute local girl from earlier had smashed a bottle over the big guy’s head. She stabbed him in the neck with the sharpened remains. “Creep,” she said. “Thank god,” I said. The lug fell on top of me, and I rolled him over. “You’re an Angel,” I said to the girl. I passed her and checked on Walter. “You alive?” “I think so.” “Good. Let’s get out of here, quickly. You too, pretty girl.” “It’s Rizka,” she said. “We can get familiar on the boat, let's go.” We stepped onto the boat, which was devoid of crew at that point. Walter knew how to drive it though, so that ended up not being a problem. We left port immediately. On the shore, the tiki torches started to burn out. The tentacled head of the big guy rose up just as the light died, and from the jungle tree line there could be made out ultra-purple eyes. I shuddered, and stared at the glowing rock in my hand. I could feel it boring a hateful gaze into me. “Well, that’s that,” I said. “Far as I’m concerned anyways. I doubt they’ll be able to continue their conspiracy without this thing.” “Really,” said Walter, “What are you going to do with it?” “Turn it in, get paid.” “Turn it in to whom? What even are you exactly?” “I used to style myself an archeologist, and then an anthropologist, then a xenothropologist. Now I just call myself an errand boy. The rock is gonna end up in a sort of private collection. Don’t worry, it’ll be safe.” Walter seemed satisfied with the answer. At the very least it didn’t seem like he thought it was a good idea to know any more than he needed to. Walter went back to his life as an astronaut with a lemonade serving housewife soon after. I stuck around Indonesia while I tracked my next job, and waited to hear about the dropoff for this one. Rizka turned out to be a pretty good tour guide, and showed me around Makassar, the fun seedy parts anyways. She made a fine breakfast too.


You know those nights, right? The wild ones. Raucous. Chaotic. Intoxicating. Or intoxicated, at least. For the life of me I don’t know how I got here. My mind is foggy. My head is pounding. It feels like my brain is literally trying to escape from my skull by beating its nonexistent fists against my temples, against my eyes. Screaming to be let out. At first my vision was blurry, lights and shapes swimming in and out of focus. In and out. Up and down. All around. Swirling about me like a nauseating, whirlwind carousel of sensory hell. It’s starting to come in to focus now, but the lights in this room are making my eyes sing with pain. It’s making the headache much worse. I don’t think I’ve ever been this hung over. My mouth. Jesus. It’s not just cotton mouth. This isn’t like cotton balls between my teeth. It’s a whole field of cotton. Rows and rows of it, springing to existence inside my lips, blooming and growing wild. Out of control. My tongue is shrieking for water. It feels as though it will shrivel up and turn to dust inside my mouth. It feels as though I’ve never had water in my entire life. And it’s not just the desert dryness, the taste! Oh god, the taste. It’s unbearable. Imagine if somebody if somebody took a whole bottle of cheap ass vodka, glass and all, a pack of cigarettes, whatever mess you scrape off of the bottom of your shoes, and a full, filthy ass diaper. Take all those things and put them in blender. Turn it on high and make a smoothie out of that rancid shit. Then drink it. That’s what it tastes like. Fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck. What is this shit?!? What is this metal thing on my wrist?!? Oh shit balls, there’s a chain… A fucking chain! Am I chained to a wall?!? Oh god no. No no no no no no… There’s a manacle encapsulating my left wrist. I’m in literal chains! Oh god…shit, don’t cry. Don’t cry. You’re fine. Ah, FUCK! What the holy hell is this?!? Where am I? What is this place?!? I’m in deep, deep shit this time. Why is this happening? Why am I even here? Think. Think think think, you stupid bastard! Oh hell. Just breathe. Focus. What happened last night? Go back. Go back. Ok, well, I know I was at Barry’s last night. Barry’s is what you would call a dive. Yeah, a dumpster dive. A classic little shithole of a bar. Downtown, smack dab in the middle of the seediest part of my city. I go there because it’s close. Close to work. Close to home. That’s why I go there. So I don’t have to drive drunk. Not that I could anymore. I lost my license not too long ago because of that fucking DUI. About a month ago. So I couldn’t drive any more. Even if I wanted to. That was a bad fucking night. But this is worse. So much worse. Oh my god. Help! Fucking help! Somebody fucking help me, oh god, oh Jesus Christ, help!!! Oh fuck me. Fuck me fuck me fuck me. Oh god no. This isn’t right. What am I doing here?!? The lights. Ah, man, my fucking eyes! Ok, the lights are fluorescent. Bright. Blinking like somebody having a god damn seizure. Shitty. But bright. And the walls…oh my fucking god! Is that…blood? That’s fucking blood! Ok, fuck. So I’m crying. That’s ok. That’s ok. You’re chained to a fucking wall that’s covered in blood. Anybody would cry over that. Right. Right. Ooooooook…deep breath. The chain is bolted into the wall. I’m not going to be able to pull it out and there’s no way I can get it off of my wrist. There’s a ratty twin size mattress on the floor. And, oh wow, ha ha ha ha… That’s just great. I’m betting those stains are blood too. What the hell is going on in this place? What was that noise? Shit. There’s a door over there. Heavy, metal, no windows. Rusted to shit like it’s seen better days but still impenetrable. Oh my god. It’s opening! Hey, help me! Over fucking here! Wait… A man just entered the room. Tall, lanky. A spindly ass string bean of a guy. And he’s wearing a black balaclava. Great. Classic. The only part of his face I can see are his eyes. Shining and glinting in the fluorescent light like two nasty blue gems set deep in his covered face. He’s not going to let me out of here. He’s the one who put me here. And he’s coming closer! Look, man! I shout. You’ve got the wrong guy I promise you! Ok. Ok. Maybe you don’t. What did I do to you? Did I fuck your girl? Oh wait… oh no. Man… did I… did I fucking run somebody over?!? A hit and run? Did I kill your girl? Your kid? Hey, hey, hey. Hey, man. We can talk about this ok? I’ve got money! I can pay you! Please just let me out of here! Fucking please! He’s…he’s laughing. He’s fucking laughing at me! Ok, bro. You got me. Ok. I don’t have any fucking money! I’m sorry, alright! I don’t have any money. I can’t pay you. But I’m sorry! I’m really fucking sorry! I’m so fucking sorry. Just please, please let me go. He’s still coming closer. He’s so close I could reach out and touch him if I wasn’t chained to this fucking wall! Oh shit this is bad. I slump down the wall, sliding my ass against the dark brown stains, as if sliding my ass against old, dried shit. Crumpling on top of the no doubt bug-infested, blood stained, pinnacle of DNA evidence that is the twin sized mattress. He’s still fucking laughing at me. It’s starting to piss me off. He’s shaking and shaking and shaking with delight and mirth. So hard that his skeletal frame just might shake itself to pieces right here and now. He lifts up a single, slender finger and wipes away tears from his eyes. Oh, that’s rich! He says. A big inhale inflates his rib cage and he lets out an entertained, satisfied sigh. He’s crouching down now on the balls of his feet, arms resting on his knees as he brings himself to my level. He thinks I’m funny. He just said so. He also says he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know me? What the fuck? Then why the hell am I even here? I ask him. Oh, he says, I just like killing people.


It was morning, and Jean, the receptionist for the law firm of O’Ryan and Greenblatt, unlocked the office door and then went to her computer. An hour or so later, a five-foot-tall woman about 70, who was carrying a shopping bag, entered the office. She spoke with a Yiddish accent.” “Hello. May I help you?” “Yes, dear, I’m Mrs. Liederkenstenflam.” “My name is Jean,” she said, went to Mrs. Liederkenstenflam, and led her to chairs. “Let’s sit down, Mrs. Liederkenstenflam.” “Thank you, dahling, I was tired. You’re such a nice girl. Here. She took a container, spoon, and napkin out of her shopping bag, opened it, and gave it to Jean. “Have some nice chign soup. It’s Jewish penicillin. It will fix all your problems,” she said and tried to feed her. Jean gently held her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Liederkenstenflam, but I’m not hungry.” “Okay, dahling,” she said and put everything back in her bag. “Now, how can we help you?” “I need a lawyer, a good lawyer.” “You’ve come to the right place. The firm of O’Ryan and Greenblatt is one of the best law firms in the city.” “Okay. I’ll take Mr. Greenblatt.” “I’m sorry. Mr. Greenblatt isn’t taking any cases, but his daughter, Karen, is taking cases.” “Okay, I’ll take Karen, but before you call her, tell me how much I have to pay.” An office door opened, and a man came out. He went to the coffee pot and held it up. “It’s empty. Again, it’s empty,” he said, put his hand on his hip and stamped his foot. Jean and Mrs. Liederkenstenflam watched him. “Gosh darn. Darn. How is a great lawyer supposed to be great if there’s no coffee?” “So, make some coffee,” Jean said. “But that’s your job,” he whined. “I do lawyer things and you make coffee. That’s the way it’s supposed to be,” he complained, stamped his foot and wiggled to his office. '\`D' boichick, I think he needs some chign soup. Yeah?” “He needs something.” “Now, I was asking how much I have to pay.” “You don’t have to pay anything up front if the attorney decides to take your case. If the attorney loses, you don’t pay anything. If the attorney wins, you pay just one third.” “Oy, how terrible. How can you do such a thing? I think I need a doctor.” “What’s wrong, Mrs. Liederkenstenflam?” Jean asked anxiously. “Well, you see, my great aunt died, may her soul rest in peace, and she left me her little doggie in her will, but my sister took d’ little doggie, and I want Karen should make my sister give back d’ liddle doggie, but how could I give you one third of a little doggie? What would you do with just a part of a liddle doggie? How could d’ liddle doggie get along widout d’ part you took? D’ poor liddle doggie needs all his parts. After all,” she said sounding very anxious. “You don’t understand, Mrs. Liederkenstenflam. The cases we take involve financial settlement. Our fee would be in dollars. You need to take your case to a small claims court.” “In a small claims court, they won’t take a part of my liddle doggie?” “No, they won’t. The judge will listen to both sides and then decide who should get the dog, the whole dog.” “I’ll go to that court. What a relief. I wouldn’t want Pedro Garcia Juan Padilla De Santa Maria cut up into liddle pieces. Thank you, dahling. Say hello to Karen for me,” she said and left. Karen came out of her office as Mrs. Liederkenstenflam left. “Jean, did I hear that woman mention my name?” “Yes.” “Do I know her?” “No.” “Does she know me?” “No.” “Then how did my name get into the conversation?” Don Flynn came out of his office, went to Jean’s desk and listened. “She wanted a lawyer to get her doggie from her sister, and she thought you were going to cut a third of her doggie off and keep it for payment.” “Karen, how could you threaten a client?” Don said angrily. Why would you take a third of a dog? What a thought. That’s a leg and a…yuck. That’s disgusting.” Vera came out of her office, went to the group, and listened. “Karen, were you going to cut off a dog’s leg? How could you do that?” “I wasn’t going to cut off a dog’s leg. Jean, would you please explain.” “Okay,” she said, and told the story. “So she thought Karen was going to take a third of the dog for payment.” Frank came to the desk and listened to the story. “Karen, that’s despicable. Besides, what would the firm do with part of a dog? Yuck.” “Karen, you know there are laws protecting animals from abuse, don’t you?” Don said. “You could cut off a person’s leg and get away with it, but not a dog. A jury would hang you in a minute.” Harry came out of his office and listened. “My God, I never said I would cut off a dog’s leg. This is crazy,” she growled. “What’s crazy?” Harry asked. “Karen threatened to kill an old lady if she didn’t pay her bill,” Don said. “I didn’t threaten to kill anybody or anything. This conversation is crazy,” Karen yelled. “You’re all crazy,” she growled and hurried to her office. “Karen, don’t forget the staff meeting this afternoon with your father,” Jean called to Karen. “So, what’s this meeting about?” Don asked. “Money,” Vera said. We're sliding perilously close to red ink. Mr. Greenblatt has a plan to get us back to the black. I hope it's a good plan. Eating and paying rent have become a habit.” At the staff meeting, Mr. Greenblatt addressed his staff. “Folks, unfortunately, the firm is operating in the red. In order to get back on our feet, I’ve decided to use a talent agency. They will hire Rock Lockwood, the soap opera actor, to be our spokesperson. Irene Young from the agency and Lockwood will be here around 2:00. Karen, I’d like you to be my eyes and ears. Let’s hope this works. I’ll keep you all informed,” he said and all returned to their offices. On the way to her office, Karen stopped at Jean’s desk. “Jean, please call me when Lockwood arrives,” she said and left. An hour later, the office door opened and two people entered. One was Irene Young and the other was Rock Lockwood, a handsome soap opera actor about 30 years old. He wore his overcoat over his shoulders and a wide-brimmed hat tilted to one side, and a white scarf around his neck. They went to Jean’s desk. “May I help you?” “Yes. I'm Irene Young and this is Rock Lockwood. I'm from the King, Clayton, Bernstein, Baton, Mervin, Morgan, Fillmore, Furry talent agency. I have an appointment with Mr. Greenblatt.” “Would you repeat those names? King, Benson, Bitten, and something furry.” “Yes,” Irene said, speaking slowly, and Jean wrote. “I'm Irene Young from the King, Clayton, Bernstein, Baton, Mervin, Morgan, Fillmore, Furry talent agency. I have an appointment with Mr. Greenblatt.” “Fine. Just one moment. I’ll call him,” Jean said, picked up the phone, and pressed a button. “Mr. Greenblatt, Irene Young from the King, Clayton, Bernstein, Baton, Mervin, Morgan, Fillmore, Furry talent agency is here to see you. Okay, sir, I’ll tell her,” and hung up the phone. Ms. Young, he'll be right with you. Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable.” She returned to her computer. “Bobby came out of his office, went to the coffee pot, and held it up. Jean, the coffee pot is...” he said, saw Rock and walked like a zombie to him, pointing the coffee pot at Rock. “You’re Lock Rockwood, I mean Rock Lockwood. It’s really you. Oh, be still my heart. I’m your biggest fan,” he swooned and inched closer to Rock, who looked terrified. “I know everything about you. I know why you left Eloise at the altar. She was a tramp. And Shawna doesn’t deserve you, the tramp.” Rock hurried behind Irene as Bobby tried to get to him. Jean picked up the phone. “Mr. Greenblatt, come quick. Bobby is loose.” Mr. Greenblatt rushed out of his office and stepped between Bobby and Rock. “Bobby, go back to your office,” he ordered, and Bobby sulked away. “I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Young. I meant to give Bobby the day off, but I forgot.” “Bobby, bring the coffee pot back,” Jean yelled and, looking at Rock, he brought it back and went to his office. Rock looked stunned. “Who was that? I’ve never been married. And who are Eloise and Shawna?” “Rock. Think. You’re married on your soap opera, and the others are characters on your soap opera,” Irene said. “Oh, yeah,” Rock said, seeming confused. “Let’s go into the conference room. You’ll have plenty of room to work there. My daughter, Karen, will be right in. She’ll help you anyway she can. Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, left, and told Jean to tell Karen that Lockwood was in the conference room.” Jean phoned Karen, who hurried out of her office to the conference room. Lockwood stood. “Well, hello, there. I’m Rock Lockwood, the famous actor who is adored by millions. Would you like my autograph?” “Uh, yes, of course, I’d love to have your autograph, Mr. Rockwood.” “That’s Lockwood.” “Yes, of course.” Rock took out a gold-trimmed, leather-bound notebook from his pocket. “To?” “I think one will be enough.” “I mean to whom should I write my autograph?” “Uh, how about to me?” “I’ll need a name.” “You have a name already.” “I need your name if I’m going to write an autograph to you.” “Of course. My name is Karen.” He wrote and gave her the paper. She folded it and put it in her skirt pocket. “I’ll cherish this forever. Believe me. I’ll put it in a place in my office that’s made just for things like your autograph,” she said and went to Irene. “Ms. Young, I’m Karen Greenblatt. I’m happy to meet you,” she said and they shook hands. “My father told me to help you anyway I can.” “Okay. Suppose we run through each commercial and you tell me if it’s what you want. Rock, read the first commercial.” Rock held the script, slowly leaned forward and yelled. “If you have a legal…” Karen jumped back. “Rock, what are you doing? We want to bring people in, not scare them away,” Jean said admonishingly. “I was just projecting.” “Rock. You’re not doing Hamlet in front of a live audience. You’re doing a TV commercial. Now, try it again.” Rock slowly leaned forward so that he was a few inches from Karen, and growled. “Are you a victim? Are you letting the world step all over you? Are you…” Karen grimaced. Irene appeared to be in pain. “Rock. This is not revenge of the werewolf. You have to sound sympathetic, like you’re talking to an old friend.” “I see. Sympathetic. An old friend. I think I have it.” Rock leaned back in his chair, looked at Karen, smiled broadly, and grinned as he read. “Hi, there, this is your old, sympathetic friend…” “Cut, cut, cut. Rock. Why are you grinning? This is serious and when you are discussing a serious matter you don’t have a stupid grin on your face.” “Uh, if you’ll excuse me, there’s something I have to take care of,” Karen said, left and hurried to Mr. Greenblatt’s office. She stopped at Jean’s desk on the way. “How’s it going, Karen?” “This Rock Wormwood is an idiot. If he has a brain, then it’s as flat as a pancake because he’s sitting on it. If my father let’s this agency use this hack, then we’re doomed. I have to warn my father,” she said and hurried into his office. After a few minutes, he and Karen hurried to the conference room. “Karen, why don’t you show Mr. Lockwood around while I speak with Irene.” Karen’s first stop was Jean’s desk. “Mr. Lockwood, this is Jean, our gal Friday.” “You look familiar, Jean. Have we met before?” “Uh, no, we haven’t.” “Well, then, would you like my autograph?” “As a matter of fact, it is in my nature to avoid cluttering my life with unimportant, trivial affectations that do not serve to better the lot of mankind as a whole.” He stared blankly at Jean for a few moments. “Oh, yes, I can relate to that. A person should be able to practice his or her religion as she or he wishes. Absolutely. So, would you like my autograph?” “No.” “Mr. Lockwood, if you come with me I’ll show you around the office.” “As you can see, each attorney has his or her own office.” “I see. So, what kind of business do you run here?” “What kind of business do we run here?” she said smiling. “Yeah. Just curious.” “Rock. This is a law firm. We practice law. That’s why we have lawyers working here.” “Uh, huh. Lawyers work here.” “That’s right. I would say much of our business involves suits of one kind or another.” “Suits? I just bought two new suits. One is double-breasted. It makes me look muscular. Boy, if I had known you sell suits, well, next time.” “Mr. Lockwood, are you planning to come here to buy your suits?” Jean asked chuckling. “Yes.” “What size suit do you wear?” “I wear a 42 long. Do you carry that size?” “A 42 long law suit? That’s a popular size law suit size. I think we can work something out,” Karen said with a serious expression on her face. “That’d be great,” he said smiling. “Shall we continue?” “Sure.” “We also specialize in tax law.” “Oh, yeah, taxes. I don’t bother with taxes. I tell my friends that by not paying taxes you get to keep all your money, but they keep paying taxes. Do you pay taxes?” “Yes, I do.” “I have a feeling that taxes go to poor people. Personally, I don’t believe in being poor.” Mr. Greenblatt and Irene come out of the conference room. “Come on, Rock, “it’s time to go. Wait in the car,” she ordered and he left. Well, Mr. Greenblatt, I’m sorry we couldn’t help you,” she said, they shook hands, and she left. “Maybe a talent agency wasn’t such a good idea after all,” he said, and he and Karen went to their offices.