And Other Things From This Time Preview

Throat of the World

One day, evening
I thought about God
Relationships and relations too
Sitting in the clouds
Could we really be all there is to talk about
Poisons in the bloodstream
Drive us to do unthinkable things
Ripping our own skin from our bones
We dance around like fiends
Ever discovering our needful needs
I think about Christ
I think of passion
I believe in fire
The words escape me
Lodged in my heart
I’m always watching
Perched even higher
Standing at the threshold
Between heaven and hell

Often

I often wonder what it feels to die
Does it feel like I do now
All alone with no one to talk too
I do this to myself
Yet I don’t know the answers to my own questions
I often wonder how soon
Will all this prove to be meaningless
They say you pave your own way
But what if it’s not true
What if this is nothing more than a collection
Of me and you
I often wonder about God
Am I him or is it you
All reason would lead to nothing at all
I feel like I know what I’m saying
But in the end, it all seems to come out the same
Blood in blood out and all that shit
Maybe life is nothing more than a brotherhood
Of bull shit
I do this to myself
Get all upset for no good reason
I often wonder what it feels to die
And I know it has to feel like this

Two more poems from my first poetry collection… And Other Things From This Time… A bit on the sad side this week I’m afraid… I’ve talked a little bit about the dark period of my life that I went through and these were written during that period… A warning for those of you that follow my blog… Thank You… this month’s previews will feature a few more from that dark period… So things may get a little rocky… But I am all “better” now… haha.. Okay… I’m doing better than when I wrote them… Hope all is well…

 

Salvation Can Be A Sin

I attend the morning mass for the first time in over a year. I usually can only make it to church at night thanks to the long late nights. Since I won’t be able to attend tonight I traded in sleep for prayer. The church is empty. Always so empty. Maybe after tonight that will no longer be the case. Those that are here put a rare smile on my face. It is good to know that not everyone in this city is lost. The bombs have all been set and the plan is in full effect I tell the lord. Today your message will seep into the minds of everyone and be on the lips of the damned as they flee with fear. Those who do not run in fear will be graced by my bullets and they do not forgive nearly as much as you. May the lord bless me as I full fill his sermon in his name and his honor. I take the body of the Christ into my mouth and swallow his blood as if it is my own. I am prepared to die today and every day in the name of Christ, the Lord, and the Holy spirit. I am how he has made me. I accept death. I accept it for what it is and what it means. I want to feel it’s cold hands pull me up to heaven, pull me up to let me know that I am done, but until that day I am prepared to do what needs to be done.

I arrive to the spot five hundred yards from the prison at about half past nine. Most of the prisoners should be out on the yard right now, but in fifteen minutes they will have to start heading back to their cells. The plan is to set off the charges at ten, which guarantees that all the prisoners will be in their cells. I unloaded my detonators, my rifle case, and my high-powered binoculars from the back seat of my car. It truly is a beautiful day today. The sun is shining, the sky is empty, and the air is warm. The lord could not have created a better day and these sinners couldn’t ask for a better day to die. I set my detonators on the grass as if I was laying out a picnic. Preparing for the feast of souls I set up my high-powered rifle as well. The craftsmen ship of the Remington R-25 is something to admire. It is the newest of the rifles and the most powerful one I have. This rifle is mostly used by the military so, getting my hands on one wasn’t easy. The R-25 is my insurance policy to make sure anyone left alive finds their way to the ground. The R-25 is mostly stock with the only modifications being to the magazine in both size and reload capabilities. By the time I look through my high-powered binoculars I can see the prisoners making their way back into the building. As I make my last-minute checks to the system of detonators and sight my rifle into position I can hear the pre-recorded speech come through the speakers all around the prison. Even from this distance I can hear it loud and clear.

“To all guards, medical personal, and support staff of the prison this is your fifteen minute warning to evacuate this facility. The prisoners are to remain in their cells. Anyone caught freeing prisoners will be executed. No judges and no jury. This is not a test. Your time begins now.”

You shouldn’t feel bad about the damned I tell myself. Up until now they have pretty much gotten a free ride. The handle of the rifle feels wet in my hands. I’m nervous, but after this there is no going back. The plan has already been put into motion, but when I press the button this doesn’t end until it ends. May your blood be of Christ and your souls open to salvation. Amen. I push the button on the detonator to my left. The board lights up. There is a slight delay as the board sends out the final signal to all the explosives in the prison. Each building begins to explode simultaneously. The bottoms blow out of the buildings spreading fire around each one. Those on the first floor come out on fire and screaming. Before more have a chance to exit the second wave of explosives bring what is left of the buildings down to their knees. It is beautiful in a magical way. I almost expect God to reach through the clouds of smoke and collect the lost souls himself. My hands aren’t so nervous anymore and my mind is only on the mission at hand. Slowly a few people begin to emerge from the ruble and the flames. More screams erupt from the prison. With my rifle ready I begin to take out anyone left making their way out of the buildings. Guard or prisoner it doesn’t matter. The sounds of sirens begin to drown out the cries for help. Reload. I don’t see any rescue vehicles. Reload. I know they are coming, but they are at least five minutes from the prison and another five from where I am. Reload. I line up shot after shot. Taking anyone I can. Reload. As I prepare to put down another sinner another massive explosion sets off a chain reaction through the grounds. The gas line I presume. Reload. I watch as the carnage increases taking out the outlying buildings and guard stations. I scan the charred remains and bits of rumble for anything still left moving. The sirens get louder and louder, and I can know see the rescue vehicles arriving at what used to be the entrance. I hear the distinct sound of a helicopters in the distance long before I can see them. More people emerge from the ruins of the facility. I fire off every round left in my clip. I don’t have enough time. I thought I would have more. It is okay because I have prepared for this. If only the police were so quick to rescue the innocent there might not be a need for my services, my existence. I hear a helicopter closing in on my position along with more sirens. I stand up and walk away from my gun. I take my jacket off and lay it down next to me. There is no use trying to get away at this point. I put my hands on my head as I wait for the police helicopter to find me. It hovers in front of me. Words blaring from its loud-speaker tell me to do what I am already doing. Not long after two squad cars pull up behind me. Still I don’t move with my hands on my head. The officers tell me to get down on my knees and I comply as they tell me to drop on to my belly. I am slapped with handcuffs and checked for weapons in a matter of seconds. Two officers pick me up off the ground and they escort me to a police cruiser. They read me my rights and stuff me into the back seat. There is already an officer in the driver seat. I can tell from his eyes he is not happy to see me by the tone of his voice. “Why did you do this you sick fuck?” The officer screams at me. “If you don’t see it now then you are never going to get it,” I calmly respond back. “What is your fucking problem?” He yells at me again. His partner enters on the passenger side, “Hey leave him the hell alone.” Probably the best advice he has ever given in his life. I put my face real close to the cage, “I answer to a higher power.” The driver’s fist pounds the cage of the police car. The first of many fists I will be seeing today.

The police at the station are as welcoming as the officer in the car. They choose to ask questions with their fists and by kicking me while I’m down rather than asking me with their mouths. I can’t blame them for their reactions they don’t see the big picture yet. Best to give it time and let it sink in. I don’t say a word or show an ounce of pain, and it pisses them off more and more. “My wife works there you sick son of a bitch. You better hope they find her still breathing or they won’t be finding you that way,” one of the overly polite officers says before smashing in my nose. I let the officers get good and bloody before finally speaking. “I want my lawyer,” I tell them. “Oh you hear that guys he wants his fucking lawyer,” one of the officers says as he rubs his bloody hands with fresh wounds on his knuckles. “Like we give a shit,” another one strikes back. He strikes me hard across my face and I can feel my teeth loosening in my jaw. Blood sprays out of my mouth and all over the officer’s face. He wipes it away as they all have a nice hearty laugh at my expense. His face a twisted mess of madness and joy. I see the devil in his eyes. I look the next officer right in the eyes, fist ready to strike, and I calmly tell him, “I have A.I.D.S. The look of horror in the room is worth every broken rib, every chipped tooth, and every last drop of blood on their fists. An honest smile fills my face for the first time in a long time. I watch as they all flee the room. Tripping over one another at the door. Rats scurrying in the light that is God. “He works in mysterious ways,” I shout behind them.

I’m treated with much greater care as I am escorted to my own jail cell. The walk is nearly silent. The only noise I hear is the news reporting on my sermon at the end of the hall. I am in my own cell no longer than five minutes before a gloved up doctor comes in to stitch me up. She places her medical supply case on the bed next to me. She is wearing gloves that go all the way up to her elbows and a medical mask. She seems scared, but maybe it is only nervousness. I can see it in her eyes though her hands are steady. I’m still in handcuffs, but there is still an officer standing by my side ready to put a bullet in my head. The doctor doesn’t say a word as she stitches up the gashes on my face. “I feel like hamburger,” I tell her. She doesn’t even so much as smile at me. After she is done patching me up the doctor takes out a syringe and draws some blood before exiting my cell. The officer follows her and after the door slams closed I’m advised to slowly walk to the cell door and turn around. He undoes my handcuffs and informs me they are having a hard time finding me a lawyer. In the mean time I am to sit and wait until they find a lawyer to represent me. He looks me straight in the eyes and tells me he hopes I rot in hell. So, there are a few believers left out there even in here I think. However, I will be far from the burning depths of hell when all is said and done. I take a seat on the bed. It is time to rest I think to myself as I close my eyes.

I am woken by the tapping of a baton on my cell door. The artificial light has taken over. How long have I been asleep? “Wake the fuck up scum bag,” the officer at my cell door screams. He is not the same officer that was at my cell last so, he must work the night shift. “We found you a lawyer.” I rise from my cot and the pain from the broken ribs almost drops me to my knees. If I thought my face hurt before I went to sleep I was sadly mistaken. I don’t let the guard see my pain. I turn my back to the guard as he slaps the cold cuffs onto my wrists. I play his little dog and pony tricks on the way to the interrogation room. The room is nice and clean compared to the last one they had me in. “You didn’t have to clean on my account,” I tell the officer. “Save it for the trial. Your lawyer will be in shortly,” the guard grunts at me. My chair is place against the wall and as far from the table as possible. The officer doesn’t bother removing my handcuffs. “Get up from that chair and,” the officer begins. “And what you are going to beat my ass?” The officer’s face turns a nice shade of red before he exits the room. Idle threats are useless at this point. My lawyers enter the room as promised a few minutes later. He is a young man who probably just passed the bar exam, and is looking for a good case to get his name out there. “My name is James Raven,” he reaches out to shake my hand, but since they’re still in cuffs he pulls his hand back. “They do that to your face?” He asks. “Probably had it coming anyways,” I say to him. “You did do a very bad thing, but I’m not here to tell you that or cast judgment.” He takes a seat in his chair. “Is what I did truly that awful?” I ask him. “If you have to ask what do you thinking?” He takes out a note pad. “I did as I was told and what I did was right.” “Who told you to do these things?” He asks. “God,” I say sternly. “So we don’t have to rule out an insanity plea,” he says without looking up from his note pad. “You don’t believe me?” “I don’t have to believe a single thing you say the courts do.” “I realize that, but I asked you?” He looks up from his note pad and stares into my eyes, “What does it matter?” I don’t back down from his stare. “I need to know if you are with me or not.” Raven gets up from his chair and starts to pace the room. “With you on what? Do you know that every attorney in this city turned down your defense, and there are a lot of lawyers in this town?” I sigh, “Legally they have to appointment me a lawyer.” Raven takes a seat once again, “Yeah and the last five used every favor they had to avoid you. I had no favors and I had no choice. So what difference does it make?” “It makes all the difference Raven. Tell me do you believe in God?” He rubs his forehead, “That’s irrelevant at this point.” “Yes or no?” I stare Raven in the eyes once again. “Yes, I do believe in God. Why would that matter at this moment? This is about you not me.” “Because he told me to do what I did and what I do. I am his servant Raven.” He writes down every word I am saying on his legal pad. “I’m not crazy. God chose me as his messenger of death.” “Wait did you just say messenger of death? I nod my head never breaking eye contact. “You’re the one who’s been terrorizing the city for the past few years? Taking out drug dealers, rapists, and anyone who stands in your way?” I nod again. “Dear God.” “Watch it boy.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just, do you know what kind of trouble you are already in? And now this? Do the cops know?” “I have no idea and I don’t care.” “There has never been an execution in this state and they are going to fry your ass. If I was you I would care a whole hell of a lot.” “Only one judgment I fear and it will not be handed down by man.” “Not to be an ass, but you are insane and that’s a good thing. If we have any chance of beating these charges it will be because of that fact.” “I told you Raven. I’m not crazy.” “But you are. Don’t you at least see that? Let’s say God actually told you to blow up that prison and kill all those people. Let’s say I believe every word you tell me. It will not matter. Do you have any idea how crazy all of that will sound in court? The jury is going to think that you are stark raving mad.” “Because their faith is weak. In time everyone will understand what I have done.” Raven slams his fist on the table, “They already understand everything they need to understand. It’s all over the news. Madman blows up state prison and they don’t even know who you are. Once it gets out who you are. All of this will only get even crazier. No matter what you say no one is going to believe a word of it.” “And why is that? People once believed Moses and the burning bush. I’m not the first man to talk to God.” “Why?” He tosses some medical papers in front of me. I read it the best I can off the floor, but Raven sums it all up for me. “Moses didn’t lie to his people. You’re not H.I.V. positive. Hell you don’t even have diabetes. That’s lie one right there. If you really are who you say you are there are at least a hundred deaths under your belt before today. Two of which I might add are your own wife and son. Something else Moses and the burning bush never did either.” “No that is untrue. They moved away from here to some place out west.” “No, they were supposed to move some place out west, but instead they were found with bullet holes to their heads. So they never quite made it.” “There is no way. They’re not dead.” “Face it Stan either you plead insanity or you’re going to fry.”

My names not Stan or is it? I don’t know anymore. I have been so many people in the last few years I can’t remember, but I know my family is not dead. “I’m not done here yet.” “What?” Raven asks. “I said I’m not done yet. I’m still needed by God.” Raven calls for the officer outside the door, but it’s too late. The proximity bomb was triggered as soon as I got near this wall, and as soon as I get up from my chair I have less than thirty seconds to take cover. I kick the table over on its side and take cover the best I can. I was hoping the guard would have undone my cuffs, but I was prepared either way. I dislocate my left thumb and force my hand through the cuff. “What the hell is going on?” Raven asks while standing outside of the protection zone. “I’m sorry.” As the officer opens the door he is greeted by the blast of my escape route. The table shields me from most of the shattered wall. Sadly I can’t say the same for Raven. I can’t tell if he is alive or breathing, but I don’t have time to check. I hop over the table and jump down the ten feet down to the ground level. I land hard on a parked car, but it feels better than landing on concrete pavement. Wounded but not down I disappear into the night just as quickly as I came. My methods maybe extreme. They may be seen as hostile. I am justified and I am far from done. I gave God my word. I intend to do his work until my soul is ready to pass on.

 

Author’s Note: This story is part of a larger story. The third part to be exact. It was not based on anyone living or dead or any real world event. This story was one of my early stories written back in 2010.

Back then I really wanted to work for Marvel comics and I really wanted to write the Punisher. I came up with this character who was in a sense Frank Castle only guided by God or his idea of God. I had this whole scene in my head of the two with guns pointed right at each others heads and not being able to pull the trigger. Which one is the hero and which one is the villain type of story. Naturally I need a back story for my character. The original story was that back story. I don’t work for Marvel comics so, I decided to use it as a stand alone story. I chopped it down for the post today. The only thing missing out of the story is more context on his mission and him setting up the bombs in the prison. 

This story was in no way an attempt to capitalize or honor events that have happened  since I wrote the story. Why post it? Sometimes as writers of fictions we write fiction and later life makes it true. I wrote the story because I liked the character. Even all these years later I like the character. I still want to see him go up against Frank Castle. We are human therefore we are animals and violence is part of our nature. We can not escape violence whether it is through stories, television, movies, or video games. We need it on a primal level. However unlike the rest of the animal kingdom we are able to obtain it in ways that do not require hurting anyone else. The forms I mentioned. I don’t believe there is anything wrong with healthy forms of violence.

But mass shootings, rape, child abuse, murder, etc. are not healthy forms of violence. Even if some of those examples can be found in nature it doesn’t make them right. No one should be hurting anyone whether it is for a God, for one’s self, or whatever reason.

I’m not here to pass judgment on anyone or for anyone. We judge ourselves enough as it is. I am only justifying why I posted this story.  If for any reason you are upset. I apologies, but I will not be taking the story down or editing it out of my book. My intentions as a writer are never to upset anyone, but to tell a story. Whomever that story may be about.  

Fuck, I Hate It Here- Notes On Nothing At All

Working like this you feel as though you could sleep for days, An endless cycle of sleep, work, what am I doing, and do it again. Up to my eye balls in debt. I am working for a clean slate. I am working for a dream. I am failing at every turn. This constant cycle doesn’t produce any results on either front. Not happy at work. I don’t care. Spinning in place and digging a hole so deep that no matter how much or how hard I work I am going nowhere. The how much and how hard of the constant digging has left me drained. When am I to write if all I want to do is die? What do I have to say when all I do is work? The world is passing me by, thoughts are passing me by, and my own grave surrounds me.

I dream of another life. A life with a different outcome, a different family, and yet I would die without the family and life I have. It is a constant sadness, another brick, insert the song in a cheesy nostalgic slow chant. I feel it as though I always have and I always will. One more heavy piece of earth. Another foot in the grave. No matter what I am fighting something, myself. There is this idea that we write our own stories and this is false in so many ways. The people around us write our stories, predict what we are to say, and hold us down. But where is the beginning? Are we always in the middle until the end?

There is no structure to this linear existence. It all makes no sense, has no reason, and in the end no point. Reflecting on it useless. Fighting useless. Going with it a waste of time and effort. No one wants to be a sheep, but the world can’t run on wolves. Though it seems at every turn it does. I miss the days when none of this mattered. I have no idea when all of it started to either. The idea of being an adult makes no sense at all. I’ve been told I am immature and maybe I am. Maybe I give a fuck about all the wrong things. Maybe in my trap I have lost faith in who I am, who I have become. We are all pieces of something or somebody else. We feed off those around us, but if we have no one around us what do we become? Throw in a lack of sleep for good measure and I am working my way to becoming something horrendous. A monster without a face or a soul. Embrace the change I suppose, but what then? I don’t know anymore. I’ve been swinging so long that all I do is swing. I don’t care what I hit. All I know is that when I finally connect I want them to feel like shit. To feel the way that I do.

It’s four in the morning. I can never sleep at normal times. All the time in the world to write and all I want to do is cry. Waste what little silent time I have. Maybe I want to fail just so I can have something to bitch about. I’m succumbing to the old man cliché of nothing is good enough, but I have in no way tried to make it better. Bliss of ignorance if only I wasn’t watching the train wreck happen while sitting at the wheel. Though when the wheel is jammed what else am I to do? Fix it? Fuck you think this is?

Life is strange in the way that it plays out. When you are young you need structure, but all you have are dreams. When you are old all you need is a dream, but all you have is structure. Work, family, society, and so on in an endless excuses for existence.  We are taught not to mess with any of them or bad things will happen. We place restrictions on everything. Drown ourselves in rules while forgetting that messing with these structures is why we are here. From fire to food if we didn’t step out of line we’d have no civilization.

In America we fear religious extremists and rebel forces. Yet the first settlers of our nation were religious extremist and this nation founded by rebels. We wrote the book on freedom, but don’t want anyone to read it. We are willing to recite passages, but the context is almost always lost. We rattled the fuck out of the structures around us at the time. Changing the course of history forever, but we to have slipped into the old ways. We have moved past our adolescent days and grown old. Compliance breeds boredom and boredom spells out problems. This shit is going to burn and it is a matter of when and not why anymore. Sad to be a part of this. To live now in this world. With all our advancements we struggle with our own morality as we always have. Taking a look around we never needed any of this shit, but we wanted it. I know what I want, but do I need it? Am I spinning in place with everyone else for no reason at all? Could I give up digging or will I just die?

This was something that I wrote for my next novel that I am still working on called Fuck, I Hate It Here. It is a piece of fat that I enjoy, but doesn’t really move the novel forward. Didn’t want to not use it,… So there won’t be a new segment called Fuck, I Hate It Here but there maybe more that I won’t use that I want to share… 

To Become King Part 2

Now

The elevator door opens to the 20th floor. A man and a woman are standing there discussing stock trades. The woman asks, “Going up or down?” The stranger turns to Mr. Orr who responds with, “Up.” “Oh well we are going down,” the door closes before she can say anything else. The stranger presses the button to reopen the door, but nothing happens. The stranger asks, “Are you sure that wasn’t the floor you needed?” “Yes, I’m sure that wasn’t the floor.” “We didn’t even get a good enough look. You know that’s what I hate about these office buildings. Everything is just too fast. Get on get off. You know?” Mr. Orr puts his hand on his loaded revolver as the stranger looks away, “I agree.” He’s not going to shoot the stranger in the elevator, but he is going to need a way to convince him to do exactly as he says. The stranger grows even more impatient. He bought time by checking in at the desk, but if he doesn’t get to the meeting soon the deal is off the table. The elevator stops on the 25th floor and the doors open to reveal an empty floor.

The stranger looks puzzled at the site of nothing but the skeleton of a former office space. “Yep this is the floor,” Mr. Orr takes his gun and places it to the stranger’s back. “I think it is best if you join me.” Confused the stranger doesn’t know what to do. “What the hell is going on here?” He asks. Mr. Orr pushes him through the open elevator doors. The elevator doors just miss the back of Mr. Orr’s suit as they close, “No questions at least not yet.” Mr. Orr walks the man around the empty floor. There really is nothing on this floor but windows and frames of future walls. Convinced that they are alone on the floor he marches the stranger over to something he can see in the corner. Laying in the corner is a left behind office chair. “Pick up the chair,” he orders the stranger. Mr. Orr takes some rope out of his brief case as the man stands there shaking, “Sit in the chair.” Reluctant the man hesitates before Mr. Orr touches his back once again with the gun. “I had other plans for this rope, but sometimes things don’t go as planned.” Mr. Orr ties the man to the chair and positions himself behind him.

“Why, why are you doing this to me?” The stranger asks. Mr. Orr calmly takes his jacket and places it gently into his brief case, “Because I meet a man who looked like you once. And I killed him. Or as it may have turned out I didn’t. The thing of it is you can never be too damn sure. Yet that is my job. My place in this world. To make sure people stay dead. So you can understand why this isn’t personal. It’s just part of the job.” The silence of the room is taken over by the sound of the revolver blowing out the back of the man’s head. Mr. Orr wipes the stranger’s blood off of his face. He reaches into the back pocket of the stranger’s pants taking out the stranger’s wallet and opening it up. His name was Marvin Johnson and he was not the man Mr. Orr thought he was. “This has to end today. I can’t keep living like this. Marvin I am sorry,” he says to the corpse.

He opens his brief case and puts his jacket back on. The stranger is now another face that will haunt Mr. Orr. One more of the innocents he never wanted anything to do with. The years haven’t been kind to him. Bending him and shaping him into something he never wanted to be. Mr. Orr walks back to the elevators. Mr. Orr looks at his watch and presses the up button on the elevator panel. Before the elevator arrives he screws his silence on to his pistol.  Placing it back into the holster inside his jacket. He places a small blade into his right jacket sleeve just out of view. Finally the elevator has arrived. Three business men look confused as he steps in and presses the 30th floor button without saying a word.

Years Earlier

“I specifically had you brought in. I heard you’ve done a lot of work out of Chicago. Good work. So, I called you in,” Mr. Green says before taking a drink of his whiskey. Mr. Orr eyes him intently, “Thank you for your call.” He looks at the giant painting of Mr. Green sitting just behind its subject. He must really think highly of himself. “As I understand there’s a little bit of trouble happening on this side of the border.” Mr. Orr tries to fight back a smile. If it wasn’t for the money I wouldn’t even be here he thinks. “Right to businesses I see. Yes there is a little bit of trouble. Some people don’t understand who is really in charge around here,” Mr. Green is offended by Mr. Orr’s mocking of him, but he is the best there is. “A rival family has decided to move into my town. They’ve made it clear that they want this city, and now I need you to send a message that this is my town and will always be my town.” Mr. Orr nodes his head. I guess they’re all the same no matter where I go he thinks. Mr. Green starts up again, “There’s an illegal gambling casino owned by the son of the rival family.” “What’s the family’s name?” Mr. Orr asks. “What?” Mr. Green looks puzzled at the question. Mr. Orr restates his question, “What is the name of the rival family?” “Oh, oh the rival family’s name is Barr. Some Irish fucks who couldn’t make it in the states.” Mr. Orr again nodes his head, he pretends to not hear the difference in Mr. Green’s voice, but he did. Hard to believe some Irish mob would decide to give up and move up north. The Irish are not ones to just to give up like that, but I guess anything is possible. “The place is called Paddy’s Place and it’s on the south side of the city. I know that you are an expert at killing, but I am paying you extra however for you to not kill their son. I just want you to leave a message not start a war. Ruff him up a little, but don’t kill him.” Mr. Orr stares at Mr. Green, he thinks that all of this keeps getting stranger and stranger. Who hires a trained killer to just rough up some young punk ass kid? Why pay so much for only a message? More than one thing doesn’t seem right about all of this. Mr. Orr begins to open his mouth but is cut off. “His name is Ezekiel Barr.”

Now

Mr. Orr steps into the crowded office floor of the 30th floor. Passing cubical after cubical he tries to appear calm through the sea of them. Moving through a maze of busy businessmen and women typing away at their computers or running to the copier. He walks to the secretary of the man he is there to kill. She is busy talking on the phone. Anyone walking on this floor would never think that the man in charge here is dirtier than a pig in shit he thinks. Mr. Orr asks, “Is the boss in?” The secretary waves her hand at him to hold on a second, “I’m going to have to call you back George. Ok sounds good.” Mr. Orr moves close to her desk in order to block her from the view of the rest of the room. She hangs up the phone and looks at her daily planner, “There’s no scheduled appointments for two o’clock, but I guess I can see if he can take you anyways. Just a moment.” Before she has time to pick up the phone Mr. Orr has taken the small blade and pierced it through her neck destroying her vocal cords. The secretary is still fighting to breathe making a gargling sucking noise. She is only making things worse for herself. The sound of her struggling isn’t loud enough to cause any alarm amongst her busy co-workers. Mr. Orr ends the secretaries suffering by stabbing the blade in the back of her neck severing the spinal cord. He lays her motionless body face first on her desk. Hopefully no one will notice the pool of blood building under her desk long enough for me to do what I need to do and get out he thinks. He quickly makes his way to the office door. Looking around before taking his pistol out of its holster inside his jacket. Mr. Orr turns the handle of the door and enters the office.

“Well hello Mr. Orr it’s a pleasure to see you again,” says the man behind the desk. “Hello Mr. Green, I don’t know if pleasure is the word I’d use for this occasion just yet.” Mr. Green stands up and gestures to a chair in front of his desk never flinching, “I assumed you were dead, at least that’s what I heard. There were rumors.” Gun still pointed directly at Mr. Green, “Maybe because you tried to have me killed in New York City. Even got pretty close to making it happen that time. Sadly there is not enough time to show you the scares.” Mr. Green grimaces before giving off a deep hearty laugh, “I’m afraid compare scares would be pointless at this point. He all have a few now don’t we?” Slowly making his way into the room Mr. Orr tries to keep him talking, “Why are you trying to have me killed?” Smiling, “As if you don’t really know deep down why. But what’s done is done so why not take a seat we have lots to talk about.” Mr. Orr takes two more steps into the room with the gun still pointed at Mr. Green, “I have nothing left to say to you Mr. Green. What’s been done has been done. For years now you’ve tried to set me up and destroy me. Every time you have failed, but now it’s my turn to succeed where you have failed.” The door slowly closes behind Mr. Orr as he cocks his pistol ready to fire. A whistling sound comes from behind Mr. Orr. It enters through the back of his head sending him to his knees and eventually to the floor.

“What a shame. He was the best assassin I’ve ever seen. What a pathetic way to go,” Mr. Green says to the killer that was waiting behind the door. “I told you I saw him standing in the elevator on the 20th floor with some guy in a navy suit dad,” the gunman with a huge scar on the left side of his face says. “And he was right about one thing, you did fail.” Ezekiel picks up Mr. Orr’s gun and points it at Mr. Green. “And what do you plan on doing with that gun Ezekiel? How do you expect this to end?” Mr. Green asks. Ezekiel pulls the trigger plunging two rounds into Mr. Green’s chest, “The way it should have ended years ago. The son becomes the king.”

To Become King Part 1

“Because I meet a man who looked like you once. And I killed him. Or as it may have turned out I didn’t. The thing of it is you can never be too damn sure. Yet that is my job. My place in this world. To make sure people stay dead. So you can understand why this isn’t personal. It’s just part of the job.” The silence of the room is taken over by the sound of the revolver blowing out the back of the man’s head.

Years Earlier

A man dressed in an all-black suit sits at a table outside of a café in Quebec, Ontario. The man sips his espresso and he waits. The man doesn’t have to wait long before another man dressed in a black suit and red tie takes the seat across from him. It’s too cold for most people to be sitting outside in that time before the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Even with the snow cling to the sides of the buildings around them it is a nice day and they are not most people. Before the man has any chance of delivering a greeting the man in all black asks, “Is the job done Mr. Orr?” Mr. Orr’s deep voice answers back swiftly, “Would I be here if it wasn’t Mr. Green?” “No I guess you wouldn’t be. So it’s safe to say the man got the message then?” “Well nothing is ever safe to say, but yes the man has gotten the message.” Mr. Orr looks Mr. Green in the eye and says, “Did you want some kind of guarantee?” Mr. Green tenses up to the question, “Well as a matter of fact I would like some kind of guarantee. In fact to tell you the truth Mr. Orr I would have preferred proof. You weren’t on an errand. You weren’t being paid to pick up my fucking dry cleaning. You were being paid to deliver a message to someone. Someone I might add that hasn’t been seen or found since an unknown assailant raided his club last night. Not the cops, not his whore of a wife, and surely not anyone in my organization. I’ll admit that this in most cases would be a good thing. I’d clap my fucking hands and say good job. Way to fucking go.” Mr. Orr straightens up in his seat. “But,” Mr. Green continues, “But I didn’t pay you to kill this asshole. I paid you to scare him. That was it.” The café becomes quite as the two men stare each other down. “You should try to stay calm Mr. Green. You’re starting to make a scene.” Mr. Green slams his fist hard into the table knocking over what is left of his espresso. Mr. Orr pulls something out of his left coat pocket and hands it to Mr. Green. The crowd in the café slowly return to their conversations and drinks. “The man is dead and the job is more than done. I can’t help it if the cops in this town can’t find a dead body, but the man you sent me to scare. That man is dead.” Mr. Green takes the article that Mr. Orr handed him. Mr. Green folds the paper and places it into his suit pocket, “Yes, Yes it appears that he is, but you were sent to send a message.”  Mr. Green again clenches his fist, “And since there’s no body to speak of, would you ever so kindly like to tell me why?” Mr. Orr sighs, “Well there were complications.”

Now

Mr. Orr stands at the curb in the arrival area of Toronto’s Pearson International Airport as a taxi pulls up next to him. He enters the taxi, “First Canadian Place.” The cab driver begins to talk, “Ah buddy what you here for? Business? Pleasure?” Mr. Orr pulls some money out of his pocket and slips it to the driver. “No talking. Just drive,” he says in his deep voice. The taxi driver takes the money, “Anything you want buddy.” The driver looks at the money. “Anything you want.” The cab driver pulls out on to the road and heads for down town Toronto.

The taxi pulls to the curb of west Kings Street to deliver the man known only as Mr. Orr to his destination. He picks up his brief case, hands the driver some more money, and exits the cab. The taxi pulls away to join the sea of cars on King Street.  Straightening his suit Mr. Orr looks around him. The noise of the city flips a switch in his head. The noise reminds him why he likes the peacefulness of the country. The seclusion from people and society has provided a sanctuary from all the evil he has done throughout his life. No people means no reminders. He begins the slow walk towards the entrance of the First Canadian Place passing businesses men on their lunch break, a crowd of female tourist visiting from the states, and more people than he can count within a few glances. His focus is on one thing. His focus doesn’t waver. As he pulls the door open an attractive woman cuts him off on her way into the lobby. Mr. Orr is forced to stop and he is bumped hard from behind. He turns around quick, too quick for someone who is pretending to be a normal business man and not a trained killer. As he spins around ready for anything, what he sees is not what he had expected to see. The man who ran into him quickly apologizes to Mr. Orr without the slightest notice as to who he is. Mr. Orr however is now transfixed on the face of the stranger. He nods to the stranger and watches his eyes for the slightest sense of hesitation. The man apologies again and heads off. Staring him down all the way to the security desk Mr. Orr can’t help but to think, to know that he has unfinished business with this man.

Mr. Orr joins the man at the security desk making sure to stand two people behind him in the line that has formed. He never takes his eyes of the stranger. The stranger has a face he remembers like all the other he has killed. He looks to his watch. I still have time before I’m expected upstairs he thinks to himself. Mr. Orr over hears that the man is headed for the 35th floor as he looks at the floor legend posted by the security desk. Apparently the stranger has a meeting that he mustn’t be late for. The man might be late for that meeting he thinks because we have a thing or two to work out. Mr. Orr follows the stranger once again.

Years Earlier

“You don’t fucking get it do you motherfucker,” the stranger screams at Mr. Orr. “You’re dying here today one way or another.” Mr. Orr screams back, “Oh and how do you see that happening?” “You’ve made one too many mistakes here tonight asshole. I don’t know how you managed to get your weapons past security, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize you don’t have enough bullets left to finish this. How many you got stranger?” The mark asks Orr. Pulling out the clip to his gun Mr. Orr begins to count, “One, two, three.” Mr. Orr stares at a mirror adjacent from his position behind a desk, from what he can see the man isn’t being very smart, it’s hard to figure out his exact position, as the mirror is slightly blurry from the water of the fire sprinklers, but he can see enough to make the shot he needs. “Four, five, looks like six. I’ve got six shots. Good news is that I only need one. Now it’s your turn how many you got? How many are you going to need?” The stranger begins to laugh and shake his head in a fit of rage. Beads of water fling off of his head, “You’ve got balls. Big hairy balls.”

Mr. Orr is starting to feel the chill of the water on his face and hands. Each falling drop landing in pain on his body. Canadian winters can be bitter and harsh much like the man with the gun in his hand. The mark keeps talking, “What you got nothing to say now? How about I make you fucking talk?” The man fires three bullets throughout the room. The three shots don’t hit anything remotely near Mr. Orr. The mark has no idea where Mr. Orr is or the colds getting to him as well or both. “How about you just tell me who sent you and we can go have a laugh and a drink?” The stranger fires another round from his gun. “Who fucking sent you?” Mr. Orr rises up from behind the desk he has been taking cover under and fires one shot, “As far as you’re concerned God sent me.” The shot grazes the stranger on the left side of the head and forces the man back into the cracked window behind him. The mark falls two stories into the night as the window gives out.

No telling if the shot was fatal, too much water blurring his view, but if the shot didn’t get him the fall must have. Mr. Orr keeps his gun raised and walks to the window. Ready for anything this has been one fucked up night. The shattered window has traces of blood on the shards of glass still left in the frame. He looks out the window into the dark night, “Fuck.” Mr. Orr stares at the icy river below him, “If the bullet didn’t kill him the cold, the cold water should have finished him off. Fuck.” After a moment Mr. Orr turns to the mark’s desk. He takes an envelope from the top drawer and slips it into his pocket. He eyes the picture frame on the desk, Green.

Now

Mr. Orr stands next to the man he believes he has seen once before. The man wears a navy blue suit with a white tie. The suit isn’t expensive like Mr. Orr’s, but the man is still dressed up all the same. They enter the elevator together. With just the two of them the man gives a weak smile and presses the button for the 35th floor. The stranger asks Mr. Orr, “What floor do you need buddy?” Mr. Orr is shocked that the stranger still hasn’t shown any familiarity with him. He smiles, “You know it’s the craziest thing I really can’t remember.” He gives a slight hint of laughter, “It’s either the 20th floor or the 25th floor. I’m not too sure though.” Annoyed the stranger presses the buttons for the 20th floor and the 25th floor and turns to look at Mr. Orr, “Well I guess we will just have to find out than.” The stranger turns away from Mr. Orr. The stranger checks his watch and grips his brief case tighter.

Mr. Orr hasn’t taken his eyes off the back of the man’s head. He knows this has to be the mark from his past, but the man has no recollection of him. The stranger has no signs of a scar on his face where the bullets should have passed. Maybe he never hit him at all. Mr. Orr begins to question his memory of the events. Can this be the man he thinks it is? He decides he can’t take the chance or risk. All things have led to this very day.

Years Earlier

“No weapons beyond this point. Have you been checked for a weapon yet?” The rather large door guard asks. “You know, you’ll think that this funny,” the noise admitted from the gun was more of a whisper than a bang. “I didn’t,” the door man falls face first on to his desk admitting a heavy thud.

Mr. Orr waits a moment with two silenced pistols stretched out aimed directly at the back stair well door. Nothing comes out and nothing lies on the other side of the door except the stairs. He moves at a fast steady pace up the stairs. He has no way of knowing what lies ahead at the top of the stairs. He was lucky enough to find a disgruntled employee willing to tell him the best way to get in after a few drinks. Mr. Orr place one gun into its holster and knocks on the door at the top of the stairs. “Who the fuck is it?” Answers back. “You weren’t buzzed by Smith.” “By Smith do you mean the rather large fellow watching the door? Cause he seemed rather busy with what looked like a nice piece of ass and just told me to go right on up.” The door opens, “That lazy piece of shit can’t ever get anything right.” The skinny man behind the door drops to his knees, yet another victim of Mr. Orr’s pistol. “Timmy who the fuck was it?” A second man asks. The man reaches for his pistol as Mr. Orr takes him out. The man squeeze one round off into the floor on his way down. The sound echoes through the tiny hall way giving away any surprise entrance to the party in the next room.  The shot not only interrupt his plan, but those beneath them as well. He can hear the screams of panic, the sudden rushing of footsteps, and the overall chaos begin below him. It’s seems that the illegal gambling hall will be closing early tonight. Whether it was the second man’s poor attempt to kill Mr. Orr or a scared patron from down stairs the ceiling’s fire sprinklers begin to release water all over the room. The sound of the fire alarm is nearly deafening coming from the stair well, but somehow Mr. Orr is still able to hear the sound of the door opening at the other end of the hall. “Whoever the mother fucker is make sure they’re dead,” comes from the room at the end of the hall. Mr. Orr’s mark is more than aware of his presence even if he has no idea who he is. Mr. Orr takes out the first man with a clean shot. The second man manages to fire two whole shots before he too drops to the ground. The third man however manages to get off a whole clip. Missing with every shot as Mr. Orr takes cover behind Timmy’s old desk. The third man rushes towards the desk unaware that he is only pulling the trigger on an empty gun. With all the time in the world Mr. Orr shoots the charging man square in the chest stopping him dead in his tracks. A man at the stair well door barely misses Mr. Orr’s head before taking two of his own bullets to the chest and falling down the stairs. The door slamming behind him. “Close, real fucking close,” Mr. Orr says to himself. Mr. Orr reloads both weapons before proceeding any further. “No one dies am I understood,” he says in a mocking tone. “No one dies.”

 

Part 2 coming tomorrow… 

The Memorial Day Incident (Vulgar)

“Just a little bit further Jason I want to find a good spot for your first parade. We should have gotten here earlier,” the women increases the hold on her son’s hand as they pass through the crowd. The child looks scared and continues to mumble louder and louder after each person he brushes past. “What are you saying Jason?” The mother stops in the crowd to hear her son. “I raped that little girl and it burns in my mind. I wonder if she still remembers like I do, but she was so drunk she probably doesn’t,” Jason says. A look of horror comes across the mother’s face, “What are you talking about Jason?” “I don’t like the crowd mom can we go back to the car?” he asks. Ignoring his question she asks, “What were you saying before Jason?” “I didn’t say anything before mommy,” he says confused. The woman crouches down to be face to face with her son, “Yes you did and you should never repeat whatever it is you just said. You are much too young for that kind of language or to even know those words.” She looks both frightened and confused. “What words? What did I say? Are you mad at me?” Jason asks in rapid succession. The woman stands up and takes her child into her arms, “Never mind, I’m not mad at you sweetie.” “Can we go back to the car?” He asks once again. “I feel safer in the car,” he says to the asphalt. The woman puts him back on the ground and scan the area around them packed with people. “Yes, we can go back to the car,” she says disappointed. “We just have to go back through the crowd. Can you do that?” The little boy nods his head yes and she takes his hand into her. They start to make their way through the crowd and almost immediately he begins to start rambling again as he slips past people in the crowd. This time however it is a different woman who hears what he has to say. “What did he just say?” The stranger asks his mother. “Sorry?” she asks the stranger who grabs her. “What did your son just say to me?” Confused Jason’s mother tells the woman, “Nothing he is, he doesn’t know what he is saying. The crowd is making him very nervous and scared.” “That’s no excuses for lying about my father like that,” the stranger says in anger. “What?” Jason’s mother asks. “Your little bastard of a kid just said to me that my dad liked to touch me in my sleep and that I liked it. I ought a beat your little skinny ass because my dad’s a saint. Where do you get the nerve to teach your little mistake things like that and then convince him to tell complete strangers such rude things to their face?” The crowd around them grows quite to hear what they are saying. “Why is she yelling mommy?” Jason shouts. “Because she is confused,” his mother says nervously and very afraid. She tries once again to walk off. “Fuck that I’m not confused your son is just a little freak,” the stranger yells at her. “Like I said he is scared and nervous because of the crowd. He doesn’t know what he is saying and you are just making it worse for him,” she shouts over her shoulder. “I’m making it worse?” The stranger shouts after she chases after them. “I’ll show him what worse really is. Maybe it is something you should have shown him once or twice,” the stranger reaches out for Jason’s arm. “Excuses me is there a problem here?” A uniformed police officer asks as he grabs the stranger out reached hand. Jason’s mother turns to see who asks the question. Relief washes over her as she see the officer standing there. “Yes there is her fucking bastard child is making up stuff about my father and me,” the stranger says red-faced. “Ma’am the language is not appropriate. Let’s let cooler head prevail and leave these nice people alone. He is only a child he probably doesn’t even know what he said.”

The cop kneels down to be at Jason’s level. He places his hand on the child’s shoulder, “Why don’t you just say that you are sorry, and you and your lovely mother can go enjoy the rest of the parade?” Jason locks eyes with the police officer, “I shot him because he was black. I knew he didn’t have a weapon, but I shot him anyways. What’s the world with one less nigger? A better place.” The cop turns a lighter shade of pale. Transfixed on the boy’s eyes he is at a loss for words. “Oh my god Jason I can’t believe you just said that. I never taught him to say that,” his mother scans the eyes of the crowd that has gathered. A look of horror and intrigue has come over the crowd. Ashamed Jason’s mother picks him up, “That’s enough.” The cop remains kneeling staring at the spot that once contained Jason’s face. “I’m so sorry,” the mother tries to explain to the officer. “That never happened. He had a gun so I shot him,” he says to himself. The crowd grows even more somber as the officer stands up. “Told you that kid was a freak. Arrest them or something,” the stranger says. “Shut up,” the officer says to the woman. The crowd murmurs while staring at the cop. “So what if he was black?” the officer shouts with all eyes on him. “A criminal is a criminal and I did what I had to do to protect myself,” he says while scanning the crowd for any form of sympathy. “Mom I want to go home. I’m scared,” Jason puts his head in the crook of his mother’s neck. He buries his head as deep as he can as she begins to speak, “I’m going to take my son home if that is okay with you officer. He didn’t mean what he said and this has all been a very strange day.” The cop mortified doesn’t look up at her or to anyone as he speaks, “That is probably for the best.” Tears hit the pavement as they begin to walk away. The crowd stands in disbelief at what they have seen.

The mother turns to walk through the crowd once again. The crowd parts making sure to not touch them as they walk through. “That’s it?” The stranger shouts before throwing her arms down and stomping away. As his mother tries to go around a rather large man near the back of the silent crowd Jason’s foot lightly touches the man’s arm. “I buried them under my house. The smell is starting to get to the neighbors, but I’m starting to like it,” Jason says. The man has a face of shock as the crowds eyes divert to him. Jason’s mother stops dead in her tracks as someone from the crowd shouts. “Get that man.” The large man tries to get away but everyone around him refuses to move. “Move out of my way. I’ve done nothing wrong here,” the man says as he pushes against the crowd. “Just because a child says something that makes it true?” The man asks the crowd. Jason’s mother sets her son back on the ground, “What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything,” the man says nervously. “This is Officer Johnson, I need back up on the intersection of Fifth and Jackson,” the officer says into his radio. “Back up?” The man questions out loud. “There’s no need for back up. I didn’t do anything. I don’t even have neighbors,” the man becomes even more desperate as he pushes against the crowd. The officer pulls his gun from the holster, “Please put your hands behind you head.” The man stops pushing against the crowd, “Hey, watch it there trigger finger. I swear I didn’t do anything.” “Then you won’t mind getting down on the ground and putting your hands behind your head? I won’t ask again,” the officer shouts. “Okay so some crazy psycho fucking kid says something and we’re all going to believe him?” The man shouts. “This is insane. If I even did what he alleges that I did than that means you shot an innocent man? You do realize that don’t you?” The officer doesn’t put down his weapon. The crowd is still silent as the people around the man slowly back away. Unaware of what is happening behind her Jason’s mother says, “My son is not crazy. I don’t know what is wrong with him, but he is not crazy.” The man grabs her by the throat and begins to choke her. “Your son is crazy,” the man grips tighter. “Fucking say it,” he screams in her face. The officer fires two rounds just as the man pulls her closer to himself. Both shots hit her dead center in the back. The man releases his grip on the woman’s throat as she falls to her knees. Jason’s mother coughs up blood as the officer also goes down to his knees.

The crowd begins to cry and scream as they disperse in all directions. Through the madness and the chaos someone screams, “Nice job officer dip shit. I guess we will just have to add another to your list.” Jason stands there frozen in shock and fear covered in his mother’s blood. The large stranger grabs Jason by the shoulders raising him high in the air as he begins to shake him. “Why did you do this you little shit?” He screams at the child. Bits of spit follow with every word. Jason begins to cry as he screams, “I sliced her open like a deer as I fucked her until I came. Over and over I am king.” “Shut the fuck up,” the man says as he shakes him harder. “Put the kid down,” the officer tries to say but the words only fall to the ground. “Another I fucked her in her tight little ass while she bleed out on my garage floor,” Jason begins to laugh but it is not the laugh of a child. “Shut up,” the man says as he wraps his powerful hands around Jason’s throat. The man squeezes as hard as he can. Jason fights to say something else, “I prefer to asphyxiate the special ones. There is something about watching the life in their eyes slowly die out as I fill them with the beginnings of another.” Too weak to move Jason dangles there as the man chokes him, “I said shut up you little bastard.” “Put him down or I will shot,” the officer tries again.  The officer rises to his feet, “What’s another dead piece of shit?” The cop fires all of the remaining bullets, but one into the man’s body. He takes the burning hot barrel and places it into his mouth blowing out the back of his head. Back up finally arrives on the scene only to see the bodies resting on the ground and a boy standing in the middle of it all.

“True fucking story,” I tell the people across from me. A few of them are my friends and a few of them aren’t. “They even have a name for what happened even though most people back home like to pretend it never took place,” I say. “What’s it called I’ll Google it right now?” A naive girl asks from across the fire. “You won’t get 4G out here. We are in the middle of nowhere,” another girl proclaims. “Okay whatever I’ll put it in my phone and look it up later what was it called?” She takes out her phone. “What a fucking nerd,” a friend of my shouts out. Ignoring them all and in the most dramatic voice I can, “Its called the Memorial Day Incident.” A round of laughter begins around the fire. “What kind of fucking name for something is that?” Someone asks. “That story is such bull shit,” another says. “No it really happened,” a friend of mine says. “Okay then what happened to Jason?” I start to say something before being cut off. “I want him to tell me,” she demands. “What happened to Jason? That’s what you wanted to know?” My friend asks. The girl nods her head, “Yeah what happened to Jason?” “Jason died that’s what happened to him. The large man shook him so hard that his neck snapped,” my friend explains as he looks over at me. “I thought,” she begins to say. “Who else has an actual scary story to tell?”

Weatherman

The weatherman calls for rain, but then again it always rains here. The rain is cold and it is harsh against my clothes and against my skin. The rain comes down and it pours, and when it doesn’t pour it turns into mist that surrounds me to always let me know that it is there with me. The rain will never leave.

The weatherman calls for rain. He is an idiot in a village full of them. The rain builds up on the edges of the streets and seeps on to the sidewalk. The rain puddles look like lakes on the ground. I feel as if I am Jesus walking on water, but the holes in my shoes bring me closer to the ground than closer to god.

The weatherman calls for rain, but what does it matter? When it rains it pours and it makes days seem like weeks and weeks like months. Time stands still here only the rain and the weatherman are constant around me. Some days it burns and some days it heals, but its presence is always with me. I wonder what it would be like without all the rain.

The weather man calls for rain, and I assume my place once again.

 

Story blog how strange… This is a flash fiction micro tale about nothing inspired by my time in Washington State… Fun fact it rains there.. a lot.. I remember walking to work and dodging the tidal waves created by the city buses… For a place with so much rain it always seemed as the roads were flooded… Too broke to afford even the bus. I often arrived to work soaking wet.. It was very humbling and honestly some days I miss it. Maybe it’s the youth I miss… Not caring about anything… Of course that wasn’t even the case then… Everything seemed way more important than it ever actually was.. I worked in a fucking video store.. haha… 

Another reason I wrote this story was because I could careless about the weather.. Not the environment.. I care about that.. Put your fangs back in… What I mean is that I don’t care if it is raining or not… It either is or it isn’t.. So to me weather specialist are kind of pointless… Tying it all together… There might be some more symbolism in there somewhere… Not sure what it could be..