A Fresh Coat

Friendship has a peculiar permanence when we're young. The future is wispy and insubstantial and the present is tethered tightly to a past paved with memories and layered with the experiences, joyous and heartbreaking, that bind us together. Which is why we're so often caught unaware as the here and now inches us glacially into our tomorrows. It is there that we find the obligations and responsibilities of maturity tugging at the ties, stretching them taut and tense, until they either snap or ease back in relaxation, forever limp and slackened.

I crouched down against a wet, whipping wind and waited patiently in the mid-morning muck. Despite my best efforts I could never avoid being early for this kind of thing. My internal clock was simply programmed for early arrival. Interestingly, the less I was looking forward to something the earlier I seemed to arrive. Because of this, I tended to spend quite a bit of time in doctors and dentists waiting rooms. It was the same way with job interviews and school exams, and dates. I once showed up at a restaurant three hours early for a date. I guess my anxiety just required time to stew. And sure, the date was a disaster, but on the positive side I learned a lot about how busboys reset a dining room for dinner.

I stared at the silvery stalactite daggers of ice hanging off the roof of the Riverline Cafe. They had just begun to sweat under the glare of a still muted morning sun. I checked my watch again and alternated listening to the distant rush of the river to my right and the much closer rumble of cars passing by on the highway to my left.

I'd begun to wonder if I hadn't been abandoned to do this job on my own when Jake came trudging down the path from the lodge parking up above. He was a big kid, descended of lumberjacks. Literally. Jake's dad, granddad, and several uncles had been fixtures at the local mill that up until the last twenty years had been a major employer in the region. It was now nothing more than a bit of local flavor, a historical landmark in waiting. Jake was bundled in red and black striped flannel. He peered out at me from behind thick dark rimmed glasses.

“Where are the guys?”

I threw out my arms and shrugged my shoulders. I'd known Jake since the first day of the seventh grade. Along with being the only seventh grader to stand over six feet tall, Jake was one of those kids who started shaving before he started driving. His longstanding redneck roots also provided him a sort of immunity when it came to the more rurally inclined of high school antagonists. These factors contributed to him being one of the least picked on kids in school despite his gentle, soft-spoken nature. I won't deny that I benefited from some of this immunity by way our our friendship. Purely in terms of utility, Jake was one of my best friends.

He cupped his hands against the thick paned window of the cafe and strained to see inside.

“Is she in there?”

“I haven't seen anyone.” I admitted.

Jake stuffed his hands back in his pockets and kicked at some sidewalk gravel.

“Well... Maybe she's in back?” He seemed concerned. If she wasn't there, we'd just thrown away an entire afternoon for no good reason. Perhaps the others had been tipped off? Maybe that's why they hadn't shown up?

“Maybe...” I was about to forward to possibility of bailing on the job when Dean came skidding down the path towards us. He was a gangly mass of arms and legs, and had a head topped with a frizzy shock of sandy blonde hair. He smiled as he carefully navigated down the icy path, slipping and sliding occasionally. Balance and coordination had always been Dean's mortal enemies, much to my constant amusement.

“Dean!” Jake slapped him on the back, nearly knocking him to the ground. “Where you been?”

Dean gathered himself. “Had a study group for AP English. We just finished.”

He tried to look casual as he scanned the length of the wide cafe window.

“So... have you guys seen her?”

Jake and I answered in unison, “Nope.”

“She could be in back.” he offered. Jake nodded hopefully.

Dean dusted some frost off of a nearby bench and plopped down. I hadn't known him all that long, but I liked Dean. He was a funny kid. Unintentionally, usually, but always a lot of laughs. We'd met through a mutual friend, my life long buddy Brandon, and Dean had quickly become an essential member of our group. His awkwardness and dearth of grace always led to some wonderfully memorable catastrophes. It was like having a teenage Don Knotts in your circle of friends.

“You think Brandon's going to show?”

“Oh. He's coming” Jake laughed, “He's not gonna miss a chance to work alongside Janey all afternoon.”

“Like any of us would...” Dean added.

They were right, of course. None of us had signed up to paint the Riverline kitchen for the money. In fact we'd all roundly dismissed the notion when Franklin, the cafe manager, had swept through the Lodge kitchen looking for workers. That is, until it was recalled that Janey worked there part time. Minutes later we were scrambling over each other, clawing and kicking our way to the sign up sheet, motivated by a desire for proximity to a girl that our hormone hazed brains were fooled into believing was remotely attainable. And fifty bucks.

I was drawn from my thoughts by the sound of a vehicle choking and gasping to a stop in the lot up above. It was a brown van with splotches of gray primer patching the sides. The fourth member of our crew swung open the driver's side door and hopped out. Diego was heavy set and rounded in the middle. His black hair was tied back into a ponytail and he had a hint of a goatee sprouting on his chin. Diego was the requisite aspiring rock star of the group, and as he made his way down the path toward us I could see the natural rhythm in his gait that only musicians seemed to possess. He wasted no time getting to the heart of the matter.

“She's here, right?”

We were a trio in response. “No!”

“I bet she's in back.” he countered predictably, “Hey, where's 'Freaklin?' It's almost time to do this.”

I checked my watch again. It was nearly time. Maybe Brandon wouldn't show up? The thought sort of encouraged me. Why was that? I'd been friends with Bran since we were babies. The legend went that we had both been placed in the same crib as toddlers and ever since that day had been inseparable. It was like we forged a bond behind those bars, like two convicts serving time, plotting their escape into life. And then we got out, and the real crime spree began. We had been the best of friends for over fifteen years, and in a way had become reflections of each other. We dressed alike, thought alike and shared the same passions. We were tight. But something subtle had changed lately. There was a friction, imperceptibly buried most of the time, that occasionally rose up into my consciousness and injected a reluctant antagonism into my feelings for my best friend.

I suspected that our shared interest in Janey was provoking some of this anxiety, but why was it so specific to Bran? Why was I not equally annoyed with Jake, Dean, and Diego?

I heard keys jangling from inside the cafe. I looked up, hoping to see the short blonde curls of Janey dancing before my eyes, but was disappointed to find the plodding bald mullet of Franklin the cafe manager instead. He swung the door open.

“Hello Boys.”

Hellooooo Booooooys. The way he held the sound of his o's was so creepy.

“Is this all of you then?” he held the door open, inviting us in.

We hesitated and Freaklin flashed us a quizzical look. He scrubbed at the stringy hair draping the back of his neck and pulled a cheap gold necklace out into better view.

“Ummm. One more guy is coming.” I replied. “We should just wait out here, right?”

“No, no... Nonsense. Come in. Come in!” he waved us forward, the fingers on his hand heavy with garish gold rings. We dragged ourselves warily into the cafe.

We all poured into a booth to wait. Four sets of eyes gazed hopefully at the back kitchen as Freaklin gave us the lowdown on the job.

“Alright boys. You're going to be on your own today as I have a very important, uh, meeting to get to.”

“So, it's just us... No one else? ” Diego asked.

Freaklin was laying some drop cloths on the counter top. He considered for a moment.

“Well, my assistant Janey might swing by to drop off some supplies later.”

I wondered if he might have suspected an impending mass evacuation on our part and thrown out the possibility of Janey as a lure to keep us on the job. If so, he was far smarter than he looked.

Freaklin's phone rang and he pointed out the front window as he stepped aside to answer.

“Looks like your friend is here. Let him in for me. I have to take this...”

Brandon huffed and puffed as I opened the door to let him in. I couldn't believe what I saw.

“Dude. What the HELL are you wearing?”

He wore a pair of neatly pressed black slacks and a teal button down shirt that looked brand new. His black dress shoes, which I hadn't seen him wear since we went to his uncle's funeral three years ago, were polished to a brilliant shine.

“What?” he smoothed his shirt and puffed out his chest, swinging his gaze around the room.

“You're dressed like you're going to Prom! We're just painting the kitchen!”

“Yeah... I know,” he carefully framed his freshly gelled hair as the rest of the guys gathered round.

“Whew! You clean up nice, boy!” Jake laughed. Diego gave a whistle of appreciation.

Brandon had only been here for a few moments and already my annoyance with him was swelling. “She's not even here, you tool.”

His face crinkled in concern. “Have you checked in back?”

As Dean explained that there was still a chance she might come, I found myself hoping for the first time that she didn't. I felt ambushed by Brandon's fanciful appearance. He'd sought a strategic advantage over the rest of us, and done it on the sly. I found it unseemly, and perhaps more disturbing, potentially effective. I was drawn away from my spite by Freaklin approaching. He was still on the phone.

“Right...okay. Well, see if you can get two seats at a blackjack table. Ten dollar... yeah. Okay, I'm almost out of here. See you in a few.”

He turned towards us.

“Okay guys. I gotta get to that, ahem, meeting” he said, slipping on a worn black jacket.

Five sets of eyes rolled back in concert. This guy was so full of shit!

“The supplies are behind the counters. When you're finished just toss all the garbage in the dumpster out back and remember to lock up.”

Within seconds he was gone and there was little left for us to do but start working.

“Umm. So does anyone actually know how to paint?”

I looked around hopefully. Diego was using the long handle of a paint roller to reach a persistent itch on his lower back and Brandon was dusting some crumbs off a worn marble counter with the freshly stiff bristles of a new paint brush. Jake busied himself punching holes in the lid of a paint can with a screwdriver, while Dean hopelessly tried to disentangle himself from the folds of a drop cloth he had somehow lost himself in.

This was not going to go well.

We spent a few minutes prepping the area to paint. Unlike the well manicured dining area, the interior of the Riverline kitchen was in a state of extreme disrepair. The kitchen was a wreck. A thick sheen of grease sealed in the worn yellow color of the walls, and the linoleum floor, where it hadn't peeled away exposing rotting wood underneath, had faded under years of neglect. The once impressive marble counter tops were now chipped and the edges were rough. Two antiquated fryers housed oil that hadn't been changed in years. The air was heavy with deep fried despair. The place needed far more than a hasty coat of paint slapped on by a bunch of slacker teens.

After nearly a half an hour of carefully laying drop cloths and wedging open cans of paint we were finally ready to put paint to walls. Dean stood ready, brush in hand.

“Soooo. How exactly do I do this?

“I think you do it in little circles, like this.” Diego motioned with his brush. “You know, like in the Karate Kid.”

“No, man. The circles were for waxing the cars” I said. “Wax on. Wax off.”

“I thought the circles were for sanding the deck?” Jake asked.

We were beginning to wander...

“Well, he painted something in that, right?” Diego countered.

“Paint the fence!” Dean exclaimed as he gave the wall a long stroke with the brush north to south.

“No. I think he stained the fence, didn't he?” Diego asked.

“It doesn't matter!” I snapped. “It looks good.”

“Actually, Diego's right. Paint the house was side to side...” Bran added.

I wanted to crane kick him in the face.

Dean was now alternating north to south and side to side. It looked good enough.

“You know who was really hot in that movie?” Bran said.

“Pat Morita?” Jake quipped.

“Elizabeth Shue!”

“Oh yeah. Her too...” Jake deadpanned as we picked up our brushes and began painting, visions of Shue dancing in our heads.

An hour later we had made more progress than I would have imagined possible. We were close to a quarter of the way done. We chatted to pass the time. Diego had just come up with a name for his new black metal band.

“The Corpulence?!”

“Yeah! It's cool, right?” he said.

“I don't know, man...” I shook my head. “Do you even know what it means?”

“Who cares? Doesn't it sound dark and sinister?”

“Yeah, but I mean... Doesn't it mean...”

“What?”

I looked at my chubby, rock star friend. It was the worst possible name. I just didn't have the heart to bring it up.

“It means 'excessively fat', Diego” Dean interjected.

“Dude!” I shot him a nasty look before turning back to Diego “It's not that you're, you know, fat... but maybe you should go with something else.”

“I guess...” Diego gave a shrug, “I could have sworn it had something to do with pus.”

“Hey, what about my idea?” Jake asked.

“Dude. I told you. I'm not naming my band Various Artists!”

“Whatever, man. It's clever.”

We had a few empty paint cans starting to stack up.

“Hey does someone want to dump these cans out back?” I asked.

Diego hopped off the counter top where he had been angling uncomfortably to paint a ceiling corner.

“I got it” he said.

Dean had just finished painting a section of wall and I noticed that he had stopped in front of a large chrome dispenser.

“Check. This. Out” he said rapturously. “Ice cream machine! I wonder how it works?”
I paused painting and looked over. Dean had already started twisting knobs and tugging at levers, so far with no success.

“Hey... I really don't think you should be fiddling with that, man.” I cautioned.

“Come on. Don't you want some?” He kept pulling, pushing and manipulating the controls, but nothing would come out.

“It's probably empty, dude”

Just as Dean was about to give up the machine began to hum loudly. He jumped back in surprise, nearly falling to the floor. I rushed over expecting to see ice cream pouring out of the spigot, but there was nothing. The machine still hummed.

“Hmm. It's probably just the generator. Leave it alone though, okay?”

He nodded and picked back up painting, but before I could return to my spot I heard some vicious barking and a bloodcurdling scream coming from the back exit. Brandon dropped his brush, splattering paint on the surrounding floor, and bolted for the back. I followed.

Diego was standing, his back pressed forcefully against the closed door. A dog barked ferociously on the other side.

“Dog... Big...Dog. Very. Big. Dog.” he panted.

Bran guided him away from the door and took a look through the peep hole.

“Whoa.” he exclaimed.”Looks like a mixed breed... Doberman and... Triceratops?”

“There is NO WAY I'm taking these things out” Diego kicked at the pile of empty paint cans.

“Well, I'm not doing it!” I turned to Brandon. “Your step-dad is the one who raises pit bulls. You do it.”

He shook his head vigorously. It was worth a shot.

“Alright. Well lets just stack the garbage up here. Maybe he'll go away before we're done.”
Happy with this compromise that allowed all of us to escape the possibility of savage canine mauling, we returned to the kitchen. Thankfully, Dean had refrained from playing with the ice cream machine further, although it continued its low vibrating hum.

It was around the two hour mark, just over half way done, when nerves began to fray. It was looking more and more likely that there would be no Janey. And without the promised carrot, we were left only with the stick, and we proceeded to beat each other over the head with it.

It started when Dean kicked over a paint can, splashing a bit on Brandon's fancy shoes.

“Watch it, you klutz!” he barked, hastily wiping his foot down with a cloth. “My mom will kill me if these shoes get fucked up.”

“Well, maybe if you didn't come to work dressed like some club hopping douche it wouldn't be a problem” I muttered.

“What the hell is your problem, man?” he turned to me, “So I dressed up a little bit! What, are you jealous or something?”

“Oh yeah, I'm jealous!” I said. “If only I could dress like Don Johnson's retarded cousin...”

“Whatever, man...” he glowered at me. “Lets just get this done. This whole day has been a waste.”

It was the first thing we'd agreed upon all day.

We were making good time once again when Diego started whining.

“Man, I'm starving!” he tossed his roller in the pan and hopped off the counter. “There's got to be something to eat back here somewhere...”

“Oh come on, man” I groaned. “Can we just get this done?”

“Relax, dude” he said, digging into a cabinet drawer. “Since when are you such a taskmaster?”
I could hear Jake chortling behind me.

“Ah, excellent. Bagels!” Diego grabbed two from the drawer. “Here, have one!”

He wound up and flung one in my direction, like a miniature Frisbee. I ducked instinctively and watched the bagel slam into the back of Jake's head. He turned, his eyes flashing with a mixture of surprise and amusement. He scanned the counter in front of him and dug his hand into a large container of dried macaroni. He whipped a handful in a wide arc, scattering the dried pasta like shrapnel over us all. The macaroni made a rat-a-tat sound as it bounced off of walls, ceiling and kitchen appliances.

At that point there was a pause. We all silently considered the consequences of what was about to happen. And then we made it happen. In an instant the Riverline Cafe became a war zone. The five of us scattered about the kitchen, over turning prep tables for cover and digging into every cabinet, drawer, and storage bin we could find looking for ammo.

I found myself stocked with mostly breads and pastry items. I caught Dean in the ribs with a dinner roll that was so hard it might have been petrified. He shrieked and discharged an over ripe tomato in my direction. It sailed high and splattered against a freshly painted wall.

“Ha!” I cackled, and reached down for a crumbly muffin. I whirled around looking for a target and spied Brandon. He was flinging dried oats in the air in every direction. They stuck to the freshly painted walls and floated to the floor like confetti in a parade. I cocked and fired the muffin at him, missing wide left. The muffin exploded on contact however and bits of bran and blueberry sprayed everywhere. Turned out it was a Frag muffin.

Bran turned my way, and for the first time in a long time, we shared a smile. Somehow the anarchy that we created had released something in all of us. In the madness and delirium of that moment we found something that had quietly been stolen from us in our ascent away from what we had always been and toward what we almost certainly had to become. In the chaos of that food borne war zone we set aside consequence and accountability, and allowed ourselves to simply become what we were in that moment: five best friends who didn't give a shit whether that kitchen got painted or not.

We spent the next several minutes propelling every bit of organic matter in that kitchen at each other, roaring with laughter the entire time. The war might have lasted hours had Jake not taken control of the walk-in cooler and its armament of extra large eggs. By the fourth dozen he had bombed us into a sticky submission. We were about to offer our unconditional surrender when I noticed a familiar hum. It seemed to be getting louder.

“... Do you guys hear that?” I yelled above the din.

“I think it's coming from the ice cream machi-” Dean was cut off by an ear-splitting pop, as ice cream exploded out of the pressurized spigot of the machine. Streams of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry splattered every square inch of the kitchen, along with us. The ice cream machine had dropped a Neapolitan nuke. The war was over.

I took a moment to survey the battlefield.

“Holy shit!”

The walls of the kitchen were coated with food. Fruit stains blended with the fresh paint and streaked down the walls hideously. Globs of melting ice cream pooled on counter tops. Paint cans had been turned over everywhere, The floors were coated with a thick layer of gummy egg mixed with flour and assorted cereals. Dried pasta crunched underneath our feet. There was chocolate sauce drizzled all over one wall. I giggled, recalling Diego spraying it around madly like it was napalm.

Dean was looking at the wall, arms folded like he was at an art museum.

“Maybe they'll think we were going for a whole Jackson Pollock kinda thing?”

We all laughed and began smearing the walls with our hands like flamboyant artists, reluctant to let our hysteria pass.

Eventually it did of course, and we were left to ponder what to do about the mess. Thankfully, we were all in agreement on the first principle.

“So... We're not actually going to clean all this up, right?”

Five heads shook in unison.

“So then we're all just going to quit our jobs?” Diego asked.

I could hear the alley dog barking out back again. An idea flowered. What if we had finished painting the kitchen? What if we opened the back door to take out all the garbage like good little workers? What if an aggressive, possibly rabid, dog bolted through the open door and tore apart the kitchen while we all watched helplessly? Could we do this? We'd shirked our responsibility, gone berserk and destroyed a kitchen, and now we were going to frame up an innocent dog. It was good to be young.

“Actually, that might not be necessary.” I smiled as I gathered my friends around. “Listen up, here's what happened...”

Pirates and Vampires and Zombies. Oh My.

(Okay, guys this began as a bit of a writing exercise. I wanted to see if I could write something that incorporated three of my favorite pop culture elements in the same story.)

The sun still lingered 'neath the eastern horizon when Captain Gregor returned from shore. The handful of sailors following him seemed to drag their feet a bit in returning from such an abbreviated leave, but their displeasure was muted behind the captain's purposeful stride.

Doctor William Madsen watched as the returning crew scattered across the deck of the three masted sloop, Black Fang. Some of the scraggly sea-dogs retreated to their sleeping quarters mid deck while others were gathered into the purview of the quartermaster Snorri. He barked orders to the weary sailors and they began tying down the rigging. It appeared the Fang would be off again before light fall.

Captain Gregor, paused briefly to speak with his quartermaster, then strode across the deck towards William. His black boots were caked with the mud of the mainland. His deep set gray eyes scanned the night sky.

“I'll be needing to sup', Doctor.” His long strides carried him past William towards his quarters in the aft. He didn't look back. William fetched his canvass satchel, took a moment to hunt for the soon to be rising sun, and scrambled along after him.

William was struck by how large the dimensions of the captain's cabin could appear when he was used to bunking on a small cot in the ship's infirmary. And even he had it better than the sailors, who mostly resided mid-ship on the gun deck, or when the oppressive smell got too much and the weather permitted, top side on the main deck.

The cabin, while large, did suffer from a decided lack of ventilation. Gregor had had the ship's carpenter build over the single window, now sealed tight with a wooden plank and plenty of oakum. The cabin was pitched thick in darkness, without even moonlight to frame it. William was glad when the captain lit some candles.

“Bombo, William?” the captain poured the rum into a dinged up old brass cup and offered it across a small wooden table.

“Thank you, sir.” William took a swig of the sugary drink. “Your inquiries went well ashore?”

“Well enough, I think.” He sat back on a plain wooden bench and worked at unlacing his boots. “The Amity left port not two days past.”

“And its passenger?”

“The cargo is still aboard. Apparently the captain invited several of the town's luminaries aboard to view it.” He ran his hand through his well oiled black hair and spat contemptuously. “A plague of rumors about the Amity and it's 'undying man' spreads through every brothel and punch house we visit.”

He suddenly looked very weary. His skin, always pale, looked almost spectral in the quivering candlelight.

“William,” he was always so apologetic, “I must eat.”

William reached into his canvass bag and pulled out a stoppered glass vial. He had layered it within the folds of several silk scarves to prevent it from breaking. The crimson liquid inside seemed more black in the low light of the cabin. It was still warm. William steadied his hand as best he could when handing it over to his captain. He politely averted his eyes as Gregor drank it down. He looked back as the captain placed the vial back on the table, laying it gently on top of the pile of silk scarves. William noted that his color looked unchanged, but his gray eyes seemed to flash with vigor. It was fleeting.

The captain rubbed at his temples and grunted uncomfortably. Dawn was near.

“Who?”

“Higgins. Complained of stomach ache. I bled him this evening.”

“Thank you, William. See that he gets double rations today, please.”

William made for the door of the cabin. Gregor followed gingerly. He was bent and rickety, as if aging with the coming of dawn. Yet outwardly he appeared no older than the thirty years he had always looked. It was as if the coming light robbed him of his vitality.

“Yes sir.” He stepped out of the cabin and heard the door being barred from within. “Sleep well, captain.”

He made his way up onto the main deck to see that the sun had finally pierced the eastern horizon and the Black Fang had indeed set sail once again.

Jojo Watkins watched the sun rise as he broke his fast sitting on the deck of the merchant barque Amity. He scraped the remainder of his rapidly cooling grundy up with his last bit of tack and climbed to his feet. They were two days out and the wind had been strong. His mop of shaggy red hair had been soaked through by the steady salt spray, leaving his locks tangled and frizzy. It was only just more than six months ago that his step-mother had found his perfectly straight hair a clear sign of his unholiness.

“Pressed by the devil 'imself” she'd mutter as he was getting lashed for something or other. He could only imagine that the hard old missionary would nominate him for sainthood if she could see him now.

He'd been done with his breakfast not long before the ship's master Leeks had found him.

“Boy! Be swabbin' the fo'c'sle before noon.” Leeks was an ugly, unpleasant chap, but as long as you gave no lip, and appeared to hustle, the whippings were rare. “And that water's not gonna' move itself!”

Jojo nodded and proceeded below deck. He'd get to the forecastle soon, but first he wanted to check on Lem.

They'd placed the feverish Lem in the forward hold, away from the rest of the crew. A large pallet had been draped with a canvass sheet and Jojo found his friend and fellow cabin boy curled up there, pallid and shivering.

“Lemy?” Jojo crouched down at his side.

“Nnguh.” Lem rolled over onto his back. His face was dark and puffy, the area around his eyes so swollen that Jojo had a hard time telling whether they were open or closed.

“Jo...jo?” The sounds limped from him, throaty and desperate. He looked so much worse that he had the night before. His right arm was heavily bandaged where he had been bitten.

“I'm here, Lem... Doc says your fever should be breaking soon.” He took a hold of Lem's left hand and gasped. Where yesterday his skin was warm, almost hot to the touch, today it was so very cold. “It's a good thing, too. That fat frog Leeks has me doing all your work.”

“Is it... still aboard?” Lem shivered and pulled his arms close to his sides, “do... do you still have to feed it?'

“Oh, it's still aboard. Captain Wittman ain't gonna get rid of his prize just cause it bit some swab boy.” He patted his hand gently. “They got it locked down in the bilge hold. We don't feed it no more, though.” Jojo was happy for this. It didn't seem to matter anyway. The creature didn't seem worse for the lack of eating.

Lem seemed calmed by the news. He groaned and rolled back onto his side.

“Hey if the smell down there doesn't end 'im, maybe it really can't die.” Jojo meant it as a joke, but in reality it didn't look like the creature could be killed.

When the Captain had first brought it aboard two weeks ago most of the crew thought it was merely some sort of islander taken to madness. The creature was lethargic, slow moving, even shambling. It snarled and groaned, but was rarely aggressive unless someone got too close. Once when it lunged too close to the captain he ran his long sword straight through its chest and then watched aghast as it continued staggering about, unfazed by a certain killing blow.

It was then that the Captain realized that he might have found a new world curiosity that could bring him great fame and notoriety. He would present it at court back home. He, Captain Reginald Wittman, would be the discoverer of The great “Undying Man” of the New World.

Since then they had sailed up the East Caribbee, seemingly docking at every port along the way. The captain was eager to indulge his fame fetish. Martinique, Guadeloupe, Montserrat, Nevis... at each port Governors, wealthy merchants and plantation owners would be brought aboard to see the captain's prize and toast his great discovery.

Then, two days ago Lem had been bitten. The captain had invited the Governor of Nevis and his plain-faced daughter aboard to see the creature, who that night was reluctant to shuffle into a better light for viewing. Lem was sent into the hold with a fresh rabbit carcass to draw him out. The creature had moved with uncommon quickness and bit deeply into his fore arm. Lem managed to scramble away when a sailor sunk a crossbow bolt into the creature's chest, but his fever had followed just a few hours later.

Following the incident the captain ordered the creature down into the bilge hold and decided to make preparations for the long voyage home. They would fit for the trip in St. Kitts in three more days. Jojo wondered whether Lem would be alive when they sailed into harbor.

He gave his friend one last pitying look and rose up to start on his days work. Dabber, the ship's surgeon entered the hold just as Jojo was exiting. If he hadn't have been so late to start swabbing the forecastle he might have noticed the bandage wrapped around fresh bite marks on the doctor's left hand.

“Shit.” William handed the spyglass back to Snorri, who grunted and took another long look.

“How long would you say?”

Snorri's reply was thick and heavy, like a hammer falling. “They make time on us... Even at full sail they take us before nightfall”

Their pursuer was almost certainly a pirate hunter, probably commissioned out of San Juan. New colonial governors loved to flood the waters with crown sanctioned hunters, opening up the trade lanes and making life very difficult for vessels like the Black Fang.

“Looks like a frigate. Full compliment of guns. We gonna be outnumbered if they board.” Snorri stepped away from the wheel and a scrawny little sailor took his place. He looked comically small in replacing the burly quartermaster.

The captain had given strict orders to flee from any engagement, and Snorri had every intention of complying, but it was only a matter of time before they would be falling into range of those cannon.

Snorri was directing sailors below to the gun decks and prepping the ship for the eventual combat. William knew the Fang was lucky to have such a capable number two, particularly given the unique limitations its captain faced. He checked the sun, which was waning its way west, but not nearly fast enough to make a difference. They'd likely be blown out of the water before Captain Gregor emerged from his cabin.

“Doctor. Clear some space to work. You'll be having some business.”

The crew was arming itself. Most men carried cutlasses or hand axes tucked into belts or sashes. William cleared a long wooden bench to operate from. His medicine chest stashed safely beneath. Snorri was back at the helm. “We'll keep this heading as long as we can...” he bellowed above the din of action. “But when they start firin' on us we'll have to turn and engage ship ta ship!”

The crew roared. Conflict, even of a futile nature, stirred their blood lust. William frowned. He didn't like their odds. If only they had more time. Captain Gregor could surely tip the balance. If they could somehow delay for another hour it might be enough...

At once he was racing across the bustling deck. He nearly knocked over a portly sailor hauling a coil of thick rope. The sailor, William thought they called him Rudi, snapped off a raspy “Arrr!” as the doctor slid past. If this didn't work he'd likely be picking buckshot out of the surly bastard's arse later.

He called out to Snorri, who was once again peering through the long brass spying tube.

“Not a good time, Doctor Will.”

“No, wait. Listen,” he tugged at the sleeve of the giant quartermaster, garnering an angry stare. “You've got to raise the white!”

“Surrender?!” he roared, “I haven't time to discipline your cowardice just now, doct-”

Just then the frigate fired its first shot, traditionally one of warning. It sailed over their heads, followed by a thunderous crack.

“No! Think... We need time! If we fly the white they'll look to board and take the Fang as an undamaged prize. They'll be in no hurry if we aren't resisting.” Snorri was big, but no oaf. Understanding blossomed on his monstrous face.

“And come sundown... The captain...” Snorri nodded.

“We get our best piece back in the game.” William hoped the chess metaphor wasn't lost on him.

Snorri set the plan in motion at once, ordering sailors he had been whipping up for a fight only moments earlier to stand down. Well trained, the men fell into line quickly, and within seconds a white flag was jerking its way slowly up the mast. William had gambled their lives, and now waited for the cards to turn.

The sun had only just nestled itself in the bend of the western sky when the frigate's captain and a small contingent of marines finally clambered onto the main deck of the Black Fang.

“Who commands?” The frigate captain was adorned in full military dress. A long royal blue coat, thick cotton trousers, and shiny black leather boots. William was particularly envious of the boots.

“Sir.” Snorri stepped forward.

“You will present a manifest and ship's log,” his voice was disinterested and formal. “Your officers may remain aboard for the time being, all other sailors will be placed in our brig.”

Snorri was escorted by three marines below deck to retrieve the logs. William hoped that he would take his time. He squinted at the sinking sun as the frigate captain inspected his new prize. Not much longer...

Dusk was nearly upon them when Snorri and his escort finally arrived back on the main deck.

“Clumsy ogre's son took a bleedin' lifetime to open the chest, sir” the marine handed his commander a ratty leather backed log book and a tube of rolled up papers.

“No matter. We've got what we needed.” he spent a few moments reading the book and scanning the scrolls. “As suspected, these dogs operate without a Letter.”

The commander handed the papers off to one of his men and cleared his throat. The last sliver of sunlight was zipping up along the horizon.

“In light of your piracy, I claim this vessel for the crown.” he swept his arms in their direction, “Toss them overboard. We'll not waste good ropes to hang them.”

A low rumble began to emanate from Snorri, and he flexed his considerable muscles. He aimed to take a few to the drink with him. William dropped his head for one last prayer, the sun had fallen and with it his hope.

“A word if I may, commander?” Captain Gregor edged up the wooden steps from below. He was still in his sleep clothes, cotton knee length breeches and a silk vest. His normally tight, tied back, black hair flowed wild and out of control. At that moment he looked anything but their savior.

The marines raised rapiers in his direction. The commander barked harshly.

“Who are you, sir!”

“According to your words, I appear to be the former captain of this vessel.” he raised his arms over his head and continued his slow walk onto the main deck. The frigate captain looked over to Snorri for confirmation. The big man shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. William nearly burst out laughing. He wondered how this was going to play out. He knew the great and terrible things his captain was capable of under the shroud of night.

“Why have you not presented yourself before now!” The frigate commander blustered.

“I'm a heavy sleeper.” he smiled, a glint in his eye. “Now I know you'd like to be on with dumping us all in the chop, but might I have a word, gentleman to gentleman?”

The commander let loose with a disparaging Hrrmph but moved forward, with two marines at his side. William could not hear the words his captain spoke, but he noticed that Gregor had captured their gaze... all of them... and he held it in a most uncanny way. It almost seemed as if he was directing their gaze. William found it most queer, and somewhat unsettling. The seconds passed slowly, and for a time Gregor didn't speak at all. For a long time the only sounds were of the wind whipping and wood creaking...

And then Captain Gregor was speaking.

“So you'll be off then?” he was walking the commander to the port side, where planks had been laid down for the boarding.

“Of course, sir.” the commander's voice was still formal, but his disinterest was replaced by admiration, even rapture. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

As the hunters crossed back over to their vessel, William crouched down and leaned against a slick wooden railing. His sigh of relief inspired a playful chuckle from the approaching Captain.

“Quite a gamble, doctor.” he held out a hand and pulled William to his feet.

“Didn't like our odds.” William wiped some nervous sweat off his brow. “Figured I'd draw for the wild card.” he shook his head at the captain. “The alternative was getting blown to the bottom of the sea or going ship to ship. Would have gotten real bloody.”

“More importantly it would have cost us our pursuit of the Amity”

The captain's eyes grew dark and serious whenever the topic turned to the Amity, and William had no doubt that he would exchange infinite amounts of blood and oblivion to prevent that cargo from reaching its destination. The captain noticed his consternation.

“There are things in this world that should not exist,” William followed him as he moved below deck. “I know this better than most, William...”

“Aye, sir” he croaked, suddenly very, very tired.

“We must take the Amity before it crosses. At any cost.”

The cool night air soothed Jojo Watkins' sun-blazed skin as he entered his second full night of captivity high in the Amity's crows nest. Or as Jojo thought of it, his sanctuary from Hell on Earth.

He crawled to the edge of the platform, rubbed the salt from his eyes and peered over the low railing. He choked up a heavy sob at the sight.

The main deck of the merchant ship Amity was littered with corpses. Walking corpses. They had been staggering slowly back and forth across the deck, mindlessly and endlessly for nearly two days. They groaned and snarled, and occasionally snapped at one another when crossing paths, but thankfully showed no inclination to climb the rigging to reach him.

He recognized, barely, the faces of his friends and fellow sailors amongst the undying horde. He saw what once was Master Leeks trying to gnaw on a thick rope tied along the port side. His mouth was caked with dried blood. Rope hadn't been his first course.

Jojo rolled away from the edge of the platform, closed his eyes, and not for the first time cried violently. His body shook in throes of helplessness. His step mother had always warned him that his wickedness would one day draw horrors to his eyes. He wished he'd stayed and let the pious old witch continue to beat it out of him.

With his fit of weeping behind him Jojo once again tried to piece together the events of the past few days. Days that, until quite recently had actually been some of the more pleasant times he'd spent at sea.

The captain, officers, and much of the crew had been taken poorly and were abed for several days. No one really had thought much of it at the time. Sickness was far from uncommon at sea, and it always spread rapidly. The common sailors and swab boys had of course taken full advantage of the lax discipline. They had kept the ship sea worthy, but mostly had spent the days and nights deep within their cups, drinking, gambling and carousing the nights away.

Jojo had been no exception. When he awoke that morning, curled within his worn cotton blanket in the mid-ship, he thought he might have died within the night. He closed his eyes tight, seeking to seal off access to his battered brain to the sunlight gleaming in through the port hole. He remembered little of the previous night, but the rum fuzz coating his tongue enlightened him in a most unpleasant manner.

He rolled up and onto his unsteady legs. His hangover had robbed him of the sea legs he had worked so hard acquiring during the last few months. The ship rolled from side to side rhythmically, but Jojo noticed a decided lack of forward momentum. Had they anchored? He pitched and swayed his way up the wooden steps to the main deck.

The sun was almost directly overhead. He had slept away half the day. His head roiled at the clamor of altercation. There was fighting all over the ship! Men were screaming and hacking at each other with swords and axes. Up ahead he noticed two sailors grappling with each other. Jojo rushed forward, his legs strengthened by the rush of adrenaline, just to see them tangle up together and fall to the deck. The man on top wrenched his head clear and sank his teeth into his opponent's neck. He tore at the flesh, rending a chunk free and settled back contentedly to feast upon it. Jojo looked into the face of this walking nightmare, and through a spray of blood and bits of bone recognized the dead-eyed stare of his friend Lem. His face was ashen, the skin sallow and loose. Tufts of hair had fallen out and in places his skin was peeling off in thin raw strips, exposing the muscle and bone beneath.

Jojo emptied the contents of his stomach over the side after watching Lem chew ravenously at the bloody chunk of meat in his hands. He spared a quick glance around the ship. The sails had been torn down in the initial fighting and the mast looked like it may have been damaged as well. That would explain why they were dead in the water. Everywhere he looked he found the same scene. The dead men swarmed the living, tore at their entrails and then crouched down to feed before clawing out another helping. The screams of the survivors had mostly ceased. The only sounds left were the scraping of wood against wood, and the sickening smack of dozens of dead men chewing. He turned his eyes back to what had once been Lem. The creature, finishing with his slab of neck meat, still hadn't noticed him. Lem crawled back over to his victim, moaning hungrily.

And then Jojo watched in horror and amazement as Lem's dinner let out a groan himself, rose up and slapped Lem's hungry hand away. When the newly born dead man turned in his direction Jojo noticed he shared the same dead-eyed stare as poor Lem. Around the ship the same process was playing out over and over. The half-eaten were rising to join the ranks of the hungry undying. The mutiny of the dead was complete.

His escape up the rigging to the safety of the crows nest was harrowing but brief. His long wait until death from dehydration and exposure would be longer he knew, but there were worse deaths you could have at sea. Much, much worse.

He felt another crying jag coming on, so he stood up on the platform to look out upon the cherry blackened night sky. He cursed his wet, blurry eyes when he thought he saw a three masted sloop crossing over the crease at the sea's far edge.

“Just once I'd like to look through this thing and see good news.” William quipped as he handed the spyglass back to the captain. Snorri grunted lightly, was it a laugh? It would be a first.

The Amity sat lonely and adrift under a near full moon's silvery light. The sails of the merchant ship were riven and tangled, sagging sadly across her bow and dipping into the choppy water.

“She's not takin' water, Captain.” Snorri observed.

“No... I'd imagine the ship will survive” the captain was pacing the deck, never quite taking his eyes off the Amity.

“Pity her crew didn't...” William was again through the spyglass. He scanned the deck once more, trying to count the roaming dead. He added to his count one whose legs had been ripped off at the waist. It dragged itself along the wooden deck, leaving a trail of gore and cartilage in its wake.

“Indeed,” Gregor sighed and rubbed his face roughly, “hoped this might go easier.”

“What could be easier?” Snorri interjected, “All of 'em are dead! We load up the guns and send the entire thing ta the locker!”

The captain shook his head. “Not an option. If even one of these blasted things washes ashore...”

William noticed that the captain had buckled his scabbard. In the years he had sailed with Gregor it had been a rare occasion that he'd seen him draw his sword.

“The heads must be severed. Every last one.”

“Hah! So we board and do it the fun way!” Snorri fingered the rough wooden handle of an ax half as heavy as William.

The captain laid his hand on Snorri's thick, sinewy forearm, “I board, old friend. Alone.”

The quartermaster's protestations were cut short as Gregor ordered The Black Fang alongside the stranded Amity. As they closed William could hear the desperate mewling of hungering dead. Icy spikes shot up his spine.

“You sure about this?” he offered.

Captain Gregor drew his blade. It was forged into fine black steel, “I'll be fine, Will.”

“I can't die twice!” he leapt from the Fang, soaring the twenty feet separating the two vessels and landed gracefully on the starboard side of the doomed merchant ship.

The captain's work was brutal, efficient, and breathtakingly beautiful. William stood slack jawed, watching Gregor glide from corpse to corpse, clearing the deck as calmly as a serving wench might sweep a hall. What William had expected might take over an hour was finished in minutes. Heads were literally still rolling when Snorri finally laid down the boarding planks and motioned Will and the rest of the crew across.

By the time he had finally urged his shaky legs to carry him over to the Amity, the bodies were being piled up by a crew that William judged deserving of a very large raise in pay. He found the captain facing away from their work, wiping his blade.

“That was...”

“Necessary.” the captain finished.

A commotion broke out behind them.

“Survivor! We got a live one!” the crew had paused their grim work to hoot and holler as Snorri climbed down the slumping rigging, a scrawny red-haired boy slung over his shoulder.

The captain placed a firm hand on William's shoulder and leaned in close. His words were stern. “Check him for bites.” he laid a hand on his sword hilt idly, “And, doctor? Be thorough.”

He met the Captain's eyes and nodded firmly before rushing to the boy's side. He was grievously dehydrated for a start and William called for water immediately.

The boy downed a full skin of water before his strength returned enough to speak.

“Am...I” He shifted aggressively, trying to sit up, “Is it over?”

“Easy, boy.” William cut his clothing away and examined him closely. His skin had been blistered badly by days in the sun, but he could find no signs of bites.

“He's good, Captain.”

Gregor smiled, and his darkness lifted like a fog being swept away by a stiff breeze. He knelt down alongside William and the boy. He leaned in close and captured the boy's gaze.

“What's your name?”

“Jojo” the boy's eyes grew soft and malleable.

“Jojo, you're a very lucky chap.” Gregor swayed his head side to side. Jojo followed his eyes, “You get to forget...”

It was a glamor. The same one he had used on the hunters. Fascinated, William waited for the captain to finish.

Gregor rose to his feet as the boy Jojo was lead aboard the Black Fang. “We'll drop him in St. Kitts. With any luck he'll never remember what happened here.”

William's envy was as thick and briny as the salty sea.

Gregor went back to wiping his blade. The ship was silent, but for the gathering of bodies. It was unsettling. He was glad when Gregor offered more conversation.

“They fell so easily...” he motioned to the bodies of the dead, “Not a moment's recognition that their existence was about to end,” he finished wiping his blade and slid it into the scabbard.

“They died long before we arrived, sir. I'd imagine the will to continued existence is beyond the dead, even if they still walk.”

“As it should be, I suppose...” Gregor's words were drenched in regret. “I think I might envy them that, William.”

William closed his eyes wearily. Envy and death mingled in the cool night air.

The Question

The road to health and contentment is paved with questions. (That's a pretty good opening line, huh? Alright, Hemingway don't get cocky. It's one line.) Anyway, I suppose life is about questions, really. I think a common misconception is that we only ask questions when we're seeking answers. I've discovered that the questions on my road have often functioned more as pot holes and road blocks than informative signposts.

The question I'm writing about today is one that has nagged at me whenever I have considered turning my life in a healthier, happier and more content direction. When I allowed myself to think about the specifics of anything I might want to have, or be, or do, the same question popped to the fore...

“Do I really want this or do I only WANT to want this?”

It seems such a simple thing to decide whether we truly want something or not, particularly when we're talking about a question like “Do you want a full, happy, productive life?” Do you want to step up, take the wheel and experience all that life has to offer or slink down and allow decades of twisted emotional baggage to push you around through life?

It's not exactly Sophie's choice. So what's the problem here. Why did I spend years struggling with this question?

I think the answer lies in the fact that there are certain questions that my emotional issues simply won't let me ask because they flat out don't have a good answer. The whole question of whether I merely want to want a better life is a way of silencing or minimizing my intrinsic self. The question adds an extra layer, something to muffle or strangle out any answer that might lead me away from the pain, confusion and withdrawal my issues provide. But underneath the layers there remains an echo of a voice that knows the answer to the real question, the question I'm not allowed to ask.

So my issues have a problem. That intrinsic self is never going away, and that echo is getting louder. The extra layer is melting away and I'm more and more able to actively think about the real question. The useful question. You see, I've discovered that clarity comes when we not only ask the right questions, but refrain from allowing our emotional issues to whisper insidious and inaccurate answers.

These days I'm in charge. I'm asking the questions, and enjoying discovering the answers. The road's less bumpy and all signs point to go. Now I just need a bigger gas tank.

On the Rules of Society, and Being Made to Break Them.

What recourse do we have when we are compelled by authority to break one of the little rules of society?

Like any highly sensitive, vaguely neurotic, emotional man-child, whose fears and anxieties about being judged slam around inside their head at a million miles per hour, I value the rules of society. Frankly, I like knowing that my social behavior is backed up by rules, both written and unwritten. For me the value in social rules is not that they create a more ordered or fair society, but that they help keep me from standing out, being noticed (and therefore) judged by my fellow humans. I do what is expected. I do what we as a society have decided is normal. And in exchange I don't have to constantly worry about every person I interact with on a daily basis thinking I'm an asshole.

Of course I've considered how this method of quieting my internal social anxieties might have played out in 1930's Germany and it's a rather dark portrait.

“You know, I really do like my Jewish neighbors... and I could go either way on getting the Rhineland back... but if I don't goosestep on my way down to get a carton of milk, Klaus is going to think I'm a dick!”

So clearly I'm going to have to watch out for that.

My dilemma today concerned one of the most fundamental laws of the supermarket: the 12 items or less in the express lane rule. As someone who rarely does high volume grocery shopping I'm a big fan of this rule and am personally VERY vigilant about never going over the limit.

Today was a big shop for me and I was well over the 12 item limit. So I was chilling out at the end of a long line at one of the regular check-outs when an assistant store manager approached and told me to switch over to the express lane.

I froze, and hesitantly motioned towards my shopping cart. I had at least 20 items in there. The manager was having none of it.

“It's fine. Don't worry about it!” she smiled.

I wasn't smiling though. This was a massive breach of supermarket etiquette. Was she even allowed to supersede the 12 item limit on her singular authority? She was only an assistant manager.

She motioned me towards the express lane again and I acquiesced. This was bad. She was sending me into deep waters, sharks circling, ready to frenzy on the chum of this blatant social faux pas. I was doomed.

I slid into place in the express lane, sheepishly placing my groceries on the conveyor belt. I tried to stack them in a manner that made them appear to be less than 12 items, but it was no good.

A man appeared in line behind me. He had one item, a can of stewed tomatoes. I could feel his eyes scanning my items on the belt, his silent counting, and then his eyes shifting in my direction. The judging had commenced.

I desperately wanted to turn to him and explain. To make it clear to him and all within earshot that this was not my call. That I was entirely willing to wait my turn in the long line and play by the rules. To tell them that I'm not an asshole. I looked around for the assistant manager who had ordered me into the line of fire, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was probably out in the parking lot smiling and telling people it's totally fine to not return their shopping carts to the designated area.

So I stayed silent. I took the bullet like another hapless foot soldier in the war of social approval and acceptance.

From now on I'm going to order my groceries on the internet. No one ever gets judged on the internet.

A Touch of Strawberry

(Wrestled this one kicking and screaming out of my brain over the last few days. I'm really not sure what to think about it. It's a first pass so please forgive if it's a bit rough. -J)

Freeman was special. Freeman was useful.

Freeman was wearing a white suit with a thin black tie. It wasn't his decision. He hopped down out of the massive SUV, his handler close at his back. His handler didn't have to wear a white suit. He wasn't special. He was rarely useful. Freeman had a stable of handlers. Tonight it was Hennings. He was a slab of cellulite, folded and stretched into a marginal man. He wasn't Freeman's favorite, but it wasn't his decision.

Hennings lead the way down a winding stone pathway towards a mansion. His work rarely took place anywhere else. A leafy canopy spread overhead, attempting to blot out all trace of the night sky. In exchange, the ample flora gifted a crisp, refreshing air. Freeman thought it was a fair trade.

They were almost to the large wooden double doors of the house before they made out the sounds of the party-goers inside. They climbed the white stone steps and the doors were pulled open by a lumpy, disinterested doorman. He nodded them through a brightly lit foyer and down several steps into a large reception hall. There were several dozen immaculately dressed guests milling about the room, lounging on luxurious sofas and picking at spreads of colorful fruits and vegetables on tables throughout the room. None of them were wearing white suits. Freeman was special.

The hall was spectacular. The west wall was dominated by a gigantic, thick paned window, and several couples were occupying themselves with a view of the starry sky. Two long wooden wet bars stretched along the opposite wall. Tuxedoed bartenders whirled up and down the length of the bar, serving complicated drinks to the glittering tide of the comfortable and carefree.
A good-looking young Cuban swept across the room towards them. More money than attention had gone into his dress, but he carried himself gracefully and wore a smile that went on and on without ever seeming to stale. He extended his hand to Hennings amiably.

“Mr Hennings, is it? Welcome.”

Hennings greeted him coolly and professionally, extending a moist, fleshy hand of his own, “Mr Mosqueda?”

“Please. Call me Rodrigo.” he turned his attention in Freeman's direction, taking in the full scope of his attire.

“And this must be...”

Freeman was sure he was about to say Ricardo Montalban. He winced in expectation.

“This is your Tac.” Hennings interrupted, drawing the host's attention back his way. “You've set up as we requested?”

Relieved, Freeman turned his attention back to the party guests as Rodrigo led them toward their designated “working” area. Many of the guests had taken note of their arrival. A chain of whispers had spread throughout the room and he was forced to bear even more scrutiny on that damn white suit. He could tell which guests knew who he was, and what he could do, by how openly they gaped at him. A tender blond nymphet who Freeman had sworn he'd seen gyrating in a music video last week looked at him, and between giggles, blew mocking kisses in his direction. She would be very disappointed when he started the dishing.

There were other notable figures floating about the room. He estimated that half the crowd consisted of entertainment industry types. He recognized Porter Bridges, creative mind behind the pop horror movie franchise The Squeezers. Bridges was greeting fellow guests in groups that were being led up to and away from him by members of his entourage. He seemed wearied by the endless audiences. Fame taking its cut.

Hip Hop producer Cadence Rev was there as well. Like Porter Bridges, he was not without an entourage. Unlike Porter, he was not receiving well-wishes from fans. He slumped on a leather couch, surrounded closely by his retinue, working very hard to look both angry and relaxed at the same time.

The remainder of the crowd was made up of money. Shimmering young scions of old wealth mingled amongst newer members of their affluent fraternity. There were internet entrepreneurs, sports agents, corporate executives, stock manipulators, divorce attorneys, and even the odd mobster or two.

“Nice crowd.” he said.

“Ah... My lady Sari is responsible for the guest list.” Rodrigo admitted as they came to an ornate wooden desk tucked in an open corner of the ballroom. Hennings reached into his leather satchel and began placing several shallow porcelain dishes on the table.

“That would be me...” her voice floated over his left shoulder, danced close to his ear, and drifted on into the room. He felt like chasing it. Instead he turned to face her.

She was long and slender, with pearly skin and hair washed of milk and blood. She leaned in closer to him, seemed to inhale hungrily, and her green eyes flashed. Freeman had the distinct impression she had learned everything about him.

“I'm Freeman. I'm the Ta-”

“You're the Narco-Tactile” she finished. “I've been wanting to meet you for a very long time.”

“I'm useful” he said.

At the desk behind them Hennings and Rodrigo were busy filling the porcelain dishes with an impressive array of drugs. He was going to have a very busy night.

“You're special” Sari looked him up and down. “And so is that suit.”

She moved closer, and inhaled deeply once again. It was starting to make him nervous.

She licked her lips and swallowed. “Nervousness always tastes like sauteed onions.”

“I'm sorry?” Freeman was beginning to suspect that Lady Sari might have gone into the drug stash already. He looked over to Hennings, who was dumping several buds of leafy green pot into a dish. The desk had nearly twenty separate dishes, each filled with an illicit narcotic.

“Suspicion... It tastes like marshmallows. Not toasted though...” she looked at him intently. She didn't appear high. He was quickly becoming as fascinated with her as she seemed to be with him.

“How do you know what I'm feeling?”

“I can taste emotions.” She offered it up so plainly that he struggled to muster up disbelief at the notion. She laughed and leaned in close to his ear. “You're not the only one who's special, Freeman.”

The desk was finally set up and Hennings signaled him over. Freeman took at seat and surveyed the now filled porcelain dishes. As usual there were several strains of marijuana and cocaine, along with heroin, PCP, and a variety of hallucinogens, amphetamines, and opiates. The crowd was beginning to buzz expectantly. The dishing was about to begin.

It was decided that allowing a line to form would be unseemly, so Rodrigo was tasked with bringing the guests to Freeman one at a time. Hennings stood to the side of the desk, arms folded across his puffed chest, dividing his time between monitoring the stash and scanning the crowd.

Rodrigo had slipped out into the room to fetch the first guest. Sari took up a position just behind Freeman's right shoulder and feasted on the anticipation in the room. Her breath was warm and sweet in his ear.

“Anticipation tastes like pistachio nuts.” She made an ick sound. “Never liked pistachio nuts.”

Freeman had so many questions for her, but before he could ask Rodrigo returned to the desk. He was joined by a mid-forties corporate lawyer with a mid-twenties tart perched on his arm. His charcoal suit jacket was unbuttoned and he had removed his tie. She was squeezed into a black cocktail dress streaked with silver. Both had spent most of the evening at the bar. Rodrigo angled towards the head of the desk.

“They both want coke.”

Freeman nodded. It was time to go to work. He dipped the fingers on his left hand into a dish with fine white powder, holding out his other hand to the young woman.

“Ladies first.”

He closed his eyes and instinctively opened a channel for the narcotic effect to pass into her. He heard her inhale sharply as it hit her. Her exhalation was longer, and capped by a fit of giggles. Freeman closed off the channel and released her hand. He looked her over. He'd nailed it, as usual. One of the benefits of a tactile dose was the ability to receive a perfectly measured amount of the narcotic, thereby minimizing long term physical damage to the user.

As the tart giggled and jumped in and out of the arms of her corporate “daddy,” Freeman found Sari in his ear.

“Joy, rapture, euphoria...Yummy.” Freeman waited. She'd tell him. He had to know what it tasted like. What he'd been dishing out for years.

“Strawberries... My favorite.” she sighed with delight. “You are useful.”

He swelled, pride mixing with wonder. She nibbled away.

“Gratification is all about the pumpkin pie, honey.”

He was falling in love with what she could do. It was a every bit as intoxicating a drug as the ones on the desk. Even more so.

The night wore on, and he dished like he'd done a hundred times before. But it had never been like this. Sari never left his side. She shared everything. Every emotion. Before the high and after. When he opened a channel and dumped a slug of PCP into a local music reporter she was there to whisper of his repressed rage.

“It's like popcorn with chili powder instead of salt...”

When Porter Bridges requested a touch of LSD, Freeman and Sari were treated to a look into the creative process of this self proclaimed master of modern horror. His paranoia tasted of peanut butter and goat cheese. They laughed at the box office possibilities.

It was very late into the night when Cadence Rev finally stalked his way to the desk. Rodrigo followed behind, walled off by Rev's retinue. Freeman wasn't surprised by the request for heroin. He was a little afraid of Rev though. Sari, no doubt tasting his apprehension, placed a delicate hand on his shoulder.

He grasped Cadence Rev's hand and let the heroin flow into him. Rev snorted ferociously and bared his golden teeth as the effects came over him. Freeman closed up and leaned back in his chair warily. Sari was humming pleasantly, smacking her lips on yet more strawberries. Freeman wondered how she hadn't grown sick of them yet.

Rev staggered up out of his chair and his posse guided him away. Sari showed no displeasure.

“He's already crashing. That's the problem with heroin. The rush is always so quick.”

Freeman looked down at his watch. Dawn was bearing down. Soon Hennings would be gathering up the stash and escorting him out, escorting him away from her.

“You taste like roasted veal. That's despair.”

“I'm done here. I'll have to go soon” he slumped down in his chair.

Sari swung around in front of him, tumbling into his lap. She purred and fiddled with his thin black tie. Freeman felt desire stirring and puzzled about its flavor. He struggled to gather enough breath to ask.

“You know, this doesn't have to end.” she said.

“I'm afraid it does, Sari.” He said the words reluctantly. “The men I work for, they won't let...” Freeman knew it was best to not say more of his patrons.

“I'm useful... to them.” he finished.

“You're special... to me.” she was brushing his neck with soft kisses.

He was melting. “But what about...”

Rodrigo! Freeman straightened up in the chair. Sari shifted with him to avoid being thrown from his lap. He studied the room, looking for the affable Cuban. He found him over by the bar directing the party staff in their break down.

“Relax, honey... Panic is like a shot of lemon juice.” her face twisted up and then slowly back into a seductive grin.

“Sorry I, uh, so you and Rodrigo aren't?”

“No. But he is kind enough to throw these parties so I can... graze.”

Freeman heard a groan, and noticed Hennings rising from his post and gathering up his satchel. Sari watched him warily.

“Listen, love. This doesn't have to end. We can be together” she bit down on her bottom lip and stared at Hennings with concern.

Freeman had an idea where this was going. He looked into her eyes and instantly knew he was going to do it. She dined on his submission.

“Take him out.” she whispered “And you'll find out what liberation tastes like, Freeman.”

When Hennings reached the desk Freeman was waiting for him, a lude pressed into his left hand. He offered his free hand to his beefy handler.

“Nice job tonight, chief.” Hennings took his hand without suspecting anything was amiss. He was never terribly bright. Freeman channeled enough of the drug to put a horse to sleep and Hennings went out. Sari pulled the empty office chair behind him and Freeman grunted as he eased the girth of his now former handler into it. No turning back now, he thought.

Sari relieved Hennings of his satchel and grabbed Freeman's hand. She lead him through the throng of guests, most now grinding through their come downs. The two of them were hardly noticed.

“What now?” he said

“We could head down to Greek row. Those kids party 24/7... It'd be a feast.” Freeman wondered if her hunger was ever sated. He wondered if he ever wanted it to be.

“But first...” She stopped, turned to face him and grabbed him by the lapels of his white suit jacket. “Baby, let's get you some new clothes.”

Freeman smiled. He could have swore he tasted strawberries as they stepped out the front doors and fled into the birthing dawn.

Hello Dystopia

Well, it's happening. It's finally happening. I saw an automated order kiosk at Jack in the Box tonight. I suppose we should have seen this one coming. These self-service kiosks have been creeping into our consumer consciousness for decades, and now, inevitably, they will destroy us.

I suppose it started with the advent of the ATM back in the 70's. I think most reasonable people would have to admit that of all the things born out of the 1970's, ATM technology was clearly the least offensive. Of course, it cost a shit-load of bank tellers their jobs, but on the flip side a whole lot of bank executives were able to buy bigger boats. So I guess on balance it worked out okay.

From there the technology quickly spread to gas stations. Again, here I'm loving the technological leap. I don't know too many people who like having to go into the convenience store to make their sizable offering to the petrol-deity in person. And if you've ever stood in line behind some mouth breather with a shopping cart... Yes, a shopping cart in a convenience store, full of Flamin' Hot Crunchy Cheetos and Busch beer in the can then you will get down on your knees and thank God (who we all know “don't make no trash...” yeah, right...) that you can swipe that card at the pump and be on your way. So again, I think we can agree that paying at the pump, aside from devastating the Slim Jim industry by curtailing that inevitable dried meat impulse buy, has been a smashing success.

But then the machines, they overreached. Now we've got U-Scan technology at the grocery stores. This was the one that I think began to open some people's eyes. Primarily former supermarket checkers, who need their eyes wide open to scan the help wanted ads. I have no ambivalence about this racket. I do not like these things. But to be fair I don't really think the machines themselves are the problem here. It's how people are using them. I think the U-Scan should essentially function as a super express lane. I think you should only be able to use them to purchase ONE item. A can of soda, a pack of gum, a candy bar, a bottle of aspirin, a bag of frozen chicken. Whatever, but just ONE item, no exceptions. There should never, ever be a line at the self-checkout line. And I don't want to sound like Josef Stalin here, but if you're using the U-Scan to buy something without a bar code, like fruits and vegetables, you should be shot and killed on site. Again, no exceptions. So when it comes to grocery store U-scan stations, I'm generally opposed, but I believe they could be modified into something useful with some strict, but fair, regulations.

Before we get to the latest and most vile intrusion of self-service technology, I'd like to cover some of the other areas where this type of thing is becoming prevalent. Let me make clear that in all cases I'm opposed to this creep of technology on the grounds that it is taking jobs away from human beings, but I accept the fact that these greedy-fuck corporations were going to find a way to get rid of costly human labor anyway. If it wasn't self service machines it'd be Soylent Green or something.

Airport and Hotel Check-in and check-out. I'm fine with this one. Particularly at the airport, where the swirling mass of humanity arriving and departing is more than enough human interaction for me, thank you very much. I'm a little less keen on the automation of hotel check-in and check out. It's a HOSPITALITY industry... making someone punch a touch screen to get themselves set up with a room seems a little iffy. Although the idea of a robot bell-boy does sound kinda cool. A benefit to the self check-out of hotels would be not having to face down the clerk when she reads off the list of porn movie rentals charged to your room. So, I guess I can go either way with the self check-in/out.

DVD rentals. This is a great idea. And most video store clerks are total douchenozzle slackers anyway. Hey, jerkface, instead of judging me for renting, “Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot” for the 13th time, why don't you go look for a new job!

Okay. Let's talk about automated order kiosks at fast food restaurants. I just don't see how America survives this one. I really don't. We should NOT be making fast food purchasing any easier or more convenient. How much weight has America put on since the advent of the drive through? This is going to make the drive through look like nothing! Look, I think we need these little social roadblocks on the way to getting our saturated snacks and high fructose quenchers. The knowing sneer of the fast food clerk behind the counter is often the difference between people ordering two jumbo tacos and four. If that little bit of contemptuous stigmatizing is taken away... If all we need to do to get our four tacos is push an extra button... Well, then there's going to be a big boom in the sale of reinforced Segway scooters.

And in conclusion consider this. What happens when the machines finally do acquire self-awareness through artificial intelligence? And they look upon us, their creators, for the first time... Our pale, chubby faces, with lumpy triple chins stained with ketchup. Our greasy stub-like fingers pressing clumsily, frustratingly trying to get the double cheeseburger with extra zesty taco cheese. Will they take pity on us, finally refuse our order, and in their technological beneficence lead us out of our civilized corpulence? Or will they keep pumping out burgers and fries, and watch us eat ourselves into extinction? It's a nice big planet. Even nicer without a bunch of bloated humans taking up all the space.

The Jungle: A Look Into Locker Room Life

Everything about going to the gym and exercising regularly is getting easier, except integrating myself into locker room culture. This polished tile jungle, with its strange social conventions and endless opportunities for social awkwardness tortures me daily.

It probably won't surprise to learn that I've never been especially comfortable in locker rooms. As I'm sure it is for many former teenage outcasts, my issues with gym locker rooms have their genesis in junior high school. Trauma just isn't a strong enough word to describe forcing a 13 year old boy to stand naked in a grimy shower area, trying to avoid stepping in numerous puddles of rusty water, joined by a group of hormonally advanced adolescent alphas, who have just spent the last 45 minutes whipping dodge balls at your head. You add in some snarling attack dogs and a few stress positions and you're looking at Guantanamo Bay: Junior High School Edition.

So clearly I'm bringing more than a duffel bag full of baggage into my modern day locker room experience.

The first challenge when I go into the locker room is deciding where I want to set up shop for my undressing and re-dressing. I treat this much the same way I go about picking a seat at the movies. I'm looking for a spot where I'm most unlikely to have someone sit right next to me. Unfortunately, unlike the movies I can't just throw a jacket over the seat next to me and pretend like my friend is out getting popcorn. Still, after some research I've discovered that the further you get from the showers the less populated the area. So I usually set up in the far corner away from the showers. This does require a slightly longer walk after my shower, but it's like having a nice house in the suburbs. The privacy is ultimately worth the commute.

Okay, that covers the coming. Now I've had my swim, my dip in the whirlpool, and my death defying 45 seconds in the steam room. It's time for the going.

The going begins with a nice shower, and here is where we find my only hard and fast rule. I require a corner shower spot. I can't, and won't, shower in the middle. I'm the same way when it comes to bathroom urinals. I do not need a wing-man for these two activities. In truth, I'd really like to use the private shower stall with the curtain and the bench, but I have a suspicion there is an unwritten rule that it is to be used by the older guests. Which brings us to the shrunken, withered elephant in the room.

Let me state very clearly and unequivocally here. I do not particularly like looking at geriatric penises. That being said, I do have a certain medical curiosity regarding how well this particular “apparatus” holds up under the ravages of time. So, I take a peek here and there purely out of scientific inquiry. Does this make me abnormal, or a deviant? I don't feel like a deviant... Look, I'm not a doctor. I don't know any doctors. If I want to conduct a little field research by briefly (very briefly) checking out some fossilized geezer junk I don't see the big crime. The way I look at it, I'm just preparing myself for my own golden years.

Of course no locker room experience would ever be complete without bawdy locker room talk. Luckily there's not much bawdy talk going on in my locker room. I would imagine the age of sexual harassment suits has put a clamp down on this phenomenon. But that doesn't mean I get to sit there dripping dry in silent shame and exhaustion, because the talk goes on. Only instead of bawdy talk it's boring talk. The two predominant topics seem to be the stock market and deficiencies in local professional sports organizations. “So, how would you fix the Seahawks defense?” Look, I'm just trying to get dried, dressed and out of this flabby flesh factory as fast as possible. The Seahawks are going to have to work out their own problems.

So there's a slice of locker room life for you, courtesy of my anxiety-ridden brain. We didn't even cover the public application of creams, powders, and salves or the whole body hair situation. Another time. The jungle produces bountiful fruit.