Saturday, February 28, 2009

An Introduction

I run, as fast as my feet can carry me. I don’t normally rush places, but this was an exception. My imminent demise seems to have a way of speeding me up.

Never in my life have I ever been so glad that I kept up my cardio. About a year ago, I would never be able to keep up this speed for this length of time. In fact, about a year ago, I never thought I would have been running for my life. But that was then and this is now.

My name’s Maxwell. Maxwell Turner. My friends call me Max, but I’m not sure who my friends are at this point in my life, so call me Maxwell. I would take this time to tell you a bit more about myself, but now’s not the time to go into detail, or the place.

I dart past an old wooden fence and through a yard. Up and over a mismatched chain-link fence in the same yard and quickly through the back into the alleyway; around the corner and into another yard. I can’t tell exactly where my pursuers are at this point and, frankly, I don’t really want to know. I’m happy not knowing where they are, as long as they’re in the same position, not knowing where I am.

I look both ways quickly as I come back up to the sidewalk and the road. I don’t see an ominous, black 1953 Ford Mainline anywhere, so I take the opportunity to sprint across. Into another yard, around the house, through the driveway, into the back, and up over the chain-link fence. Here, I’m back in another alleyway.

I run until I get to the end of the alley, at which point I need to catch my breath. I stop next to a wooden fence and look around the corner; nothing. Not a soul on the streets; just my luck. I look over my other shoulder to be sure, and there’s no one following me. I sit down and stop to clear my head.

Let’s think this through: there’s one of me and probably at least four of them. Last time we met, I was lucky enough to escape with my life. If my luck continues, maybe I can ditch them here and go into hiding for a bit.

I’m still breathing a little heavy, but I need to keep moving, at least until I’m reasonably sure I lost them. I know this area really well, so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. I check around the corner again, and the coast still looks clear, so I continue my sprinting. I double back and hop a few more fences, at which point I wind up behind the post office. I climb the rain gutter of the building next to it, up to the roof of the first-storey. I know the second floor of the apartment building beside me is currently empty, so I slide open the window and slip inside. I look out behind me, and I still don’t see anyone; I lost them. Here I should be safe. I can hide out here for a bit and things should cool down by daytime, at which point I can get on a bus and leave town.

I walk through the dark room with only moonlight to guide me. I head over to the corner and sit down, actually able to catch my breath this time. My eyes barely have enough time to adjust to the darkness when a sound startles me, a sound which I’ve grown quite familiar with: the cocking of a revolver.

I look up and see a familiar face behind the barrel of the weapon, which is pointed at my head. We sit in silence. I finally clear my throat, look him in the eye, and ask very slowly, “Would pulling that trigger give you satisfaction?”

He smiles, “Immense satisfaction.”

He pulls the trigger.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

The Curse

"Would you like your name to be spoken through the ages?"

"You have this power?"

"I do. I could make you the greatest warrior to ever live, powerful beyond mortal ken... for a price."


"For the strength and skill of the gods, and the undying legacy of deeds on the battlefield that shall never know rival - are you willing to accept that you shall never live to see another victory?"

The price - and power - of magic. A catch, for there is always a catch. Yet he had dedicated himself to perfecting his art and craft, indeed, had come to her kingdom and performed valorous deeds specifically to illicit such an offer. The price was high indeed, and he would be have been lying to say he did not then have second thoughts.

"I am."

Grip the future boldly, no hesitation - these were dictums he a warrior had lived by. Fear, and threat of imminent death were his constant companions - unsurpassed skill, unfading glory: these were far off dreams. Things one could aspire to but never really achieve.

"Then you will serve me."

Memories cling to life, and this was one that would follow him to the grave along with the face of the queen who spoke them. She was no longer young, though behind the lines and sunken cheeks one could still see the aged visage of faded beauty. She fit the stories that she had, no doubt, actively sought to cultivate; that she commanded such sorceries that she could make such claims; that she was a tyrant, keenly intelligent and utterly ruthless. He had known these things and yet still...

"I will."

The world was full of such people. The Times were full of such people. But like the visage, all memories pass in time and we are recalled to the present. He stands amidst torn and tattered banners, and twisted corpses - the hacked and mangled remains of his butchery: the Queen's soldiers lay dead at his feet, lifeless eyes staring skyward. In the plains below he can see the battle which passed him by still raging: his army being swept from the field by the remnants of the Queen's.

This wasn't how it was supposed to have been. He is exhausted, and looking around, he can see he and only a handful of comrades remained: the remainder were being driven across the valley below. His legs refuse to work any longer. He sinks to his knees. Another memory...


"They've done nothing wrong."

"Yes; but they shall serve as an example to the rest."

Ruthlessness was one thing. The abject, and gratuitous cruelty to which she had made him witness was another. And yet, somehow, here on the plains of battle he had fought with the strength and skill of a god - and exhausted from the slaughter victory had...

"It seems you have come to understand at last. You were expecting glorious death as you took my head perhaps?"

It was not a dream or a memory this time but some spectral image of the Queen herself, smiling down on him with imperious, haughty eyes and a smile on her lips. It was like a joke that he had finally understood.

"You..." Her smile only grew wider at his sudden realization and rising anger.

"... Cursed you? Planned this? Knew you would go running to my wizarding enemies and bring their armies to me?"

There were no words to express his need to break the feeble woman over his knee, to break or kill something. And yet there he was, the greatest warrior to ever live - utterly and completely exhausted and helpless.

"Doom upon whatever cause for which you fight - this is the true nature of my curse. You serve me, remember? It was not a question."

"This isn't over..."

"You are no threat to me, cursed as you are. And you will never fight for my cause again - I was quite sure to poison you against me on that account."

"I'll find you."

"And no doubt your heroic but doomed exploits shall echo through the pages of history."

Laughter was on her face as the vision faded. Hatred teased his worn muscles back to life, and so it was that the hero rose once again to his feet and once again took up his sword.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Brain vs. Brawn

“Hah! You think you’re a man? You're such a wuss!”

The punches kept coming. I wanted to curl into a ball and weep, or just run the hell out of there, but his buddies were holding me up. All I could do was take it as best as I could, and pray they would stop soon. I could feel the bruises coming already, one over my right eye, another few on my arms. God knows how many I would have on my chest. I hoped my wrist wasn’t broken from when they shoved me down the second time.

Finally, they were finished. His buddies threw me onto the road, and laughed as they all walked away. I slowly picked myself up, glaring in hate at the man who waited at the bus stop; he’d watched the whole thing without intervening.

No one was home. I painfully made my way up the stairs to my room. Taking off my shirt, I looked in a mirror at my torso; the bruises were coming in now, ugly purple monstrosities across my chest and stomach. At least, as I probed around a bit, nothing seemed broken. I wouldn’t have to spend this Friday night in emerge.

I paused for a minute, considering myself in the mirror. How did it come to this? Every Friday brought another beating by the school bullies. And that was only if I willingly gave up my lunch money every day. I’d tried ignoring them one day, and ended up with a broken wrist. They’d gotten in trouble for that one though; a teacher saw the buddies holding me down as my right wrist was deliberately broken. I got a few days respite, then got cornered on my way home from school. That was when they started being more careful to leave only bruises.

I lay down on my bed, staring at the ceiling. There was a large water spot in the corner. The roof had been leaking for a few years now, but still no one cared. Dad had been gone for three years now, and mom was hard pressed to keep food on the table. There was no money to spare for fixing my room.

That got me thinking about the inevitable conversation tonight. Mom would notice the bruises. We’d have an argument, her telling me to stand up for myself. I’d sit there silently, staring at my plate. All the time I’d be thinking, You stand up to a bunch of grade eights. One of them is bigger and stronger than me. How the hell am I supposed to take on three of them by myself?

But really, how the hell could I? There had to be a way. I was sick of the bruises, sick of seeing emerge on a monthly basis. I got up and went to my computer. The old desktop was sitting on an even older desk. There was a pile of papers next to the keyboard, but other than that, everything was in its place. I’d been working on a book report last night and was planning on working some more on it. But I pushed the papers to the side, grabbing a fresh sheet of lined paper. I had to wait about ten minutes from when I turned the desktop on till when I could actually start using the computer, so I sat in my chair, daydreaming about all the things I could do to the three of them if I were Batman. Of course, if I were Batman, I probably wouldn’t be getting bullied in the first place. So that put a sort of damper on the daydream, but it still made me feel a bit better about everything.

Finally, I started doing some research. I Googled “how to deal with bullies” and got a whole bunch of hits. All of them seemed to say the same sorts of things. “Avoid the bully.” “Be brave.” “Don’t bully back.” It all sounded good on the internet. But in practice, it just didn’t work for me.

Right when I was starting to despair, I hit upon the perfect solution. My eyes lit up with glee as I eagerly read the webpage. It would take a bit of planning, and I only had a week until the next scheduled beating, but I was pretty sure I’d be able to pull it off. A smile lit my face for the first time in a few weeks as I scribbled down the instructions.


I was walking home from school the next Friday. I caught myself whistling at one point, and had to force myself to stop. As I turned the corner, in view of the bus stop, there they were, waiting for me. I nervously fingered the small remote in my pocket as I walked up to them.

“Where you going, squirt?” the leader asked me.

This question was a sort of ritual between us. “I’m going home,” I mumbled, looking at my feet.

“Not so fast, squirt.” At this, his two buddies circled around me.

“Hey, wha’cha got in the bag?” one of the buddies asked me. This was breaking with the ritual a bit.

“Nothing,” I replied, still looking down.

Of course, this provoked them. The bag was practically ripped off of my back. All three of them crowded around the bag. The leader pulled the device out, looking very confused. “What is it?”

Only after I was sure that all three of them were touching it, I turned it on with the remote control. They screeched in pain as electricity coursed through their fingers, and immediately dropped the device as their muscles went limp.

“It took a bit of work,” I told them, grinning, “but I was able to build this little baby. It’s sort of a home-made taser.”

I then proceeded to kick all three of them while they were down, before they could recover. When I was finished, I turned the device off and picked it up, carefully putting it back into my backpack. “If you three ever touch me again, just remember this day. Remember that I have this baby. And remember that the next time I have to bring this out, it’ll be much worse for all of you.”

With that, I turned and continued on my way home. I was on top of the world! I’d done it! I’d been able to best all three of them! Brains really were better than brawn.

As I passed the bus stop, the man who’d watched me getting beat up last week, and who had seen my little display this week called out to me, “You’re still a wuss!”

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Michael and Me

“But really, I have no idea what I would do in that situation,” Michael told me.

I really felt that he was crazy by this point. What type of sane person would come up with this stuff? I told him, “What would you expect that you have to do in that situation? I mean, it shouldn’t be too confusing.”

This didn’t satisfy him, “Think about it, Alex. If a midget comes into Emerg and he needs an antibiotic dose, you can’t just give him the regular adult dose, even if he is, like, forty or something.”

“Well, I would expect that you’d just have to adjust the dose, milligram per kilogram style.”

He took a step back and threw his arms up, “Whoa, whoa. I mean, if they’re midgets, how do you know if we can just dose-adjust all willy-nilly? C’mon, Alex. Their organs are smaller than regular human organs, too.”

I chuckled, “Do you really think that will alter metabolism that badly? Are their organs not functioning on a regular-sized human level, if we change the dose to correct for the size difference?”

“Well, how can we be sure one way or the other? There haven’t been, like, studies done on this subject or anything.”

I was having fun with him by this point. I wanted to egg him on a little more, “That is true. Maybe you and I should start some research group concerning ourselves with dosage adjustments in midgets.” I paused, pretending to really be considering something important, “Say, how small do you have to be to be a midget anyway?”

He looked confused, “What do you mean?”

“Well, is there a certain point where we can say, beyond a reasonable doubt, that you are a midget? Is it a defined thing, or do people just objectively call people midgets while other people are just really short?”

“Umm...I would imagine a midget would be anyone shorter than, say...five-foot-five.”

I stopped for a moment to consider what he just imparted on me. I couldn’t believe that he actually thought that everyone shorter than five-foot-five was a midget. I then laughed big, “Are you joking? That would mean that almost everyone in our class is a midget! Not just the majority of our class, but the majority of people all around the world are currently midgets, and they don’t even know it.”

He started to say something then stopped himself. After considering what I said, he added, “Oh yeah, I guess you’re right...I don’t know then, when do you think someone’s a midget?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say either. However, I am sure it’s probably more around four-foot-...ten, or something.”

He laughed, “Oh yeah. I guess that would make more sense.”

Conversation stopped abruptly, and this wouldn’t do. If he was going to bring up some insane topic like dosage adjustments in midgets, I’d introduce something just as ludicrous. I mean, I couldn’t just let him go without poking a bit more fun at him. “Of course,” I said finally, “Even if they taught us about this stuff, you can’t believe everything our Profs tell us.”

He looked at me quizzically, “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I can’t really blame them for teaching us about it, since it’s such a popular concept these days, but they keep telling us all the dangers involved in smoking cigarettes.”

Confusion graced his face once more. After pausing for a moment, he added, “But...They are bad for you.”

He walked into my trap. I was ready to lay it on thick now, “Well, like I said, that’s the popular thought on the subject. But have you seen those commercials from a little while back? I think they were called ‘Stupid-dot-C-A,’ or something.”

“Umm...No. No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, they were all over TV about a year or two ago,” I paused to see if he remembered. It didn’t look like he did, so I continued, “They always had someone doing something really stupid, and then they gave some crazy statistic showing you that smoking was stupider. Like, one time there was this person standing out in a lightning storm with a golf club, then they told you how much more likely it was for you to die from smoking.”

“Okay...That sounds sort of familiar.”

“Well, there was this one with a guy sitting in the bathtub with a toaster. He said something about how dying to a toaster in the tub is something like one in thirty-six thousand.” I paused to make sure he was following me, and he was. “Then, the guy said something along the lines of, ‘But, if you’re a smoker, your chances of dying are one in two.’”

He stared at me some more, “...So?”

“So? I’ve always been told that my chances of dying are one in one! And, suddenly, fifty percent of smokers are immortal? That’s huge news!”

He laughed at me and added, “But people can’t be immortal.”

“But they can,” I responded. “I did some research on the subject, and the results are startling. I even sent in a journal article to NEJM about a year ago.”

His eyes widened, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said. I was really having fun with him by this point. “They still haven’t got back to me yet, but they should probably be responding soon.”

He laughed again, “Yeah, I’m sure they’ll be responding to that. But, Alex, people can’t be immortal.”

“No, they can. Think about it: when you smoke, your cilia get paralyzed in your airways, right?”

He looked confused again, “Right.”

“Meaning you have to cough up your mucus, right?”

He nodded.

“Well, this means that, while our cilia are constantly moving, wasting our energy all the while, smokers are much more efficient in their mucus removal. They only have to expend energy when the mucus really builds up.”

A huge laugh from Michael followed, “But, Alex, everyone I knew who smoked when they were older died.”

He wasn’t going to stop me that easily, “Well, you just met the other fifty percent who die.”

He laughed again, “Okay there, Alex. But, I have to get going. I’ll catch you later.”

“For sure, see you around.”

He walked away. I couldn’t believe everything that was just said, and it sounded like he really believed that I thought people could be immortal. Crazy Michael; he comes up with such ridiculous things all the time. It makes me want to mess with him all the more. I just can’t get over how anyone could possibly think that I believe such ludicrous things.

* * *

Oh man, here comes Alex. I really think that boy’s completely out of his mind. Last time I talked to him, he told me all about how the world’s going to end in twenty-twelve because of the Mayan calendar, or something like that. It’s so ridiculous that someone can believe in something that insane. Oh well, if he’s that gullible, I might as well mess with him.

“Hey, Alex, could I ask you something?”

Alex looked up from his textbook, “Oh hey there, Michael, what’s up?”

I put a concerned look on my face, “Not too much, but I was just wondering what your take was on dosage adjustments in midgets.”


It’s moments like this in my life that I have a hard time with. Like, I know I have to do it, but it never seems to sit well with me. I get shaky and I can feel my heart beat quickly, and then I tend to get sick to my stomach. Of course, the sickness passes with time, but it generally comes back after the fact. I guess the original sickness is sort of a build up, a foreshadowing of the deed to come, and knowing what happens afterwards.

I don’t know if I’ll ever fully get used to killing another man.

* * *

Dan came to. He started breathing quickly and he noticed that his head was hurting. He wanted to get a better view of his surroundings, but he was duct-taped to his chair. His eyes scanned the room, or at least the amount of the room he could see from his point of view, looking in vain for something, anything, a knife, scissors, or even a tiny point of a nail sticking out of the wall somewhere. If only he could look around behind him.

He used all the strength he had left and hopped with his chair, turning it slightly. He cringed when he landed, due to the loud bang it made, all the while hoping that his captor wouldn’t hear the sound and, consequently, come down to see what he was doing. He paused; nothing. Another hop and another bang; still nothing coming from upstairs.

He looked around again. There, out of the corner of his eye, was a rickety-looking table with a large knife on it. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was doable. Unfortunately, he knew how noisy it was going to be. His captor didn’t hear him yet, so hopefully he wouldn’t notice long enough for Dan to undo his bindings.

He hopped again, followed by a loud bang; still no indication that his captor was listening. Several more hops and he was next to the table, albeit extremely tired at this point. He was almost in the clear, but it wasn’t over. It was time for him to knock over the table, and then knock himself over in order to pick up the knife.

Another hop, this time into the table; it wobbled, and the knife shifted, but neither the table nor the knife fell down. One more hop, another wobble, and down went both the table and the knife. His muscles ached and he was gasping for breath, but he managed to hop over to the knife, and it was now time to go down. He leaned back with all his might, and went down with a thud.

He started feeling for the knife behind him, but then his heart nearly stopped. His captor was standing there, watching him with a smile.

* * *

Sitting in my living room, I hear someone pull into Dan’s driveway. I look out the window and see him getting out of his car. He goes to his trunk and starts pulling out grocery bags, quite a few of them. I see him starting to struggle with the bags, I put on my shoes and jacket, and I run outside to help him. I grab a few bags for him, and he thanks me.

Once I’m in his house, he thanks me again and offers me a beer. I accept, since I would never dream to refuse my neighbour’s hospitality. He asks me if I wanted it in a glass, and I tell him it doesn’t matter. I walk around his living room a bit, and he approaches me with a large, heavy beer mug filled with the liquid. I tell him, “This will do nicely,” and I take a drink.

He turns around to walk back into his kitchen, and he starts to say something, but I cut him off by clubbing him on top of his head with the mug.

* * *

“Sorry for smiling and chuckling a bit,” Dan’s captor said as he hoisted him back upright, away from the knife Dan worked so hard to get. “I know that took a lot out of you, but it was a bit amusing to watch the whole time.”

Dan was trembling, “W-what do you want from me?”

“Not too much. In fact, I’m not going to beat around the bush, Dan. I’m here to kill you.”

Dan turned pale, “W-w-why?”

The other man took a moment to think about his response, Dan still shaking. Finally, he told him, “You know, when I do this normally, I tend to make up different stories to tell the ‘victim.’ Like, ‘I’m a hitman from the mob and, don’t take this personally, but you stumbled into something you should have left alone. Like I said, this is just business,’ then I’ll finish them off. But, I think I’ll level with you, Dan. Because, you see, you haven’t really given me any reason to distrust you. Not like the others.”

“The others?”

“Yeah, my other neighbours. I’ve run into a string of…unluck, if you will. I keep moving next to neighbours who I really can’t trust. They don’t like me, and I can tell they plan on doing me in, probably in my sleep. But I’ve always been onto them, and I get them first.”

Dan had to take a moment to process everything he was being told. Still with a tone of shock and fear in his voice, he asked, “But then why are you doing this, if I’ve never given you any reason to distrust me? Really, what have I done to deserve this?”

His captor moved in closer. A grave tone graced his voice, “That’s the point, Dan. You’re extremely trustworthy; in fact, you’re all too trustworthy. I’ve been keeping a very close eye on you, Dan, and you’ve really done nothing to spark my suspicion. This made me realize that you’re the smartest out of the whole lot of them, my neighbours. I started trusting you; I wasn’t afraid to fall asleep, and I wasn’t worried when just the two of us were conversing, with no one around to hear my cries for help if you ever struck. I almost let my guard down, but I realized this before it was too late. And now…Dan…I win.”

A single tear fell down Dan’s cheek, “You know, you don’t have to do this.”

“Sorry, Dan, I got you, and you’re not getting out of this. Besides, think about it, now that I’m this far, I can’t stop. There’s no turning back, Dan.”

There they sat in silence, Dan’s captor brandishing the knife.

* * *

I vomited. I tried my best not to; I tried to hold it back, but it was so hard this time. I really liked Dan, but I couldn’t take any chances with him. Time to take one last look around his home to make sure nothing’s out of place, besides him downstairs.

I don’t know where I should move to now. No matter, I’ll figure it out once I’m out on the road. And, who knows, maybe my new neighbours will be good people.

Monday, February 9, 2009

The Conversation You Never Want to Have


"Language, dear."

"How can you say that? I've put up with this shit for the ten years that we've been married. 'Language, dear.' Over and over again. But you're not the boss of me anymore!"

"Dear, don't make a scene."

"Don't make a scene? Are you afraid of what your fucking boyfriend is going to think of me? What the fuck do I care? Year after year, I let you fucking take over my life. You don't like smoking. Fine, I give it up. You hate swearing. No big deal. You try to turn me into some meek, pathetic thing so you can walk all over me. Well, no more! I'm out of here, and you better believe that ass of yours is getting a divorce!"

Johnny B. Hardcore

“You know why you’re in this predicament at the moment? It’s not my doing; it’s his, Johnny B. Hardcore.”

Eddy looked back at Julian with puzzlement in his eyes, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Julian spit his beer all over Eddy, and dropped his bottle out of shock, “You don’t know who Johnny is? No wonder you’re in this predicament! You know, ignorance is no excuse. You should take the time to stay informed, my friend.”

Eddy brushed some beer off his forehead, “Okay, then. Tell me who Johnny B. Hardcore is. Why would he call himself that, anyway?”

“You have a lot to learn, my friend. He didn’t choose to call himself that; Fate chose the name for him, if we were to personify the abstract concept as a man.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but continue.”

“Johnny B. Hardcore is the ultimate man’s man. He’s, like, six-foot-fucking-one-hundred with lasers for eyes. He’s got kegs for balls, and he doesn’t drink beer. He drinks the tears of the children whose kittens he steps on,” Julian paused. “Hey, what the hell happened to my beer? It’s all smashed on the floor!”

Eddy just sat in silence for a few seconds, and then he said, “Yes, I know. You dropped it when you couldn’t believe I had no idea who Johnny was.”

“Well, this is serious shit, man! I’m still having a hard time processing the information. But, I need another beer. Hey, Larry, send a Pabst on over!”

The Pabst came and Julian took a large swig. He then continued, “Where was I? Oh yeah, fucking Johnny...with his hook for a hand. No wait, he has a fucking crane for an arm. And his stubble is so thick that he can grate cheese on it. I’m pretty sure he invented electricity, beef, and happiness. Since he invented happiness, he can take it away from you just as easily as he can give it out, so you don’t fuck around. And...and...Dude, you have, like, all over you or something.”

Eddy gave Julian a very serious look, but Julian just sat there with the same, confused look on his face. Eddy finally said, “Yes, I know. It’s because you spit beer all over me when I told you I didn’t know who Johnny was.”

“Well, can you blame me? This is fucking important stuff!”

“Okay, well, for the sake of conversation I’ll pretend that Johnny B. Hardcore is a real person. What does any of this have to do with me? You said I’m in a predicament because of him, for some reason.”

“Well, you know, you don’t fuck around where Johnny B. Hardcore’s concerned, so I got to thinking about the people I hang around with. I mean, just look at you, sitting there with your Long Island iced tea, in your Oxford sweater...which is wet, by the way.”

Eddy gave the serious look again, and Julian continued, “I mean, geez, man. Someone spits beer all over you and you don’t even kick his ass! And you don’t even swear. Fuck, real men swear. I just don’t think I can hang around with you anymore if I want to stay cool with Johnny.”

Eddy thought about this for a second, “So, wait, let me get this straight. I didn’t beat you up, and this makes you not want to hang around with me?”

“Well, that among other things. Sorry, dude, don’t take it personally,” Julian paused. “Well, you can take it a bit personally, if you want. I don’t mind. But this is goodbye, my friend.”

Julian chugged the remainder of his beer. He then slammed some money down on the counter of the bar, got up and walked away. Larry, polishing a glass, walked up to Eddy, “What was that all about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He comes up with something like that every time he has a few too many. I’m sure he won’t remember it by tomorrow.”

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Inspiring Meal

Mabel leaned back in her chair in a small club. A local band was playing to a packed crowd, the rhythmic rise and fall of the dancing kids and the sickly sweet sent of sweat and beer soothing her nerves. Throughout the throng she could pick out a couple blood suckers, hunting for their next meal. They were always so easy to spot, so stale and bland. Week old bread surrounded by a sea of delights.

One of the leeches started to make its way towards her, flashing what he no doubt thought was an irresistible smile. Rolling her eyes, Mabel tried to not to look at him, hoping he'd take the hint. He didn't

Seating himself next to her, he licked his lips. "Hey sweet thing. Whats a young doll like yourself doing in a place like this?"

With a sigh, Mabel looked him in his cold dead eyes. She could feel a flash of emotion well within her as he tried to enslave her mind. Feelings of lust and devotion grew, and were consumed. "You're new around here aren't you whelp?"

With a start, the boy sat back, confidence draining. This was a mortal he was staring at, no more then 20 years old. He could smell the her blood, her sweat. And yet she stared at him with sharp clear eyes, unclouded despite his power. "Who you calling a whelp?" he challenged, a distinctive edge of anger in his voice mixed with a hint of uncertainty. Her laughter, both so dismissive and full of delight only fed his rage.

If she has to deal with these things, at least she could enjoy it. She could feel the heat of his anger, the sharp taste of his indignation, and almost felt pity for the fool. If it was this easy to push his buttons, he wouldn't last long.

A smile on her lips, Mabel leaned forward. "Look princess, there hasn't been any talent this good in a while. Now normally I'd have no problem sucking you dry and leaving you as an empty husk, but then I'd just ruin my dinner". Mabel turned and scanned the throng of people. Their young free minds were just drinking in the songs. Their imaginations, their thoughts, dreams and hopes were positively glowing thanks to the inspiring music. "And tonight, its going to be a feast."