Chapter 16 "Gruesome Buddah"

It was the body of a man. I ran to her side and she was still screaming half huddled and with her hands to her face directly in front of him. She had some how moved into the part of the long kitchen that we hadn't explored. The light from the hallway had illuminated the body, sitting in the lotus position, or Indian style, sort of. He was illuminated by a skylight that cut all the way through the attic that let in some meager blue light from the moon, but he was mostly lit by the sickly yellow incandescent light from the hallway. The man was completely naked except for the blood soaked headband tied around his head.

I was completely freaked. All my adrenalin was used and I dumbly put my arms around her but was still transfixed by this Buddha body of a human that was obviously completely dead in front of me. There is something about seeing a human body that you never forget. You first look upon a dead body, and if you haven't yet, you will at some point in your life, you will recognize that some sort of soul or life essence has left the extremities, the face. The smell was obvious now. It was hidden by weed and animal, but as I stood embracing a still screaming and cowering Jaime the smell of human decay was more apparent than ever. I was feeling scientific. I had no flight or fight response left. I turned to Jaime and grabbed the nape of her neck and held her close to me, extending her body from that slight crouched position and pushed her into my chest. She started saying, "No, no, no, no, no!"

"Shhhhhh." I was staring at this perfectly posed body. Nobody dies like this, not naturally. I squinted into this beautiful contrast of blue and sickly yellow and tried to make out the horror that the lighting betrayed. There was a chain attached to the body's neck that was attached to the ceiling. It held his body erect, in this horrifically peaceful Buddha position, but there was further nastiness. From his head to groin there were large circular wounds on the front of his body that ran parallel to his spine. His genitals were completely cut out, and there were similar wounds that were placed vertically up the body in a straight line ending in his face and the top of the head. The first facial wound was circular in nature and was about the size of the bottom of a pint glass. It demolished his nose and eye area. It looked like it was gouged out by a landscaping auger. There was a large gruesome wound on the top of his head of similar nature.

There was also a menagerie of shit underneath him. I reached a hand back behind me and slapped a push button light switch. I have no idea how I knew it was there. It lit the whole scene via blinding track lights above Jaime and I. She screamed even louder and buried her head further into my chest and pushed the top of her head into my neck so hard it gagged me for a second. The gagging could actually have been a combination of the force of her and the utter slaughter that I was so transfixed by.

On the ground underneath the body was a small piece of blood soaked fabric and candles and pieces of human stuff mostly spread around the body in tiny metal bowls. Bits of person. Some of the bits were obviously lit on fire and had candle wax on them. Iguana bits. Chunks o' man. Iguanas will eat whatever they want when they are hungry, I surmised. There were scrawls of black charcoal runes on the floor.

Really?!

Fuck.

I thought of all the things I could be doing right now. Nothing is worth this shit. Not even fine ass Jaime.

I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her lightly. She stared up into my eyes. I pushed her up against the wall, and took her right hand in mine. Her hand still had my biker boy red handkerchief doo-rag in it. I darted my eyes over to the light switch I had just slapped and looked at her with an urgent look. She was sheet white. I mean, whiter than her normal gothic white, at least, normally, she always carried a little flush to her cheek. She was in shock. "Keep on it. Did you forget anything? Wipe it off. DO IT NOW!" I turned her shoulders towards the light switch. It took her a second, but she took to having a direct mission and she started wiping things down like it was her business not to look at this dead and mutilated thing before us.

She doesn't have much time. I know shock. I know your adrenaline reserves leave you dead and bereft. They leave you killed and destroyed. I returned my gaze to the man. He had these amazing circular wounds that went down his body like buttons of a shirt. His neck and tongue were fat with bloat and his eyes were sunken holes that flanked a cone of gore. The chain was just under his jaw, suspending him perfectly, but his jaw was not easily recognizable because of the bloat...At the time I thought to myself that it seemed like some sort of ritual suicide, but really, it was the only thing I could amass in my head as an explanation. He was cored out in at least six places! How does one do that? At the time, I didn't even care. It was time to go. I wished a million times that I never…but here I was.

I got closer to the body and looked at the destroyed head. The headband was green or blue at some point. It was now brown with dried blood. I looked closely at the headband since it was the only thing he was wearing. The best parts of his birthday suit were now chunks o' iguana bits in several bowls around me. I looked at the floor and we hadn't disturbed the crazy runes and lines on the floor. The headband had a chevron on it. Tiny and hand stitched. It looked familiar. I yelled out, "Where are you!?"
"I'm fuckin ready, Red!"

"Let's roll, babe!" I took my shirt in my hand and pushed off the light. I met Jaime in the door; she had pulled on a pair of vinyl gloves from our job and held a pair to my face. She pulled them from her tiny handbag. I nodded to her and grabbed them and started to pull them on, thinking it might be good to push the screen door closed with the gloves when the weirdest thing happened....

We got outside the house, and Jaime turned to me and grabbed me by the shoulders. She pulled me around as I clattered the heavy screen door closed. I scanned the street...empty, and then I met her eyes.

"I know what that is!" She hadn't even bothered to whisper. I winced at her and darted my eyes about. She proceeded with a pleading whisper, "You never kill anyone like that! Unless, you want their power." She was almost hyperventilating. "You kill them one chakra at a...." Her eyes went glassy and she had a perceptible tremor to her body and to her hand. It was like watching palsy. Then she screwed up her face really bad. It was so odd to watch beautiful Jaime lose control of her facial features like this; it made her look like the drunken animal of her normal composure. And then she wailed and fell over into my arms. Jaime was as white as a sheet and as rigid as tree trunk.

I stared at her hands as we went slowly to the ground. The vinyl gloves had been caught on some of the rings of her fingers and she had curled her fingers so fiercely that her finger nails had pierced the tips of the gloves. Her guttural wail had subsided and she now began clutching at her chest, tugging the neck of her shirt almost impossibly. Even though she was wearing a bra, she had practically pulled her whole tit out. As I lied her down on the porch I tried to struggle with that hand, to pull it from her shirt and bra, but it was incredibly strong. I set her down and cradled her head in my lap, and then she began seizing.

I recognized now what I was witnessing. She was having a seizure. I held her loosely in my lap and she flopped around rhythmically. As she progressed through it every jerk got further and further apart. The horrible rhythm was ritarding. I breathed in. I blew out. I look around to see if I could get anything for her to keep her from biting her tongue off. Nothing. Blood and spit were frothing out of her mouth. Her breathing was only with every jerk, if at all. I started weeping. Quietly weeping. Her hands were still curled into manic looking claws and her back was arching enough to break her spine. I was imagining that this would be the tragic ending to my own life. I imagine this beautiful chance in my life, Jaime, dying in my arms. I imagined her gone, and me getting arrested and thrown in jail. I imagined myself getting murdered. I thought about my mom. My beautiful mom. How disappointed she would be in me, but that she would love me forever. How sad and proud and amazing that kind of love is. I was weeping as I thought these little selfish thoughts, while Jaime could be technically dying in my arms, the strain of tonight, too much to bear. I thought ironically that it was too much for me as well. I am losing it.

She seized one last time and exhaled and belched. I thought she could be dead. My perception of time was really messed up, and it felt like she had been at it forever. I had no more tears left, but then she started snoring these big log sawing breaths. She was alive! I squeezed my eyelids together and crushed out the tears and stared out towards the street. The porch was mostly enclosed in a thick brick half wall and so I heaved and moved my ass over, lugging her sleeping body to give us a little cover from the street. I took her face, upside down in my hands, and lightly blew on her forehead. I caressed her cheek and her neck just slightly.

"Jaime?"

It's strange, feeling her heart pounding through her ribcage on my legs. She groaned, so tired, and she tried to roll over. I steadied her, and kept her on her on her back. Jaime reached up and grabbed my forearm and hugged it to her chest like a Teddy Bear. I chuckled to spite myself. She moaned pleasurably and stretched and began snoring again. I scanned the street again. A car pulled up to the apartment building across the street. I felt the darkness around us and the cover that we were fortunate enough to be behind, and yet, I gotta wear this flashy ass shirt. Hilarious.

I began to wonder why my thoughts were so linked to my own suffering as I was watching Jaime suffer so incredibly. I wondered why I wept for myself as much as I was weeping for her. Maybe I am incapable of love or emotion without first relating it to my own well being. Maybe I was just sad. It's possible that I was in a waking dream. It's possible that I had just had enough for today.

I started to feel my own heart beating, and I rubbed her forearms and said, "Jaime. Wake up."

"Jazzy?"

"Jazzy? What's a Jazzy?" Huh? No, baby..." I said as she snapped open her eyes, and yelped.

"Wuh?" She said. She looked seriously out of it. It reminded me of when my friend Johnny got knocked out by some redneck shit kicker at the bar. "Ohhhhh it's you....you were gooooood."

"Jaime...listen."

"Where are we? This is weird. Are we outside? Kinky...I love you, are we gonna fuck?" She groaned and pulled on my arm, hugging it tighter to her chest. I'm thinking that I'm always in the wrong place at the right time or vice versa.

"Jaime. Look at me."

"What the fuck, dude? Where are we? I gotta go!" With that she started to get up. I grabbed her by the back of her arms and pulled her further into the shadows behind the porch wall. She tensed against me and I pulled her down with her back facing me against the wall of the house. "What the FUCK, Red? I'll get your ass fired! Dean hates you!"

"Shhhhhh. Jaime. We are in danger. You had a seizure and we are in deep shit." I was hissing into her ear. This seemed to calm her down a bit.

"Red, I like you, but..."

"I know this is hard to understand, but you just had a seizure. We could get in real trouble right now if we don't figure out how to act normal..."

"Wuh," She returned to a whisper and wiped the spit and blood off her face by ducking into my shirt. "Did you fuckin drug me? Did you fuckin drug me and fuck me? What the hell?" She was staring at her gloves, then she turned to look at me. I gave her a face as if there is obviously more to the story.

"Do you feel fucked?" I said. She considered for a second and reached down and felt her crotch.

"No."

"Believe me, I fuck you...you stay fucked for a little while." She kinda purred and sunk deeper into me.

"Is that so?" She laughed, and grabbed the back of my neck and tugged on my earlobe. "Red? Where are we?" Tiny shivers, all over my body.

"1238 Humboldt St. We came here, and now we might be in danger. Can you walk? And stop calling me Red."

"Ohhhh you're so cute, my Norseman." I let out an exasperated breath.

"Norse nomenclature, um, completely wrong, but can you walk?"

"Of course!" She sprung up from my lap and did a little spin move and picked up her purse in one motion. It was that little purse with back straps that I would come to know so well. It had a Vision Street Wear logo on it.

"Good...FFFFFuck." I got up and we left.

We walked straight out the front gate, and in my estimation, avoided any prying eyes. We sped down the block and into the park, Jaime speed walking ahead of me. At one point she pulled the gloves off of her hands and tossed them over her shoulder at me. I caught them both, pulled off my own, and stuffed them into my pocket.

At one point through the park, she stopped and let me catch up with her. I was amazed about now of how fast she could move those little short crotch legs of hers. She asked where we were, and I knew, of course, but she asked me where she lived. I had to remind her that she had a seizure and the whole conversation about who I was, and what we were doing was enacted again. She was aware of who I was, but needed to be reminded, like I was an old friend she had just reacquainted with. She seemed to be moving in and out of the situation rather transiently. We got her license out of her purse and she seemed to agree that the information on the license about her address was correct.

While we were walking to her home, near our King Soopers, she asked me what had happened several times. Each time I became more descriptive of what we had done, and where we had been, and what we had seen. She became more and more agreeable with each telling of the story, gravely agreeing with each new gruesome detail. She was remembering. We got to her house and we laid down on her bed. By that time I was telling the end of what had happened for the fifth or sixth time in gruesome and graphic detail. She was soaking it in like a sponge and the she said simply, "Jesus. I'm so tired."

I'm not sure who fell asleep first, her or I, but I woke up with a start, with her in my arms at five twelve AM and realized that I had left that cola of weed wrapped up in Mylar with my fingerprints all over it somewhere in that horrific house...FUCK!

Chapter 15 "1238 Humboldt St"

1238 Humboldt St. was a modest looking Bungalow. It was in the old style, no pop top, or add on. It was as it was when it was built in 1932, well, from the exterior it was. It was just a little house, with a nice and wide front porch with an upside down 'v' pointed roof that featured a window at each end. It was situated, as all houses were on this street, on a little grass embankment above street and sidewalk level. In my estimation of property values at the time, in Denver, the house was probably worth about $350,000.

Not a house to be trifled with, in terms of how well off the owner, or owners, might have been. But, then again, the house was dead and dark.

Jaime reached the front door before I did and gasped just slightly. I hurried as silently as I could have, past the unkempt yard of weeds and grasses of multiple variations to the raised front porch of Freddy Kreuger's house. I said, hushed,"What?"

"THIS DOOR IS OPEN, DUMBASS!" she hissed. She indicated the main door, which was covered by a large metal screen door and she was pointing feverishly at the larger wooden main door that was open, cracked by about four inches.

"Well, duh!" I retorted in the same high velocity whisper. "The damn 'Killer' dog had to get his ass outta here somehow."

"Yeah, but who leaves their dog alone like this?"

"I dunno; I have cats."

"YOU HAVE CATS?!"

"Um...Yeah." She looked at me incredulously.

"Like you have...MULTIPLE...cats?!" She was saying this to me in that same high velocity, high volume whisper. I shrugged. Somehow, we had forgotten to break into this house for a moment. She crinkled her forehead, and regarded me for a second.

"Are you gay?"

"NO!" I almost broke our whisper as my voiced cracked slightly. She made this disgusted noise and grabbed the collar of my shirt and said, "You better not be, cause I'm totally turned on right now, so don't fuck up...cat boy."

"Pfff," I almost spat in her face. "Okay Nancy Drew, this appears to be another conversation to be had when we are NOT BUSTING INTO A HOUSE!!!" She composed herself and shot me a snotty look and grasped the handle on the screen door. She nudged open the heavy wooden door with her foot. It creaked open and we were hit with the musty hot air from inside.

I followed her sexy little butt inside with my right hand on her semi-naked waist. I mean, I felt a little soft flesh between where her jeans ended and her top began. Those two garments were trying to fight a quiet and gentle war between each other. Who could delicately hold in the most plumped subcutaneous flesh without giving an inch, or divulging the softest and sexiest under parts of her human shame? My middle two fingers were the unexpected benefactors of the DMZ that lied between. I sighed happily as I wondered how far this major felony (breaking and entering) could go without my extensive planning and oversight. (Wyatt and I had last cleaned out a house in Highlands Ranch with a U-Haul truck as our last little foray into major crime. We waited for family vacation, made elaborate costumes like the late teenager kids of the family that lived there and robbed the fuck out of that place for two hours in broad daylight. It was executed perfectly. This was...um...well...hasty.) Since I was mostly sure Jaime had never committed a felony in her entire life, I figured I was good for the times if anything got out of hand. I would protect her, to spite anything, at all costs.

We stepped into a really dark house. The only light, which was half obscured by our own long-cast-streetlight shadows, coming from the door, was pitiful, yet too much at the same time. There was too much contrast! All I saw was pitch black shadows and bright yellow reflections off of the white painted walls. All the blinds were closed. There was a zoo-like stench to the air inside the house; it was like reptiles and poop, and there was a big open room to our right and left and a small hallway straight ahead. My teeth clenched as I tried to expand all of my senses that were being overloaded by smell and touch to be sensitive to sight and sound. I concentrated, but there was nothing there to stimulate those senses.

Jaime froze two steps in front of me and my pelvis nudged into the small of her back. I somewhat jumped back off of her, but she stayed deadly still. Cold prickles stood up on the back of my neck and still, being the pervert that I am, I tightened my grip around her waist and crammed my cock into the nape of her back, and bent close to her ear. My left hand was on her shoulder. She was breathing delicately, but tightly. I whispered, "What?" She moved her ass backwards and up...onto me!

"Do you smell that?" she breathed. I made a smell sound, but already knew that whoever lives here likes animals, especially reptiles or like ferrets or something, because that smell is hard to misappropriate, but I whispered, "Yep. We might find something horrible in here." She shuddered against me.

We squeezed through the door and into a small hallway and arrived in the kitchen. If someone were privy to us, I believe we pretty much looked like a really friendly version of Shaggy and Daphne creeping about single file in a Scooby Doo mystery. Tiptoeing through the crushing blackness, with our pelvises touching...jeez. We kinda realized that it was a little weird dry humping our way through this potential house of horrors and we gravitated towards the light splashing through some hastily closed blinds.

There was a window and a round table pushed up against the window. Three chairs. My eyes were now seeing the shapes of a long galley kitchen that spanned the width of the house. Everything looked in order. Jaime looked up at me with sharp yellow blades of light across her face. She said, "This is silly."

Jaime bounded through the hallway, nearly fell, or it least it sounded like it, and threw on the hall light and fucking screamed, "HELLLLLOOOOOO! WE FOUND YOUR DOG SIR OR MADAM!" Adrenaline. I took a deep breath. "YOUR DOG ATE SOMEONE'S HEAD! WE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO KNOW...cuz...Y'KNOW IT'S THE PROPER THING TO DO!!!" I'm staring at the ceiling straining to hear any sort of weapon cocking, or heavy footsteps, or screaming.

"HELLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOO!!!?" I'm looking at the floor now and grinding my teeth together. Worse thoughts, the owners are locked in some fucking panic room in the basement and calling the police right now. They are about to activate the home defense unit and blow us full of fifty caliber holes, all ED-209* style. I laughed out loud at that thought and made my way through the hallway to Jaime.

"IT FUCKING STINKS IN HERE YOU DOUCHE BAGS! FEBREEZE! EVER HEARD OF IT?!" I broke out laughing like I haven't in a long time. She was laughing too, but I think she was more or less laughing at me because I was really fucking into it. Her laugh was awesome, maybe with a hint of derision, but none the less musical. "YOU'RE DOG'S DEAD, YOU KNOW!!.."

"OK, ok, ok, ok. I think you made your point there, perky.” She was beaming at me. I heaved a heavy sigh, and affixed her with a furrowed look.

"After you, sir." She motioned towards the stairs. They went down on the northern most wall of the house. We moved through a small undisturbed living room with a large orange poofy couch and wooden end tables. TV, Stereo Hi-FI, fireplace...The smell was definitely coming from downstairs. Jaime smacked another light switch and the small room at the bottom of the stairs was illuminated. It was essentially a landing with a door. Where does it go? Jaime knows. She flies down the stairs and flings open the already cracked door. A shiny trash bag looking material billowed out and covered her followed by a cascade of white, white light.

She raises an eyebrow and purses her lips, and peeks beyond the billowing material, into the light. This is another fucking Kodak moment. She blinks.

"Holy Fuck!" And she passes into the white light room billowing shiny trash baggy stuff in her wake. I quickly tiptoe down the stairs, and sidestep the trash bag stuff, and seriously thought I had walked into the Land of the Lost. We found the portal through time and space into the CENTER OF THE EARTH! There was greenery everywhere, and giant bright industrial lights. There was the sound of flowing water and electric mechanical whirring, the air was circulating about, the air! THAT SMELL! WEED!

Jaime said, "All th-those plants are pot, I mean.." The whole room was filled marijuana plants of all sizes. The lights were on tracks and were slowly moving back and forth across this rather large basement room. There were sheets of reflective Mylar or something on the wall in some places reflecting copious amounts of light. To spite this, both of our sets of eyes were as wide as dinner plates. She was a couple of steps ahead of me, and looked down on the ground and recoiled, "GAH!" She bumped back into me. There on the ground was a five foot iguana. The lizard was fat and as green as the pot around it, with black horizontal stripes going down its back. It appeared to be a very healthy specimen of herpetoculturery. It was ignoring us gnawing on a piece of pink...iguana chow or something.

"They don't eat weed, huh?" I speculated.

"What?"

"Iguanas are vegetarians."

"It certainly looks like they eat meat to me!" Jaime said, more with her hands than with her mouth.

I dismissed it. "Naw. That's just...kinda gross is what it is." The iguana bit was covered in dirt and iguana spit. The green dragon before us finally grabbed a hold of the iguana bit and tilted its head back and swallowed it whole.

"Ooops. There it goes." She is just too cute.

I began to trace back the events of the day, and started to get a little light headed. I'm no stranger to the odd adrenaline rush, hell, even a prolonged adrenaline rush, but all of a sudden, all I wanted to do was jump into bed and sleep for days. I shook this thought off and was assailed by other terrible thoughts. "Jaime."

"Yeah."

"Do remember everything you've touched with your hands or fingers in this house?"

"I think so, why?"

"Well, maybe nothing, but this is big, and playtime...it’s over, now."

"I think you may be right."

I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and told her to go wipe down everything she touched. I was quite the second-story man and was quite sure that I had touched absolutely nothing...except for Jaime.

She started out the door and froze. "What about this fuckin thing?" She was indicating the Mylar over the door. I thought for second.

"Pull it down. We're taking it with us." I said in a more subdued and hushed tone.

"Okey doke, " she sighed and ripped it from the metal strip above the door.

"Just leave it there. I have a plan for it." She looked at me pleadingly, but continued upstairs.

I wasn't long before I had used a large pair of cutters I had found on a table, and, using my shirt on the cutter handles, manipulated them as to produce a three foot long, Popsicle shaped missile of the STICKIEST OF THE ICKIEST. I hastily wrapped it in the Mylar and headed upstairs. Then, for the second time today I heard someone scream in absolute terror. It was Jaime.






*ED-209 was the robot that went apeshit in the movie 'Robocop'...Youtube it.

Chapter 14 "Sevante"

Across town, a day earlier, Sevante is walking home. A billion different things, over and over again are careening through his head. He is calculating his worth against Colfax Avenue inspired thoughts. Every block, walking in the seedy bar broken A.M. is a new sob story, spoken about as fast as he could walk past. One mullet topped character drops a story about how he needs 14 bucks for a bus ticket to Durango. He hands him a buck. Another lady just pulls up her sleeve and shows a nasty infected hole on the inside of her forearm obviously from heroin. He hands her a dollar. Another Mexican boy asks him for some change because “Anything will help.” Sevante hands him a dollar as well. A man approaches him with a small card to read. Sevante reads the card and it explains that the man is deaf and if he buys the card he will be helping the man is his endeavors. He hands him a dollar and hands the card back. The deaf man is grateful and lumbers off. These are his people, from his neighborhood, but he can't help them all. He decides he won't anymore. When he was his poorest, he'd drop some change on every block. He'd carry a pocketful. Not anymore. “How exactly am I helping anything by dropping some change from block to block?”

Nowadays he is considerably richer than he was. There is a better way to do this. A grandiose plan emerges in his head involving small community centers on every block down Colfax Avenue, arguably one of the most poverty stricken areas in Denver. He is alternately thinking that he has six singles and about eighteen hundred in Benjamins, and sixty-nine cents in his wallet. God, if they only knew.

He drives an older BMW now. It's the 5 series. ‘03. It's in the shop, and this little scene, going from deep east Aurora to Capitol Hill is a simple bus ride. The reason he keeps walking is because he got on the wrong bus. The express bus stopped about fifteen blocks from his Capitol Hill home, a nice loft above a tattoo parlor and a coffee shop. Sevante calculates that if he spends a dollar on every damn person that confronts him, between here and there, he will spend about nineteen dollars. "It's kinda like paying ugly strippers." He said to himself with a chuckle.

Strutting down the sidewalk, he couldn’t be prouder of his accomplishments over the last few years. Sevante just had a meeting with a new punk band, and was excited about the outcome.

Sevante is a great guy. In the local music scene, he is a god. He has been responsible for promoting three hip-hop acts and one girl band out of Denver and into some notoriety. That's not easy, based on several circumstances. One, He's a black man working in this white man's ClearChannel friendly, country-bumpkin city. Two, the bands are all non-radio-friendly. ("Fuck and Fuck and Fuck" could actually be a song title on an album for every act he represents.) Three, Denver has been "blacklisted" by most record companies because the politics in this conservative cow-town are decidedly anti-gay.

Not to mention anti-Semitic.

"It's good to be a black king in this white bread town." He says to himself, quietly.

You're always afraid that your inner monologue is being overheard. The words are usually seconds, if not fractions of seconds from coming out of your mouth. This little morsel was tasted by the night air, and thusly tasted by him. The Wraith. Sevante never meant for those words to pass into the Colfax night, but his words bested his calm exterior because he had found a band, and this band was right for the times. He met with the lead singer and bassist tonight and listened to some demos and he was in high spirits, and Sevante was high. Weed high. Pot High. Mary Jane. The Chronic. Reefer. The Wraith was listening in a dark corner of Denver. He heard the words that escaped Sevante's lips like a whisper, and focused in.

"Life is never so black and white." It was a whisper.

Sevante froze for a second, then continued a brisk walk towards his home.

"What would you say to someone so desperate that they never dreamed anymore?" A voice called from shadows, from the alley to Sevante's right. He stopped and faced the alley. He considered the alley for a moment and in his state of gushy, weed induced good nature said, "If you get some good rest you'll dream again, brother." Silence. Sevante stood against a darkened alley, streetlights and cars blazing behind him. The demon saw him as a silhouette, black and crushing the neon cityscape behind him. Sevante's teeth were little white pearls set into the head of a fairly imposing man whose shadow leapt deeply into the alley so that part of it was enveloped by utter blackness.

"You're almost there," hissed a seductive voice.

"Yeah, wuddevah." Sevante started walking west again towards home.

"Hey!"

"WHAT, MOTHERFUCKER?" Sevante decided to act a little tough, and why not? He was a fairly large dude. He was brought up surrounded by drug dealers and convicts and general asshole-moron-gangbangers, and he knows how to handle himself.

"Ooooh, tsk, tsk, my brother," said the voice. "I wanted to ask you a hypothetical question." A shadow emerged from the alley. It was barely discernable from the walls, but at times appeared to be partially lit and sometimes seemed to blend into the flat, elongated shadows that the Colfax lights seemed to produce. Sevante turned to leave, but the seductive voice continued, "Imagine you had no option left."

"Man, I been there, guy."

"No option but to steal and rob and beg for your survival?"

"Look, man, I have been down that road." The shadow stopped and froze against a wall or a dumpster, it was hard to tell. A dry chuckle emerged from that side of the alley.

"No man who claims to be a king, has ever been a pauper. Why do I say that? Because any man who has been poor understands the faults of the rich, he UNDERSTANDS THE PROBLEM WITH THEM ALL. MONEY AND POWER ARE TRULY THE PATH OF WICKED AND CORRUPT PEOPLE!" There was a flash of khaki and grey and the Wraith crossed the alley in front of Sevante and disappeared into another dumpster's shadow.

"Whoa, man...Chill, dude. Look, I got some money in my pocket, it's not much, but, you know..." Silence. Then breathing. Not Sevante's. "Hey dude..."

"I WILL ONLY EXPLAIN TO YOU ONCE. THE POPULATION IS TOO BIG, TOO MUCH, TOO MANY SOULS, TOO MANY MEDIOCRE PEOPLE, YOU ARE COMPLETELY WASHED IN IGNORANCE; I CAN’T SMELL YOU. YOU SMELL LIKE NOTHING!! YOU CAN'T COMMIT TO ANYTHING, NOT EVEN A SCENT! YOU ARE USELESS TO OUR RACE! PERPETUATING, AND PROCREATING...WHAT?! WHAT, WHAT, WHAT DO YOU CREATE?! I'LL TELL YOU THAT YOU ARE THE CORRUPTION!! CAN YOU KEEP LIVING LIKE THIS?!!"

"Look, man I'm just trying to spread love and hip-hop...and maybe, after tonight, some punk-rock," said Sevante easily. He watched a flurry of khaki and grey dip around in shadow and flop around the dumpster. It was such a flurry of motion, that it appeared spasmodic and other-worldly. Sevante was transfixed, and took a step forward. He sighed, "And the punk stuff is..." Sevante was cut at the knees and throat at the same time. This was confusing. He was falling over and as he tried to say, "...a new venture into unknown genres." He found himself croaking out little bubbles of sound. His ears were ringing; his breath was short. He hit the ground with his arms up, but they were unable, they were too weak to protect his face. His face hit the ground which seemed to be an impossible angle from his knee which was bent in the opposite direction from which he should of landed. Sevante felt warm all over. It was nice.

It was unnatural. It wasn't right! He wanted to scream, but he couldn't. He tried, but he could only muster a tired growl. He cranked his neck upward, and could look into the lights of Colfax. There were people walking by! He was only a few feet into this darkened alley. His call for help seemed drunken and lost in the din of Denver's busiest street.

There was a hand stroking the back of his head. Sevante put his head on to the pavement in the alley. A little rivulet of water touched his ear. In his mind, he thought that it was probably dumpster water. The soothing voice started breathing sweet tendrils of vowels into his ear. This demon was almost licking and sucking the air in a quiet and sensual whisper, like this:

"AEOOWAHATEE"

"OOWAYOOWITEEYAWEY"

"PIOOOOOOOHWAHTAEYEEEEEEE...sorry about this." The demon got up and walked to Sevante's broken leg and grabbed it and pulled it towards the darkness of the alley. Sevante's body followed, as the Wraith heaved, there was more pain than Sevante could ever remember feeling. Ever. Every moment became and elongated bubble of pain and confusion, and most disconcerting thing of all, a gurgle-scream of near silence. Why can't they see? Why won't anyone help me? Sevante's perception of the police slipped deeper into his memory, from evil white guys, to brave figures who only had designs to protect and serve. Is anyone out there with the balls to see what is going on at 12:45 AM on Colfax Avenue? Someone, anyone could save him with a glance in the right direction.

The Wraith turned him around on his back, if Sevante could gasp, he would, but he stared blankly, hoping this demon of a man would consider him dead, but he was looking into a black face, a shadow face. The Wraith said, "Oh now, don't play dead. You can't talk, but don't pretend. That reminds me of a song I heard once. Well, it wasn't really a song, it was a rap." Sevante spat blood. It dawned on him that he could be killed because he was a black man, and that he was into the wrong music. Fuckin lame. He squinted to see the face of his attacker.

"Stop it, bitch...you're looking too hard without your glasses," said that soothing voice.

"Check it!" The Wraith was about to rap but he was also feeling Sevante and his clothes up for some glasses. Sevante's glasses.

"Sometimes when you don't feel the same as playing the numbers game on the street when people that you meet are always gunning for the same end-ing...and it always amazes me, how a sawed off shotgun can break up a party, but I'd really like to know, which one of you fucked up bitches is endin ass up on my floor...so...it's me supreme, stayin away from dairy and fuckin up your scene, yo, cause I am he and who am I, but the same fuckin nigga that jams it in your eye, bitch...I got dat itch to fuck you up...yeah, you bitchass snitch, so here I go, yo, no more smokin the indo, where you want it in he head or the heart, yo?"

At that, after finding Sevante's glasses in the left front pocket of his shirt, the demon places them on his eyes.

Sevante sees the barrel of a large shotgun. It dawns on him like scientific theory.

Sevante is dead, he knows it. His mind hasn't really caught up with that fact yet, but he knows that those are the lyrics of one of his hip-hop acts. It's revenge or something. Sevante knows he's a dead man.

He is thinking he’d like an open casket funeral. He says, "HEART!"

It's a sledgehammer driven by a freight train to the chest.

It's an orange flash and heat.

Concrete is the softest thing Sevante has ever felt. His body rebounding makes it feel like a waterbed.

He is lifted up, but there is NO white light.

If Sevante could talk and tell you if heaven exists, he'd tell you.

Yes.

The best way he could explain it, would be this:

(Framed as a letter to Sevante's mom.)


Dear Mom,
The craziest thing...I'm dead. Here's the thing...Don't be afraid, it won't hurt...you'll actually be surprised...and you expect salvation, and a great white light...but it's funny, it's more like a great relief...you remember when Buster died {our dog}...you remember when we found him, after all that suffering, it was like a relief to find him all dead? It's like that.

There isn't actually heaven or hell there is just one last forever memory.

And blackness.

And that lasts forever too, but they coincide forever as your energy explodes into everything, so don't mourn me, because I don't care to be mourned. I am part of everything now. It is the most satisfying feeling you could think of.

It is a great release. I love you.

I have loved and so my life goes and goes, even in death, this imperfectness.

So I died.

So what?

I am in that great black silence that you fear, but it's only for a second, it's only repeating over and over and over into nothing.

Love,

Sevante

Chapter 13 "Nancy Drew"

I am a sheet white sweaty mess. Stupid Wyatt! Now I’m running several blocks to meet up with Jaime at the King Soopers. Drunk. This was a bad idea, but I was locked in to this nightmare and I had to ride it out. I don’t want to be late.

It's funny, you would think that arriving drunk and exhausted for our much anticipated date would deter me, on the contrary, it emboldens me.

Hey, not only do I have the dog mauling to talk about, but the Chloe mission as well. I've got some cool date convo to lay down if the normal listen-to-everything-she-says approach isn't working.

Jaime was waiting on the northwest corner of our King Soopers staring into the scene where the dog attack occurred. I spied her from a block away and stopped jogging so that I could catch my breath. She was just as breathtaking as she normally was, even from a block away, even in this failing blue evening light. She was a shimmery raven Japanese silhouette being caressed by a gentle wind, staring with purpose into the scene of man v. dog carnage.

It hadn't occurred to me for quite some time that the reason Jaime and I were meeting was because of the dog! The collar!

"Shhhhhhh..." I uttered, "...iiit! If she thinks she's gonna get me into some freaky Nancy Drew adventure, I am out."

"I mean, we're on a date, right?" I'm talking to myself and realizing that I might be over thinking this whole date/dog thing. Were we flirting, or was I just making a big thing about this? I could be mistaken about the whole interaction between her and I earlier today. I mean, how much do I truly know about this chick, anyway? Oh, the cold feet jitters. I'm probably going to play Wadsworth to her Sherlock all night.

On second thought...What the fuck, saying it like that doesn't make it sound half bad. I lit a cigarette and paused. She hadn't seen me yet, and I considered her. She could be stark raving mad, all this time, co-workers, and not really even a glimmer. Then, a little blood gets spilled, and now her panties are slippery? I chuckled out a little smoke and started walking towards her again.

"HEEEEYYY!!" She yelled. "GET OVER HERE!!" Jaime was motioning with both arms, like a flight attendant. Maybe she was more like one of those dudes with the flashlights that guide jet liners into their parking spots, anyway, she had great form.

I was about a half a block away, and I broke into a half-assed jog. She started walking into our loading dock.

"Oh here we go, Nancy Drew," I muttered to myself.

By the time I got to her, she was nosing around the dumpster where Dade had met his untimely disfigurement. I nudged at her waist with my hand to no avail. She said, "Damn, it looks as if they sprayed out most of the blood." She was right, I couldn't see anything. She got down on her hands and knees and started searching about like a CSI. Like a David Caruso and shit. Oh god, she even sniffed the ground. She got up and got close to me, and held up the dog collar and said,
"This is our lead, right here."

"Jaime, Hi, I, uh..."

"Shut up."

"Okey doke." She thoroughly inspected the dumpster, and as I protested, she shut me down at all points. Then she walked the scene, as if she was an expert. I sighed and grunted over a few minutes of true crime investigation. Then she said that she was through and that we should go to the bar. At least she didn't have me pick up some tissue and or blood which I could clearly see on the edge of the dumpster door. I decided to keep quiet. I could imagine Mona hosing the scene down with a big pressure washer.

So we went to the bar. It was a gay bar. I like gay bars, not because I'm gay, but you usually get good service. We sat at a table just outside the side door, near the bathrooms. I could smell urinal cake every time a flaming twink went into the men's room. There was exactly two women in the bar, and I walked in with one of them. I was already a little drunk, so I ordered a beer, and Jaime ordered a Long Island. At this point, I didn't know if this was a good sign, or not.

If it seems like I'm glazing over details of conversation at this point, I am, because there wasn't much. There was the point by point account of the dog mauling, and the somewhat less interesting, but funnier Chloe extraction, but I was starting to get antsy and my bed, and my apartment was looking sweet. Halfway in to her gigantic drink she said, "I've always liked you, what took you so long?" I was taken aback.

"I'm not sure, I've always liked you too."

"I mean, a year and a half..."

"I know, I don't know...It's weird for me, I mean, I haven't had a girlfriend, a proper one, since college."

"Weird."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's just weird...that's all."

I was a little deflated, and I gave a little sigh and regarded her for a second. I was trying to figure out where this was all going. I wasn't sure and the fact that I was slightly drunk wasn't helping. I went for the gusto.

"So...you like me, huh? Are we going some where with this or are you just a fan of man on dog violence?" I was treated to that hearty Kathleen Turner type laugh. It was loud. It was long.

Then she said simply, "Yes, a little."

“A little of what?”

“A little of both.”

"Really? It's stupid, I've had a crush on you for, god knows, forever."

"Don't get crazy there, Red. We work together." I was squinching my eye brows together. I felt a headache coming on. I stared across the table from her, and took her in at this point. She looked like an old school film noir temptress. Hair black, skin white, lipstick red, BlackFlag tee shirt. I sighed and let out a secretive fart. It was odorless, thank god. Just to nullify the effect of the fart, I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She looked at me and made two fingers in a peace sign and put them up to her lips. I gave her one of my American Spirits and lit it for her.

"Jaime, what kind of music do you play?" I asked. She smirked and blew out a plume of smoke. Now she regarded me for a second. It made me feel naked. She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her huge ass drink.

"Why do you care?"

"I like music, and I think you're funny." I meant to say interesting, but I let that ‘funny’ comment hang in the air like a bad fart.

"Funny?"

"Interesting, I meant interesting."

"You farted."

"Yep." Oh the horror.

"I know, I smell it, it's not that bad, you smell like you have good digestion." She snickered slightly. I was deflated, literally. She continued, "It’s chick punk. Have you ever heard of 'The Donnas'? Well, we’re a lot like them, but better." She has the lightest bluest eyes. I'm about to kill myself with lust. I’m also thinking that maybe the reason for the odorless fart was because of my years of liver pickling good times. All right!

"I saw the Donnas at the Bluebird a few years ago, they weren't that good, but their newer album is fucking sweet," I said.

"We have a hip-hop producer that's taken an interest in us." I'm nodding like an idiot. She changes the subject, "Do you buy Q-Tips?" I blink at least seven times.

"Yes."

"How are your ears? Let me look at them." She grabs what little scrubble of hair I have and and cranks my head around from across the table. She inspects both of my ears and nods approvingly.

"You...you're good. You're good, you. I’ll bet you’re yummy.” She says in a low voice as she disconnects her fist from my hair with a push. I blush, blink again about four times. "You know your eyelashes are blonde?" I just nod. "Your eyebrows are too."

"I shaved them in seventh grade, and they haven't come back the same since," I shrugged.

"I've never really liked a red head, before."

"Who says you even like me?"

"Me."

"This could get interesting," I said.

"Oh, It's already interesting," she said. Then she produced the dog collar. "1238 Humboldt St."

"Oh no," I said. She tossed the rest of her drink...down her gullet.

"Oh yes," she stared at me without even wincing. "The dog's name is...Killer."

"Here we go, Nancy Drew." I sigh, she smirks and picks up her bag. I leave a twenty on the table.

"Where's your car?" Jaime asked.

"It's a long story."

"What?!"

"Hey, baby, if you want to get my car, we're up on 14th and Euclid style.

"Chevrolegs?" She asked. I just grunt in the affirmative. I smiled that she said 'Chevrolegs'.

We only had to walk several blocks, and I asked her why it was such a problem to do so. She was noncommittal in answering that question. I asked if she had a car, and she said no. At this point, I left it at that. We walked down through Cheesman Park and cut towards the city. We talked about music and life and ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends. She found it astonishing that I hadn't had a girlfriend in over three years. I didn't want to reveal the fact that I am a small time crook and that the business had its ups and downs. It's probably a little much for a first date to deal with. The fact that I am a full time alcoholic probably wouldn't be cool to admit either. She sensed this and said, "I drink a lot."

I said, "Me too," coolly.

After some silence, she said, "I do, because of me. I have a condition."

Oh, here we go. "Hmm?" I queried.

"I'm an epileptic; I can't drive, sometimes I even space out for a few seconds. I have small seizures."

"Oh," I was a little disappointed. I wanted some blood and guts stuff, a vehicular manslaughter charge or something like that. It switched my conversation just slightly because I was unsure what exactly this meant for me and her. I have a brother that's diabetic and a dead uncle that had epilepsy. When he had a seizure in front of me once, I thought he was joking. That was until the orange juice and blood came out of his mouth in a smooth and frothy foam as he wriggled around on the ground. We were eating breakfast at the time. I was twelve years old and I didn't know what to do. My brother had a seizure once because of low blood sugar and I was just as helpless. I took a Red Cross course in college, and now I know what to do, but I'm still not sure of what epilepsy does to people. Does it make them a little crazy? How does it work? I decided to pretend like I wasn’t completely ignorant.

"Yeah my uncle had epilepsy," I said.

"Hm," Jaime sighed.

"Why can't you drive?" I asked.

"Seizures. Even if I have a small one while I'm driving." She made a raspberry sound and clapped her hands together.

"Don't they put you on drugs?"

"Yeah, but certain ones, the good ones, mess with your fertility and stuff, so I take ones that are less powerful, and I drink."

"The old alcohol treatment, eh. I just drink because I’m bored, and Irish.

"Yeah," she said. "For me, it seems to calm it down a bit. Look, can we talk about something else?" I shrugged and we walked in silence for awhile. It was for a very long while, in that time, she took my arm and hugged it firmly to her side. I felt like I was the most pimp-style guy on the planet. I was just holding her arm as we walked street to street. There were amazing things that were about to happen to us, this was just the beginning, giving chase to the dead dog.

Chapter 12 "The Little Worms Day Academy"

Back to the Chloe mission:

After much of a Laurel and Hardy skit, we arrived at the daycare. There was much discussion after I revealed that I thought I knew where the place was, and perhaps I had been there once. A few U-turns involved. Stuff like that.

This place was called The Little Worms Day Academy. No joke. I assume that a daycare "ACADEMY" prepares you for...what? Preschool?! Anyhow, I have bad childhood memories of daycare. This place gave me the heeby jeebies.

We walk in. Me- Flashy-silver-shirted-redhead-glassy-eyed-pull on the push door-stumble over a three year old kid-douche bag.

Wyatt-Straw hat wearing-hipster style-gentleman-get's the door open for me-mildly amused at my douche baggery-constantly grinning-cool guy. Damned if I know where he got the toothpick from, but it stuck out the side of his cheek as if to highlight this easy going smile.

The woman at the counter, her name tag said...Daiquirisha. I'm not kidding. She even said, "Welcome to Little Worms, I am Daiquirisha, are you picking up? Or are you en-quire-en, about our services today?"

"Uhh, um." This is me.

"Ummhmm," Her eyes flashed and looked me up and down. She looked quizzically at me and kind of puckered her lips, and yet pursed them at the same time. I was at a loss. Some time must have elapsed because Wyatt was right behind me kind of jabbing his thumb into my ribs. She said, "Well, my name is Daiquirisha, if you decide you need HELP." She kind of stormed off as if she had better things to do. I snickered. I couldn't help it. She really said: Daiquiri- a rum and fruit and ice puree. And Sha -an African root word that means holy practitioner.

Man, do I even have to tell you what Daiquirisha looks like? She's a big beautiful woman, that likes to get her nails done and knows how to apply make-up, maybe too well. She probably drives her husband and/or boyfriend crazy and probably also mothers him/them to death. She has probably had a few children, and is a good mother, and probably doesn't put up with much. Especially from white guys who smell like Vodka. I turn to Wyatt quickly. "This probably wasn't the best idea in the world, man." Wyatt scowled and shook his head and brushed me off.

He started to walk past me and then flipped around and put his hand on my shoulder and asked, "What's Chloe’s last name, buddy?"

"Simpson."

"Okay." Then Wyatt affixed me with the "It's All Good" smile and then walked towards the daycare's, no, Academy’s raised counter where the holy woman of daiquiris was pacing back and forth.

I can remember being quite confident in Wyatt's abilities to deal with the queen of daiquiri. I was having a problem keeping a straight face.

Wyatt: Ms. (said like: Mzzzzzz.) Daiquirisha? May I have a moment?

Daiquirisha: What's it look like, I got somethin else to do?

W: (Polite) Excuse me?

D: (Mock polite, confused) Excuse me, I'm sorry, I didn't know...

W: Well it's just that...

D: (Composing herself) Are you picking up, sir?

W: Chloe Simpson, please.

(She looks him up and down again, and makes somewhat of a dubious face, but speaks into the small PA microphone below her.)

D: (Deadpan) Chloe Simpson going home, Chloe Simpson GOING HOME.
(She gets close to Wyatt's face over the raised counter and raises an eyebrow and nods)

D: I suppose you're her uncle? (Sarcasm was dripping from her mouth.)

W: Nope.

(Wyatt just grins; she starts thumbing through some papers and not very subtly, speaks into the PA again.)

D: Adam to the front.

My heart went a little icy at that point. Code Adam is a well known code at any retail chain. If there is a code Adam at any retail store it means a child is missing and that all employees should cover all exits, until the child is reunited with the parent. This means that any child, even if it is with a grown-up that claims to be the child's parent must be stopped and detained for ID purposes. I've never actually had to do this at King Soopers, but if I did, I'd find it hard to explain. I'd still do it though.

The code Adam, is named after Adam Walsh. This was a kid that was taken back in the 80's at some retail store, right under his dad's nose. He was taken, and tortured, and killed, if memory serves correct. It was a big message, back then, in the 80s, not to talk to strangers. The guy who made that statement as much as he could back then, was John Walsh, Adam's father. John Walsh, now, is the America's Most Wanted host. Talk about a life changing thing...

Well, now I'm thinking I could be wrong, because most places these days have a code Amber, the same as Amber Alert System, but it means the same thing. I could only hope that it's not as grisly a story that inspired the code Amber as the one that inspired the code Adam.

Crap. I was right. She had called to raise the guard. Code Adam, means what it means. Several jittery women came into the front with their handbags and made at some busy work, but kept an eye on us. They were waiting for something to go down. I could only squint, smiley-eyed and wordless at the whole scene.

(Daiquirisha is popping her gum and staring right at Wyatt. Wyatt is returning her gaze with ease and shifting his toothpick around.)

W: Girl, where you get your nails done like that?

D: (Snapping her gum with an eye roll) Why do you care?

W: (Taken aback) Damn, I'm just asking.

D: What?

W: Pshhhh, what? What did I just ask you? Damn.

D: (Eye roll.)

W: (Smiling the whole time) I just asked you, 'Where..you..get..your..nails..done..like..DAT?!' I didn't ask for a side of attitude. YOU know what I'm saying! Damn.

D: Down the street.

W: Is it Hahn's House o' Fashion?

D: Nuh U'h?

W: Uh Hu'h. (He looked proud of himself.)

D: How'd you know that shit? Oooops. (She covers her mouth and sniggles into her hands and looks around)

W: Shhh, the children.

D: Dude, I know...How'd you know that?! (She switches to a whisper.) How'd you know DAT?!

W: My old lady's got a similar style, you know, and she swears by these two little Korean babes.

D&W: (Together) Pik and Cho!

W: They're almost like family. I have to give them a Christmas gift every year. Well, I don't even know them, but my woman does.

D: Mmmmhmmm, I do that to, but I wonder sometimes

D&W: (Together) If they even celiBRATE CHRISTMAS!! YEAH ME TOO!

(Silence)

D: I don't care, look at this job. (Wyatt grabs her fingers and inspects, and proclaims his satisfaction by nodding.)

W: They have a gift.

D: Don't they, though? (There is a long pause while Wyatt inspects every inch-long cuved nail. There is a break only as Wyatt says..)

W: What's this?!

D: It's like a Chinese Kanji symbol for truthful water.

W: It's soooo intricate.

D: I get that every time.

W: Same finger?

D: Mmmmhmmm. I’m a Pieces. It’s a water sign.

W: My woman gets a snake every time. It has little triangles on it's back.

D: Yeah I've seen that one.

(I think I'm about to puke.)

D: (Quickly) You can't pick her up.

W: Pardon?

D: (In a hush) I'd be surprised if you don't get escorted out of here by police. We know who picks up Chloe, and you're not the guy, so what are you doin here, handsome, if it's not to stir up trouble? (She laughs at the end.)

W: I'm afraid you don't understand. Dade got his face chewed off by a dog at work. He's in the hospital, my associate and I came to pick Chloe up to get her to her Auntie's house.

D: You're sayin this on the level?

W: Do I look like the type of man that would lie about something like that?

D: (Krinkling her nose) You could be the white devil himself. I had a dream that I saw the devil once, and he looked just like the KFC guy!

W: Col. Sanders?

D: Yep.

W: I hardly look like him now, do I?

D: I don’t know. You look like you may have seven secret different herbs and spices.

W: Ha! Ha! Ha.

D: Ha! Ha! Ha.

(I really will throw up.)

D: What's the family password?

W: I don't know shit about that. They should have called it in. (Wyatt sighs.) If they didn't, well, we'll just leave her here. We don't want to cause an uproar. (He glances at the ladies who are eying him. They all have their hands in their purses, no doubt clutching mace, tazers, hand grenades. ) Daiquirisha thinks for a second and walks into the back room with a...)

D: Hold on a sec, hon.

I'm all cold sweat prickles and Chinese eyes, but I manage to get a handle around myself under the glare of these harsh fluorescent lights and several middle age purse clutching accusers to walk sensibly up next to Wyatt. I'm not quite sure what the goddess of pina colada is doing, but it could be our asses if she is calling the cops from the back office.

She came back rather quickly and motioned to me. Wyatt grimaced. She pointed a long manicured fingernail at a small piece of paper.

"Is this you?" I went to the counter and squinted at a small piece of official looking paper that had my name and number on it. I squinted unnecessarily. (I have 20/10 vision, in both eyes, I have since high school.)

"Yeah, that's me."

"Well why didn't you say so?" said Daiquirisha. I'm reeling at this point. She goes, "Mmhm," as if to size me up yet again. I confide in her as best I can.

"My friend’s lookin to upgrade his girlfriend," Wyatt elbows me hard in the ribs. "He likes good lookin black ladies," I wheeze and laugh.

We had already been cleared by Dade himself, and were completely confirmed by Auntie Laura. The heavily armed day care workers sheepishly brought Chloe out to see us and stepped her down from the raised countertop to meet two of the most retarded and wrong men she will ever meet until she reaches drinking age.

She recognized me for some reason. Chloe ran at me with her arms up in the air and yelled, “Orange man! Orange man!” I was a little surprised as Chloe had seen me only a handful of times in her scant existence on this planet, and yet she called me, Orange Man?”

I was surprised and embraced her and picked her up as she ran to me. Her little arms wrapped around my neck, and I felt a strange elation. It was unconditional love and trust, happiness and faith. It killed me emotionally. I was “Orange Man”. Chloe clung to me and yelled into my face, “IS DADDY O.K.!?” I crunched her head back into my neck for a second and glowered over at Daquirisha. She shrugged at me, and winked at Wyatt who was eyeballing me with his mouth open.

I thought quickly, and let Chloe look at me again. I said, “Daddy looks like a mummy!”

“Daddy looks like Mommy?!”

“No. He looks like a mummy!” She frowned at me while I said this and shook her little head. I felt as if I had just been a bad actor and was panned by the most influential critic playing a bit part that I was never meant to play. It broke my heart. I was holding this little thing in my arms and felt I like the child.

Chloe wailed, “Nooooooooo!” The ladies in the room clenched at their purses again.

I sputtered, “No! It’s okay!” She calmed, and creased her eyebrows at me. I said, “I’m going to tell you the story of the baddest doggy ever. Your daddy stopped him. He was a baaaaad doggy.” She nodded. “The worst doggy ever.” She looked at me again with suspicion.

Wyatt had hooked his foot against my foot and had shoved a finger into my waist, in an awesome and subtle attempt to get us the fuck out of the Little Worms Day Academy, but I must have felt like a piece of stone. I couldn’t move until little Chloe was OK to do so. I couldn’t believe it. “Daddy can’t wait to see you, but the doggy bit him.” Her eyes got so wide.

“Bit?”

“Yep, but he’s OK, and he’s waiting to see you, but the doctor wanted to make sure that the doggy didn’t hurt him.”

“Why?” She started to break down and cry a little.

“No. No. Shhhhhh. Your daddy beat the doggy. Daddy is okay, but you know how doctors are,” and I nodded my head.

She thought for a second and nodded her head too and said, “Are we going?”

I said, “Uh huh,” and put a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, waved to Daiquirisha and I led our way out of the daycare. Chloe clung to me for reasons that I can’t explain, but I felt like I was one of the few people that could feel this way about her. Perhaps Dade had known that. He had discerned that once I was touched by his baby girl who had this unknown affinity for me, she had even had a nickname for me, that I would actually die before letting her meet any harm. It was a warm, orange feeling that took me over like a manly tsunami. This steady steam of protectiveness bolstered me as we talked while I carried her to Wyatt’s car.

She pointed to Wyatt, “Is he a cowboy?”

“Yes. He’s definitely a cowboy.”

She was asking me, “Why are you so orange?”

I said, “I’m not all orange!” I put her in the backseat behind Wyatt and continued, “Why are you pink?” I strapped her in the backseat and was indicating a shock of Chloe’s hair which had a little pink stripe in the bangs of her kid-like, ultra-blonde hair.

Wyatt had already sat in the driver’s seat and wordlessly passed me a small bag of Cheetos over his shoulder. I smirked and Chloe’s eyes lit up.

I opened the bag carefully and passed them to her. She grabbed them and settled back into the Volvo’s back seat. She said, “ Mommy gave me pink hair.”

“It’s very pretty.”

“No it’s not.” She said, looking very serious with her Cheetos in a big girl seat. I smiled at her.

“I think it’s just lovely.” I made sure that she was secure in her seat and she still regarded me with some suspicion.

She said, “Hm.” And crunched on some Cheetos.

I walked around the Volvo, and settled in next to Wyatt. Behind us, a din of crunching fried corn matter and orange cheese dust.

I let out a secretive giggle, and turned to Wyatt and was like, “Nice call on the Cheetos.”

He snorted and pulled out a cigarette and hissed, “Where to now, fuckbag?” I sombered a bit.

“Let me use your cell for a sec,” I said. Wyatt curled his lip and sighed with disgust and pulled it from the center console and handed it over. I pulled my pager out of my pocket and surfed for an important number. Wyatt started to pull the car from the parking lot and I was trying to find the callback number that would help me out. There was one and only one.Wyatt keyed his old-school CD player and the song "Runnin Down a Dream" wrang out.

We headed north, into Denver.

At some point after trying two other numbers, Johnny answered.

“WEEEEEEOOOOOOOH! What’s up lettucehead!?”

“This is Red!”

“OOOOOOHHHH! What do ya know, fuck-o! Where’s Wyatt?”

“Are you drunk?”

“FFFFFFuck you…”

“So you are….You at home, J-Boy?

“Sure am, are you guys comin by?”

“Uh…maybe. Can you help us? I’m looking for a phone number…”

Chapter 11 "The Greeley Vampire"

Wyatt was looking at me every now and then on the way over to the daycare. I wasn't saying much. I think he wanted me talk, but I was full of booze and trying to think of a viable situation in which we could pick up Chloe. He was playing 'The Best of Tom Petty' on his car CD player which was a CD Walkman hooked into his tape player with one of those tape hook-up dealies. In a world of MP3 players, it looked like a giant square dinosaur of a device. He was playing it loud. I was thankful he wasn't saying anything, because I didn't have one single idea. Wyatt and I were partners in crime, he knew that mind was mulling over the situation and was cool to let me think out the problem of getting Dade's daughter, but at this point, I would be grateful to hear him say anything.

"This is ridiculous," I sighed. There was silence, Wyatt was smoking a cigarette and gravely nodding to the beat of "Don't Come Around". "We have to be the legal guardian..."

"Hmph," said Wyatt as he smirked into a cloud of smoke.

"I'm serious, man. Officer Mayhew, the lesser one, he said...."

"Hey, chill, if that's the case, why would Dade send you?" Tom Petty was singing the opening licks of 'I Won't Back Down'. "Just finish the job and go see your beautiful meat mistress," Wyatt was emboldened. I looked at him critically for a moment and realized his demeanor wasn't quite normal. What could it be? He's fired up about something. "You know I hate driving drunk," he sucked his breath through his clenched teeth into the dwindling sunlight. "We'll get her."

I nodded, and lit a cigarette and opened the passenger window of the car. I stuck my arm and half of my head out of the window. I let the beautiful red and orange light of the fading sun in. There was an approaching storm from the west. The sun hit my face intermittently as the long shadows of buildings and trees buffeted the outlines of the city streets.

It is times like this when the framed space of trees and buildings allow me to see the movie of my life in slow motion. It's where I get my power to alter the perception of time. Regression. Every flash of dark and light are a new or an old image of horror and deliverance from myself. This story. My eyes register the landscape and the people, but I am reliving the pains and pleasures of my life through graphic hallucinations spurned by the tiny patterns that my eyes perceive as miles slam through them. It's as if you're sitting next to a giant piece of film as it rolls through a projector at 24 frames a second. It's as if you're so close to it that you can only make out certain pieces of it. It's like a Monet painting too close. You can make any swirl of color a beast of your imagination. It is a truly special time of the day, the sunset, or the gloaming. Wyatt's words were of comfort, and true. If Dade didn't set up the appointment for the Chloe pick up, it wasn't my deal, now was it?

As we drove east, I was lost in my thoughts.

This one time when I was in college, up in Greeley, I used to drink quite a bit. I drink quite a bit now, but I was younger and more resilient, therefore went at it with more gusto. I did something that literally scarred me for life. Those were good times, but this time in particular, I wonder if I was sane. A little legend grew up around this incident that went something like this:

I was thrown through a plate glass window once and I lived to tell the tale.

I went to a party on Halloween, apparently, and I don't remember this very much, I was abusive to a male member of the party. Now, I know I don't get abusive for inappropriate reasons, even when I'm completely hammered. Maybe he didn't like my costume. That year, I was a vampire. I had dressed nicely, because vampires are pimps. I had a black overcoat on. It was over a dark blue pin-striped suit that I had bought from the Salvation Army the day before. I wore no make up. I did, however have a set of fangs custom made by my father. He is a dentist. It was a cool, if not subtle, costume. I had no problems getting into parties all night. Once I bared my custom fangs and acted the part, my costume was one of the best at any party, but there was this last one.

The last party we went to that night was a party thrown by some assholes that told me at the door that I wasn't wearing a costume and that I had to buy a mask from them for ten dollars to enter. All attempts by me to show my custom made fangs fell on deaf ears. I was quite drunk and far from fighting over ten bucks, so I purchased a Strawberry Shortcake mask and went in. The party was beautiful. Drinks, and beautiful women, and Tara, my girlfriend, dancing, drinking, did I mention drinking, because there was drinking.

At some point, I don't remember certain things; I had to be filled in later by my friends that were also at the party. It went like this:

I got in a tussle with a gentleman in the kitchen. I vaguely remember getting him into a chokehold and ramming his head into the refrigerator. Apparently, I knocked him out. He was the cousin of some guy that was throwing the party. I got summarily ejected by several large gentleman, that chased me down the muddy alley after some fisticuffs. I remember falling down while running down the alley. Apparently there was a guy chasing after me after all his friends had stopped and he tried to tackle me. He only succeeded in head-butting my knee and passed out or was knocked out, but I fell down anyway. After getting up, I was covered in mud and remember thinking, "Tara's not going to like this at all."

I remember taking off my overcoat and covering my would-be attacker with it. Then I walked back to the front of the house to re-enter the party. This is where it gets hazy. Supposedly, this guy befriended me. For the whole rest of the night I called him simply, "Mexican." I've never seen him before or have since. Sometimes I think he might be a dream, but since my friends have recollections of him, he had to be real. Tangible, and true, although I remember nothing of him except for a friendly presence over my shoulder during the ensuing moments. Ah, Mexican, where ever you are, call me!

There are stories as if he was kicked out of the party a little before I was. There are also stories as if I did some bumps of crystal meth with him before we came back to the party. There were stories as if I just pulled this guy from the street as I came back. None of these stories surprised me, but the truth is probably stranger.

Apparently, we came back in force. We started shit with everybody. I was ejected head first through a large screen door with a plate glass window front. No screen, just a plate glass window. I remember this part very well. It took three or four large gentlemen to heave me through it. Someone had torn my Salvation Army suit jacket off during the tussle and I remember tucking and rolling into a cannonball to save my face and everything else.

As I went through, the screen door crumpled and shattered and I heard the crowd go, "OooooH!"

When I got up I remember feeling okay. I walked back towards the house. People moved away from me in horror. I grabbed what was left of the screen door, and by then I felt warm trickles all over my body. I must have been cut in a million places. My hands and forearms were dripping with rage. One of the guys that threw my through the door tried to stop me from coming in. I could only think about finding Tara and going home. When he tried to stop me it was like trying to stop a train. I over came him in two swipes of blood drenched, adrenaline raged, alcohol induced, haymakers. Bless Tara. She found me quickly and drove me to our home in her friend's Jeep Wrangler. It didn't have its top on and I remember shivering deeply the few blocks of the ride home.

What happened next is the weirdest thing ever. Tara threw me into the shower and hosed me off with cold water. She closed my wounds with super-glue. I'm talking gaping wounds on my back, my forearms, knees and hands. She quietly closed all of them.

Then she did something weirder. To this day, I have nothing that matches it. After I was all closed up, and she had stopped bleeding, she laid me down on our bed and fucked me so sweetly. She took care. She made sure. She didn't want to injure all of these new wounds. We came together. Fuck, it was amazing.

After that there was a stupid legend that ran rampant upon the UNC campus. "The Vampire" or the “Greeley Vampire” as the story had come to be known, he got his revenge that night. I was both too afraid and too mortified to fess up that it was me. Everyone who new it was me came up with a convenient story about where they were at the time. It was easily forgotten, and I was thankful for it. My wounds were closed and my blood was forgotten, to this day, I have little pink, raised scars all over. After that day I made a solemn oath, mostly to myself, to never come in contact with plate glass again. And tequila and or meth.

Chapter 10 "Pokemon Lunchbox"

Dear reader, at this point I feel as if I need to back up a little, because there will be a moment where you will inevitably wonder about certain details of my life, and how or why I came to be in certain situations. Since the need to explain this fact of my being, my livelihood, will come up later; this small fact must be addressed.

I am a highly successful small-time crook.

I am serious.

I make about 24,000 dollars a year at my straight job.

I make about 20,000 dollars in four to five nights a year.

I am a thief. I am a con-artist. I don't really have a conscience about it either, it troubles me very little. At some point I decided that these minimal paying jobs that I went to and from on a weekly basis, were not responsible for me. I couldn't blame my lack of education or moral upbringing on them. I decided that if my credit and capitalistic requirements were sub-par, that I would enact furious retribution against institutions and persons that I would blame, if I cared to.

Insurance companies piss me off. Banks piss me off. Big box retail outlets really piss me off. Rich real estate agents piss me off. You know the kind of credit strapped suburbanite dwellers, that ride their Harley's on the weeked, so they can rebel against...WHAT? Themselves?! People suck. And I will rob them.

I'll rob people that will never miss it, companies that can't keep track of it, and entities that are too stupid to know what they have. Life is survival. You know how much those shoes are that you're wearing? A hundred bucks?! No, I mean on the street. Thirty. That's the bottom line.

To me, anyone with enough sense to figure out the bottom line is smart, not cheap or underhanded.

The first time I ever committed a felony, I was desperate. I wasn't quite out of college, yet. I had no money, and no prospects and all that crap that goes along with being poor, up to your eyeballs in debt, for a peice of paper you don't really need, for the promise of money you will never make with your degree in whatever-the-fuck. So, I was desperate.

I walked into the smallest 4-plex movie theatre in Parker, a town on the outside of the suburbanite wasteland of Denver. I walked into that place with a carrot in my coat pocket and a .25 caliber pistol strapped to my ankle. Right before, I decided to leave the gun on my ankle for emergencies only. I felt as if I was stepping into a dark world that I may never come back from, this was my way of justifying my humanity. I walked in there, and grabbed the manager and told him to use the keys. I had timed it so that they had taken in all of the money for the seven-o-clock movies on the weekend that one of the Lord of The Rings movies came out. I grabbed the twenty-something manager, and poked that carrot into his back and pushed him into the box office door screaming, "Use the keys! Don't look at me!"

He was crapping his pants, but he got that door open lickety split. When we got into the box office, there were two teenagers sitting there with blank looks on their faces. One was a small blonde girl, and the other was a fat blonde pimply faced boy. I didn't want to scare them too much, so I shoved the spindly manager into a corner and said, "Tell them!"

"Were being robbed," he said coldly. "Do whatever he says." The kids were frozen. This was no good, so leaned in and whispered to them.

"This is just a big prank," I hissed, and then showed them the carrot. I was impressed, they didn't laugh, and they went straight to work emptying the registers with smirks on their young faces. The fat kid even emptied out his Pokemon lunch pail to put the money into. (He was some kind of D and D raver type kid. However, I was thankful for his forethought. I hadn't really planned for this eventuality.)

After that, I ripped the only phone I could find out of the wall and said, or rather hissed, "Stay here." I closed the box office door and locked the top lock with the manager's key. It took me two tries because I didn't know which key was which, but once I did that, the adrenaline was driving me mad. I was going to get caught. I knew it. I turned around to the lobby, and the concessions. There were a couple late-comers milling around, getting popcorn, playing a video game. Nothing. No one saw and or reacted to my presence, what-so-ever. Creepy.

I walked into the concession aisle and declared, "THIS IS A ROBBERY! OPEN YOUR DRAWERS NOW!" More blank looks from the cashiers, all teenagers, two girls, one guy. I saw one late-comer take cover behind a full length cut-out of Gandolf and another one, a Hispanic, short, pregnant woman, she whimpered and cowered against her tall Hispanic boyfriend. He was just staring at me like the cashiers, as were the other handful of occupants. At this point, it had occurred to me that I should have worn like a ski mask, or pantyhose over the head or something, but, nope. There was a long silence. My mind was turning cartwheels. I was still twitching this carrot around in my coat pocket like an idiot, holding a Pokemon lunchbox. Still, this eerie silence. It felt like it lasted for about seventeen minutes, but in fact, it probably only lasted like seven seconds. I shrugged, "Get over here," I whispered exasperated to the teenagers; I motioned at them with my gun-carrot-coat hand. We huddled behind the popcorn thingee.

"This is just a huge prank on your boss; it's his birthday present from some very sick friends." The guy teenager, whose name badge said BRENT, piped up.

"But his birthday was last week!"

I inhaled sharply, oh the horror, but I recovered well and said, "Exactly! Ass dick!" And then I smacked him on the back of the head. I showed them the carrot. They all sniggled a bit. "Empty the drawers." This was getting fun.

"We can't." It was EILEEN from her name badge. Eileen was a beautiful little Asian-white girl kid with green eyes. "We can't open the drawers by ourselves!"

I glowered at her for a second and said, "Let’s just pretend..." I looked up at the menu board and put my carrot and my hand on her shoulder and continued, "I ordered a 'Colossal Tub' and paid with a ten, okay?" They all nodded and went to work. My Pokemon lunchbox was filled to capacity.

I dodged out into theatre number four, through the darkened capacity crowd watching god knows what preview, for god knows what. I had tunnel vision. I had planned this exit. All sound was a wash of static in my ears and I only had one goal. My eyes were fixated on that side exit door. I knew exactly where to go and how many steps were required. When you're sprinting, you can actually speed time up. I'm much better at slowing time down, but when you're running for your life, there is a certain lack of detail, a certain white smoke around the edges of the frames of every waking moment. When you’re running for your life...

I slammed through the exit door, and found the bike. It was an old cruiser that I had actually restored to some working order, just for this moment. It cost me fifteen dollars. It was a Schwinn. I bought it off of a friend of mine in school up north, in Greeley. The bike was tied to the railing on the up ramp into the parking lot from theatre four. It was held to the fence by an old U-lock that didn't work. When I tugged the bike from the railing, the U-lock fell apart, breaking the bike free. I tugged off my sweater, with that; my thin jacket easily came with it. I stuffed the sweater, jacket, carrot and the two halves of the U-Lock into the basket on the front of the red and rusted Schwinn, and walked it the rest of the way up the ramp. I pulled an orange hunter's beanie from my back pocket and tugged it over my head. Finally, I stuck the Pokemon lunchbox on to the top of my Schwinn basket and rode into suburbanite oblivion, trailing my misty hyperventilating breath as the only clue that I had committed a crime, a felony.

I glanced at my watch as I pedaled into the subdivision where I had parked my car. There was a police cruiser that passed in front of me at a high rate of speed as I crossed a neighborhood intersection. My watch said 7:37pm. If my calculations are correct, it had taken me a mere four minutes to rob that theatre. I passed street after street, like a merry paper boy tossing item after item into different brown and crusty, snow dappled lawns. First was the sweater, which I easily separated from the jacket. I put the jacket back in the basket and tossed the U-lock barrel, next. Shortly after that, the U-rod. Then, as I drove past a mailbox, I lightly draped the jacket over it, then, finally, the carrot. I took a huge bite of it as I was riding and tossed it over my shoulder. It tasted good. It tasted a little coppery, like money, maybe, if you were so inclined, like blood. I parked my car near a large cul-de-sac that headed downhill. I grabbed the Pokemon lunch box and sent the Schwinn down the hill to oblivion. I had secretly hoped some boy or girl would find it and make it their own. I hopped in my car. At that point, I was leasing a new Chevy Cavalier, and took off into the chill night air. My take for that night was four thousand, nine hundred, and sixty eight dollars. I still have the Pokemon lunch box.

Interlude: Vote for the name of Chapter 10

Okay. Anyone out there reading the novel I am so dutifully posting? If so, vote for the name of Chapter 10 -- 'Pokemon Lunchbox' or 'I Pack A .25' Just drop a line on the blog space or on FB or on Twitter...my handle is KungFooGrip.

Chapter 9 "Wyatt"

I hopped back in my car, shut the door and heaved a heavy sigh. Well, they'll have to call Dade's aunt from the daycare, because I sure as hell am spooked. I nodded to myself and tried to start the car, but it shuddered and sputtered and died.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" I put my head on the steering wheel, and groaned, "Don't do this, not now." I tried it again. Vapor lock. No good. I pulled my keys from the ignition, got out and calmly closed the door. I had to find a phone. At least the car was legally parked. I trotted back north a block and started walking on Colfax Avenue again, and quickly found a payphone and dialed up the only person I knew that could bail me out of this one. Wyatt.

Wyatt was probably my only friend in this world. Well, my only good friend, anyway. Hopefully, he wouldn't mind picking me up from this little disaster. His phone was ringing. It took six rings for him to finally pick up, and when he did he wasn't listening. He was ordering food at a pick up window. From the sound of it, I'd guess it was chicken.

"Wyatt!" I was pleading into the phone. The phone rustled for a second, and then he said, "Yeah, who the hell is this?"

"Buddy?"

"Buddy! Well I haven't heard from you in like a week! That's no way to treat a buddy, buddy."

"I know, buddy, but I need you to do me a solid, man."

"A what?"

"A favor. I'm stuck out here on Colfax, and I need you to pick me up."

"Sure thing," he said. "Just let me finish up here, and I'll come get you. Kristy wants to have a chicken dinner tonight."

"I don't want to interrupt anything."

"No, dude, she's got one of her dumbass friends over, and they’re sitting there talking and doing shots of Hot Damn. Where are you, buddy?"

"A few blocks past Colorado, on the north side of Colfax."

"Okay, buddy, I'm at Church's Chicken, just walk down to Colorado and Colfax, and I'll pick you up there in like five minutes or so."

"M'Kay."

"Bye."

I actually couldn't wait to see Wyatt. To tell Wyatt the story of how this day has turned out so far, would be fun. The dog mauling, Dean, Jaime, Officer Mayhew...times two, it had been a day for the ages, and it wasn't over yet. I started walking down Colfax toward Colorado, taking in the scenery of the city, such as it was.

It was becoming rather clear to me that this wasn't a well planned Chloe extraction. Once I picked Chloe up, assuming I could, what was going to happen? Was I to wait patiently at my apartment until Dade or his aunt showed up? Perhaps I could take Chloe on my date with Jaime. That'd be fun. Maybe I was going to be called and I would await further instructions. Right about now, I'm rethinking my distaste for cell phones. To top it all off, I don't exactly know where Dade is being treated at; this is a major fuck all situation. It's important not to lose my head about it, I told myself.

Perhaps I don't have to bail on Dade's daughter quite yet. Wyatt could be helpful.
From certain experiences in my life, I have learned one thing. It is this: Whenever you feel like getting hung up on the smaller details, don't. It's as simple as that; keep the faith in the big picture. That credo is harder to live by than you may think. If I think back to all my previous relationships with women, these memories have been kind of an obsession of mine lately, I remember certain fights vividly. They were always about the small stuff, which ended up adding together to be a huge metaphor for our relationship, and the metaphor ended up being stronger than all of the good things that were present in our shared lives. It's a shame, not seeing the forest for the trees.

I wonder if you are willing to give love away for a metaphor, then, what was your definition of the nature of love to begin with? Did it have exceptions? Would you qualify it? Would you say things like, "Why do you like your friends more than me?" Or, "How can you say that? You know how it makes me feel." Or, "Why don't you make love to me anymore?" That's a biggee, eh? Is it based on the actions of another person? How can it be? How does love become a game of validation where you are basing your worth on what you perceive your lover’s feelings about you to be? I've been obsessed by thoughts like this because I am missing something in the center of my chest that makes me feel so isolated from the rest of the world that it makes me want to scream. Was I responsible for destroying the love in my life?

I've been thinking that love is the byproduct of the sixth human sense. The sixth human sense has always been a mysterious mode of perception, lauded by psychics and mystics to allow super human powers. I think it's more primal. It's sticky and wet, elicits flushed cheeks and moans of pleasure. It's sexual. I think we know on some base level. We see everyone naked in our minds eye. Humans can perceive the baby making attributes, fertility, ovulation. We smell and taste compatibility. We can hear health, success, stamina. It makes us crave. It makes us yearn. We are not human without it. And without love, where would you be now? Sigh. I trudged on.

I reached Colorado Boulevard still stuck in my head. I was replaying scenes of my most idiotic instances on the planet. You know, the ones that make you wince and laugh alternately. As if on cue, Wyatt pulled up in his grey Volvo. It wasn't a new Volvo; it was one of the clunky old ones that I used to make fun of as a kid. You know, "They're boxy, but they're good." Wyatt made like he was going to stop in the middle of Colorado Boulevard, in the middle of rush hour traffic, to pick me up, but he kind of faltered and hung in the middle lane, much to the chagrin of a few motorists behind him. They were honking and swearing. Wyatt looked at me through his open window and kind of shrugged. I indicated for him to take a right by pointing so that he could meet me on the other side of the boulevard. An Acura passed him and honked, I heard him growl some obscenities out of the window, and then watched him cut off a driver on his right and take a right on to Colfax.

"Now that's a true friend," I mused to myself. The pedestrian light turned grey and I jogged across the street. I saw his car pull in to a Good Times burger joint a couple blocks down.

Good Times burgers are a strictly Colorado institution. It's what In n' Out Burger is to California, but in my humble opinion, Good Times handily kicks In 'n Out Burger's ass. (To be fair, I just figured out how to order a burger animal style at In n' Out and now I could be rethinking that whole theory.) Anyhoo, I jogged the rest of the way to his car. Wyatt had gotten out of his car and was casually leaning against the trunk of his car, smoking. I like to say that Wyatt, even though he's barely thirty, has the fashion sense of an older black dude. You know the guy that shows up at the wedding looking better than the groom? Wyatt had more accessories than my last girlfriend. He was wearing a well-worn straw hat complete with an Elvis button, gold plated Elvis style sunglasses, a black button down shirt that must have cost him about seventy dollars, some fashionable jeans, black Pumas, and he was rockin' the gold watch, gold chain with crucifix, and matching gold and onyx ring. I swear he belongs to a different era. Or he could be in a Tarantino film as some scrappy protagonist. Wyatt is of average height, but commands the quiet respect of a larger man; he has brown hair, brown eyes, and five o'clock shadow that reappears soon after he shaves.

If I sound venerable, I am. Wyatt has gotten me out of more than a few tight situations. He's, as I indicated earlier, my best friend. As I jogged toward him, he was beaming at me and shaking his head. Apparently, I entertain him as much as he entertains me. I reached him. I was short of breath, wheezing like a morbidly obese schoolgirl. He embraced me and said in a psuedo New York accent, "You nevah call me!"

"Sorry, mom," I gasped. I was still trying to catch my breath. I leaned over his trunk for a second and inhaled deeply. The trunk of his Volvo was pockmarked from hail damage, and I noticed his Kansas License plate was more than a year expired. "Man, how do you drive with that thing?" I breathed, indicating the plate.

"Buddy, most of the time I use my Chevro-legs."

"You will not believe the day I have had."

"Yeah, well hop in, you can tell me about it, but let's get the fuck out of here." I nodded, and we were on our way.

"Last night I had the thirst."

"Yeah, I know it well,” Wyatt replied.

"So I went to the Goosetown and started on a whiskey regiment, backed by cheap beers."

"Ouch. You meet any women?"

"No, I saw Nelson."

"Nelson?"

"You know, 'fuck stick'?"

"Oh, annoying Nelson? I'm glib and funny, yet so, so sad, Nelson?"

"Yeah," I replied.

"So how is that douche nozzle?"

"Better!"

"Hmmmm."

"He found some kind of rad swingers club online that made him feel like a man again. He gave me their card." I had taken on a somewhat serious tone. Wyatt scoffed.

"Well, if it's got a card, it's legit!" Wyatt laughed.

"Yeah." He was right about that. Anyone can get a business card, even I had one, it said 'Pleasure Professional'. "Although, he did say something to the effect of...he won the trifecta." I gauged Wyatt for a response, but he just lit another cigarette and stared out of the windshield. "You know, the ménage a'...A THREESOME!" Wyatt just nodded, and began to park his car in the small parking lot next to his place. "He said that this group of people changed his life. He said it and I believed it." Wyatt sighed and looked over at me.

"Yeah, I guess you'll believe what you want to hear."

"No, man, you know me. I saw something in him that really changed him..."

"Like I said..."

"Well, this isn't the story, anyway. I don't know why I'm stuck on this point, there's more. I just thought of this as the point at which to start it, but in retrospect, you probably only need to start from the point where I wake up, hung over." We got out of the car and started up towards the apartment. Wyatt flung a brown paper bag at me; it was obviously filled with a titty bit o’ liquor. Somewhere an angel choir sang. I have the thirst, often, especially after run-ins with the po-po. I dare not look in the bag. Knowing Wyatt, it could be anything from Wall Street Whiskey to Crown Royal. It could be anything from Absolut to Skoal.

He pulled the chicken from his car and was like, "What the fuck do you care, man? Nelson, buddy, come on."

"No, it was just weird. I really believed him."

"Maybe he was just drunk, and so were you from the sound of it."

"Yeah...no...he didn't even drink his drink, and HE was buying."

"Hmmmm. Yeah that IS weird. Maybe, he was so drunk, he passed into some kind of drunken sobriety."

"That's stretching..."

"...quite a bit, I know." Wyatt said while nodding and smoking. He motioned his head up toward his apartment and we walked in silence until we got past the front door of the apartment building. "So anyway..." Wyatt said in anticipation. He was looking at me as if I should have been talking the whole time. I nodded a slight apology and continued as we walked up the stairs.

"I went off on my boss, I have a date with Jaime, Dade is in the hospital, and I almost got arrested," I blurted out. Wyatt nodded again and took a drag off of his cig. He smiled and shook his head again. It was if I had amused him. Like I said, we amuse each other, but today, his life was probably a little less interesting than mine had been.

"Mmmmkay, keep on, buddy." We started walking up the stairs, and by the time we got to his door, I was finishing the story about my confrontation with Dean. We got into his place and went to the kitchen. By about this time, I was deep into the dog mauling story. I started to put the brown bag in the freezer, but Wyatt was rapt. He shook his head disapprovingly and pulled it from my hand as I continued. He revealed the bottle. It was a half pint of Jagermeister. He cracked it and took a snort, and offered it to me. I grabbed it and continued. I didn't drink, however. I kept on going; it was coming out of me like a faucet with a bad filter, all spray, no style. It had lots of water pressure behind it. Amazingly, Wyatt held it together, like he was holding a Bell jar straight into the spigot. I love this about Wyatt. He, unlike most of our generation, can hold his attention span, without trying to top the story, or bring his own stories in at any point. I think we have this in common, although sometimes I wonder about my own attention span.

I was at the end of Dade's story and moving into my little scene with Jaime when he made a quick move and deprived me of the Jagermeister bottle. I had been hoarding it for awhile. Again, he made a short, disapproving shake of his head and proceeded to drain about half of the bottle. He sucked in through his cheeks and bulged his eyes. He handed it back to me. I paused, and took a nip.

I realized, at this point, that I was probably taking too long with this story, and became aware of the two women talking in the front room. One of them was Kristy. Wyatt had dinner for her in the form of Church's Fried Chicken. Wyatt was fingering the bag o' chicken as he listened to my long ass story. Kristy is Wyatt's long term girlfriend. The other one was either Mandi, Candi, Sandi, Brandi, or Mandy. ("...with a 'y', not an 'i'...") I didn't know. I made out with one of them...once.

I made a head nod towards the front room. Wyatt laughed out loud and then gave me a dismissive hand gesture. He didn't really give a flying fuck. He then cupped his hand to his ear. The acoustics aren't great in his pad, but I heard snippets of girly conversation via the hallway. It was really insipid. Fashion, shoes, comments about "that bitch" were all present. It's like Wyatt and I weren't even there. We could have been privy to some real female bullshit convo, but fuck that. It was kind of cool. The girls didn't care, and neither did we. In my past relationships, my women couldn't wait to get all up in my business. Wyatt seemed to be invulnerable and invisible to this kind of shit. It is something that will haunt him later in this story, but something that will also set him free.

We finished the small bottle of Jager whilst I finished up my story, and somehow we moved to small glasses of white Russians. I must have talked for about thirty minutes. I was getting a little tipsy, but I was acutely aware of the time, even though I had wordlessly given up on the Chloe extraction. It was about at this moment when Wyatt said, "Let's go get Chloe."

To spite my best judgment, I said, "Alright."