SOC #22: A Psychedelic Departure and the double-fuck

No, I've never imbibed shrooms dipped in LSD, but I did watch 5 minutes of the 2015 VMA's, hosted by a half-naked Alien from the planet Arturas. Donald Trump, I've found the ultimate illegal alien. Call the Air force, FBI, CIA, la migra, and NASA, the creature stole an American's job. Oh, dear God, I thought the cocaine laced 80's ended 25 years ago. Did I go back in time? Is Reagan President? Was I abducted and taken to the planet Nephilum? How can a child star promote marijuana, then they show a retarded, uninspiring anti-tobacco commercial? I swear, every time they show a "Truth" ad, I want to cut open a swisher, add more tobacco, roll it back up, and smoke it in one breath. MTV should be put on the controlled substance list as "deathly lethal in one dose," because it's opiate effects have made me forget who I am, and what I'm doing. I can't feel my body. If this shit is what kids these days are inspired by, I'm performing my own vasectomy, due to my lack of feeling from the ultimate opiate M-fucking-T-fuck-V. My fucking God, a TALKING PIG! It's going to shoot me. Change channel, must change channel to something with substance, a work of art with heart and passion, and not a substance with the intellect and integrity of a porno flick starring meth addicts. Look, a normal looking woman playing a guitar...shit song - heard it before - love, kiss, shouldah-couldah-wouldah, ... throws guitar into crowd, kills a robot - no one notice's - the bitch looks naked under her suit-jacket, her skin made of gold. Yuck! I'm no moneyfucker. Are there people that really dry-hump gold? If Jared from Subway looked at kiddy-porn, then yes. I've heard people literally fornicate with trees. Shit! You see what MTV does to me, what it makes me ponder. WHITE SQUAD?!! The fuck is that? My I.Q. has dropped negative five thousand. dot dot lin bin bum moo mooooo. Finally changed the channel. "Maps to the Stars," directed by David Cronenberg. Good film. Now I feel better. Artist's like Cronenberg do not need a trophy on a mantle to prove how worthy they are. Okay, maybe I'm being too negative about Music Television. I change the channel back to the award show. AAAHHH! Kanye West gets a gold astronaut. Fuck, now I have to listen to him talk. He stops yelling into the mic and grabs his head, the zombie robots cheer. Has he finally stopped talking. NO! He continues. Kim Kardashian bounces her lactated balloons. Kanye West then yells his candidacy for the President of the United States. First Donald-realstate-Chump, now Kanye for-fuck-sake Give-it-a-Rest. Orwell's 1984 is alive and well, and so colorful. Double-fuck bad.

SOC #21: No sense makes sense

Have you ever had conversations with ten people during the course of one day and at the end of it, before you went to sleep, you realize none of them were correct, or they even thought what came out of their mouths were total lies? I have. It sucks when I take what I have learned and researched over the years, and use it to help them be more enlightened. But, of course, they think they're right and correct, because the T.V. said so, or some loud mouth idiot with a degree in stupidity wrote it in a book I would never touch myself. Life is not Black and White, nor is it all the colors in the entire spectrum of colors. It is so beyond ones comprehension that one must keep learning and absorbing knowledge in an attempt to get a clearer, more concise picture of what is, and not what others think it should be. If there is only one or the other with the addition of an unpopular third option, run away from it, or pay it no mind. Yes, there are a billion words to glue it together into concrete, comprehensive form, but that doesn't make it the truth. There's still a long way to go until we can make the journey to see the unknown. I don't know what I'm saying. If I've made sense to you thus far, you must go somewhere else. Read something credible, and I hope you'll see it's not. I at least admit I am wrong, but I like to assure myself that these words are good for me and may not be good for you. And if it is, then cool. Do you want to hear something funny? A junkie called me stupid on more than one occasion. HA! HA! HA! I'm laughing as I type. An idiot who was too young and stupid to wear a condom said I'm lazy while more than half his check goes to a kid he doesn't raise himself. Another demeaned me for trivial mistakes while his dumb-ass now works 14 hour days at an hourly rate of 10 dollars an hour. A millionaire called me a satan worshipper for the type of music I listen to while he worships money, using bills to snort cocaine with. These kind of people actually exist, and they are in various shapes and forms, with different lifestyles and different genitalia. Avoid at all costs of being blinded by your own stupidity. Acknowledge your own damn weakness' or you'll be a damn zombie fool, following the consensus of human stupidity. Not even an ant bringing food to the fat ant in the ant hill cares about money, or if you're an illegal with no papers, or a homo getting married, or a republican bitching about gay marriage. This post doesn't have a story to tell. Why are you reading it? There once was a man in Nantucket who looked down at an empty bucket, and yelled, "FUCK IT!" Then pissed in the bucket. He said, "Now there is something that once was nothing."

Scarlet Romance

             "As the worst of the venom left my lips,

               I thought, 'If, despite this lie, he strips

               The mask from my soul with a kiss - I crawl

               His slave - soul, body, and all!"

                           - Robert Browning, Adam, Lilith, and Eve

    Most people do not like to believe that true love sometimes can be the worst sin of all. 

    Picking locks to break into other people's homes came easy to Kristen due to her previous profession as a Bail Bondsman. After skipping a court date - expecting to remain free from the hands of the law - common, petty criminals were so stupid as to stay at their current residence, which obviously was kept on file at Chill's Bail Bonds. That is when Kristen did her Bounty Hunter style work, went on road, retrieved the dumb-ass thief, junky, or wife beating punk, and brought them back to jail. It was as easy as vacuuming when they didn't go on the run; she'd simply stand in the vacant, dark house by the door with a taser gun, then zap them in the back when they walked through the door. 

    On this night though, Kristen was not working for the Bail Bonds business, but for the love of her life. 

    The man she was waiting for had never been arrested before, even though he should have, but with great regret, the wicked have their way of evading justice throughout history. The man was a pedophile who murdered his innocent victims after he was done with them, cut them in half in his basement, put them in a black garbage bag with some rocks, and dropped it in a river from a bridge two hours away. Kristen knew this because the love of her life told her. He had a gift, allowing him to find wicked ones like this child-killing pedophile she was about to incapacitate. 

    Headlights flashed through the windows as the man's car moved into the driveway. Kristen then heard the sound of the garage doors opening up. 

    "Shit," she blurted. 

    She knew where the door to the garage was, ran to it, and stood next to it as she did at the front door. 

    The sound of the driver's-side door opening and closing. Then she heard the man open the trunk, for a moment the sound of paper bags, the trunk closing. She raised the taser gun, ready to shock the pedo-ass out. 

    The door opened. 

    Kristen's back was pressed firm against the wall behind the opened door as the man entered, light shining in from the garage. The man, holding two brown bags of groceries in his arms, moved close to the wall beside the door and switched on the hallway light with his finger, then began to move toward the kitchen. Kristen swiftly pushed the door hard, slamming it shut, and before the man turned around to see what was behind him - let alone jump at the loud bang - she shot the taser gun's two probes into his back. The brunette, white male, wearing a blue polo shirt, and khaki shorts, dropped both bags of groceries as the shock from the taser gun made his shoulders go up, and his arms stiffen. He fell to his knees, then flat on his face. 

    Kristen stepped over the man, bent over, pulled out the taser gun's probes from his back, and out the two holes in his shirt. After rolling the probe's electric wires around the taser gun and putting it in the inside pocket of her black leather jacket, she reached into the other inside pocket to get a pair of handcuffs, bent down again, and cuffed the unconscious man's hands behind his back.
    "Just like the old days," Kristen said, straightening herself back up, "with the new addition of -" she reached into her jacket's outside pocket, and took out, "- duct tape."
    Unrolling a piece of duct tape, Kristen pushed against the man's shoulder with her right black boot, rolled him on his back, got on her haunches, ripped the piece of duct tape, and slapped it over his mouth.
    Moments later Kristen was driving the man's black BMW to her love's house. She had hog-tied the man before lifting his ass, and dropping him face down in the trunk. She was always tough, being that she had to be while working in the Bail Bonds business, but ever since being with her true love, she seemed to become unnaturally stronger. Blind by her love for Laz, she did not even care to notice.
    She turned up the volume on the radio, Katy Perry's song "Dark Horse" blasting on the speakers.
    "Your lyrics fucking suck, slut!" Kristen howled, then proceeded singing her own version to the beat.
                    "You thought it was impossible
                      living in your freedom in denial.
                      I'm here to take you away to suffer
                      at the hands of the Devil."

    Kristen beat her fist on the roof to the beat.

                     "You believed in your dark heart
                       you'd never experience a consequence. 
                       I'm here to tie you up
                       drag you behind my Dark Horse
                       and bring you to your well deserved punishment."

    "Painted whore with her shit lovey-dovey lyrics," Kristen said.
    The BMW drove through a clean, affluent neighborhood, arriving to a closed gate. Kristen opened the driver's side window, reached out with her left hand, and keyed in the four digit code on the keypad erected on a black pole cemented in the ground. The gate slid open. Kristen drove past the open gate which soon closed, and continued onward on a paved driveway that weaved through a heavily forested property. The leaves on the trees were beginning to fall for the commencement of autumn.
    At the end of the driveway was what from the outside looked like an abandoned mansion with bushes and grass overgrown, rosemary nearly covering its entire outer surface to the roof. Kristen parked her car right before the front door, and as she did a sensor light was triggered above it. She got out, walked around to the trunk, then pressed the button on the BMW's key to open it.
    The man was awake, mumbling pleas behind the duct tape. Kristen smiled as she put the car keys in her left jacket pocket, then brought out a different object from the same pocket. There was a click, and out popped a silver blade, which she immediately put the tip of close to the man's eye-ball.
    "I know what you're trying to say," Kristen said, chuckling. "'You crazy bitch, let me go. I'll fuck you up, cunt. Please, don't hurt me.' Am I right?"
    The man stopped mumbling, his eyes wide, and became still. He began to spasm.
    "Don't move, boy. You never know what could happen." Kristen then sliced a small cut in the man's cheek.
    He winced in pain and screamed under the duct tape.
    "You see," Kristen said, waving the blade over his head. "Now, I'm going to cut your feet free from your hands so I can escort you inside the mansion. If you try to run, I'll cut both your achilles. Okay?"
    The man attempted a nod to affirm his comply.
    Kristen cut the duct tape that held the man's feet to his cuffed hands as she said she would, but instead of helping him stand up out of the trunk, she grabbed one of his ankles, and pulled him out. The man squealed as his chin hit the bottom rim of the trunk, and fell head first onto the pavement, forming a new gash on his forehead.
    "Kidding," Kristen said, "I'm dragging your pedo-ass inside."
    The mansion's double-doors opened by themselves as Kristen dragged the man up the four steps passing under an archway. Lights inside turned on as she crossed the threshold. The interior of the place was a complete antithesis to the outside; every surface was clean, gleaming from the lights. Hanging from the ceiling in the foyer was a sparkling chandelier.
    A warming feeling came over the man as he tried looking around in astonishment. Though he took a hard hit to the head falling into the pavement, he still had all his senses surprisingly well attuned after passing the threshold.
    Kristen dragged the man into the kitchen where she let go of his ankle, leaving him on the floor. She didn't stop walking until she got to the refrigerator, opened it, and got herself a Raging Bitch IPA.  Slowly, but surely, she popped the cap off with one thumb.
    "You can get up now," she said, before swallowing a few gulps of the beer.
    The man managed to get onto his knees.
    "Come on," Kristen affably urged. "You can do it."
    He got to his feet.
    "Good for you, boy, good for you," Kristen cheered. "Here's to you, man." She drank some more of the beer, then set it down on the counter. "Now, move back against the wall."
    The man followed her command, stepping backward, his back flat against the wall.
    Kristen slowly walked toward him, sliding her leather jacket over her shoulders, showing the curvature of her boobs under a dark-blue t-shirt.
    "You like my big tits?" she asked, cupping her boobs in her hands, lifting one above the other at a time as she slowly stepped up to him.
    The man shook his head, No.
    "Why not?" Kristen slid her jacket back onto her shoulders.
    The man lifted one shoulder and tilted his head to the side.
    "Oh," Kristen uttered, covering her mouth with one hand, "I'm sorry. You're gay."
    The man nodded, Yes.
    Kristen broke out laughing.
    "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just fucking with you. I already knew were gay." She stopped giggling, and changed to a serious tone. "You're not here for that because that truly is no sin. You're here because you don't prefer males your own age. And I'm not talking about older men, or young men eighteen and up. Hell, not even eleven and up."
    Kristen smacked her hand on the wall beside the man's head, making his body twitch. She got close to his face, looking deep into his eyes.
    "In this place," she began to say, "you have no free will. You can have all the windows and doors open, and his power over you won't diminish even by an atom. There are no lies here. The only freedom you have after you go down to the cellar is the freedom to feel pain, and suffer the consequences of your actions." Kristen stepped back and flexed her biceps. "Serving justice is so fun."
    She brought down her arms, slid up her left sleeve a bit, exposing the back of her naked wrist, and looked down at it.
    "Well," she said, tapping her bare wrist, "it's that time. Follow me."
    Like an obedient dog, the man followed Kristen to a door in the kitchen. She opened it, and the man, without hesitation, went in after her. She flipped a switch, turning on a single light bulb in the ceiling, illuminating stairs leading down into a cellar. Though the man still had his hands cuffed behind his back, he did not lose balance descending behind Kristen.
    Arriving into the underground cellar, they came upon a room well lit by many candles burning along brick shelves in the walls all around with the exception of a wine rack that was on one side of the room. In the center of the room was an aluminum chair, and right in front of it a dark-brown, wood coffin, tilted against the brick wall. Beside the coffin stood a wooden pedestal. On it was a small glass vase which contained a single red rose.
    "Sit down," Kristen said, gesturing to the chair.
    The man went to the chair, sat in it, making sure his cuffed hands went behind the backrest.
    Kristen went to the wine rack, selecting the first bottle she touched. She then found the wine opener and used it. At the top of the rack were a row of wineglasses hanging upside-down. She took one, walked over to the pedestal, and placed the glass and bottle of wine beside the red rose. Without looking at the man, she walked up the stairs, switching off the light before closing the cellar door, leaving the man alone in the candle light in front of the coffin.
    About half a minute elapsed before the coffin began slowly opening, its hinges gave out the infamous, haunting sound, instilling the worst fear upon the man. He began to panic, breathing heavily, emitting sounds from behind the duct tape of a weeping man-child, but his body did not move, and his eyes remained open.
    The coffin's lid finally opened to reveal a sleeping man in an all black tuxedo, shiny black tuxedo shoes, wrists crossed over each other, and slicked back brunette hair.
    The man in the chair stopped making sounds beneath the duct tape, and simply stared.
    The man laying in the coffin jolted forward out of the coffin onto his feet, eyes open, both arms outstretching with hands open toward the man in the chair.
    "Gotcha, bitch!" the Coffin man screamed in a cookie-monster growl.
    The man nearly fell backwards in the chair, but it was bolted to the cement floor.
    The Coffin man broke out laughing, clapping his hands once.
    "That shit never gets old," Coffin man said. "Woo!" He then went to the pedestal, picked up the rose from the vase, and inserted the stem into the tuxedo's outer breast pocket.
    "Even though you can't at the moment, no need to introduce yourself," the Coffin man said. "I already know who you are." He poured himself a glass of wine. "My name is Laz. It's short for Lazarus. You know who I'm named after?" He sipped the wine, waiting for the man's response.
    The man gave a slight shrug.
    "I'll give you a hint," Laz said. "Jesus Christ's most miraculous of all miracles."
    The man simply looked at him.
    "Yes, that's right. The man Jesus rose from the dead, proving to those that doubted he truly was the 'Son of God,' or God himself however you look at it." Laz took another sip of the wine. "I'll let you in on a secret, just between you and me. I'm actually that Lazarus people read about in The Bible. Yes, it's me, standing right here before you, drinking a glass of excellent wine. I'm the first of the undead. Though biblical history strays a bit far from what really happened - after Jesus woke me up, anyway. You see, there was no plot to kill me by those Jewish Chief Priests - it was all word of mouth those days - they simply just didn't believe it. After I got home, my neighbor Paul freaked the fuck out, and stabbed me. People thought I died again, but actually one can't kill someone who has already died. What really happened was I ate Paul with the knife still stuck in my gut. Which is what I'm soon going to do to you as well."
    The man mumbled under the duct tape.
    "Shut up, I'm telling a story," Laz said, then finished the glass of wine. "Years later I was near death, and I didn't know why. I ate food, drank water, but still nothing seemed to cease me from entering oblivion again. It was when I came upon a rich man's house that I realized the abilities I had. I could see the man's wicked sins." Laz placed the empty wineglass on the pedestal. "He murdered and raped just because he could get away with it. Both women and children. I broke into his house and ate him, his entire being, from flesh to bone. Doing so resulted in me obtaining a hundred years more of life, and I've been doing it for over two thousand years. The only drawback being that over time I can no longer be in the sun light. Hence, my love Kristen bringing you to me."
    Tears began rolling down the man's cheeks.
    "So far you've kidnapped, raped, and murdered three boys, correct?" Laz said.
    The man nodded, Yes.
    "Two six years old, and one seven. The seven year old being the son of a female Detective. Janet Tumblar is her name." Laz leaned over, and ripped off the duct tape.
    The man yelped, then pleaded, "Please no. I'll turn myself into the cops. Don't do this to me. I'll surrender to the Law, and ask for Jesus' forgiveness."
    "Dude," Laz said, "I don't work for either of them."
    The man stared up at Laz, mouth agape, eyes wide.
    "The only free will you have now is to feel pain, and scream like a bitch before you die," Laz informed him. "I'm gonna start with the hair because it's my least favorite part."
    From the master bedroom on the second floor of the mansion, Kristen could hear the pedophile's faint screams, but she didn't care to pay it much notice as she looked at herself in the mirror, making sure she was to Laz's liking in a low cut 18th century white chemise.
    "Mirror, mirror," she recited, "who does Laz love most of all?" She ran her hands through her hair, puckering her lips. "Me, of course. Body, mind, spirit, and all."
    Satisfied and excited, she ran backwards over a 14th century Persian rug, leaped up, fell flat on her back on the king size bed, her arms extended over her head, and kicking her feet, causing the chemise to go above her waist. A sight which Laz disliked. When she noticed the screaming had ceased, she contained her visible ecstasy, sliding down the chemise back over her hips, then turned onto her side, propping herself on one elbow, her other hand on one hip. Facing the bedroom door, she waited in that position for over two minutes. Laz finally opened the door.
    Laz looked a bit haggard compared to when the pedophile first saw him leap out of the coffin: His hair was no longer slicked back, but ruffled; the tuxedo jacket opened, and the black shirt underneath hanging over his pant's waistband. Laz himself, including the red rose still showing it's perfect bloom in his breast pocket, seemed unchanged by his big meal down in the cellar.
    "You are the perfect spouse," he said, looking upon Kristen laying on the bed.
    "He give you what you needed?" Kristen asked.
    "Yes, of course, love," he replied. "Rejuvenated my life expectancy for another hundred years, and a new skull for my collection. Before we make love I need a shower to get the pedo-stink off my body." He undressed in front of Kristen, making her heart beat faster, and her pussy wet.
    Before entering the bathroom, Laz sniffed.
    "You're about to menstruate," he said. "Excellent."
    "Anything for you, Laz my love," Kristen said, rolling onto her back.
    Ten minutes later, Laz emerged from the bathroom, and stopped at the edge of the bed. Kristen crawled across it up to him, getting on her knees. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, their tongues lapping each other, and her lips grabbing his as if she were just free from drowning, and finally breathing oxygen. Laz's hand went up her inner thigh, touched her wet vagina, and rubbed the labia and clitoris.
    Kristen's lips pulled away, her head going back, gasping in building ecstasy. Laz licked her neck.
    "You're about to bleed," he said. "Lay on your back."
    She kissed him once more before complying. He spread her legs, knelt on the floor beside the bed, and commenced to drink her menstrual blood, cleaning it all out.
    "Oh, Laz," Kristen uttered in heavy breathing, "my one and only love. I am...and will always be...with you until...my death."
    By the time Laz was done drinking, Kristen had orgasmed three times. She stayed on the bed, her arms spread on both sides of her, exceedingly exhausted and supremely satisfied. Laz, on the other hand, his thirst further quenched, stood up, licking clean his lips. It was the end of their love-making.
    The thing is - the truth is - Laz could not achieve an erection. It wasn't an erectile dysfunction type of thing; it was basically a drawback from being rose back from the dead, a curse from God so Laz did not continue his family tree. Over the years Laz had gotten over it, finding pleasure with living beings like Kristen, his 13th Catcher of Wicked Souls.
    Later that night Kristen sat in bed drinking a glass of wine. Laz sat naked in a cushioned chair reading an old leather bound book, his feet up on a red footrest.
    "What are you reading tonight?" Kristen inquired.
    "A Robert Browning poem," Laz replied. "One which he said God wrote for him." Laz chuckled. "That shit makes me laugh."
    "Why is that?" Kristen asked. "Can't God inspire creative people?"
    "The fucker can't even talk," Laz blurted. "He doesn't have to. That's what makes him God."
    Laz closed the book and put it down on the table beside the chair.
    He looked up at Kristen, and asked, "You have a good time tonight, honey?"
    "Yes," Kristen said.
    "Even capturing that wicked soul?" he asked.
    "Of course, Laz. Anything for you."
    Laz moved off the footrest, and got to his feet.
    Kristen continued, "Now you have a hundred more years of life, and I get to be with you until I die."
    "Hopefully you'll make it eighty years in, huh," Laz said.
    "It's heartbreaking you can't grant me a longer lifespan overtime you eat a wicked soul," Kristen said with some angst.
    "Yes, very unfortunate for you," Laz said. "Not one of my abilities."
    Laz walked over to the bedside table near Kristen where there stood an open wine bottle and an empty wineglass. Kristen was about to move and pour him the wine, but Laz put up a hand to stop her.
    "No need, sweetheart," he said, "you've done enough for me tonight. Sit back, relax, and enjoy your wine."
    Laz filled the glass, then moved to the foot of the bed, facing Kristen.
    "In this house you have no free will," Laz said, before smelling and sipping the wine.
    "What do you mean, Laz?" Kristen asked. "I lo-"
    Laz put up a hand before she could finish saying the word.
    "But are free to feel the pain of betrayal by the words I'm about to say," Laz said, lowering his hand. "The night we met at Sharks Club was the first time I had left the mansion in over forty years. God, how things have changed since the seventy's. Anyway, I always go out to recruit new Soul Catchers. The first time I saw you was outside, a block away from Sharks Club. You were sitting at a table by yourself outside a Starbucks, making a public spectacle by smashing your cellphone to pieces. You weren't a wicked soul yet, so I couldn't get into your mind to see what made you so angry. I followed you down the street into Sharks Club where you commenced to get wasted. I sat next to you. What did I say, honey?"
    "'Looks like you need to dance,'" Kristen quoted, her eyes welling.
    "You taught me how to dance in the twenty-first century that night," Laz said. "I liked the seventy's better, in those days there were actual moves to perform. All you millennials do is hump each other, and jump around. Whatever. When you told me that you lost your job earlier that day, and you smashed your phone after your boyfriend admitted to cheating on you, I thought, CHA-CHING! I had my next Soul Catcher. I then brought you here."
    Laz drank the rest of the wine, then continued, "You don't remember the old lady that opened the door. I told you she was my maid, but she was really your predecessor. Luann was her name, by the way. Once you entered this house you lost your free will. I told Luann to go into the cellar and get us a bottle of wine while you and I sat on the couch before the burning logs in the fireplace. As you expressed how impressed you were with my mansion I made you lose the memory of meeting Luann. Then I told you to wait while I went down into the cellar where Luann obediently sat in the chair, waiting for me to make the speech I'm giving you now - and will again - then proceeded to eat her. I came back upstairs with the bottle of wine to your wide eyes, loving me, and cherishing my eternal presence."
    Tears flowed from Kristen eyes. She wanted to speak, but couldn't. With all her desire she wanted to throw the glass of wine at Laz, and jump out the window.
    "The worst sin of all, my love," Laz said, "is to take God's will into your own hands. Every time you leave my house to catch a wicked soul for me, you have the opportunity to turn him or her into the hands of the law, where their fate can be righteously met with justice. But your blinding love for me makes you fail at redeeming your wicked actions in God's world. As with Luann, when you're done being my Wicked Soul Catcher, you will have added five hundred years to my life, with the addition of a hundred more after I eat you." Laz walked over to the window, and looked up at the night sky. "You know, I can actually go out in the sun light, but doing so would be a great risk to me. I could be spotted by The Wolf. Ever since the Dark Ages, and those fucking puritan, zealot, nut-job Catholics, he's been on the hunt for me. In exchange for his life, they hired him to find me. That's when I started using women like you, Kristen. And after you became a true sinner, I could see through your eyes while you're outside during the day, so if and when he finds you, I'll be ready for him. Waiting in this mansion for a fight. I can feel him when he's close, especially during Hunter's Moon, but I don't know where he is at this moment." Laz inhaled deeply. "You may speak now, Kristen."
    "All this time I thought I was the love of your life!" Kristen cried.
    Laz spun around, ran up beside her in a flash. His face now close to hers. He smashed his empty wineglass on the bedside table. Kristen didn't even flinched because Laz didn't allow her.
    "The love of my life, my wife!" Laz yelled, "died over three thousand years ago. At first sight of me when I came home after Jesus rose me from the dead she ran off into the desert and let the sun kill her. I couldn't bring myself to go after her because she refused to be grateful for Jesus' greatest miracle. Fuck her, and fuck you, sinner." Laz calmed himself, took Kristen's wineglass, then to the foot of the bed. He raised the wineglass and threw it at the wall over the headboard, smashing it to pieces, wine splattering on the wall, bedsheets, and Kristen's unflinching face.
    "You are a puppet, and I am your puppet master," Laz said. "What I've just told you this evening you will have no memory of, for in my house you have no free will. The horrible truth will remain in your nightmares." Laz shook his head with visible regret. "My powers don't extend to what you can and cannot dream, but rest assured for my well being, love, tomorrow morning you will wake up relieved that you're still with me until the end. Then you'll clean up this mess I've just made, and go shopping for my dinner. It will be an innocent man you believe killed his wife, cementing your wickedness before the eyes of God. Then I'll give you a few months vacation until I assign you an actual murderer or rapist. Now, go to sleep, and let my words tonight become a nightmare."
    Kristen followed his command, positioning herself under the covers, and fell asleep.
    When dawn came, Kristen rolled under the silk sheets, mumbling the word, "No" over and over again.
    She jolted up, screaming, "Laz, NO!"
    Gasping for breath, gripping her chest over her heart, she looked around the bedroom.
    "Thank God," she said, relieved, putting a hand on her forehead. "Thank you, God. It was just a dream."
    Later that evening Kristen followed a man talking on a cellphone, and holding a shopping bag that had a picture of a train engine on it. He was walking through a nearly empty parking garage. Kristen wasn't listening to what he was saying into the phone. Both her hands were in her jacket pockets, one hand gripping the taser gun.
    "See you in a few, honey," the man said, arriving at a red minivan. He hung up the phone and put it in his pocket. He took out a ring of keys from the same pocket, pressed a button on the car key, opening the van's backdoor.
    When he placed the shopping bag behind the backseat, Kristen shot the taser gun into his back. As the man got limp, she dropped the taser gun on the ground, then gripped the man's hair, and banged his head against the back doorway's rim, knocking him out. She shoved him hard into the van, crushing what was in the shopping bag. She picked up the taser gun and disconnected its cartridge, then pushed in his limp legs and arms, stuffing him in tight before slamming the door shut.
    Kristen looked around the parking garage. Assured no one was around to see anything, she picked up the ring of keys the man dropped, and drove the van out into the street, bringing Laz - her one and only love - his dinner.
 
 

                      

SOC #20: The Big Scare and Bending to break

Some can't handle the aggravating environment they occupy. Most lash out with verbal words of frustration, curse at nothing or others, which basically contributes to the aggravation. Not so smart. People speak without thinking about the consequences. Seems to me they act as if they got a protective shield around them that can prevent them from getting hurt. Then unsurprisingly someone yells back, or out of the blue a fist slams into a face. The people without badges tend to enjoy this. Hell, even the ones with the badges love it; they get keep up with the average of everyday crimes, a.k.a "quota," then the event is talked about until it fades with memory until it is possibly reminisced at a later time. Those who can't handle the environment to the point their peace of mind is snapped, right away tend to lash out with no restraint, from a horrific threat to actually - at the spur of the moment - acting it out in reality out of nowhere. Some may say later, if the act was truly performed, that they saw it coming with no one else recollecting they actually did. "Oh, yeah, he acted out of the ordinary. I knew he'd do something like that," one would say. A sane one would ask, "Then why didn't you say anything? Tell someone with authority?" That's right, numb-nuts, you didn't know. Then there are times when the apparent sane make it worse, expecting nothing to happen. They taunt a manic depressive, and over time that same damn person they taunt will act out, causing The Big Scare. Without them even realizing it, or even admitting it, due to their own stupidity, they began the bending of the vulnerable by the taunting, pushing it even further by the talking. Without even stopping to think about the consequences of their words, they initiated an event that scared them, something that could make themselves violent. But it's okay, right? They're innocent. They just simply pointed their fingers and laughed. And BOO HOO, they got scared, those poor adult children. Nothing actually happened, words were spoken, but nothing else. As if a cold wind ran over their skins, they cried out, "Damn, I'm fucking cold." Bitch, bitch. Now there's another story to talk about in the sewing circle; a mental jerk off for the masses in the immediate vicinity. Sing on, ding dongs, it was basically your fault, and only the unbiased observer will admit it, whom also will look upon your lives with disdain as always. One picture can have a million interpretations, none of which will ever align with what the artist intended, if he ever intended anything at all. Those who only accept what they are told will attain nothing in life compared to those whom work to obtain the truth with their own selfish effort. These words written may even mean nothing to the writer. Come on, now, there's nothing to back this up as being concrete, but just the clicks of a keyboard in a moment of ones life. A moment of ones life does not define the sum total of ones mind; only life in its entirety can do that.

SOC #19: Eleven year lapse

They say time heals all wounds, but if you don't know the cut is slicing slowly through your heart, then the scar that is left might as well never be acknowledged. My time was long and filled with both apathy and spiritual development. She flourished with laborious and arduous pursuit for what she desired. My work was like a dying plant stuck in the shade desperately reaching for the light just next to it. She kept her spirit and body bright, a relentless and endless race with no care to see the sight of a horizon. While I myself, stepped in the waters of alcoholism, huffed the fog from the burning forest with invigorating pleasure, and snorted satan's snow to no benefit of my own. Though my creativity swam towards the light out of the abyss, I loved shredding near it's surface, wading at it's shores. And throughout this eleven year period, I had totally forgotten about my love for her back in my youth. In that timespan, I had thought I found true love, but to no avail, and a true woe it was being
heartbroken. ALAS! I came upon the one I wish I originally had the courage to open up my heart to, to break out of my timid nature, and maybe the eleven year lapse of memory of that one lovely beauty would never have happened, maybe near degradation to oblivion may have never happened. But, wait, FUCK THAT! Why speak of such things so morosely? It was the best to finally remember her, getting out of the miasma of doubts and thoughts of past failures. For some reason beyond my comprehension at this moment, her accomplishments lit back up something in me that I lost in the eleven years of the forgotten love I had for her. To think, I could continue on without doubts, retain my courage, and remain utmost confident by what I desire most. WRITE! I sketch out the words on paper, then go to the computer to craft it together the best I can. I should never have forgotten the love I had for this woman, for if I didn't, I would maybe have had a better mind set. I will never be lost again, because of that damn smile, that damn happiness I saw in her face, her success, her goddamn accomplishments. I may never get to meet her again. Alas, I must accept this as truth, and I do, the same acceptance I have to never give up on my writing. Time to dry up; I'm no Charles Bukowski for fuck sake, and I don't want to end up like Jack Kerouac. Shit, I know the world is run by a bunch of fucking greedy assholes, and it's the masses that make it worse by directing their attention those same damn greedy assholes tell them to pay attention to. But, goddamnit, it ain't hard to breathe oxygen, and take all the whiney bitching from members of the stupid masses, just so you can feed yourself - Fuck, sorry about that, I was getting off track. Where was I? Oh, yeah, it only takes a smile from a beautiful person to make your day, and hopefully a lifetime.

The Tabloid of E. Patric

         "For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: It could have been!"
                                                                           -John Greenleaf Whittier, Maud Muller


 Knock, knock.

    The sound of someone's knuckles tapping wood started Elmore's day. He ended the previous night with a movie, and downing a six-pack of "Raging Bitch" IPA. With a headache, bloodshot eyes, he saw the time on the clock: 9:36am. The pace of the knocking went faster, with the addition of the doorbell. He gradually began getting out of bed, struggling with laborious effort, sharper pain stabbing in his cranium.
    "Who the fuck is it?" Elmore said aloud, sitting up. "It's fucking Saturday. Fucking too early for company."
    The knocking persisted as Elmore began ascending the carpeted stairs. After passing the halfway point, he slipped, his ass hitting a step, and sliding the rest of the way to the bottom in front of the double-doors. Not the first time that had happened to him.
    "Coming," he yelled at the front door, getting up from the floor, rubbing his aching bum.
    His eyes weren't adjusted to the morning light after opening one of the double-doors.
    "I am not the owner of this residence," Elmore began saying, "and if you're going to quote Jesus, get it over with. I liked him too."
    "Mr. Patric?" a woman's voice inquired.
    "His son," Elmore informed, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight.
    "You are Elmore Patric?" asked the woman.
    Elmore could see who was asking the question. Standing on the patio was a good-looking, brunette woman, wearing black suit-pants, a black suit-jacket, and a black shirt underneath. Her hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Behind her, standing on the cement path right before the two steps leading onto the patio, was a bald man nearly wearing the exact same attire as the woman, with the difference being that he had on a white-buttoned shirt, and a red tie.
    The lady asked, "Do you always answer the door in just your boxers?" She was grinning, amused.
    Feeling the cool air on his bare chest and belly, he looked down, seeing his exposed hairy stomach, blue boxers, and bare, pale feet. The mouse poked a bit outside the house.
    "Sorry," Elmore uttered, adjusting his boxers to cover the tip of his penis, "I usually don't expect people knocking on the door this early. Plus, I'm hungover. Not all my wits are with me."
    "I'm Detective Tumblar," said the lady, holding up her badge with photo I.D. She then gestured to the man behind her who did the same. "This is Detective Wilson."
    "Hello," Elmore greeted.
    "If you don't mind, we'd like to have a conversation with you."
    "About?" he asked. His head still ached, not knowing what to make of this scene.
    "We can discuss it at police headquarters," Tumblar said.
    "Why not here?" Elmore inquired. "I haven't had breakfast yet."
    "Like every great police station," said Detective Wilson, "we've got coffee and donuts."
    "Okay, fine," Elmore said, opening the door wider. "Come on in while I get dressed."
    Elmore turned around, and before the Detectives entered the house, he let out a silent fart, a beer-pizza-hotdog infused whisk in their wake.
    "Goddamn," Wilson said from downstairs as they waited for Elmore, who couldn't keep himself from smiling.
    Elmore ascended the stairs a minute later wearing a black leather jacket, a red 'Slayer' t-shirt underneath, black jeans, and a pair of black boots.
    "Nice jacket," Tumblar commented.
    "Thank you," Elmore replied.
    Driving away from the house, Elmore noticed more cars parked on the street adjacent to his than usual. They seemed to be mostly in front of the Palmer residence.
    Elmore looked at the Detectives from the backseat, and asked, "Something happen to the Palmer's?"
    Detective Wilson turned halfway in the passenger seat, and with a stoical expression said, "We'll talk at the station. In the meantime, sit back, and try to un-hangover yourself."
    "I'll start doing that once I get the infamous coffee and donuts you mentioned," Elmore said, lightly slapping his belly.
    They arrived at the police station. The Detectives led Elmore to a private room. It seemed tight and confined, having one table, an office chair nearest to it, and two more a little further away.
    "Please, sit here," Detective Wilson said, gesturing to the chair closest to the table. "We'll be back with your coffee and donuts."
    Wilson left, closing the door behind him, leaving Elmore alone. He lightly tapped and rubbed his face to wake himself up more, then began scanning the room: bare white walls; brown table; gray carpet; fluorescent light bulbs in the ceiling; a security camera in the corner, pointed right at him.
    Shit, he thought, his eyes widening, I'm in a fucking interrogation room. He began thinking why cops would want him in that room. What did he do? He had an answer: stayed home, got drunk, wrote a little, and then watched movies. And when he wasn't home, he was at work. That was basically his routine for the past few months since-
    The door opened. Tumblar and Wilson entered, their suit-jackets were off. Elmore's brow furrowed, baffled over his predicament. Wilson sat in the office chair, rolling himself up to the table, placing a yellow legal-pad on top of it, and writing something on it's header with a pen. Tumblar sat in the other chair, not rolling any closer to the table, but seemed to move back a bit towards the corner of the room. She had a black folder, and was about to open it.
    "Uh," Elmore uttered.
    "Oh, yes," Tumblar said, "the infamous coffee and donuts. I'll be right back." She placed the folder on the table before leaving the room.
    "Why am I here?" Elmore asked Wilson.
    Wilson put a hand up, saying, "We'll start when my partner comes back with your fuel. And keep in mind, we'll be asking the questions. Okay?"
    "Yeah, sure," Elmore confirmed.
    Wilson leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers.
    "She's a hot number, ain't she?" Wilson asked, nodding towards the door.
    "Um, sure," Elmore replied, looking down at the table. "She's got a nice figure."
    Detective Tumblar came back, placing a styrofoam cup of coffee, and a small styrofoam plate with two donuts - one glazed, the other old-fashioned - on the table in front of Elmore. She then retrieved her folder, and sat back down. Elmore took a sip of the coffee.
    "So lets begin, Mr. Patric," Wilson said, his pen ready to write on the legal pad. "Where were you the last two nights?"
    "Thursday I was home alone after work," Elmore began to say, "either watching a movie, reading, or writing. Last night the same with the addition of drinking beers, hence the reason I'm hungover."
    "Were you home alone both nights?" Wilson asked.
    "Yes," Elmore said.
    "Where are your parents right now?"
    "They're vacationing right now in Australia. One of many trips they take every year since they've retired."
    "Is there anyone that can confirm you were home the last two nights?"
    Elmore was getting bored, as well as pissed that he agreed to be in that room. He wished he declined the invitation, and answered questions at home.
    "My pet turtles can confirm it. I fed them last night."
    "Hey," Wilson blurted, commanding, "don't be a smart-ass. Answer the question. Can any person confirm you were at your home the last two nights?"
    Elmore took the glazed donut from the plate, took a bite, and in muffled speech, said, "No."
    Wilson leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his thighs, and pointed a finger at Elmore.
    "Now I can be a gentleman, or I can be a harsh bastard," Wilson said. "Either way we're getting the answer's we want."
    Elmore finished eating the first bite of the donut.
    "Then get to the point," Elmore said. "I have no clue of the reason I'm here. All I know at this point is that you're intimidating me by your current stature, leaning forward, elbows on your thighs, and a pissed-off expression. T.V. cops don't do that. They walk around a possible suspect in a bigger room, acting as if they'll punch the dude. I'm in a small room, a camera's on me recording our conversation, which means at this moment I'm a possible suspect. Now I've answered your questions. Please, just get to the point."
    "What do you know?" Wilson said. "You're a twenty-five year old college dropout still living with your parents. You know, I left the nest when I was eighteen."
    "As did I," Tumblar put in.
    Elmore dropped the glazed donut back onto the plate, then started clapping.
    "Good for you," Elmore cheered. "You two want lolly pops?"
    "No need for the sarcasm," Tumblar said.
    Wilson scoffed.
    "And no need telling me who I am," Elmore said, picking back up the donut. "No one knows me better than I."
    "What do you do for work?" Wilson asked, leaning back in his chair.
    "I work at a warehouse. I operate a forklift, unloading and loading big trucks," Elmore replied. "Simple work." He took another bite of the glazed donut.
    "You drink on the job?" Wilson grinned.
    "No," Elmore said, chuckling. "I may drink, but as of yet, not a drunk."
    "You said something about writing," Tumblar said. "What do you write about?"
    "I've written some short stories. Haven't been able to get any published. At one point a few years ago I started a novel that didn't get too far. Nowadays I'm writing a book titled: Words of Wisdom." Elmore took a sip of coffee.
    "What's it about?" Tumblar asked, writing in her folder.
    "Honestly, I don't know," Elmore replied. "Life, I guess. How I myself see life."
    There was a moment of silence. Elmore finished the coffee, and then began to finish off the donut. Wilson glanced over at Tumblar, who then gave him a nod.
    "Mr. Patric, early Friday morning Lilian Palmer was found face down on top of two garbage cans behind Trev's Bar & Grill," Wilson stated.
    Elmore stopped chewing on the donut, and seemed to stop breathing. Tumblar had her eyes on him, observing his reaction from the corner of the small room.
    Wilson continued, "She had been beaten and raped a few hours before."
    Elmore's eyes were on the table. He began to breathe heavily, slowly chewing the donut as his mind digested what he was just told.
    Wilson again continued, "Do you know -"
    Elmore cut him off, asking, "Is she alive?"
    "Yes," Wilson replied, scratching his nose. "She took a bad hit in the head, knocking her out, hopefully before the rape. She's in the hospital now. Could wake up today, or tomorrow the Doctor told us."
    Elmore put the unfinished donut back on the plate. He couldn't find himself to speak, nor think at that moment. Tumblar took note of this.
    "Now, Mr. Patric, as we began our investigation this morning, interviewing people that live in your neighborhood if there were any suspicious characters around recently, they all seemed to point our attention towards you," Wilson said, pointing a finger at Elmore. "Why is that, Mr. Patric?"
    Elmore did not answer immediately, but stared down at the table, remaining still.
    "Mr. Patric," Wilson said, snapping his fingers. "You with us?"
    Finally Elmore spoke.
    "Sometimes the truth does not suit the preferable lies," he said, his eyes still on the table.
    "Excuse me," Wilson said, bemused.
    "It's a quote from my book." Elmore's gaze went back to the Detectives. "Gossip through the Grapevine has its own imagination. Of course my neighbors would point me out when something this horrific happens. They can't think of anyone else."
    "Why would they do that, Mr. Patric?" Wilson asked. "Why would they make us think you were a person of interest in our investigation?"
    "Because of what happened four years ago," Elmore said. "Something I don't like talking about. But since those gossip spewing pricks have put me in this room with you two, I'll tell you. Four years ago I had a mental break down, a psychosis. Ended up walking around the neighborhood with my shirt off, knocking on people's doors, asking if they were waiting for me, or something like that. One of the doors I knocked on was the Palmer residence. The cops were called. They thought I was on meth and shit. Got fifty-one-fiftied. I am very embarrassed about it. And I fucking hate it when people bring it up. The end."
    "How have you been doing since then?" Wilson asked, tapping the end of his pen on his right temple.
    "Just fine," Elmore replied.
    If Wilson weren't a cop, and if Elmore was an asshole, he would have knocked out that bald fuck then and there. But Elmore kept calm, and let it go.
    "We know of that incident," Wilson said, "but it isn't the reason we're talking to you right now. Your neighbor across the street from you, Mrs. Tanen, told us she'd seen Lilian go into your house on more than one occasion in the past year."
    "That nosey bitch," Elmore uttered.
    "What was your relationship with Lilian?" Wilson asked. "Was it an intimate one?"
    "Yes," Elmore replied. "We were both on the rebound. My girlfriend had recently ditched me after three years. Lilian's boyfriend cheated on her, and left for New York."
    "When did this relationship start?" Wilson inquired.
    Elmore rubbed a hand from his forehead down over his eyes.
    "Nearly a year ago," Elmore said. "I was in line to buy cigarettes. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was her. We hadn't spoken to each other since I was eleven. We had lunch together that day. Our relationship ended two months ago."
    "She break it off?" Tumblar asked.
    "No, it was a mutual decision. Lilian and I both understood rebound relationships never really, you know, mold together well."
    "Have you two seen each other since?" Wilson asked.
    "Nope," Elmore said plainly. "Not even talked on the phone."
    Wilson and Tumblar wrote down notes on their legal pads.
    "Is there anything else you want to tell us?" Wilson queried. "Anything that might help us find Lilian's attacker?"
    "I've got nothing," Elmore said. His gaze went back to the table. He had no appetite for the second donut. "Can I go back home now?"
    "So you had no ill will towards Lilian Palmer for ending the relationship?" Wilson asked, leaning forward again in his office chair, his hands in the air for a moment before slapping down on this thighs.
    Elmore's gaze shot back up at Wilson.
    "That's a stupid question," Elmore said. "I just told you both that Lilian AND I ended our little affair. I'm not answering any more of your wasting-time questions while her rapist is still out there. I would like to go home now, PLEASE!"
    "I'm not satisfied yet," Wilson said.
    "Neither am I," Tumblar agreed.
    "Too fucking bad," Elmore snapped.
    As the Detectives drove Elmore back to his house, he sat in the backseat running his fingers through his hair. He tried his best to hold back tears.
    "Hey, if it's not too much trouble," Elmore said, "can you drop me off at the liquor store near my house? I'll walk home from there."
    "Okay, Mr. Patric," Tumblar said. "No problem."
    The car parked in front of the store.
    "Thank you," Elmore said before getting out of the car.
    The Detectives watched him walk into the liquor store.
    "He was in love with her," Tumblar said.
    Wilson sighed, then said, "Yeah, I could tell too. So in love he couldn't have done it."
    Elmore exited the store with a bottle in a brown paper bag, and walked down the suburban street toward his home.
    "We should've told him the truth," Tumblar said. "He'll be devastated when he finds out."
    "Aw shit," Wilson said, his face contorting. "Is the Palmer residence on the way to his house from here?"
    "Fuck, it's too late," Tumblar said.
    Elmore was too preoccupied with thoughts about what had happened to Lilian he didn't even notice he was passing the Palmer residence. As he was walking on the sidewalk across the street, he heard a screen door swing open, and slam on the outside wall.
    "HEY!" a woman yelled. "Elmore!"
    He turned and saw Sylvia, Lilian's eldest sister, running across the street toward him.
    "You fucking kill my sister, you fucking freak?!" she screamed, grabbing his jacket's collar with both hands, pulling him close to her raging, red face. She had been crying. Elmore gave no resistance.  "Did you, you fucking bastard? Did you rape and kill my sister?"
    "Kill?" Elmore said, bewildered. "The pigs told me she was still alive."
    By that moment the Detective's car stopped in the middle of the street, and they both got out. They ran up behind Sylvia.
    "Mrs. Soninberd, please let him go," Tumblar said, lightly placing her hands on Sylvia's shoulders.
    "I'll never forgive you," Sylvia said to Elmore, then spit in his face. She let go of his jacket's collar. "Bastard." She began weeping, almost collapsing on the pavement, but Tumblar was there to steady her.
    His eyes on Detective Wilson, Elmore pointed a finger in his direction.
    "You told me she was alive," Elmore said, his hand beginning to shake, and tears flowing down his cheeks.
    Lilian's father came outside and hugged his distraught daughter. Elmore didn't notice; all his attention was on Wilson.
    "We had to be sure it -" Wilson began to say, but Elmore cut him off.
    "It's bad enough to hear what you fucks told me happened to Lilian, and most of my neighbors suspect I would do such a thing. But at least with that version she was alive. Now-" Elmore started breathing heavily, almost as if he was about to faint. "- now I'm in Hell. I'll be at my house getting drunk." He turned and walked straight home.
    As soon as the front door closed behind him, he took the whiskey bottle out of the brown paper bag, which swayed to the floor, twisted open the cap, and took a long swig.
    "FUCK!" he yelled after that first swig.
    He went into the kitchen, ripped a paper towel from the roll, and wiped away his tears as he walked upstairs. In his bedroom he placed the bottle on the bedside table, and then rummaged in his closet, moving his cloths around.
    "Where are you, babe?" he said allowed.
    Elmore found what he was looking for: a small, gray tank-top.
    "Here we are, my love," he said, holding it close to his face, smelling it. "You're still in my heart."
    He laid the tank-top on his bed, then retrieved the whiskey bottle from the bedside table, and sat on the floor. One hand holding the bottle, taking another swig, and the other stroking the tank-top's smooth surface.
    "I love you, Lilian," Elmore said, weeping.
    He took an even longer swig, placed the bottle on the floor beside him. After a half-hour he stopped crying when he passed out, falling back on the floor, his hand leaving the tank-top.
    Knock, knock.
    For the second time that day Elmore was awakened by someone's knuckles knocking on wood. He heard the faint sound of a woman's voice calling his name.
    Struggling, he got up off the floor, picked up the whiskey bottle, and slowly made his way down the stairs.
    "Who is it?" he called out.
    "It's Sylvia," she said from outside.
    "Look, Sylvia, I'm not in the mood to get spit on again."
    "No, Elmore, I won't do that again. I'm sorry."
    Elmore opened the door.
    "I don't blame you," he said. "To be honest, I might have done worse."
    Sylvia looked up at him. She was holding a black, leather book.
    "Are you drunk?" she asked.
    "Yes," Elmore replied, then took a swig from the bottle.
    "I thought you should have this." Sylvia held up the book to Elmore.
    "What is it?"
    "It's Lilian's diary."
    Elmore held up his hand, then said, "I don't deserve that."
    "Yes you do, Elmore. Take it."
    With major hesitation Elmore took Lilian's diary. He held it close to his chest.
    "Thank you," Elmore said, his eyes welling.
    "Can I come in?" Sylvia asked.
    "Yes, please do," Elmore said, moving aside.
    Sylvia entered. She asked, "How much whiskey you got left?"
    "Half," Elmore informed.
    Moments later they were sitting in chairs on the back patio under the awning, drinking whiskey from glass cups.
    "The Detective's told us you and Lilian had an intimate relationship," Sylvia said. "How it started and when it ended. I always knew Lilian kept a diary, and where she hid it in her room. Even though I was the only one who knew about it, I never snuck a peak. After the Detectives left, I pulled myself together, and read her diary just so I could know you were telling the truth." Sylvia drank her whiskey in one big gulp, then poured herself another. "After I was done reading, I learned two things: One was that she loved you very much; and the other was you told the Detective's another version of how the relationship started and ended. Why did you tell the Detective's a different story?"
    Elmore finished off his whiskey, then placed the glass on the small table between them.
    "A year ago I was so damn depressed I was going to kill myself," Elmore said. "I took the train to the city, having a plan to walk to the bridge, and jump off. On my way to the bridge I decided to have one last meal. I went into the first place I found, Tony's Italian restaurant."
    "Where Lilian worked," Sylvia said.
    "Yes," Elmore affirmed. "She was my waitress. We chit-chatted a little before I ordered. I thought she was simply being nice for a bigger tip. But I had this strange feeling when she smiled at me that maybe she had some interest for me. While I ate I made the choice of giving it just one damn shot. She came to my table with the check, and asked, 'Would you like anything else?' I said, 'Yes, your phone number.' And she gave it to me, then told me what time her shift was done." Elmore closed his eyes, more tears rolling down his cheeks. "To think, if she said 'No,' would I be alive today? She saved my life."
    Sylvia put her glass on the table, got up from her chair, moved closer to Elmore, got on her haunches in front of him, and held his hand.
    "Why did you break up with her?" she asked.
    "She wanted to tell your family about me being with her, and I didn't feel I was good enough for her," Elmore replied. "I'm basically a drunk. It's not even three in the afternoon, and I am drunk. And the way people talk about me in the neighborhood, I didn't want them to do that to her."
    "I'm sorry, Elmore."
    "No, Sylvia, I'm sorry. I should've been a stronger man. I am weak. It's my fault." Elmore's hands covered his face as he wept. "It's as if I killed her."
    Sylvia stood up, leaned over Elmore, hugging him.
    "It's not your fault, Elmore," she said, consoling him the best she could.