The Crazy between Us(The unluckiest, lucky hangover)

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Investigation# 140-6698

Subject: Paulo Henders (A.K.A Ultra-tripleX)

During the course of the investigation of the now deceased assailant behind the killings and attempted murders at the ZION FRATERNITY at SHAKER KRISTA in SAN LUIS OBISPO COUNTY in the state of CA, Federal Agents have interviewed the assailant's two sisters, his neighbors, one of his only close friends, boss and some coworkers at the SLO(SAN LUIS OBISPO) disposal service.

He lived in a house he had inherited from his parents. His mother died of cancer in 2005. His father currently resides at the MONTECITO OAKMONT NURSING HOME suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.
His sister, Lisa Zing, who lives in MESA, AZ, says she had not made contact with her brother since their mother died. What she had to say about her brother’s type of character was: “nothing more than a misanthropic, shit-head of a bastard. And you can quote me on that.” She went on to say that her brother didn’t deserve the house.

Assailant’s other sister Gabrielle Henders who lives in the city of SAN FRANCISCO CA, said this about her brother Paulo: “Yes, it was true he was harsh with his words when he’d talk to us during a family squabble, but he never did anything wrong to anyone else before that I know of. He never got physical. He’d never threaten us. He seemed so compassionate, as if he were trying to help in his own irregular way. I loved him very much. He was my brother after all.”

His neighbors, most of which knew him since he was born, said during his adult life they only saw him outside the house when he’d wash his car, mow the lawn e.t.c. He would never have a lot of people over. The neighbor across the street stated he once saw a lady drop him off at the house. The neighbor assumed it may have been a date due to the fact both were in formal dress attire. The only person who would frequently visit the residence since he started living alone in the house was his close friend.

His best friend, a man named Terry Sanchez, who Paulo had been friends with since childhood, was asked if there was any hint that Paulo Henders would commit such a horrific crime. He said: “No.” He went on to say that he never knew Paulo had weapons of any kind. He said: “I never knew he was into guns. I’ve known him almost twenty-two years, and not once did he tell me about owning guns. Ever.” Mr. Sanchez did go on to say that over the past two years Paulo seemed to be going through a “slight bout” of depression. He started smoking cigarettes, and drinking more than he usually did.

His boss and coworkers were interviewed with their consensus of opinion regarding Paulo Henders as being one of the best employees. He always showed up on time and only had sick days when he was actually sick. He was quiet and would mostly keep to himself. Charles, a coworker whom Paulo would sometimes have lunch with, swore he had only seen Paulo smile five times since knowing him.

Transcripts of all interviews are provided within this report on the following pages. 

Not knowing whether it was the splitting headache, or if it was the sound of the shades being drawn, letting in the sunshine that woke him, Gilbert became conscious with the feeling of regret. Regret of causing his mind wrenching hangover, and regret of being a part of some shitty documentary.
    “Need more sleep,” he mumbled.
    “You got enough sleep,” Blair said. “You passed out before ten last night. It’s eight in the morning.” She smacked his butt through the quilt. “Come on. Get your ass up.”
    “I can’t take anymore physical abuse from you,” Gilbert said as he slowly moved to sit up. “Do I have to get up now? I don’t have to go to court today. And why am I naked?”
    “I undressed you, and tucked you in,” Blair answered.
    “You didn’t take advantage of me, did you? That would be rape, you know.”
    “I didn’t rape you, idiot. Now, take a shower, and get dressed. I’m going to have to start documenting once you’re ready.”
    Gilbert stood up, stretching.
    Blair commented, “You make being hungover look sexy.”
    “Kiss my bony ass,” he retorted.
    “That footage of you being escorted to the police cruiser is on youtube, and…,” she began giggling, “the comments from the women who like you say you look like a superhero with that tattoo on your chest. Others say you look like a villain.”
    “I’m getting it removed as soon as this circus is over.” He turned away, walking to the bathroom.
    “Don’t do that,” she said, laughing. “It’s a signature look for you.”
    Gilbert slammed the bathroom door shut behind him.
    “You’re getting as looney as the rest of them, Blair,” he said from inside the bathroom.
    After his shower, Gilbert sat on the bed fully dressed in the same cloths as he wore the day before, putting on his shoes. Blair stood before him recording the scene with the digital camcorder, handling it like a professional, always looking at it’s LCD screen.
    “How are you?” she asked.
    Gilbert looked up at her, his gaze on her face. He said, “Hungover.”
    Blair pointed at the camera lens, mouthing the words: “Look into camera.”
    “Oh, yeah,” he said, then looked into the lens, and slowly repeated, “Hungover.”
    “I meant how do you feel, Mr. Vergo.”
    “Please, call me Gilbert. I’m not a teacher. I feel like shit.”
    “Do you feel any anxiety about what could happen to you?”
    Gilbert’s gaze went from the camera’s lens to Blair’s face, then to the window, looking at the clouds in the sky.
    “If one were in a situation where other people can control your fate,” Gilbert began to say, “it’s as if even being free from behind bars, the world is still a prison.”
    “There’s a chance you might have to go behind bars again soon,” Blair informed.
    Head flicking back to face Blair again, Gilbert stared up at her with a furrowed brow.
    “What do you mean?” he inquired. “Is that a joke? I thought we were being serious.”
    “After the footage of you tripping outside ended up on the major news networks, the judge wanted you re-incarcerated.”
    “But I’m out on bail. I didn’t commit a new crime anyway.”
    “He has the power to revoke your bail, Gilbert, if he so pleases.”
    “God-fucking-dammit!” he yelled, shooting to his feet, hands going to his forehead, and covering his eyes. He walked a few steps across the room. Blair followed him with the camera held higher.
    “Allen was on the phone this morning with the judge,” Blair said.
    Turning around back to the camera, dropping his hands from over his face, Gilbert asked, “And what the judge say? Do I have to wear orange again?”
    “Allen’s gonna have breakfast with you at the diner down the street. He’ll let you know what the judge’s decision is.”
    “I know that DA is going to work his ass off getting my ass back in that jail,” Gilbert said into the camera. “That mindless, soulless prick accused me of being an alcoholic. And you know what, I’m going to figure a way to make that blond yuppie look stupid. So fucking stupid he’ll rue the day he ever took on this case.” He exerted a loud exhale, and shook his hands up and down. “Calm down, Gilbert.” He looked back at Blair. “What time’s the breakfast meeting happening?”
    “He’ll send a text to all of us when he’s ready,” Blair answered.
    “Fuck, I don’t want to be back in jail. Such bullshit.”
    Blair turned off the camcorder.
    “Is that it?” Gilbert asked.
    “For now,” she said. “Once Allen sends the text, I’ll start filming again, all the way to the diner. If the diner gives us permission, then Jerry and I will film what you and Allen talk about.”
    “I’m not sitting next to Jerry, by the way,” Gilbert said, putting his hands on his hips.
    “Then he’ll be filming the shot of you during the breakfast.”
    “I don’t mind that.” He shook his head so fast it looked like it was vibrating.
    “And please,” Blair said, almost pleading, “don’t make a scene. Just talk to Allen about the case.”
    “Fine,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Don’t you worry. I won’t cause any kind of drama.”
    “Thank you.”
    Within a half-hour all five of them were sitting at a round booth in the corner of the diner. They had the permission to film the breakfast as long as they did not record any of the patrons or the employees, or say the name of the diner. As long as those conditions were followed during their time there, they could record what Allen and Gilbert talked about. Blair was at one end of the seat next to Gilbert with her camera on Allen. Jerry sat at the other end across from Blair with his camera shooting Gilbert. Allen and Gilbert faced each other across the table as they talked. Ray was in the middle nearest to the window, taking notes, and recording additional footage of the scene with his smartphone. They all had already ordered their meals.
    Allen held up his thumb and forefinger close together as he said to Gilbert, “You were this close, Gilbert. This close to having the police come to your hotel room and haling you back to the jail.”
    For a moment Gilbert looked guilty.
    “I understand what I did was a mistake,” he said. “And I know how lucky I am to have you for a lawyer, such an excellent lawyer, and keep me from being put back behind bars. But you must understand this is a very stressful time for me. I’ve never experienced this kind of hardship before.” Gilbert gave Jerry’s camera an annoyed look.
    Jerry reacted by almost clearing his throat when he did not need to, but kept himself from doing so to keep with the subterfuge.
    “Look, I know this bullshit case has gotten to you like a horse kicking you in the nuts,” Allen said, “but I need you to hold yourself together.” He slammed a fist into the palm of his hand. “Keep your nerves hard and sharp. Be prepared for any and all obstacles coming your way. They’re gunning to make an example of you. Do you get what I’m telling you?”
    “Yes,” Gilbert answered. “Affirmative.”
    “Now, I convinced the judge not to put you back in jail under one condition, whether you like it or not.”
    “Okay. What’s the condition?”
    “You’ll have to be under house arrest during the trial.” Allen said this looking perturbed at delivering the bad news.
    “That’s not so bad,” Gilbert said. “At least I don’t have to wear cuffs again.”
    “So you’re not mad?” Allen asked.
    “No. I’m a little of a recluse anyway. But where would I stay for the house arrest?”
    “You’re in luck. I just so happen to know someone who lives here. A lady I went to law school with.”
    “I don’t want to impose on anyone’s family life,” Gilbert said.
    The waitress arrived with their food.
    “Thank you, ma’am,” Gilbert said to her.
    The waitress ignored him as she distributed everyone’s meal.
    When she was gone, Gilbert said, “Not one of my supporters.”
    “But Frida is,” Allen said, commencing to eat. “She’s a free spirited feminist type. She has no family living with her, and is only married to her career. And has a house so big, you could consider it a mansion.”
    “How long do you expect this trial to last?” Gilbert asked while cutting himself a piece of pancake.
    “If all goes well, a couple of months maybe,” Allen said, scarfing down hash browns.
    “Shit, man, I got rent to pay.” Gilbert’s head went back. “Damn, the door. I got to call my landlord Lance. Hopefully he isn’t too pissed about the SWAT team busting my front door. And I got to call my boss. I can’t believe I forgot to call them. I’m probably evicted, and lost my job.” He shook his head. “Oh well, at least these pancakes are good.”
    “That’s the spirit, Gilbert,” Allen said. “Look to the good things you have at the moment. Seriously, when you see Frida’s place, you’re going to never want to leave California.”
    Later that afternoon, wearing the cheesy suit, Gilbert, along with Allen, and the DA Stanley Fenway, sat before the judge as he gave him a lecture about responsibility.
    “Mr. Vergo, you must understand that the fool you made of yourself on the footage now playing on the television not only displays a total disregard of respect for the justice system, but seems to me you lack empathy, or even sympathy for the victims of the Shaker Krista shootings. A man in your position shouldn’t be getting drunk and stumbling in public like Lindsey Lohan.” The judge shook his head as if he were a disappointed father. “Why did you do such a thing?”
    “Your honor, my client -,” Allen began to say before the judge cut him off.
    “I’d like Mr. Vergo to speak for himself on this matter. Please, Mr. Vergo, just between you and me.”
    Gilbert adjusted himself in his seat, a little more than embarrassed about what the truth was, being that it was very personal, having nothing to do with the actual case.
    “Well, sir,” Gilbert said, “part of the reason I got a little carried away at the bar was due to the stress over the charges against me, but honestly I wouldn’t have had more than three drinks if during my time there I didn’t learn something that you could say triggered me into drinking four or five more. I apologize, your honor.”
    “What was it that triggered you into getting drunk?” The judge didn’t want to let it go; he wanted a damn good reason to keep himself from changing his mind about the whole house arrest thing, and shove Gilbert back in that cell.
    “It was something personal, your honor, that had nothing to do with the case. Just something that put more weight on my shoulders, so to speak.”
    “Strike this from the record, please,” the judge said, staring down at the stenographer. “Stop typing, Mrs. Vela.”
    The stenographer, a middle-aged woman, stopped typing into the stenotype, and put her hands to her side.
    The judge gestured to Gilbert, “Tell me of the weight added onto your shoulders that made you ignore, shall I say, the ethics of how to behave as a person suspected of being an accessory to a mass murder.”
    “Um,” Gilbert said, so very uncomfortable, “the man you saw in the footage with me, the one trying to help me up after I tripped on my bum, had informed me during my first drink that he was having an intimate relationship with my…” Gilbert cleared his throat. “…well, who I thought was my girlfriend, because I hoped we had just reconciled, but it turns out she’s now my ex-girlfriend now. And I had hint of a feeling she was cheating on me with him before she up and moved out of the apartment a few weeks prior to me being arrested. He was buying me drinks, and I made him buy me more after he admitted of the relationship with her. It felt like it was the only way to get back at him. At the time anyways.”
    Stanley Fenway held his fist over his mouth, holding back laughter as best he could.
    “You have anything to say, Mr. Fenway?” the judge asked.
    Clearing his throat, holding back a smile, Fenway said, “No, your honor. Sorry.”
    “Mr. Vergo, I could understand. But next time you want to get back at someone by somehow legitimately draining their wallet, don’t harm yourself in the process. You’re not an alcoholic like Mr. Fenway insinuated the other day, are you?”
    “No, sir,” Gilbert said, shaking his head. “I’m more of a moderate drinker.”
    The judge looked down at Mrs. Vela, and said, “Recommence for the record, please. I’m going to have Mr. Vergo be put under house arrest for the remainder of his trial. Is there a residence he can do this at?”
    Allen stood up, and said, “Yes, your honor, there is a former colleague of mine who has a home here in San Luis Obispo where my client can serve his house arrest.”
    “Who’s your former colleague?”
    “A Ms. Frida Lopez. I have her address right here, written on the -.”
    The judge interrupted by making a sort of side note, “I know her address. She is willing to have Mr. Vergo stay at her home? She won’t mind the media parked at the curb outside?”
    “From what she said in our last conversation, it seems she’d like the attention,” Allen said. “For her own law practice, that is. She said if she had the time, she may act as counsel for the defense.”
    “Yep, that sounds like Frida,” the judge commented.
    In the minivan on the way back to the hotel, Blair sat in the middle seats beside Gilbert with her camcorder directly on him. Jerry was in the back seat filming as well, with his angle more on Allen in the front passenger seat.
    “I can’t believe that guy compared me to Lindsey Lohan,” Gilbert said. “As if I were in someway a quasi-celebrity. Isn’t Lohan clean now? Well, if you call popping legal prescription pills clean, that is. But at least she’s not snorting that cocaine, and being carried out the front door of Club Night Static.”
    “Gilbert, I’d just like to say what a good excuse you had for the judge in there,” Allen said. “You welded shut that cell door with that anecdote you told the judge. How did you come up with that? You got to be one creative writer.” He began to clap and laugh.
    “Too bad it’s true,” Gilbert said.
    “What?” Allen said, his happy face flushed away, and hands up in mid-clap.
    “What did you say to the judge?” Blair asked.
    Looking into the camera’s lens, Gilbert said, “The truth of course. As they say the truth shall set you free. In my case, not back in that jail cell.”
    “Oh, shit,” Jerry uttered.
    Allen turned in his seat, pointing a finger at the cameramen, and said, “Jerry, Blair, later we need to have a talk in private.”
    “Leave them alone, Allen,” Gilbert said. “Don’t let behind the scenes drama kill it for the documentary. It’s all right. I’m starting to let it go.”
    “It might make a good addition to the film,” Ray said. “Add like an internal controversy kind of angle during the trial.”
    “Ray, please don’t say the word ‘controversy’ again,” Allen said.
    “Ray is probably right,” Gilbert said. “I think we should put it to a vote. Anyone who thinks the fact Blair is fucking Jerry should be included in the documentary raise their hand.”
    Ray and Gilbert were the only ones who voted ‘yes.’ Allen put both his hands over his face.
    He said, “If what you said gets out to the media, they’re going to have -.”
    “A fucking field day,” Gilbert finished for him. “They got more bullshit to talk about. Ratings go up for them. Publishers sell more magazines. They make money, you guys make money. Remember when you told me this trial is bigger than the OJ Simpson case?”
    “Yes,” Allen said, removing his hands from his face, befuddled.
    “In that famous trial everyone made money. I mean everyone. Even a fucking guy walking his dog a block away from the Simpson house wrote a book about how he supposedly saw the white bronco drive down the road. The only person who lost money was OJ himself. I don’t see myself coming out of this situation with a penny in my pocket when I’m found not guilty. So, please, Allen, don’t take the things I say so seriously. I’m fucking with you about putting the fact Blair is fucking Jerry into the documentary. Ray, on the other hand, was being serious. But that’s okay with me.”
    Gilbert reached into his jacket pocket and took out his cellphone.
    “If you excuse me,” he said, “I have to call my landlord to see if I still have my apartment, then my boss to see if I still got a job when I get back to Eugene.”
    “I already called them,” Blair said.
    “You did?” Gilbert said, surprised. “Really?”
    “Lance said after the cops and feds got what they wanted, he got the door fixed. For now you’re not evicted. He said he’d be coming down here to go on the witness stand in support of you. Lewis said you still have your job when you get back, and he’ll be coming here too. They like you, Gilbert, remember?”
    “Yeah, I know.” He was silent for a moment, looking at Blair. “Thank you. Did you call my sister, by any chance?”
    Blair’s eyes finally left the LCD screen and looked at Gilbert.
    “She didn’t answer,” Blair said.
    “No surprise there,” Gilbert muttered.
    “Gilbert, my goal with your case is not to make money,” Allen said, “it’s to get you out of being the scapegoat of a horrific crime you literally took no part of. Even with the Patriot Act to justify their actions, what the FBI did to you was illegal, and I’m sure it won’t be hard to think otherwise once I get my hands on their supposed evidence against you. But if you want, when this is over, you can countersue for wrongful prosecution. Get yourself a nice hefty sum for defamation of character as well.”
    “I don’t know about that, Allen. Maybe. I just want out of this shit storm as soon as possible, and back home to my comfortable life.” Gilbert sighed, seeming to almost want to fall asleep right then and there.
    Allen went back to the current situation.
    He said, “Okay. What’s going to happen next is we’re checking out of the hotel, then head right over to Frida’s house. She’s waiting there right now. We’ll be met there by Detectives who will place an ankle bracelet on you. By the way, Frida has a well stocked bar. Will you be drinking?”
    “When I do, I won’t go over the limit, Dad,” Gilbert said, leaning close behind Allen’s seat. He then looked into Blair’s camera, gave a wink, then brandished crossed fingers.
    “Maybe you shouldn’t drink at all, Gilbert,” Allen said.
    “Okay, I won’t drink the night before I go to court, before an interview I do for TV - if I decide to do one - while we have meetings about the case, or when I talk to the LOL cameras.” With the last statement, Gilbert winked at Blair’s camera again.
    “Half that’s bullshit,” Allen said. “I know lies. I’m a lawyer. Night before you go to court, our meetings so your mind can absorb and prepare sufficiently, and if you decide, not before interviews, don’t drink. That’s all I ask. And when you’re drunk being filmed by the LOL crew, please don’t do stupid shit, and don’t make yourself look like a Lindsey Lohan.”
    “Again with the Lohan reference,” Gilbert said, shaking his head. “She’s got such a bad rep. I had a crush on her when I was a kid, you know, before the cocaine made her a skeleton.”
    About an hour before sunset, the minivan pooled up to a gate outside Frida Lopez’s property located in an upperclass neighborhood. The house was a red brick, two story luxury home on a five acre property.
    “Holy shit,” Gilbert said, flabbergasted. “You can’t be serious. I have to do house arrest in that house?”
    “Yeah,” Allen said. “Told you it was almost like a mansion. Press the call button, Ray.”
    Ray reached out of the minivan and pressed a button on an intercom sticking out of bushes outside the gate.
    “Hello, can I help you?” said a woman’s voice on the speaker.
    “Allen Johnson with four others here to see Ms. Lopez,” Allen announced. “She’s expecting us.”
    “Good to hear from you again, Mr. Johnson. Please, come right in.”
    “Thank you, Stacy.”
    The gate opened, and Ray drove the minivan up the long driveway to the house.
    “Frida’s got to be one successful lawyer,” Gilbert said. “Is Bill Gates one of her clients?”
    “She owns a law firm with over two hundred people working for her,” Allen said.
    “You and Frida have a thing going? You know, just between you two?”
    “That would be none of your business if there was.”
    “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ But don’t worry, I won’t talk about such a thing again.”
    Ray muttered, “We can get an Oscar nomination for this kind of drama.”
    “Ray, please,” Allen said.
    “Sorry, Allen.”
    The minivan parked near the front door where a butler and maid, both in their early thirties it seemed, were waiting for them on the front steps, waving at them with polite welcoming. They then ascended the steps as everyone got out of the minivan.
    “Please, allow us to bring your things into the house,” the butler said with an english accent.
    “Thank you, Ren,” Allen said. He turned to an astonished Gilbert. “Let’s go inside and meet with Frida. She’ll be happy to see you.”
    “That seems rather strange,” Gilbert said, staring up at the house, “I’ve never even met her, and she’s looking forward to meeting with me. If I wrote a best selling novel, it would make sense.”
    “She’s sympathetic to what you’re going through. Now, come on, go inside with me.”
    They ascended the front steps. Blair and Jerry were behind them, recording with their cameras.
    Ray came close behind Jerry, touched him on the shoulder, and said quietly to him, “After they enter, you flank right, get them in profile when they talk to Frida.” He then went close to Blair. “You get a little behind Frida, get a good two person shot of Allen and Gilbert. Try to keep Jerry out of shot as best you can. Go now, they just passed the threshold.”
    Entering the foyer, Allen and Gilbert saw Frida waiting for them in the middle of the room, her hands held together and close to her chin. Frida Lopez was a beautiful woman in her mid-fifties, but looked like she was about to enter her early forties by the end of the year. She wore a tight pink tank top with a picture of a cartoon cat on the front of it, tight pair of black jeans of which the cuffs stopped at the halfway point of her shins, and a pair of sketchers. And though she had a latino name, she was as blue eyed and blond as any Swedish woman could be. Gilbert didn’t know what to make of the sight of her. He didn’t expect her to dress like a millennial.
    “If it isn’t my cowboy from Texas,” she said. “How are you doing, Allen?”
    “I’m doing good, Frida,” Allen said, smiling. “It’s been a while.”
    “Yeah, almost a year, Allen.” Frida placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t make the time we don’t see each other so long again, Mr. Johnson. I know you’re out there in Texas busy righting the wrongs of the justice system, but please, do find the time to see me. I may have to go to Austin, and get you myself.”
    As if he totally forgot who was beside him, Allen caught the eye of Gilbert staring at him, and seemed to come back to professional fortitude.
    “Oh, Frida, this is Gilbert,” he said, gesturing to his client. “Gilbert Vergo, Frida Lopez. One of the finest, and most successful lawyers I’ve ever known.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Lopez,” Gilbert said.
    “The feelings mutual, Gilbert,” Frida said, holding out her hand. “Please do call me Frida.”
    Shaking her hand, he said, “Yes, Frida. Thank you for letting me stay in your lovely home. I hope I’m not intruding in any way.”
    “No, no. I’m happy to help you in your most dire circumstance.”
    “Frida, detectives are coming in a few minutes to place an ankle bracelet on Gilbert here,” Allen informed.
    “Yes, of course,” Frida said, looking over Gilbert. “Allen, did you pick out that dreadful suit for Gilbert here?”
    “Yes. Why?” Allen looked at Gilbert’s suit. “It’s a style I thought was appropriate.”
    “He looks like a door to door Bible salesman. Shame on you.” Frida moved closer to Gilbert, feeling the material of the jacket and the tie with her hands. “It’s so tacky.”
    “It’s part of my strategy to make him appear more like a layman. One who wouldn’t have a clue about -.”
    “You’re making him look like a simpleton,” Frida interrupted. “He can’t look like a fool in front of the jury, or the media, for that matter.”
    “Even though I’m not a fan of wearing suits, I have to say I concur with her assessment,” Gilbert put in.
    “You see, Allen, that doesn’t sound like a simpleton.” She lightly rubbed Gilbert’s cheek. “Don’t worry, honey, I’ve got better quality men’s wear upstairs. After the authorities put the monitor on your ankle and give you the speech of how it works, I’ll take you up to the closet, and browse for something that fits.” She looked over at Allen. “And is appropriate enough to your counsel’s standards.”
    Two detectives arrived at Frida’s home. Both were woman. One a redhead, the other a blond. They were both exceedingly attractive ladies in their mid-thirties. Gilbert had a moment of ‘love at first sight,’ and tried his best to hide it.  
    Gilbert sat on a couch in the living room while one of them secured the monitor on his ankle.
    “Not too tight, is it?” said the redhead lady detective.
    “No, ma’am,” Gilbert replied. “It’s comfortable.”
    Standing up, the detective said, “Now, my partner is outside placing sensors at the four corners of the property, making an invisible wall all around. If you cross the wall at anytime during your house arrest, a police cruiser will be called to come here and bring you back to jail. If you are not here, you will be considered on the run, and a warrant will be issued for your arrest. The ankle bracelet can be tracked by GPS, so it will be easy to find you. The only time you are allowed to leave this property is the day you go to court. Don’t try to be smart by cutting it off. It can tell us if the strap is severed. Those are the conditions. No if, ands, or buts.”
    The blond detective came in from outside.
    “All the sensors are up and operating,” she said.
    “Do you have any questions, Mr. Vergo?” the redhead asked.
    “No, officer,” Gilbert replied, grinning. “I’m good. Got it. Do not leave the property at anytime, unless I am going to court.”
    A moment of silence as the redhead looked down at Gilbert.
    “Nice suit,” she said with a hint of sarcasm.
    “I don’t like it either,” Gilbert agreed.
    “Again with the suit,” Allen murmured.
    The redhead looked up at Allen, and said, “Okay, Mr. Johnson, we’re done here.”
    “Thank you, officers,” Allen said.
    As they were leaving, Gilbert lifted his left leg, looking at the ankle bracelet. Blair and Jerry came close to him as they filmed.
    “Never thought in my life I’d wear this fucking thing,” Gilbert said aloud. He then looked up into both cameras shaking his head. “Never in my life.” He gave out a sigh. “I need a drink.”
    “What would you like?” Frida asked from behind him.
    Gilbert half turned on the couch to see her, pondering the choices of drinks available to him in such an affluent residence.
    He said, “You know, I’ve never had a martini before.”
    “Stacy,” Frida called out toward the kitchen.
    Stacy - the maid - came into the room, holding her hands together. She said, “Yes, Frida.”
    “Fix everyone a martini, please.”
    “What’s this about martinis?” Allen inquired, walking back into the living room. “What did I say about the drinking, Gilbert?”
    “Hey, man,” Gilbert said, pointing a finger at Allen, “I said I would no longer be drunk in public, and not be hungover in court. Well, I can’t go out in public at the moment. And my first day in court isn’t until, like, when?”
    “A week from today.” Allen had his hands on his hips, rolling his eyes.
    “Okay, so I got sometime to relax. Everyone here does. Ray, Jerry, Blair, and you, Allen, just have a martini with me.” He looked at Frida. “You too. If you don’t mind?”
    “I don’t mind at all, Gilbert,” Frida responded. “Of course I’ll drink.”
    “But, Gilbert, I need you headstrong when we go over the evidence against you after I get it from the DA,” Allen said.
    “We’re not having that meeting now,” Gilbert snapped. “So, please, as my lawyer, and hopefully friend for the rest both our lives, sit down and chill. We’ll make a toast to the case, or to the liberties of the american citizen, or whatever.”
    All eyes were on Allen.
    “Okay, fine,” he said, his hands going up. “Lets all have a martini.” He pointed at Jerry and Blair with both hands, and said, “Stop filming.”
    “No,” Gilbert said. “They’re going to document everything, except when I use the bathroom.”
    They all spent the rest of the day drinking. All but Gilbert took it easy. He just needed the escape for the time being, asking Frida if she had a stereo system to play music. She said she’d allow it if it wasn’t any kind of loud, heavy metal. He was too drunk to care what genre of music she had in her library, as long as he could dance to it.
    Later they ate dinner in the dining that Stacey and Ren prepared. Blair and Jerry took a break from filming. Classical music was playing on the stereo. A most relaxing and uplifting atmosphere that had Gilbert in a good mood.
    “I must be the most unluckiest, lucky guy right now in the world,” Gilbert said. “I’m serving a house arrest in one of the biggest, most beautiful homes I’ve ever been in, and eating the best, and finest meal I’ve ever had for dinner. Thank you so much, Ms. Lopez. I needed this. I’m eternally grateful.”
    “You’re welcome, Gilbert,” Frida said. “Please, call me Frida. I don’t like feeling so old.”
    “Sorry, I forgot, Frida. You don’t look old at all, anyways.”
    Ren brought Gilbert a fresh martini.
    “Thank you, Ren,” he said. “That will be my last one for the evening.”
    “Thank God,” uttered rubbing his forehead.
    “Don’t be so stressed, Allen,” Gilbert said, rubbing his lawyer’s shoulder. “I’m in control, man. Everything’s together up in here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Why aren’t you guys documenting?” He asked Blair and Jerry.
    “That’s enough for today,” Ray told him. “We’ll start fresh when you wake up tomorrow. Footage of you dancing and ranting is simply filler we may not use.”
    “Okay, cool,” Gilbert said. “So, you’re the director of the documentary, right, Ray?”
    “Yeah, basically. If there’s something happening I think should be shot in a specific way, I’ll tell Blair and Jerry where to film from.”
    “You got a journalism degree?”
    “Yes,” Ray said, “I went to UC Berkeley school of Journalism.”
    “That’s great, man. Hey, can I make a suggestion, if it’s not too much trouble?”
    “Sure, input from the subject is welcomed,” Ray said.
    “I can do like a video diary you could include into the documentary with a handy-cam I could film myself when I’m alone. What do you think?”
    “Sounds like a great idea. I have a handy-cam in my luggage. I was gonna use it as back up in case one of the cameras stopped working.”
    “Gilbert, just don’t take it with you to court,” Allen said.
    “It’ll only be for here,” Gilbert said. “It would look weird if I got out of the minivan in front of the media with my own camera. I could just see the headlines now. ‘Gilbert Vergo documenting his own trial. What is he doing it for? His own youtube channel?’ I don’t even have one. They’d look for it as soon as someone makes that assumption.”
    “So you never uploaded videos yourself?” Allen asked.
    “No. My youtube account doesn’t even have my name on it. It’s a troll account. I even have a second e-mail for it.”
    “Do you have your name on the e-mail account?”
    “No, a fake name.”
    Allen was quiet for a moment, thinking, then said, “So the FBI only tracked you down by your IP address, not anything else.”
    “Yeah,” Gilbert said. “I figured that too. What’s on your mind, Allen? You think it means something. You told me yourself they can use the Patriot Act against me.”
    “I’ll just take note of it,” Allen said, taking out his phone. “Put it right in the ‘notes’ app.”
    The night had whined down with everyone going to their bedrooms with the exception of Gilbert and Frida. Ray had given Gilbert the handy-cam camcorder before he had went upstairs. Gilbert sat with Frida at the dining table testing out his new toy by filming the room and the table deserted of all the empty plates, with the exception of two martinis he and Frida had yet to finish.
    “Is it cool you’re on camera?” Gilbert asked.
    “It’s okay,” Frida said, “I give you my permission.”
    He pointed the camera in her direction.
    “This is Frida Lopez who was kind enough to allow me to serve my house arrest in her wonderful, luxurious, and beautiful home,” he said. “Give the camera a wave, please.”
    Frida waved at the camera with glee and giggles, saying, “Hello, there.”
    “Alright, there you have it for now,” Gilbert said, then turned off the camera. “This should be fun to do. Need something to occupy my mind during this bullshit trial.”
    Ren came into the room from the kitchen.
    “Will there be anything else, Frida?” he asked, almost bowing.
    “No, Ren,” Frida said. “That’ll be all for today. You and Stacey can go. Take the day off tomorrow, the both of you. Come back after the weekend when I’m gone.”
    “Thank you, Frida. And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vergo.”
    “The feeling’s mutual, Ren. Please, do call me Gilbert. And thank you.”
    Ren gave him a nod, then quietly made his exit.
    “So you’re going out of town on business?” Gilbert asked Frida.
    “Not really for business,” she said, “I have people to run my business. I’m just going on a trip. For fun.”
    “You have a great life.” Gilbert started drinking the rest of his martini.
    “Yes, thank you,” Frida said, drinking her martini and looking at Gilbert with a seductive smirk on her face. “Speaking of fun, I got a nice game room with a pool table. Want to play a game? After, I’ll pick out a better suit for you to wear in court from the selection I have in the upstairs dressing room.”
    “Sounds cool,” Gilbert said, placing the empty martini glass on the dining table.
    Leading him down a hallway to the game room, he couldn’t help but stare at Frida’s fine ass. There was a moment when Frida turned her head to look at him, catching his gaze, seeing where it was pointed at. Gilbert noticed and flicked his gaze forward down the hall, clearing his throat a bit too much, making the embarrassment of being caught more obvious. Frida turned her head back forward, smirking with pleasure.
    “Frida, if you don’t mind me saying, but you’re pretty white for a Latina,” Gilbert said. “Are you all Spanish descent?”
    “No. I’m actually of Swedish descent,” Frida said. “I was adopted.”
    At the bar in the game room they each downed a double-shot of tequila before even racking the balls on the pool table.
    “Does that old jukebox work?” Gilbert asked, pointing to it at the side of the room.
    “Yes, works just fine,” Frida said, moving over to it. “It’s stocked full of the best oldie pop songs. Still plays the records good.”
    Gilbert moved over to it, pushed the button to browse through the song list, and said, “This is so cool.” He then chose a song.
    “Paul Anka,” Frida said. “Good choice.”
    While they played pool, Gilbert turned on his camcorder and started filming. At one point the song Be my Baby by The Ronettes played on the jukebox, and Gilbert got excited.
    “Frida, film me please,” he asked.
    She held the camera as it recorded Gilbert dance to the song. He held the pool stick in a very sexually suggestive manner as if it were his penis, then lifted it and held it in his arms, pretending it was a gun, and pointed the end of it right into the lens of the camera.
    The image made the inebriated Frida Lopez extremely horny. She turned off the camera, put it on the bar countertop, and made a beeline for Gilbert. He dropped the pool stick on the ground as Frida wrapped her arms around him and kissed him, basically forcing her tongue in his mouth.
    For a moment, Gilbert pushed her away a little.
    He said, “Frida, I know we only just met. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you. You are a beautiful women. Headstrong, successful, and-.”
    “Shut up, and kiss me, you gentleman,” she demanded. “Fuck me right here on the table.”
    “I don’t have a condom,” Gilbert said.
    “I got condoms in every room,” Frida informed as if it were obvious that he should have known.
    She went behind the bar, opened a drawer, and took out a ‘Her Pleasure’ condom.
    After they were done with their party in the game room, Frida showed Gilbert to his room.
    “My room is at the end of the hall, a few feet from yours,” she said as they entered his room. “There’s a dressing room in here with the suits I told you about. I got the perfect one for you. Hopefully it’s your size.”
    They went into the dressing room with two racks full of almost new suits.
    “Why you have so many suits?” Gilbert asked.
    “Some men leave them here after they spend the night with me,” Frida said, looking for the suit she had in mind. “Or if they’re not prepared for whatever they do for a living, I have Ren buy new ones as back up for my boy toys.” She reached up and got a suit off the rack. “Here we go. A charcoal, stripe, vested suite.” She showed it to Gilbert.
    “Wow,” he said, “Dashing.”
    She held it up against Gilbert, and said, “Looks like it’ll fit just fine. Let’s make sure. Take off that salesman suit, fuck me one more time, then try it on.”

The Crazy between Us (An upside-down outside world)

When Gilbert signed the paper to confirm he was leaving jail with the possessions he had when he was first incarcerated back in Oregon, there were only four items listed on the sheet of paper: one ring of keys, one cell phone, a pair of boxers, and sweatpants. He knew that as soon as he was visible outside the building, members of the press with their camera would get another glimpse at a shirtless, and barefoot Gilbert Vergo. A part of him did not want to be on the outside; he had the feeling all the attention may overwhelm him. The fact that he would be with Blair the entire time comforted him. Unlike his own sister, no matter what happened, Blair would be there, supporting him. It seemed they were both helping each other, even if it was Gilbert that had got the sharp end of the stick.
    Nearing the parking lot, Gilbert saw Allen talking to the press. They held up their microphones and iPhones, pointed their cameras, some writing down notes in little notebooks, recording everything his lawyer was telling them. Gilbert planned on not saying a word, and as simply and casually as he could, walk to Allen’s rental car.
    “Gilbert Vergo!” one of the vultures hollered. The rest snapped their heads and cameras toward Gilbert like pigeons seeing food dropped on the ground by a slob, and before Allen could finish his sentence, the press darted in Gilbert’s direction. He froze as they surrounded him. It was like a mosh pit. The men and women bumped into each others shoulders, almost fighting to get his attention, asking their questions.
    “Mr. Vergo, what do you have to say to the victim’s families?”
    “Is it true Paulo Henders told you about the massacre at Shaker Krista beforehand?”
    “Who is Blair? Is the person a man or woman? If Blair is a man, then was Paulo Henders your gay e-mail pen pal lover?”
    “Are you a member of ISIS, or do you at least sympathize with the terrorist group?”
    “Are the rumors true you’re part of an anti-corporate anarchist network here on the west coast with the goal to end democracy?”
    “One of the survivors is on life support. Might be in a persistent, vegetative state. What’s your stance on euthanasia?”
    “Are you terrorisms first gay terrorist?”
    “Do you think weed should be legalized?”
    Gilbert was almost in a state of paralysis. His eyes flicked from side to side, looking at the members of the press. There was a moment of silence - except for the sound of cameras taking his picture - as they waited for him to speak. All of them eagerly anticipating which of their questions he’d answer.
    “Um,” Gilbert muttered. “I’m not gay.” He caught sight of Allen making his way through the press. “Allen, please help me get out of here. I can’t-.”
    “Okay, everyone,” Allen said to them. “Due to the unlawful, unconstitutional incarceration, along with all this media attention, my client is a bit traumatized, and for the moment, deserves some privacy.” He put an arm around Gilbert’s shoulders. “Time for us to leave now, Gilbert. Back away, please, everyone. Make room.”
    On their way to the car, the press moving closely with them, Gilbert quietly said, “What kind of questions were those, man?”
    “Wait until we’re in the car,” Allen told him. “They might catch what you say.”
    The press continued to ask their seemly random questions as Allen guided Gilbert to a black Honda Odyssey, his rental. He opened the back passenger door for Gilbert, tenderly ushering his client into the middle back seat. Members of the press made it difficult for Allen to slide the door close, holding their microphones and iPhones as close to Gilbert’s face as possible.
    “Gilbert Vergo, do you wish to make any statement at all?”
    “Why are you running?”
    “I’ve heard both your parents are dead. Did you kill them?”
    With that last question striking a dagger into Gilbert’s sensitive heart, he looked at all the members of the press with all the anger inside himself. Miraculously, he managed to hold back the curses that were about to explode out of him. The look on his face made the journalists more adamant in getting him to talk.
    Noticing the emotion Gilbert’s face was emanating, Allen attempted to slide the door closed as fast as he could.
    “Don’t close the door on my arm. That’s assault!”
    “You’re going to break my microphone. I can sue you, Mr. Johnson.”
    “How dare you. I almost dropped my iPhone. You know I’m on contract. Don’t you know how expensive it is to replace a broken iPhone?”
    Allen finally got the door closed without any members of the press losing an arm, or breaking anyone’s equipment.
    He said, holding up his hands, “Sorry, everyone, but we have to leave. I have to consult with my client on his defense. Thank you for your time.” He then got into the front passenger seat of the minivan. “Let’s go, Ray,” he said to the driver as soon as the door was closed. Easy for him, those vultures did not want to hear another word from the lawyer.
    The minivan pulled away from the curb and drove through the parking lot. The driver was bespectacled man in his mid to late twenties. He wore a black fedora hat, and a black leather jacket.
    Sitting beside Gilbert was Blair, filming him with a digital camcorder, her back flat against the side of the car.
    “Can you not film me right now, please,” Gilbert said.
    “We document everything, remember,” Blair said. “That was the deal.”
    “Hello, Gilbert,” a male voice said from the backseats.
    Gilbert turned around and saw another mid to late twenty-something with a three day stubble on his face, also filming him with the same kind of camera Blair had.
    “My name’s Jerry,” the man said, holding out his hand over the back of Gilbert’s seat.
    Shaking Jerry’s hand, Gilbert said, “Nice to meet you. Gilbert Vergo.”
    “Yes, I know. How you holding up?”
    “Like shit, Jerry. Swirling down the toilet bowl.”
    Gilbert looked around the inside of the minivan as he put on his seatbelt.
    “Hey, why is Ray the only one with his seatbelt on,” Gilbert said. “Allen, Blair, and Jerry, all three of you put your seatbelt on.”
    “It’s easier for us to get better angles of you without them on,” Blair said. She wasn’t looking at directly, but through the LCD screen on the camera.
    “You can get good enough angles sitting up straight.” Gilbert had an authoritarian tone as if he were there parents.
    Allen turned in his seat, and said to Jerry and Blair, “Fine. Gilbert’s right. It keeps us safe. And is perfect so we may avoid getting pulled over by the police for seatbelt violation. We don’t need anymore stress than we already have. Think about what the media would say if they had footage of us being pulled over, and given a ticket.”
    “The windows are tinted back here,” Blair said, looking up at Allen.
    “Blair, you know how I feel about it,” Gilbert said.
    She looked at him, understanding what he meant by his concern, something only the two of them at that moment shared.
    “Okay, Gilbert,” she said, sitting up straight in her seat, and securing her seatbelt.
    Jerry did the same.
    “It’s gonna be a slow right for a bit longer,” Ray said. “The picketers are gonna smother us until we’re on the highway.”
    “I didn’t see that many people the day I arrived here,” Gilbert said.
    “The crowd has been growing since you’ve been here. Here we go.”
    The minivan slowly drove along the road as the picketers rampaged their way up to the car. Some smacked the windows, flipping off the car even though they couldn’t see through the tinted windows. A woman put her face up to Gilbert’s window, cupping her hands over the sides of her eyes.
    She yelled, “I see you, fucker. Fucking bastard! You’ll get it right in the ass in the showers, pussy.”
    A man got close behind her, yelling, “I didn’t serve my country to have assholes like you destroy it. If only I got my hands on you - you’re lucky I can’t get to you.”
    The minivan continued forward.
    A girl that must have just turned twenty managed to push people to the side and make her way to Gilbert’s window. He expected her to spit on the glass, but what she did was so very unexpected. She lifted her shirt, exposing her breasts, then rubbing them on the window.
    “You’re so HOT!” she screamed. “I want you. It wasn’t your fault. I’ll find you. I want you to touch me. I’m not the only one. Choose me, Vergo, choose me.”
    Gilbert looked away, and saw Blair holding up the camera. She was smiling, trying to keep from laughing. He figured it was time to talk into the camera, make his first statement outside of jail.
    “This isn’t funny,” he said, looking right into the lens, pointing behind him at the boobs against the window. “First the money-fucking press, now these nuts right outside. Whether they hate or love me, they’re giving attention to the wrong goddamn person.” He turned to look into Jerry’s camera.
    Jerry was distracted by the boobs, his camera not focused on Gilbert.
    “Hey, you, Mr. Ogle,” Gilbert said to him. “Pay attention to me, not the tits.” Gilbert took hold of Jerry’s camera lens, focusing it more on him.
    “Sorry about that, Mr. Vergo,” Jerry said, shaking out of his zombie state of mind.
    “Please, do call me Gilbert.” He then said to Allen, “Okay, where to next?”
    “We got rooms at The Madonna Inn,” Allen said. “We also got you some clothes. A suit for interviews and your court appearances, as well as recreational. Blair picked those out for you. She knows your taste. But I picked the suit.”
    “Madonna Inn?” Gilbert said. “She has her own hotel?”
    “No,” Ray answered. “It’s just called the Madonna Inn, because it’s on Madonna road.”
    “Sounds nice.”
    Jerry scoffed, then said, “Yeah, you could say it is. For a six year old girl.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It was the only place available at the last minute,” Allen said, “everything else was booked by the time the LOL had me come out here. This town is getting a lot of business.”
    “We’re finally free from the mob, guys,” Ray said.
    The minivan turned onto the highway.
    When they arrived at the Madonna Inn, Gilbert immediately understood what Jerry meant by the six year old girl.
    “Is Cinderella waiting for me in there?” Gilbert asked. “Does every town in California have a hotel like this?”
    “You don’t like the pink, huh?” Ray said. “I felt the same way when I first got here.”
    “It just seems everyday there’s something new that appears before me that’s weirder than what happened the day before,” Gilbert said, shaking his head. “Like a fucking rabbit whole.”
    “It has a really nice decor inside,” Jerry said. “I don’t mind the pink. The bars really nice. First round’s on me.”
    “Why this place, Allen?” Gilbert asked. “I know there had to be vacancies at other, more normal hotels.”
    “Okay, you got me,” Allen said. “The place is mostly for couples on their honeymoon, celebrating anniversary’s, or families passing through, on their way to Disneyland. No one in the mainstream press would think you’d stay in a place like this. Look, if the trial goes on for weeks, I’ll look for cheaper lodgings. Think of your time here as a little vacation. Let Jerry here buy you a beer.”
    “What if a journalist is in there and starts to hassle me?”
    “Just play it cool, Gilbert,” Allen said in a soothing tone of voice. “Kindly say, ‘No comment,’ and ‘I will make statements and answer questions later.’ Something like that. But don’t cuss at them, don’t get angry, or for god sake, make any kind of seen. Jerry, make sure none of that goes down.”
    “You got it,” Jerry confirmed. “I got your back, Gilbert. I’ll talk to whoever comes up to you. You don’t have to say a word.”
    Ray drove the minivan through the entryway into the Madonna Inn complex, then parking outside one of the buildings.
    Allen turned in his seat, reaching a hand up to Gilbert, holding a hotel keycard.
    “You’re in this building, number two, room one-twenty,” Allen said to Gilbert. “The Sir Walter Raleigh room.”
    “The what?” Gilbert said, bewildered.
    “Each room has its own theme. You don’t know who Sir Walter Raleigh was.”
    “Sort of. Name sounds familiar, but not really.”
    “I thought you were a writer.”
    “A writer, yes, but not an encyclopedia.”
    “Anyways, the rest of us will have rooms in building three. Your cloths are on your bed in a brand-new suitcase. The suit I had tailored for you with thanks to Blair’s specifications is hanging in the closet. Go up their, take a shower, shave that stubble, and take a few hours to relax.”
    “When do you want to go to the bar, Gilbert?” Jerry asked.
    “Asap, brother,” Gilbert answered. “Come to my room in exactly a half-hour.” He looked over at Blair. “You coming?”
    Moving her gaze from the camera’s LCD screen, she shook her head.
    “Alright,” Gilbert said, sliding open the door, then stepping out.
    “Gilbert,” Blair said.
    “Yeah, what?”
    “Try not to drink too much.”
    Gilbert didn’t affirm her advice, and simply slid the door closed.
    He walked to his room. If he were not on trial for being an accessory to a mass shooting, he would have viewed this room with astonishing pleasure, but what he felt at the first site of it was the opposite. The room to him just felt inappropriate to have for a lodging while on this strange and chaotic trip he found himself experiencing. On the bed was the suitcase Allen mentioned, as well as a shoebox. He lifted up the shoebox, looked at the label and saw it was his right size and just the type he always wore: black sneakers. He opened the suitcase to find cloths nicely folded inside. Blair must’ve packed it, being it was the type of clothing he wore on a daily basis. A gray full zip hoodie sweatshirt, four t-shirts - two were of rock bands that he liked, the other two were ones with funny texts on them - a pair of blue jeans, along with a belt, boxers, and socks. She knew him very well. He looked at the suit hanging in the closet. It was khaki colored with a dark blue tie, and baby blue shirt. The site of it discomforted Gilbert; not only did he hate wearing suits, but he more than hated those colors.
    “Yuck,” he said aloud, holding up the suit by it’s hanger.
    He went into the bathroom to take a shower and saw things were set up for him to make himself presentable. On the counter, next to the sink were shaving razors and shaving cream, as well as two tooth brushes. He looked at himself in one of the mirrors over the sinks, exasperated.
    “What am I?” he asked his reflection aloud. “A fucking movie star? God, this is getting ridiculous.”
    After he was done showering, clean shaven, fully clothed, and wearing his new pair of comfortable sneakers, he sat on the foot of the bed staring at the television, deciding whether or not to turn it on and see what the rest of the country was saying about him. He thought it better if he got drunk first.
    A knock on his door. He opened it.
    “You ready for beer time, Gilbert,” Jerry asked, grinning, holding two thumbs up.
    “Fuck yes, please,” Gilbert said, relieved.
    “Cool. Though the decor may be fantastical, the quality of the drinks and the beer selection is quite fantastic.”
    Exiting his room, Gilbert said, “Whatever, I need to numb my brain tonight.”
    On their way to the bar, Jerry said, “Blair told me to cut you off at some point. She said you normally push it to the limit sometimes. And now due to your current stress level, you may drink to simply black yourself out. I only have so much money anyway. So, please, not too much swimming in the bottle today, okay.” Jerry patted Gilbert on the back.
    “You have a girlfriend, Jerry?” Gilbert asked.
    Jerry became uneasy at this question, but Gilbert took no notice of it.
    “Yes, I do,” Jerry replied.
    “You do everything she tells you to do?”
    “Yes. Well, I try to.”
    “Well, todays a day I’ll pretend to try.”
    They arrived at the bar. Gilbert went straight to a bar a pink bar stool, sitting in it, eagerly waiting for the bartender to come up to him. He cared not to observe the decor of the place. In his eyes all he saw was the bottles of liquor on the shelves, and hoping the place had a strong IPA. The bartender came up to them. He immediately recognized Gilbert.
    “Hey there,” the man said, “never expected to ever see you in the flesh.”
    Gilbert turned to Jerry and said to him, “Make sure this man gets a nice, hefty tip.” Then turned back to the bartender, and said to him, “Please, sir, your strongest IPA, and a shot of Wild Turkey.”
    “I’ll just have a coke,” Jerry said. “I think Mr. Vergo is gonna drink for the both of us.”
    “Hey, you’re not gonna cause me trouble, are you?” the bartender asked Gilbert.
    “Look, whatever’s been said about me - I don’t know yet what their theories are - I am not like Paul whatever-his-name-is.”
    “The scumbag’s name was Paulo Henders,” the bartender corrected.
    Gilbert was at a loss for words. He lowered his head, lifting his hands.
    “Don’t worry, Gilbert Vergo. I’m on your side. One strong IPA and one shot of Wild Turkey coming up, on the house.”
    “Thank you, sir,” Gilbert said, sighing in relief.
    Gilbert looked up to see the television above the bar on the sports channel, there was a football game, a receiver running down the field, dodging and weaving through the defensive players.
    “You know,” Gilbert said, “I’ve never truly been into the game, always had somewhat of a disinterest when people around me would talk about it. But seeing it on that TV screen is so relieving right now. I want to know what’s going on, what the commentators are saying about the players, what the strategies should be to get that touchdown. Now I see how it’s such a damn good escape for it’s audience.”
    The bartender brought the drinks.
    “Thank you again, man,” Gilbert said to him.
    “No problem, Mr. Vergo. If you want anything else, just let me know.”
    “Please, call me Gilbert.”
    The bartender nodded with a grin on his face as he went to serve another customer.
    Gilbert downed the shot of Wild Turkey, then chased it with the IPA. After that first sip of beer, he made a smacking sound in his mouth with his tongue, exhaling with the ultimate relaxation.
    “Oh, man, I sure did need that,” he said, then took a big gulp of the IPA.
    “Please, do take it easy,” Jerry said, “I don’t want to have to escort you to your room with your arm around my shoulders. Or, God forbid, get Ray to help me carry you. Someone might record a video of it with their cell phones. It’ll go viral in no time.”
    “No worries, man. I won’t push it.” Gilbert leaned a little closer to Jerry, and said in a soft tone, “Hey, you think the bartender’s fucking with me? You think he spit in my beer or something?”
    “No,” Jerry replied, “there are a lot of people out there that find the charges against you ridiculous. Yes, most are somehow being convinced by the media’s speculations, theories, and assumptions, but they’re doing so because they themselves haven’t been provided with the supposed evidence justifying your indictment. All the media has right now is the statement from the FBI that you made contact with Ultra-tripleX, aka Paulo Heners prior to the mass shooting, and that they have evidence to support it. Look, Allen is working to get the supposed evidence from the DA. He’ll look over it and then talk to about it.”
    “That DA was a prick,” Gilbert commented. “What was his name?”
    “Stanley Fenway.”
    “Fucking ass called me a drunk.”
    Jerry quietly shushed him, and said, “Don’t say that too loud in public, dude.”
    “Oh, yeah. I’ll try to remember to be careful with what I say. I’m not use to this kind of thing, being a kind of public figure.” He sighed, then took a few sips of the beer.
    “I wanted to talk to you about something,” Jerry said, appearing a little hesitant with whatever he was about to say. “Something a little personal.”
    “What about?”
    “It’s about Blair. I’m the one that basically got her hired at the LOL.”
    “Cool, man,” Gilbert said, smiling. “Thanks for doing that. She was always into that alternative media kind of stuff, always watching documentaries, doing research. I bet it was the LOL website she visited the most. She even bought a cool digital camera, which pissed me off at first, because we almost couldn’t pay rent that month, but it turned out fine in the end. She really used that camera a lot to make videos for her youtube channel. It really brought a brightness to her that I never saw in her before. She asked me to participate in her videos, but I was never interested in the youtube thing. I just liked to watch it, not actually do it, you know.”
    “Gilbert, I’m with Blair now.”
    “Yeah, I know. You’re both filming me for your documentary film.”
    “Yes. But what I’m trying to say is that we’re seeing each other. We have a…sexual relationship.”
    The good mood that Gilbert was finally in since the day Blair left the apartment, and totally squashed when the SWAT team busted open the front door, was gone again by Jerry’s last sentence. He turned in the bar stool, looking darkly into Jerry’s eyes. Jerry stared back at him, anxious, and swallowed, nothing but saliva going down his throat.
    After almost a minute of looking at Jerry, Gilbert turned back in his stool to face the bar. He drank the rest of the IPA. When he was about to finish, he beckoned the bartender.
    “Hey, man,” he said. “What’s your name?”
    “Clarence,” the bartender said.
    “Clarence, nice to meet you. I’ll have another IPA, and this time a double shot of patron.” He gestured to Jerry. “He’ll pay for it this time.”
    “You got it, Gilbert,” Clarence said.
    “Gilbert, you want to talk about this, man to man?” Jerry asked.
    “No, not with you,” Gilbert replied flatly, without looking at him. “And don’t forget to leave that hefty tip to Clarence.”
    “Okay, you got it. Whenever you’re ready to go, just let me know.”
    They sat in silence as Gilbert drank two more beers and downed one more shot tequila. After placing the empty shot glass on the bar, Gilbert stood up off the stool.
    Waving at the bartender as he walked away, he said, “Thank you, Clarence.”
    “You’re welcome, Gilbert. Enjoy your stay.”
    Before Gilbert opened the door to the outside, he heard someone whisper, “Was that really him?”
    “Yes,” he said out loud, then opened the door and walked outside.
    He looked around. He could not remember where his room was.
    Jerry came up behind him.
    “I forgot how I got here,” Gilbert said. He was drunk, but he was the type that handled inebriation pretty well. It took a lot more drinks for him to get totally shit faced. “Guide me to my room, please.”
    “Shit,” Jerry said, “I should have cut you off after that double-shot of tequila.”
    “Fuck no, and fuck off with that shit. I needed it, and most of all, deserved it. I feel so fucking alive.” Gilbert raised his fists, and flexed his arms.
    “Damn it, Gilbert. Come on, this way.” Jerry walked past Gilbert pointing the way to where his room was located. “We got to get out of sight before someone with their smartphone films you like this.”
    Halfway to Gilbert’s room, an middle-aged couple walked by them. Gilbert half turned to see them behind him just because he was curious to see if the wife had a nice ass. The lady had out her phone, the camera facing him. He turned around, walking backwards, and lifted the front of his t-shirt. The text on the t-shirt said: Take a photo. It’ll last longer.     Being that he was walking backwards, Gilbert did not see the cement bump in the parking lot outside his room’s building, tripped, and fell on his ass.
    “Shit,” Gilbert yelped.
    “You all right, Gilbert,” Jerry asked, running up to help him up.
    “Get the fuck off me. I can get up myself. I’m a big boy.” Gilbert stood up, still looking at the lady filming him with her phone. He put his hands up, and said to her, “If you care, don’t worry, I’m okay. Hope you enjoyed the little show.”
    “Come on, Gilbert. Don’t make a scene. Your room is-.”
    “I know where it is, asshole,” Gilbert snapped. “Go back to your room. With Blair. Money-fuckers.”
    Gilbert entered his room, slamming the door behind him. He made sure the door was locked. He looked around the room for the TV’s controller, found it, pressed the power button. The screen had the picture of his arrest photo being displayed on a news station. He browsed through the channels to find a music station. When he found it, he dropped the controller on the bed, and then started dancing to music he really hated.
    “I guess I’m really shit-faced after all,” he said aloud.
    Gilbert picked the controller from atop the bed, turned up the volume on the television, then tossed it back, continuing his dancing.
    During the most stressful times in his life, Gilbert would lose control in such a fashion, ending up surrendering rationality by becoming drunk, listening to the pop music of the day, and sometimes abusing his body more by ingesting harsher substances. One time, the day his parents died, he spent that very night getting wasted at some techno nightclub, doing ecstasy, and snorting cocaine in the off a toilet in a bathroom stall. He remembered all of it, from being socked in the face by a hot slut’s boyfriend, scoring with another hot slut in the back alley of the club, to even being yelled at by a bouncer after being caught in the same alley with his pants down. Gilbert luckily avoided going to jail that night due to the fact the hot slut he was fucking from behind slapped the bouncer hard across the face for interrupting her good time.
    The memory of that night, the stupid choices he made, the consequences that could have happened which would have caused his life more strain, made him stop dancing in the Sir Walter Raleigh room at the Madonna Inn. He bent down at the waist, knees bending a little, and gripped his kneecaps. He got himself exhausted from the dancing. He stayed in that position for a moment to catch his breath.
    “Calm down, Gilbert,” he said to himself as he was catching his breath. “Don’t lose control again. Keep yourself together.”
    He then stumbled over to the bend, and sat down next to the television’s controller. He picked it up, and changed the station to one of the major news networks. They weren’t talking about him, but covering something about Russian military intervening with some other country’s civil war. After that they ran a story about student protests going on across college campuses throughout the country to end student tuition.
    Then when that story was done, the news anchor said, “This just in…”
    Footage of Gilbert falling on his ass in the parking lot outside played on the screen, which happened not even twenty minutes before that moment.
    The news anchor dude on the screen said, “Footage of the man, Gilbert Vergo, indicted for being an accessory to the shootings at the college town Shaker Krista shows him taking what seems to be a drunken stumble in the parking lot at a hotel in San Luis Obispo, California. Our sources tell us that this video was recorded after he reportedly left the hotel’s bar. Apparently, he’s seen brandishing his t-shirt which has the text: ‘Take a photo. It’ll last longer.’ Then he trips backward on a cement pump. Then afterwards, his friend attempts to help him up, but hits the other man’s hand away, apparently cursing at him.”
    The footage stops on the still image of Gilbert looking at the camera filming in the distance, raising his hands up. To him, and most likely everyone else, it looked like a pose of triumph.
    “Is this how you spend your time when you’re out on bail, Mr. Vergo?” the news anchor guy said into the camera, as if he knew Gilbert was watching. “Getting drunk, and stumbling around, making a fool of yourself? Not looking good in the public eye, young man.”
    “So fucking what, prick,” Gilbert said to the television screen. “And you know what? I’m gonna have another, and make a toast to the media. Money-fucking bastards. Where’s the goddamn minibar?”
    Gilbert got off the bed, looked around the room, and found the minibar. He opened it, grabbed the first beer he saw, and tried to open the bottle.
    “Goddamn it, where’s the fucking bottle opener?”
    He found it in the inside door of the minibar, popped open the beer, and immediately started guzzling it down. He was halfway done with it when there was a knock on the door.
    Upon opening the door and seeing Blair’s face, he said, “Aw, shit.” Then he saw she was holding a pizza box. The smell got to his nose quick. He sniffed the air, his face now bright with glee. He said, “Cool. You brought pizza. You can come in now.”
    “When was the last time you ate?” Blair asked, placing the pizza box on the table.
    “Breakfast time at the jail,” Gilbert answered, opening the pizza box. “Oh, you know me so well, Blair. Pineapple, ham, and garlic. I’m so pleased.” He took out a piece and bit into it.
    “How drunk are you?” Blair looked at him closely.
    “Drunk enough to see what the TV’s saying about me. Drunk enough that I’ll probably drink more, and throw up this wonderful pizza later in the toilet. And drunk enough to forget how pissed off I am at what Jerry just told me about you two.”
    “You have to stop drinking, Gilbert. I’m cutting you off.”
    “Oh, fuck you, and fuck off, woman,” Gilbert said in a childish voice.
    “I saw the footage of you outside on the news. You see how fast that went viral, ending up on the television. In this information age, in the kind of situation you’ve been thrust into, you have to be -.”
    Gilbert interrupted, “Be what? Normal? This is what normal grownup people do when their heart is shattered to pieces by those they love, and if their is easy access to booze.”
    Blair’s head went back as she sighed.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve told you. Jerry told me how you reacted. That’s why I’m here. No cameras, nothing on the record, just you and I to discuss our relationship.”
    “As far as I’m concerned, Blair, we don’t have a relationship. I don’t even know if I want to participate in the LOL documentary anymore.”
    “You and I can still have a relationship that’s more than friendship. Jerry is the kind of guy that shares.”
    “Do I look like a fucking mormon. I don’t practice polygamy.” Gilbert finished his beer, and piece of pizza. He grabbed another piece, and commenced to scarf it down. He wanted to throw up in Blair’s face.
    “It’s more like polyamory.”
    “What the fucks that? Sounds like a type of Irish Riverdance.”
    “No, stupid. It’s where a person has a non-monogamous relationship with someone.”
    “An open relationship?” Gilbert said, a little reviled at that kind of lifestyle. “Aren’t you afraid of the STDs you could end up having on your cooch?”
    “It’s a relationship of trust,” Blair said. “I trust Jerry. He wears a condom anyway.”
    “There is no real trust in this world, Blair. Especially if there is no honesty. You could’ve told me you wanted that kind of life.”
    Blair, frustrated, said, “Because I knew you’d tell me no.”
    “You are one of the few people that know me the most, and you know I’m no slut. I don’t want to have a different chic to fuck every night I go to bed. I find it revolting, disgusting, and joyless.” He walked over to the minibar to retrieve a beer.
    “Jerry wants you in my life,” Blair said. “He cares about me, and thinks it important you and I stay intimate.”
    After opening the beer, then swigging it down for three swallows, he said, “Well, woopty doo for that fool. I’m a committed monogamous sort of guy. One great woman - such as you - is enough for me to have in my life until I die. But, you know what, if you so desire, keep living your life of polymangna. I won’t take part.”
    “It’s polyamory,” Blair corrected.
    “Whatever. I don’t give a shit about being factually correct with such terminology of lifestyles I’m not apart of.”
    “It’s nice you think of me as ‘great.’” Blair looked away, her arms crossed. “I wish you would reconsider.”
    “No.” Gilbert let out a loud belch.
    “Anyways,” Blair said, looking back up at him, “that’s your last drink. I promised Allen I’d cut you off after he saw that footage on the news. I’m also sleeping here tonight to make sure you keep your shit together.”
    “I’ll cut myself off when I pass out.”
    While swigging down the beer, and swaying as if he were about to dance again, Blair darted at him, reaching out for the beer. Gilbert backed away in time, and held out his free hand to block her from coming closer.
    “Back off, woman,” Gilbert commanded. “Don’t come between a Mexican and his beer.”
    “You’re only a fourth Mexican,” Blair said, “so it will require only a fourth the effort to get that fucking beer out of your grip.”
    Gilbert jumped on top of the other double bed, leaped off it to the other side, spun around, holding up a finger at Blair in an attempt to keep her from running around the bed or possibly jumping over it, and continued drinking the beer.
    “Give me that fucking beer,” Blair said, baring her teeth. “You better not finish it.”
    “I ain’t afraid of you, bitch,” Gilbert said with tough attitude. “You don’t scare me.”
    He was about to swig down the beer, still eyeing Blair. She then moved to her left, while he maintained his distance by moving to his own left. With the look of a predator still on her face, she moved right, closer to the edge of the bed.
    “You don’t fucking scare me, woman,” Gilbert said in his most maximum attempt of masculine domination.
    Hopping up, Blair had one foot on top of the bed. Gilbert made a run for it to his right, trying to get to the other side of the room. But unfortunately Blair was feinting the leap over the bed, dropped to the floor, and darted at Gilbert, catching him before he could get past her, and with both hands, got a hold of his arm not holding the beer bottle, spinning him halfway around, then pushing on his chest hard enough to cause him to fall on his back on the bed.
    “Damn, woman,” Gilbert said, “no need to get so violent. Careful. You made me spill some of the beer, shit-head.”
    She jumped on top of him, straddling him, grabbing for the beer. She got it, then started drinking the rest of it.
    “Hey,” Gilbert said, “that was mine. Get your own.”
    Finished with it, Blair tossed the bottle onto the carpet, then grabbed Gilbert’s arms by the wrists and pinned him down.
    “Damn, Blair. I remember you being tough, but not this tough.”
    She leaned forward over him, her face close to his. She said, “Stop drinking and making a fool of yourself, and I’ll have sex with you in return.”
    Gilbert scoffed, then said, “No. I don’t want your Texan hipster STDs.”
    “Jerry doesn’t have fucking STDs, you asshole.”
    “Please, get off me. This is assault. I will sue you. My lawyers just a few rooms down.”
    Blair moved her face even more closer to his, and said, “He’s in the building on the other side of the parking lot.” She smiled, sensually looking into Gilbert’s eyes. “Kiss me.”
    “No,” Gilbert said, shaking his head. “You smell nice, you’re sexier and more beautiful than ever, and you’re aura has a confidence that I’ve never in you before. But no. I don’t share.”
    She went in to kiss him. He turned his face, her lips meeting his cheek, then she began rubbing them up and down his, sucking a little on the skin. He remained still.
    Pulling her lips away, and speaking into his ear, she said, “Remember the night I took your virginity?”
    He did not answer.
    “We were parked in that spot overlooking the city,” Blair reminisced, “and we made love in the backseat of my car. You were different back then, so full of life and confidence when I wasn’t. It was the very first time I really enjoyed sex. Before I met you I would simply fuck guys like a robot, without passion or joy.”
    She began slowly rubbing her crotch on his.
    Gilbert turned his head and kissed her on the lips. For a moment it was passionate. Blair breathed heavily, releasing her hands from his wrists to rub his cheeks as they kissed. He took hold of her wrists, then pushed her them back a bit to stop the make-out session.
    Looking into her surprised expression, Gilbert said, “And how does Jerry fuck you?”
    Blair made a sound as if she were about to say something.
    “The real question is whether I even fucking care,” he said. “Now, will you please get off me. I’ll stop drinking, and you can stay here tonight to make sure I don’t get another drink out of the minbar, but we are definitely not sleeping in the same bed.”

The Crazy between Us(Lovebird Reunion)

Gilbert requested Allen to make a motion for dismal of the charges against him at the pre-trial. Allen said such an action would be futile; the prosecution was aiming to put total blame on Gilbert for the massacre, and would appeal if the Judge did decide to dismiss the case. Based on the media attention, and debates going on over Gilbert’s indictment, it was obvious he was going to have to face a jury.
    “The only thing you’re able to do now is say that your plea of not guilty,” Allen said to Gilbert during their private meeting right before the pre-trial. “What I’ll do is make a motion to get your bail dropped, and your ass out of that jail cell. If not, then I’ll make a motion to get the ridiculous cost of your bail down to a fair and sensible amount.”
    “Whatever the amount is dropped down to,” Gilbert said, “I still couldn’t afford it, unless it turns out to end up being sixty bucks.”
    Allen smiled and giggled.
    He said, “Whatever it turns out to be, someone on the outside might end up paying it.”
    “Like who?” Gilbert inquired.
    “Well, the LOL has set up a crowd fund on their website, taking in donations for your defense so I can get paid. But don’t worry, Gilbert, if the bail is changed to a reasonable amount, I’ll take it upon myself to have the crowd fund pay for your release.”
    “Wow, thank you, Allen. I hope to return the favor one day.”
    “No need to thank me. There are other ways to acquire financial assistance out of this situation you’re in.”
    “Like what, man?”
    Allen looked directly into Gilbert’s eyes, raised his hands in front of him, close to each other, then spread them apart, like Moses parting the Red Sea.
    He said, enunciating each word, “Television interviews.”
    “You really get paid for that shit?” Gilbert asked, surprised at the notion.
    “If you’re not in custody, and if the demand is high enough, the news networks, magazines and newspapers — hell, even documentarians looking for a trending subject — will be bidding on your ass.”
    “That’s just weird, Allen.”
    At the pre-trial Gilbert sat beside Allen still wearing the prison uniform, handcuffed, and remaining silent. After his outburst during the bail hearing in Oregon he learned his lesson. It was better to have the professionals do their talking. Any actions he’d attempt at that point, whether it were yelling curses and damnations, or punching the robotic bailiff standing directly behind him, would just make things more difficult.
    “The defendant, Gilbert Vergo, is charged with being an accessory to the mass shooting at the residence of Zion Fraternity in Shaker Krista,” the Judge said. “Who’s representing the State in his prosecution?”
A blond man in his mid-thirties, wearing a gray suit with a blue tie stood up. Gilbert saw the man brushing the blue tie with his finger tips as he was standing up straight.
    Why do business-types do that? Gilbert wondered in his mind. Do they think it might fall off? If it’s a clip-on, it might.
    “Stanley Fenway, your honor,” the blond man said, “District Attorney for San Louis Obispo.” He then sat back down.
    “And who’s representing the defendant?” the Judge inquired.
    Allen stood, and said, “Allen Johnson, your honor, Attorney at Law.”
    “How does your client plead?”
    “Not guilty, your honor. And, if I may, would like to make a motion.”
    “You may, Mr. Johnson.”
    “I ask that Mr. Vergo’s bail be dropped, and released from incarceration on his own recognizance.”
    Stanley Fenway stood up, and said, “Your honor, due to the severity of the crime committed at Shaker Krista, and the foreknowledge he had of the event, I object to even the consideration of allowing the defendant to walk the streets. He may go on the run. Also I have information that he is a drunk. He’ll probably be too hungover to make it court on time.”
    “I’m no drunk,” Gilbert muttered.
    Realizing he thought out loud, he immediately put his hands over his mouth.
    The Judge shot him an angry, disapproving look.
    He said, “Mr. Vergo, I heard what you said to the Judge up there in Oregon. You won’t dare speak in such a manner like that to me.”
    Gilbert lowered his hands, then whispered, “Sorry, your honor.”
    Speaking to Allen, the Judge said, “I deny your motion to drop Mr. Vergo’s bail, and his release. But what I will drop is the cost for his bail. I’ll set it at twenty-five thousand. Mr. Vergo will face trial by jury. That is all.”
    “Don’t worry, Gilbert,” Allen said, “you’ll be on the outside in no time. I’ll make a call to the LOL. See how the crowd fund is going.”
    Before being escorted out of the courtroom by the bailiff, Gilbert said, “Every time you say ‘the LOL,’ I find it harder and harder to take them seriously.”
    The next day Gilbert sat on his bed in the jail cell reading the novel Lord of the Flies by William Golding that Allen gave to him at his request. A guard knocked on the cell door. Gilbert looked up from the book and saw the guard staring at him through the window.
    The guard said, “You got a visitor. Come with me.”
    The door slid open.
    “Who is it?” Gilbert asked.
    “I don’t know,” the guard replied, motioning him to exit the jail cell.
    They entered the visiting room. At that moment there were no other inmates at any of the booths.
    “Number seven,” the guard informed.
    Gilbert walked to where the visiter was waiting for him, not able to see who it was because of the partitions. Arriving at booth number seven, seeing who was sitting behind the glass, he shook his head in disappointment, as well as disbelief.
    Blair stared up at him with worried eyes.
    He slowly sat on the stool, not looking at her, then picked up the phone receiver, almost disinterested in her presence. He finally looked into her face when he put the phone receiver to his ear. With some haste she picked up her side’s receiver.
    “Hello, Gilbert,” she said.
    “Long time, no goddamn see,” Gilbert said with a pissed off attitude.
    “I know, um, I’m sorry.”
    “Blair, no need to apologize. If ditching me without giving any reason was what you wanted to do, then there’s no need to comfort me. I accept the fact I don’t possess the power of persuasion over other people’s decisions, nor would I want to. It’s not in my nature. I should be apologizing for calling you so many times, and leaving those disrespectful messages. I’m sorry about that. It’s just my hearts never been broken before.” Gilbert spoke these words with a straight poker face.
    “I know,” Blair said, sighing. “I deserve the sarcasm.”
    “Who says I’m being sarcastic, Blair? I’m serious. Look how serious I am.” Then Gilbert yelped, “I’M IN JAIL!”
    Wincing at Gilbert’s shrill yell coming out of the receiver, Blair pulled it away from her ear a few inches.
Gilbert took his phone receiver away from his ear as well and put the back of his hand over his mouth to calm himself, and maybe keep from crying. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, then held the receiver back up to his ear.
    “Sorry about that,” he said. “This past week hasn’t been one I want to remember.”
    “It’s okay, Gilbert, I understand.”
    There was a moment of silence as Gilbert seemed to look for the right words to say.
    “It’s been hard,” he said finally. “I really don’t know what to make of all this. It’s like I went to bed in my room, then woke up in the middle of an arena, surrounded by a screaming mob, and they’re angry with me, and I don’t have a fucking clue why. Not the slightest idea. I’ve been told why I’m in jail, but the explanation they gave me still hasn’t gotten through to me.”
    “You’re all over the news,” Blair said.
    Gilbert decided to change the subject.
    “Why did you up and leave like that?” he asked.
    Blair’s head lowered, rubbing her hand over her forehead, and sniffling, almost beginning to cry.
    Looking back at Gilbert, she said, “I just felt I had to move on. My life with you just felt so stagnant, basically lifeless.”
    “You could’ve talked to me,” Gilbert said, “we could’ve worked it out. You can’t just give up like that. Doing things like that hurts others. When you were suddenly gone, all I felt was pain.”
    “Anything I would have said to you wouldn’t have made a difference,” Blair said, pointing her finger at him. “You are steadfast, which is a good thing when it comes to your loving commitment to our relationship, but when it came to changing your lifestyle for the betterment of your mental and spiritual health, you wouldn’t do a damn thing.” She became a little more irate, but keeping her voice low. “Not a FUCKING thing.”
    “Then why are you here?”
    “Because I guess I still love you, you fucking dumbshit,” Blair replied, nonchalant.
    Gilbert could not help himself from grinning with glee.
    “And by coincidence,” Blair continued, “I now work for the LOL. I’m here to inform you we’re going to pay your bail. The crowd fund for your defense has reached just over eighty grand. You have a lot of support out there.”
    “Oh, so you moved to California to work for the LOL.”
    “No. Their headquarters is located in Austin, Texas,” Blair corrected. “I moved to Texas.”
    “That’s one big change of scenery,” Gilbert commented. “What the fuck you do for them?”
    “I operate the camera when the journalists go out into the field to do interviews and on-location reports.”
    “Cool,” Gilbert said. He started to laugh.
    “What’s so funny?” Blair asked, somewhat confused, and maybe a little concerned too. She must have thought Gilbert’s mental state was becoming a bit screwy.
    “You left me for the LOL,” Gilbert replied, still laughing.
    “I needed to get out to the world, Gilbert. You know explore. I got lucky enough to get a job with the LOL.”
    “How did you manage that?” Gilbert asked.
    “I wrote a passionate e-mail where I expressed my wholehearted devotion to exposing corruption, abuse of power, and the dissemination of the American citizen’s basic constitutional rights. I included a link to my youtube channel. They liked it enough to give me a job.”
    “I didn’t know you had a youtube channel.”
    “You were never interested in the things I did. You’re the one that got me into thinking beyond the norm of how to perceive the world. Remember? The way you always explained things to me. You influenced me to look closer.”
    “I was just trying to impress you, Blair.”
    “Well, it worked. You got in my pants, and my spirit was rejuvenated. You just didn’t change.”
    “My blooming flower,” Gilbert said with puppy dog eyes.
    “Stop being flirty. It’s time you and I be professional from now on. There’s one catch with the LOL paying your bail, as well as hiring Allen Johnson.”
    “What’s the catch, Ms. Bloom?”
    “That I document you the entire time you’re on trial. Since I know you, my bosses have asked that I not only film you, but interview you. Well, I should say, film our conversations. It can’t be anything about our personal relationship, Gilbert. If we do talk about us, it’ll be cut out of the final documentary.” Blair leaned closer to the glass. “How does that sound? You willing to be the main subject in a documentary film?”
    “Yes,” Gilbert said without hesitation. “Sounds like the funnest thing to do while I’m having the worst experience most never have in their lifetime.”
    “Good,” Blair said, more chipper. “You’ll be released by the end of the day.”
    On his way back to his cell, Gilbert was in a mood he hadn’t been in since the day Blair moved out of the apartment.
    “I see you had a good visit,” the guard said. “First time I’ve seen you smile since you’ve been here.”
    “Yes, sir,” Gilbert said, looking at the guard. “She said she still loves me.”
    As soon as his jail cell closed, Gilbert leaped on top of his bed, shook his hips back and forth, pumping his fists up and down, and as best he could, containing the excitement within himself by holding his breath.


Ultra-tripleX Vlog# 13: Personalis Certamen
“Hey there, Ultra-tripleX here. I have some good news. I now have two subscribers on my channel. Even though you’re the only ones viewing my videos so far, I will not be deterred from continuing to upload new content. Please, my only fans, out in the world somewhere, do share my work with friends and loved ones. I am doing this with good intentions. Oh, and to the subscriber Link2Jay, thank you for the e-mail. I am eternally grateful of your admiration for what I am expressing. Glad we share a common ground about the struggles our kind goes through in this era we are born into. Which brings me to a point I want to make with this video: The Struggle. I wonder, has anyone ever thought about the struggles our oldest ancestors had to bear with in the days before technological advantages? And I’m not talking about computers, planes, sailing ships, hammers and chisels, or even the ability to create a fire. I’m talking about when humans finally were able to adapt to their environment, and somehow had the desire to leave their established home, choosing to cross deserts to explore what the rest of the world had to offer. Can you imagine all the harsh elements of those new environments those people had to survive? One place ended up being another desert, while another was just too goddamn cold. A land could be a fertile, and beautiful place, but the predators of the animal kingdom made it too dangerous in obtaining the good food. Adaptation was the key, leading human beings to live in almost any place on the planet, except underwater, of course. People these days are too damn interested in their own personal cultures rather than humanity as a whole. Some point their fingers at each other, blaming one another for the most mundane reason. Shit, they even get to the point of killing one another, never once questioning the reasons they do so. Life’s a damn struggle, a damn hard one. Even for one at the highest status of leisure, they have to think of a good reason to give a damn. Our ancestors went through the hardest struggles so that we, today, could be born. And all of us do the same thing so that five thousand years from now, when people talk about us, they will say, ‘They went through Hell in an attempt to have us in Heaven.’ I don’t know if that will become true, or if they’ll simply read about us, and end up calling us idiots. All I know is that I struggle every fucking day to give a damn. The people that I have to share the world with — my coworkers, neighbors, family, those on the rest of planet Earth — all make it so goddamn difficult. (rubs both hands over his face) But you know what, you don’t make life better by telling yourself to think outside the box. You admit to yourself the truth, that there is no box, because it honestly is in your imagination (taps side of his head with finger) it’s all like a dream that after waking up you still believe is happening. People say, ‘Think outside the box,’ ‘I’ll pray for you,’ or ‘Good luck,’ or even fucking ‘Break a leg,’ because they ignore the struggle to escape the pain. Those beliefs and those sayings are like heroin for the brain. We can’t ignore the struggle like that, because in doing so we don’t learn to be better. Our ancestors learned to be better. That is why we are here with all this technology at our fingertips, making the struggle of life easier, and at the same time more entertaining — which is fucking disgusting and despicable, by the way. We forget to become better. And that’s the point I wanted to make clear — if I have, that is. I’m getting angry, so I’m gonna go now. Keep watching. Keep listening. And see you later.”