SOC #37: Disregarding the plan (NaNo Prep)

Most authors who are going to participate in this years NaNoWriMo at this moment, I'm sure, are writing an outline for their novel on paper. In a way, they sketch out a schematic for how the novel is going to be structured. Some do things like write down what will happen in each chapter, maybe how long the chapter will be. Some are writing a characters history, the way they carry themselves, if they have any particular habit or twitch, their motivations and personal desires that push the novel's plot along at a certain pace etc. etc. This makes the writers feel comfortable, and ready to take on the major feat of writing fifty thousand words in the span of just one month. What I've done so far is come up with the title, names of two of the main characters, written down song lyrics from two of my favorite musicians for inspiration, and some research concerning a subject matter that the novel's plot is going to revolve around. And that's about all I'm doing for my NaNo Prep. I know it's a little unusual, but I keep an outline in my head. I tried writing an outline for my first novel "Rosemary and Despair" but I never completed it. For me, it just felt like a waste of my time -- I'm not saying others shouldn't do it, mind you, but it just wasn't for me. After a few false starts of the book, I found the voice I was seeking, and simply wrote the novel in a span of a few months. Now, a lot of what made it into the story I didn't plan on putting in beforehand, which I felt very happy about. Last year's NaNoWriMo, when I was writing "The Crazy between Us," I had no fucking idea where the story was going. The thing about my experience with NaNoWriMo 2015 was I started eight days late, because I had just learned about the yearly event. It was crazy for me. I said to myself, "I want to do this. NOW!" So I gave myself the challenge of trying to make it to fifty thousand words in just twenty-two days with only one idea in my head. The idea was: "Guy gets indicted as an accessory to mass shooting simply for being the only subscriber to the shooter's YouTube channel." And I already had the title "The Crazy between Us" in my mind for months, but I didn't have a story for it, until finding out about NaNoWriMo sparked the idea that became my second novel. As I think about it, only one word comes to mind, "Amazing." Now, in those twenty-two days I wrote almost thirty-five thousand words, the most I have ever written in such a short time. I fucking shocked myself! And I did it without an outline, without planning ahead. I had no idea what the character's names were until I wrote them down as I was writing the novel, I didn't know the story was going to be as funny as it came out to be, and most of all, I had no fucking clue how the book was going to end. To tell you the truth, I realized what the ending was at the halfway point of the novel, and it surprised me. I finished writing a scene, and I said to myself, "No fucking way. I can't believe it, and I can't change it." Here's how I do things as I writer: there's an idea in my mind of how the story is going to be played out, and if I can remember how, and write it into the novel, then it was worth remembering; if I forget about something I had planned to write into a chapter, or scene, or sometimes including a character, then it wasn't worth remembering. There was a character that was suppose to be in "The 11 Year Lapse" at the end of the third chapter "Tale of Sugar Cocaine" but I forgot about him, like he wasn't needed, or worth it, which may suck, but fuck it -- it's beyond my control sometimes. There are two things I live by as an artist -- though it may sound pretentious, I don't give a shit, ambition creates passion and soul, and hardens the meek -- I don't want an outline to control what I write, and if characters in my short stories or novels do what I don't want them to do, then so be it. A lot of things in life are beyond your control, and we all have to live with it.

SOC #36: A novel over a novel (NaNo Prep)

As NaNoWriMo is less than a week away, and I'm prepared to write a whole new novel, I feel a bit bad that I'm putting a novel on hold that I've been writing for the past few months called "The 11 Year Lapse." The thing about that work-in-progress is that the story itself is very personal to me. I was going to write it for CampNaNoWriMo in the month of July, but I was convinced that I must take my time writing it because I believe it's too important to just -- I guess you could say -- spew it on paper in just a month. I'm not saying writing a first draft of a novel in a span of a month is a bad thing -- it's obviously helpful to a lot of authors -- but sometimes one comes up with a story that cannot be taken lightly, and must be molded with delicate hands. "The 11 Year Lapse" is going to be one of my most serious works. My first novel "Rosemary and Despair" was very serious, but the subject matter is considered so taboo that I knew after I had finished it, hardly anyone was going to read it. But I still had the confidence to get it self-published anyway, because I had nothing to lose. It was a transgressive work of fiction, and that's that. Now, with my second novel "The Crazy between Us"(which as of yet to be in final draft), and the forthcoming one I'm writing for NaNoWriMo 2016, "Wind's Dark Sigh," are stories I kind of want to get off my chest right away. They really aren't the kind that really say much about myself -- some who know me may say otherwise, but honestly, with these two novels I'm simply trying to entertain the reader. I haven't heard about novels written regarding this social media age we are now living in. I find the subject matter of social media to be extremely fascinating. I saw a 60 Minutes episode about how social media celebrities become millionaires simply by being paid by companies to hawk their products on the social media celebrity's Instagram account. I mean, shit, it's just a picture, a picture they get paid up to two hundred thousand dollars for. Is that amazing, or is it just weird? It's a question I find so funny. Now, back to "The 11 Year Lapse." If you have read the first three chapters, and are eager to read what happens next, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait until I'm done with "Wind's Dark Sigh." I've had a good time writing "The 11 Year Lapse" thus far, because characters in the story aren't doing what I want them to do -- first time that's happened to me as a writer -- and it's so damn amazing it's come to that point. So  it sucks that I'm choosing an yet-to-be-written novel over a work-in-progress novel, but it must be done. We go through life making difficult decisions even if we know exactly what the consequences will be, but we make the decision regardless, because most of the time it's beyond our control, and we accept it as concrete truth.

SOC #35: A fresh junkyard tomato (NaNo Prep)

The story may very well be considered a remake, because it's one that's been told so many times in so many other ways. It will be a story about a man stalking a woman. I bet people will say sarcastically, "Wow, amazing. I haven't read about that subject like one-hundred and fifty times." I could've had it about a woman stalking a man. Wait. That's been done many times over as well. How about a woman stalking another woman? Yes, that story has been told a lot, but not as much, and there's hardly a story about a man stalking a man. I think I've seen that in a movie. Got one: The Fan with Wesley Snipes and Robert De Niro. But here's the thing, the story I have mixing inside me, getting ready to be cooked, is going to be told in an era where the one being stalked isn't a world renowned human being. Yes, the person has a kind of fame, but not in the usual way, not in the sense they had to get the exposure from some kind of elitist corporation by signing a contract. The person basically used an outlet that had barely been around for five years, created, uploaded, and stayed persistent, and now is able to make a living at it. Technology has taken a wonderful leap forward, and it has helped society. But, mind you, there is a cost. The cost is having a vulnerable, and fragile exposure to the point where a minor misstep -- a tiny, insignificant mistake-- that if misunderstood, or misinterpreted, can lead to a disastrous consequence. For example, Kim Kardashian -- HEY! stop booing, I'm trying to make a point -- not the fact she is famous for NOTHING! but what recently happened to her at a Hotel in Paris last month. She was robbed at gunpoint in her Hotel room. It was a fucking heist. A good old fashioned robbery performed by professionals where no one ended up dead. Why did it happen? How did it occur? Because she showed off pictures of her jewelry on Instagram. One of them being a ten pound wedding ring worth a fucking shitload of money. She even admitted her doing such a thing provoked the french thieves. "Publicity stunt," you say? Maybe, but I seriously doubt it. What would Kim gain out of it? Insurance money? She's already a millionaire. She already avoids paying her share of taxes -- never mind. I'm getting off track here, shit. Okay, let me think about the reason I was typing this...Oh, yes, the story I'm writing for NaNoWrimo next month is being told with the same old stalker-story formula, the new thing added to it being the stalker is using social media apps on his cellphone to track his victim. And he's doing it because of a misunderstanding that'll be revealed when it's too late for the girl. It's a typical narrative. The reader will be telling the girl being stalked , "Don't trust him," and "HE'S BEHIND YOU, STUPID!" Shit like that, I guess. Here's the point I'm trying to make: You can still build a fast car out of parts found in a junkyard. Even William Shakespeare got ideas from old stories, and moments in history to write his plays.

The 11 Year Lapse(Tale of Sugar Cocaine)

“I was under the assumption you stopped doing drugs,” Hanz said to Lou after the elevator doors reopened, and he stepped into the Sunset Tower Hotel lobby. “A dollar? Seriously? You got to be joking with me, Lou. A fucking dollar. Who do you think you are, Stephen-fucking-King? Not even that asshole sold the film rights to his first big novel for a fucking dollar. I’m the one on drugs right now, and it wouldn’t occur to me to just give a sure thing away.” 

     Lou shushed Hanz, then began to walk through the lobby to the front entrance. 

     “Don’t you shush me, goddamnit,” Hanz blurted, walking alongside Lou, and leaning his head forward, trying to look deeply at Lou’s expression. “This is some serious shit, man. I mean, you’re being serious, right? No, you’re not. You’re simply telling me a fucking joke. I mean, I’d be laughing if you’d just smile, or snicker at my expense. Give me a damn smirk to tell me you didn’t just give up one of the biggest paydays since you got your novel picked up for publication. I’m positive any of your future novels will get optioned by other film studios, but if not, then you won’t get the opportunity to repent for this big mistake. I tell you, if you let these rich assholes take advantage of you once, they’ll always fuck you in the ass.” 

     “Keep it down, man,” Lou said, not looking at Hanz. “People are gonna think you’re flipping out on coke.”

     “I assure you my reaction to this news is rather tame compared to what the staff here sees an hour before sunrise on a Sunday morning,” Hanz commented. “This is business talk. Eighty percent of all business talks in this town are a pair of coked up yuppies yapping about a script, or a client who just killed their wife and/or husband. Just stop for a second. Did you really sell For Once for a damn dollar?” 

     Lou stopped walking, sighed, and looked down at the ground. “Yes, I did,” he answered.

     Hanz stepped up in front of Lou, placing both hands on his shoulders. He said, “Lou, look at me.” 

     Lou raised his head, looking Hanz right in the eyes.

     “Are you doing a lot of Acid?” Hanz asked, looking into Lou’s eyes, searching and hoping to hear an honest answer. 

     “I’m not hopped up on anything, man,” Lou replied, shrugging off Hanz’s hands from his shoulders. “Look, you’re my friend, right?”

     “Yeah.” 

     “Even though we haven’t seen each other for eight years?” Lou asked, his brow raised. 

     “For sure, man. We were around each other for almost that long, I think.” 

     “Then I can trust you to know —.” Lou kept himself from going any further with the truth. He couldn’t trust a cokehead to keep a secret, no matter how much they were friends. “Look, it’s just that I’m not the kind of person to just grab everything, then go for more and more, and never stop. I’m the type of guy that simply wants to get enough to go further, and nothing more. You understand what I’m trying to say?”

     Hanz took a moment to think of an answer to Lou’s question. “Um,” he uttered, then said, “not really. All that money.”

     “The book is selling well,” Lou informed. “It’s actually selling better than I expected. I’m shocked and ecstatic that someone like Terrence Wallace picked it up for a film adaptation. It’s great to be in Hollywood, and —.”

     “But why did you give up all that…money?” Hanz asked, raising his hands before him and shaking them. “Did you at least get creative control, or something?”

     “Kind of…sort of…not really any creative control. More like a creative consultant. I get to be with the screenwriter as he or she writes it. And I get to be on set during principal photography.”   

     “That’s it?” Hanz said, unconvinced.  

     “Well, there’s another reason actually, but…um…” Lou trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “Can we just go, man.”

     “You’re holding something back, aren’t you?” Hanz pointed a stiff finger at Lou. 

     Exasperated by the way Hanz was pushing him to get a coherent reason, Lou rolled his eyes, a bit frustrated and flustered. Hanz noticed how his little interrogation was sending negative vibes on his old friend. 

     “Okay, alright,” Hanz said, relenting. “You’ve got your reason, or reasons for not leaving the upper middle-class of society. If you want to keep it to yourself, then I’ll just stop asking.” He put a hand on Lou’s shoulder, looking closer into the author’s eyes. “But if you ever want to let me in on your secrets, I’m here for you, man. It’ll stay inside me like Fort Knox.”

     “Thanks, Hanz,” Lou said, still leery of his cokehead buddy. “Good to know I got someone who I can turn to in this town.” He said this knowing in his mind, and heart that the words were complete and utter bullshit. One couldn’t truly be honest in Hollywood; a fake smile, a fake laugh, and a fake sense of joy was what one had to accomplish to get through the day. This was what Lou had to do in order to achieve his ultimate goal. 

     “Come on, man,” Hanz said, gesturing to the entrance of the Hotel. “Your surprise is right outside those doors.”

     After taking a few steps towards the entrance, they were stopped by the Hotel’s resident manager. Lou had met her the night before, but could not remember her name at first — he had to read the name tag on her suit jacket. 

     “Are you enjoying your stay at the Sunset Tower, Mr. Eyvind?” she asked. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. How are you enjoying your stay, Lou?”

     “Everything is great, Kaela,” Lou replied. “To be honest, I haven’t experienced all that the place has to offer as of yet. I had a meeting earlier, and now —.”

     “I remember you mentioned something about that. How did it go?”

     “Actually, better than I expected. Went by smoothly: no disagreements, no tensing compromises. Everyone ended up smiling.”

     “That’s great, Lou,” Kaela said. 

     “This guy had a meeting with Terrence Wallace, and made the man extremely happy,” Hanz interjected. “And you wanna know how, lady?” 

     Kaela stared at Hanz, smiling, and slightly shook her head to indicate she obviously had no idea. 

     “He sold the film rights to his first bestselling novel for only one dollar,” Hanz stated as if he were telling her about his child giving a plate of food to a homeless person. “The man here has got respect for the struggling independent film industry.”  

     “Wow, that’s great,” Kaela said. “Your limo is waiting just outside the door for you…uh…Mr. —.” She searched her memory for his name. 

     “Mr. Ramado, lady,” Hanz said. “And thank you for ruining the surprise.”

     Ignoring Hanz, Kaela said to Lou, “Enjoy your day, sir. Please, do comeback and enjoy what the Sunset has to offer.” She then walked away. 

     Hanz put an arm around Lou, and led him toward the entrance. He said quietly, “She totally offered to fuck you later tonight, man. That’s one sexy, horny MILF. You’re welcome.”

     “Welcome for what?” Lou asked. “For embarrassing me?” 

     “For getting her hot and heavy for your skinny ass,” Hanz said, squeezing Lou’s shoulder. “Anyways, the limo’s waiting. You see it? I was gonna surprise you, but Ms. Kaela over there had to say something. Goddamn hospitality.” 

     “You seriously got a limo for tonight?” Lou said. 

     “Of course I did. It’s a celebration after all.”

     The automatic sliding doors opened, and parked right outside on the curb was a black limo. The driver stood next to the back passenger door, and opened it as soon as Lou and Hanz were exiting the lobby. 

     “How could you afford this?” Lou asked. 

     “Just because I do ‘roids and coke doesn’t mean I don’t work hard and save up money,” Hanz replied. “Now get your ass in there.” 

     Holding open the door, the limo driver tipped his hat at Lou, saying, “Good to meet you, Mr. Eyvind. My name is Larry. I really enjoyed your book.”

     “Thank you, Larry,” Lou said before getting in the limo. 

     “Get us to Beverly Hills,” Hanz told Larry before getting in the limo after Lou. “We’re going to go shopping at Root’s Leather.”

     “Yes, sir,” Larry affirmed. 

     After the door closed, Lou said, “You didn’t have to do this, man. It’s just a night on the town.” 

     “And I want it to be a fucking great night on the town,” Hanz said. “Not only are we here celebrating your novel’s success, we are celebrating our reunion where you and I can reminisce about the past, and talk about what we’ve done the past eight years away from each other. Plus, there’s a club I’ve been trying to get into for a long time, and I think showing up in a limo will help get us in. It’s called ‘The Quill.’”

     “Weird name for a night club,” Lou commented. 

     “Yeah, I don’t think the owner knows what it means,” Hanz scoffed. “Hey, check it out, whiskey. Let’s have a toast.” 

     Hanz reached over to retrieve a decanter full of whiskey, opened it, and poured the liquor into two glasses, nearly filling them to the brim. He handed one to Lou, holding up the other. 

     “Here’s to good friendship,” Hanz said. “May it’s bond last for decades.” 

     “And it shall,” Lou said, tapping his glass of whiskey on Hanz’s. 

     Instead of simply sipping on the glass of booze, they both downed it in one swallow. 

     “Damn right, Lou,” Hanz said, wincing at the whiskey burn. “Time to get the party started. You know, we never got drunk around each other.” 

     “That’s because you were too much of a good boy before you turned twenty-one,” Lou said. “You did as you were advised to do: go to college; study, study, study; work to make money. I went to college too, you know, and got a job. And after about a week of doing both, I gave myself a choice of either stay in school and not work, or work and just drop out. So I dropped out of college.” 

     “I couldn’t believe you did that, man,” Hanz admitted. “You worked hard to get straight A’s in high school. Everyone thought you’d get a Ph.D. in something.” 

     “I’ll let you in on something, Hanz,” Lou said, leaning in close. “I worked my ass off to guarantee I’d graduate from that shithole. Now, please, pour us another of that cheap whiskey.” 

     As he refilled the glasses, Hanz said, “Concord High wasn’t that bad, I think.” 

     “It’s a matter of perspective,” Lou said. “You got yours, I got mine.”

     “What do we cheer to now?” Hanz asked, holding up his glass. 

     “To perspectives, Hanz. May we listen to them, hear them, and hopefully understand — no — know how they come about, and what they’re about, and why they are the way they are.” Lou then downed his second glass of whiskey. 

     “Damn, man,” Hanz said, looking at Lou in amazement, his glass still full of whiskey. “You wasted already, eh. You need a pep? Some, you know.” Hanz began to reach in his pocket for the cocaine. 

     Lou put a hand on Hanz’s forearm, and said, “No. I don’t do that anymore. Not for about three years now. I never did it a lot, but enough to know why people like you enjoy it so much. I remember the first time I tried it.” Lou began to chuckle. His inhibitions began to fade away due to the whiskey working it’s way through his body and mind. “Actually, the first time I snorted the shit I didn’t get the conventional effect from it.”

     “What do you mean?” Hanz inquired. 

     “Um, please pour me another, and I’ll tell you the story,” Lou said, holding out the empty glass. 

     “Okay,” Hanz said, filling Lou’s glass, eager to hear the author’s story. He had met a couple screenwriters at parties, but none of them told him a story about themselves, all they seemed to talk about was what they were writing, as if they had never lived a life of their own. 

     “Thank you. Do you remember Javier?”

     “Yeah, of course. Javier Luna. He was a fucking great soccer player.”

     “Have you ever heard of ‘Sugar Cocaine?’” Lou asked, then downed the rest of the whiskey. 

     “No. Is it cocaine with sugar in it?” 

     “Drink the rest of that, and I’ll continue,” Lou said, gesturing to the drink in Hanz’s hand. “It’s more entertaining with a belly full of booze.” 

So the four of us — Javier, Fabian, Juan, and I — arrived at the airport around eight at night, about an hour later than we expected. After we had retrieved our luggage, Juan led us around looking for something. I didn’t know at that moment what we were suppose to find; for me, the trip to Vegas was basically last minute, because Javier invited me out of the blue just three days prior. 

     He asked me, ‘You doing anything special for New Years?’ 

     I said, ‘No, just plan to stay home, and watch the fireworks on television.’

     Then he told me he was going to Las Vegas with some family, and that his cousin canceled at the last minute so there was an open seat for me on the plane. Would I like to go? 

     At first I hesitated — we were only nineteen at the time; what kind of fun could two kids under twenty-one have in Las Vegas? — but I ended up saying, ‘Yes,’ thinking families have fun in Vegas all the time. I knew Javier liked to drink, but didn’t think he would sneak it with his family around. 

     But him saying it was a family vacation was his trick to assure that I would end up going. Not a prank, mind you, he was just trying to get my square ass to bust out of my shell, and let loose. 

     So there I was, in the Las Vegas airport with three other dudes under the age of twenty-one, me following them through the crowd of people, knowing only one thing: it was New Years Eve. I didn’t even fucking know what Hotel we were staying at. I was simply being led on this journey, and all I could do was simply follow. 

     Juan suddenly said, ‘Here he is!’ pointing to a man in a suit, holding a sign that said: Juan Smith. 

     The man said, ‘Gentlemen, follow me.’ 

 “Juan got a limo to pick you guys up from the airport?” Hanz asked. “On fucking New Years Eve? When you guys were that young?” 

     “Yep,” Lou replied. “It was a pleasant surprise. One of many on that trip.” 

We got inside the white limo, Juan put a rap CD in the stereo in the ceiling over his head in those days before there were, you know, iPods and shit, then rode off to the Hotel. It was cool, fun, amazing, and basically the only time I was totally sober. It was the only time I looked at Las Vegas and thought of it as a place … and not a thing, an organism that one is absorbed inside of, then eventually spits you out, or shits you out depending on the state you’re in at the end of the trip.

“You’re talking about it as if you did acid, Lou,” Hanz commented. 

     “I’m getting to that, Hanz,” Lou said. “Please, don’t interrupt.” 

     “Shit, man, I won’t.” Hanz sat back, sipping on whiskey, eager to hear the rest of the story. 

Okay, so we get to the Hotel — The Luxor — and before we check in, Juan gets close to me, and says, ‘Now, in order for us to get a room here, one of us has to be twenty-one. My brother Jimmy lent me his license and credit card, because he loves me, and wants us to have the best New Years of our young lives. So from this moment on, call me Jimmy, not Juan. Javier, and Fabian already know. Can you remember to do that?’

     I said, ‘You got it, Jimmy.’ 

     We got our room with no problem. As soon as we got in the room, the guys dropped there luggage on the floor, and immediately raiding the minibar for beer and those small liquor bottles. Javier held out a mini-Jack Daniels for me to drink. I waved my hand. 

     He asked, ‘What? Why?’

     I told him I wasn’t that kind of person. Before that moment I never had a sip of anything alcoholic. 

     Javier said, ‘Dude, you’re here with me, you’re best friend, in fucking Las Vegas. Finally free from parental control for the first time in your fucking life. Yeah, we’re not of the proper age to be doing this shit, but, man, you got to live, you got to be fucking alive for once. You got to start now. There’s no reason not to. Lou, shut up, and drink up. It goes down smooth, I promise.’

     I took the little bottle, opened it, and before I drank it, Javier yelled over at the other two, ‘Hey, guys, bear witness, Lou is about to be a man.’

     As I drank it I could hear Javier say quietly to them, ‘He’s totally gonna spit that shit out like a twelve year old.’

     The liquor went down my throat and into my belly. I looked over at a shocked Javier. 

     He asked, ‘How was it?’

     I said, ‘Kind of tastes like a strong cough syrup.’ 

     They all broke out cheering in unison. 

     Juan — I mean Jimmy — said, ‘The guy’s a natural. Dude, when we go downstairs, I’ll get you something nice from the liquor store.” 

     I said, ‘Thanks, Jimmy.’

     Fabian handed me a bottle of beer, then said, ‘Bud light’s only good for washing whiskey down. There’s better shit to drink.’ 

     We headed downstairs aiming to get to the strip before the countdown to New Years began, but shit man, it was fucking packed when we got there. Like everyone else on that fucking street we were pretty fucking plastered.

“We’re hear at Root’s Leather, sir,” the limo driver said after lowering the opaque partition behind him. “I got lucky. Got a parking spot right near the front of the place.” 

     “Cool,” Hanz said. “Thanks, Larry. That was fast.” 

     At this point both Lou and Hanz were happy-drunk. 

     “I’ll continue after I buy the jacket,” Lou said, then he noticed something about Hanz. “Hey, where’s your leather jacket?”

     “Uh, I don’t need one.” 

     “Then why the fuck do I need to buy one?” Lou asked, confused. 

     “Because I got big muscles,” Hanz stated, flexing his arm, and pointing at his big bicep. “I don’t need one to get into The Quill. Your body is flaccid, and skinny. You need a black leather jacket to look cool.” 

     “That hurts my feelings, you know,” Lou said, not actually serious. “You steroid sucking bastard. I’m sorry for spending most of my time sitting on my ass at a desk in front of a computer screen, typing my ass off for the love of my dreams. Mental endurance is the same as physical fucking endurance. Veiny bastard.” 

     “Don’t you make fun of my looks, nerd.” Hanz quickly reached over, and started tickling Lou. 

     “Shit, stop it, Henry — Hanz. Shit, I’m drunk.”

     Hanz stopped tickling Lou, and said, “Okay, come on, lets go shopping.” He sat still and waited. “Open the door, man. I ain’t climbing over you.” 

     “The sidewalk is out that way,” Lou said, pointing the door on Hanz’s side. “Guess your ass is drunk, too.” 

     Hanz turned and saw that Larry, the limo driver, holding open the door for them to exit. 

     “Oh, shit,” Hanz said, looking up at Larry. “Thanks, Larry. We’ll be back hopefully in ten minutes, maybe longer.” He then began stepping out of the limo.

     “Take your time, Mr. Ramado,” Larry said. And as Lou was getting out, Larry said, “No need to hurry, Mr. Eyvind.” 

     Lou looked at him with drunken eyes, and said, “Please, call me ‘Lou.’ By the way, the whiskey in there is cheap, but good because it gets the job done.” 

     “Come on, Lou,” Hanz called out from the entrance of Root’s Leather. “I want to hear the rest of what happened in Vegas New Years.” 

We found a liquor store about a block from the main Vegas strip. Jimmy went in to by a six pack of beer. Javier and Fabian went in to buy some gum or whatever while I waited outside enjoying my newfound inebriation, gazing at all the Las Vegas lights. 

     A female voice said, ‘Hey, you, need a smoke?’ 

     I looked around and saw a group of scantily clad young women standing leaning against a black Humvee, smoking cigarettes. 

     I said, ‘I’ve never had a cigarette before.’

     The girl who spoke to me first said, ‘Would you like to try one, see if you like it? If you don’t, you could choose not to smoke again.’ 

     I said, ‘Why not? What the hell. It’s my first time in Vegas after all. My first time drunk, and it just so happens to be the greatest party of the year. Yes, I’ll have one. What brand is it?’ 

     The girl moved up to me, holding out a cigarette. 

     She said, ‘All natural American Spirit. All we ever smoke. Here.’ 

     I said, ‘Thank you.’ Then took the cig from her hand, and put the butt between my lips. She ignited her Bic lighter, and lit the end of it for me. 

     After I took a few puffs, she said, ‘Hey, man, not so fast. Toke on it slow. You’ve got to enjoy it.’

     I said, ‘Oh, okay.’  Took proper puffs, then asked, ‘Is that better?’ 

     She replied, ‘Yes, better. How old are you?’ 

     I told her I was nineteen. 

     She said, ‘You’re cute, you know.’ 

     I said, without hesitation and inhibition, ‘And though I don’t have to inform you, you are an extremely beautiful lady. If you don’t mind me saying.’ 

     She said, smiling bashfully, ‘Aw, thank you. You’re a sweet guy. What are you up to tonight?’

     Then Javier came rushing out of the liquor store, saying, ‘Yo, Lou, we got the hook up. Check this out.’  He handed me a flyer. 

     I said, ‘What am I looking at?’ 

     He said, ‘Cowboy inside gave it to me. It’s a party in the desert, man. Said we can get a fucking amazing view of the fireworks on this hill out there. Hey, you’re smoking.’ 

     I said, ‘Yeah, it’s pretty good. I’m gonna buy a pack before we leave. You sure it’s a good idea to party in the desert by invitation from a total stranger. I mean, haven’t you seen Casino. There’s holes out there.’ 

     Javier looked at me, confused, and uttered, ‘Huh?’

     The girl put in, ‘It’s nothing like that, Lou? It’s totally worth it.’

     Javier asked, ‘Who’s this?’ 

     She replied, ‘I’m the Cowboy’s Sugar Baby. Those other two behind me, leaning up against the Humvee right there are his other two ladies of the night.’ 

     Jimmy exited the liquor store followed by Fabian and a guy dressed in Cowboy attire. 

     The Cowboy looked at me, and asked, ‘Is this your other buddy you were talkin’ about?’ 

     Jimmy said, ‘Yeah, that’s him.’ 

     The Cowboy held out his hand for me to shake, saying, ‘How you doin’ there, young man? Pleased to me yuh. The name’s Q-ball.’ 

“His name was really ‘Q-ball?’” Hanz asked, sitting in a cushioned, leather chair while Lou browsed the black leather jackets, and regaled about the Vegas New Years. 

     “Yeah,” Lou responded. “He didn’t want us to know his real name. He was a retired coke dealer, even though he wasn’t forty years old yet. He cashed out when he saw a chance to get out of the game, then invested in the stock market where he made millions.”

     A salesclerk came up to Lou, and asked, “So sorry to interrupt, sir, but can I help you find what you’re looking for.” 

     “Yes,” Lou said, then gestured to the leather jackets he was browsing through. “These jackets here would make me look skinny if I wore them. Do you have any that are baggy, to make me seem, you know, more bulk than I actually am?” 

     “Yes, sir,” the salesclerk said, “I have just the one. Wait here, I’ll be right back with it.” 

     While the salesclerk was gone, Hanz asked Lou, “So you really went out into the desert?” 

     “Yep,” Lou said, “It was worth it. But when we got back to the strip, that’s where we must’ve ran into trouble. I can’t really remember what actually happened.”

     “Why’s that?” Hanz inquired. 

     “Sugar Cocaine, man,” Lou said, his brow raised. 

     The salesclerk came back holding the type of black leather jacket Lou had specified. 

     “How’s this for you, sir?” he asked Lou. 

     Lou delicately tried it on, then looked over at Hanz. 

     “What do you think?” he asked. “Look good?” 

     “Um,” Hanz began to say, “I’d have to say, ‘Fuck yes.’” 

     Lou turned to the salesclerk, and said, “Sold.” 

We got in Q-ball’s Humvee and he drove off. I sat in the middle seats next to the door with the window open, smoking a cigarette from my own pack I bought before we left. The Sugar Baby who had given me my first cigarette only minutes earlier sat right beside me with her arm over my shoulders. The rest of the guys sat behind me, talking to one of the prostitutes who sat next to the Sugar Baby, her back against the door, head turned, chatting away, explaining what was going on at the party in the desert. The other prostitute sat shotgun, giving Q-ball a hand job as he drove. 

     The Sugar Baby said to me, ‘It’s nice, ain’t it? Nicotine and alcohol go together like a strawberry chocolate shake, especially if it’s your first time doing both.’ 

     I said, ‘Yeah, I see why people like doing it. I feel dizzy, but good at the same time.’

     She was giving me this look of sensual desire, basically giving the vibe she wanted to fuck me, but I ignored it, because I wasn’t messing with someone else’s Sugar Baby. Even if Q-ball gave me his blessing, I wouldn’t do it. I mean, I was still a virgin at that point, but no, no, no. Fucking a former drug dealer’s squeeze could end with me in a whole in the desert, or chopped up and burned. 

     Q-ball said, ‘Hey, baby, give the boys this.’ He tossed behind him a vile with white powder inside of it. The Sugar Baby caught it mid air like a pro. ‘Guys, you like cocaine. It’s Sugar Cocaine.’ 

     Javier yelped like a fucking dog about to get a treat, ‘Yes, fuck yes, hand it here.’ 

     The Sugar Baby said, ‘Calm down, boy. Let Lou have first dibs.’

     Javier said, ‘You’re right. Lou, go ahead.’ 

     I said, ‘I don’t know, man. Never liked the idea of coke.’ 

     Javier said, ‘Dude, live life with no regrets. Sugar Cocaine is fucking rare. You don’t want to end up one day saying to yourself, “Fuck, man, I had that shit right in my hands, and I just let the opportunity go by me without hesitation.” Don’t let that happen to you, Lou.’  

“So did you snort it?” Hanz asked Lou after they had gotten into the limo. 

     Lou had on his new leather jacket, sitting in the backseat comfortably. 

     “Yes,” he replied. “Soon as I hit that shit it was the end of my comprehension of reality straight to a distorted, but clearly definable perception.”  

     “What the fuck does that mean?” Hanz asked. “Is Sugar Cocaine like some super Grade A plus shit, or something?”  

     “It was laced with LSD,” Lou informed. “That’s what Sugar Cocaine is.” 

     Hanz’s jaw dropped, looking at Lou with wide-open eyes. 

     Lou said, “Hey, I’m hungry. Let’s get fast-food, and drive around a while before we go to The Quill. The place isn’t even opened yet, man, it’s too early.” 

     He pressed the button on the limo’s ceiling to lower the driver’s partition. 

     “Hey, Larry, stop by a McDonald’s,” Lou said. 

     “Yes, sir,” Larry affirmed. 

     “And do you by any chance know the Star Map route?” Lou inquired. 

     “Yes, of course,” Larry confirmed. 

So, yes, I snorted like — I don’t know — three or four bumps of the Sugar Cocaine. And as soon as I was done I looked up to see I was inside a UFO surrounded by green Aliens. One was at the helm wearing a cowboy hat(obviously that was Q-ball, but he no longer looked like himself). Now, they weren’t your stereotypical Aliens, with the small bodies, the big heads, and the big obsidian eyes. No, no, no, they were humanoids: they had five fingers, long brunette hair, and gold eyes that shined in the dark. 

     I turned my head to see a group of them in the middle of an orgy. I wasn’t turned on at all, due to the fact the genitals on the males weirded me out, so I turned back forward in my seat. 

     The Alien Queen snuggled closer to my side, her arm still around my shoulders, and her hand tightening her grip on my left shoulder. This being I simply looked at with a sensual pleasure that stimulated my whole being with ecstatic excitement. I mean, man, even though her skin was all green, she had these lips which outmatched Angelina Jolie’s tenfold, and these fucking tits so perfect it made me want to cry. Her hand went to my crotch, rubbing on my boner. 

     The Alien Queen whispered in my ear, ‘Gravity goes up on my command.’ 

     She then unzipped my fly, and proceeded to give me a hand job. 

     I finished pretty damn fast, and apologized to the cowboy pilot for spilling on his metallic flooring. 

     He said, ‘I already did that to my control instruments, and it all still works just fine.’ 

     The ship landed near a hillside with a perfect view of the entire city of starlight. Patched all around us as we walked on the dirt surface were tongues of fire lapping the dark sky with white, blinking dots. Dancing around the fire were half-naked, tattooed Native Americans of every ethnicity. They ignored our arrival. A clean clown walked up to me, and gave me a cigar with green tobacco. I smoked, feeling nothing from what it was made of. 

     The cowboy pilot said, ‘Stop walking. Turn around. It’s about to happen.’

     The Alien Queen and I did as the cowboy pilot commanded, and I turned to see the city of starlight explode in an immense fireball of an explosion. 

     I threw up my arms, yelling, ‘The Yellowstone has finally erupted! Now we wait for it’s volcanic fluid to come meet us. We will feel no PAIN!’ 

     I then closed my eyes and waited. When I opened them I found myself back inside the UFO with the green Aliens once again. The ship was going at light speed for what seemed like an eternity. 

     Until the lights stopped rushing by and the doors were ripped open by the Cthulu Police, their tentacles grabbing us by the legs. I was pulled up to my feet. 

     The Cthulu handling me commanded, ‘Top appendages above your mind so I may look inside your compartments for lasers.’ 

     I asked, ‘Lasers? They exist?’

     There was a bang from the other side of the ship. The Cthulu ran from behind me, drawing a silver laser from the Star Wars films, and started firing it. 

     I decided to take the chance and took off running down Hell’s strip, still retaining who I was in my pockets. Going by me were red Demons with bemused expressions as they stared at me. 

     Seeing the black Pyramid of Giza I stopped running, and went inside it with a normal stride. The Egyptians all gave me polite smiles as I walked to a lift and took it to my chamber. 

     What was going through my mind as I paced back and forth in my chamber was the fear that the Cthulu Police were going to find me. So I got my possessions, went back outside the Pyramid, and took a chariot to Heaven. 

     The Angels in the clouds were real nice, and really happy to see me ascend into Heaven.

“Then before I knew it I woke up in my bed at home,” Lou said, finishing his french fries. “I don’t recommend Sugar Cocaine, Hanz. That shit must last longer than twenty-four hours.” 

     Hanz sat next to him, silent, his fast-food untouched on the seat between them.

     “That’s one fucked up trip,” Larry said, then drank his soda. Lou had bought him an early dinner. 

     “So you just woke up back at home?” Hanz asked.

     “Yes,” Lou said. “From the moment the Sugar Cocaine went up my nose that’s all I can remember, only those details, only that tale.” 

     “What happened to the other guys?” Hanz queried. 

     Staring outside the window, Lou said, “Who?”

     “Javier, Fabian, Juan,” Hanz said. “Q-ball, and his whores?” 

     Lou looked back over at him, and said, “Oh, yeah. Well, it turns out Q-ball shot three cops dead. He’s in jail for life. Javier, Fabian, and Juan spent sometime in jail, but got out after they testified against Q-ball. They’re doing fine back home in Concord.” 

     “You didn’t testify?” Hanz asked. 

     “I didn’t have to because no one said I was there,” Lou said. “My testimony wouldn’t be admissible anyways, because the story I just told you truly is how I remember that night. The Cthulu cop — I mean, the Vegas cop — who was about to frisk me that night was one of the cops Q-ball shot and killed. No one saw me, I guess. I just ran off, down the Vegas strip, went into the room at the Luxor, got all my shit, took a taxi to the airport, and then got a plane headed to Massachusetts. The whole time I was fucked up, but not fucked up enough to not be functional.” 

     “On our left is George Clooney’s house,” Larry announced. “Next up is Britney Spears.”

     “Can’t even see their mansions from the street,” Lou commented. 

     “Damn, Lou,” Hanz said, “that’s one insane story.” 

     “Yep, not one of my best memories, but memorable nonetheless.” After a pause, Lou asked, “Do you ever think about high school?” 

     “Sometimes,” Hanz said. 

     “Do you remember a girl named Julie Mannett?” 

     “Um,” Hanz uttered, “yeah, I do. I took her to prom. She was cool gal. The quiet type. A damn good basketball player. Why?” 

     “Just asking,” Lou said. “You know, for years I didn’t think about high school until right before writing my novel. I don’t remember everything from back then, I just get these flashbacks.” 

     Lou was lying about the flashbacks. He did remember everything about high school, but it was true that in his twenties he didn’t think about that era of his life, not even in the slightest.  

The Subscriber

  "How can I be anything unless you tell me what's right
  I never was good with words
  You can deny that if you'd like"
                   -- Ali Spagnola, The More You Look At Me


As soon as she closed the front door someone grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth with one hand, and pressing something hard against the side of her head.
     "The barrel of a nickel plated forty-five is what you feel on the side of your skull," a male voice said softly into her ear. "If you struggle, and attempt to fight me off - which I believe you're fully capable of - I'll pull the trigger."
     For a moment the only sound that could be heard in the apartment was the breathing through her nose as she began hyperventilating. Her heart was beating so fast and hard she felt it in her head, as if her whole body was pulsing. It was at that moment she became weak, almost numb. She was going to faint.
     "The first thing I need you to do is to calm yourself by breathing slower," the man said. "Now, I know what's going through your mind at this moment. You're thinking that I'm going to rape you before I kill you. I want you to know, first and foremost, I'm not here to rape you, because I am not a rapist bastard, so you need not worry about that. I hope having such knowledge will slow your breathing just enough that you won't faint."
     She took deep breaths to maintain her senses, but she did not believe a word he was saying. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The man felt the fluid from her eyes touch his hand. She heard the man give out a disquiet sigh.
     "You sound a little bit better," he said. "At least enough you won't faint, or else I would've had to carry your ass. What will happen next will be unveiled to you in a sort of step by step process. First we are going to walk down the hallway to your amateur studio. Begin walking."
     She could not manage to move her foot for the first step. The man lightly tapped the back of her right shoe with his foot to urge her forward.
     "Come on now," he said, "you can do it. Just lift that foot, and take the first step. I don't want to manhandle you, because it makes things much less easier."
     After a few seconds her foot moved forward half a step.
     "Okay then, now we're off to a good start," he said. "Move the other foot in a longer, more complete stride, and keep going."
     She did as he commanded, but taking each step with a prolonged pause in between.
     "That's better, girl. Take your time. I know it's exceedingly difficult for you due to the fact you never expected this to happen to you."
     They made it to the hallway.
     "Don't think you can fool me into thinking your roommate is going to surprise me by coming through the front door," he informed. "I know what time the bitch gets off work."
     They arrived to an open door and crossed the threshold. Inside the room there was a desk with a desktop computer, and a laptop. On the opposite side, hanging up on the wall, were two guitars, one acoustic, the other electric, and below them an electric keyboard and an amplifier beside it. Near the open door, in the corner, a digital camera was mounted on a tripod. At the center of the room a chair faced the windows. The blinds were down, partially opened to allow some light into the room.
     "Walk around the chair, and stop right in front of it, facing the windows," the man instructed.
     They came to a complete stop.
     "Very good, girl," he complemented. "You're doing a great job. Next, I want you to walk forward on your own, and touch the wall between the windows with the tip of your nose. This will involve you leaving my embrace. If anything other than the sound of your breath comes out of your mouth, bang, bang, you're dead. Now, move forward."
     The man released his grip from over her mouth, the touch of his chest on her back was gone, then finally the pressure of the gun on the side of her head relinquished. She slowly began stepping forward, tears flowing down her cheeks, and dripping off her chin as she struggled not to weep. Her arms started shaking at the halfway point. What the man said next sent a shiver down her spine, nearly causing her to collapse.
     "It would be a damn shame to dirty this fine, white carpet with blood. And bloody brain matter ruining that excellent paint job on the wall there would totally devalue the entire property, especially in this neighborhood. Come on now, hurry up, but not too fast, you might hit your nose so hard against the wall you'll break it."
     "Shut the fuck up," she muttered under her breath.
     "Hey, I heard that," he said, chuckling.
     "I'm sorry," she said. "Please don't kill me. My nose is touching the wall."
     "Good, now turn around, put your back against the wall. Then slide down to a sitting position with your legs stretched out, and cross them over each other."
     After one deep breath she hastily did as he ordered, all the while keeping her eyes closed.
     "Take your cellphone out of your pocket, and toss it forward," he instructed.
     "I didn't sneak a phone call," she said, reaching in the front pocket of her blue jeans for the cellphone, then tossing it onto the floor.
     She could hear the man's movements as he knelt down to check the phone, regardless of what she said to the contrary.
     "What's the code to get into your phone?" he asked.
     She told him.
     He said, "A man in my position can never take any chances, not at all."
     A pause, then the sound of the phone thudding on the carpet floor. She then heard the man walking on his knees toward her. He stopped, and suddenly she heard the sound of plastic being ruffled, then something being torn open.
     Condom, she thought.
     "No, no, no, no," she pleaded, weeping. "You said no rape." She covered her face with her arms.
     "Hey, stop covering your face," he said.
     "No, please no," she pleaded again.
     "Drop your arms to your side, now," he said, more fiercely than he had been previously.
     She lowered her arms, expecting the worst thing to happen to a woman, worser than death if she were to survive this experience. Something soft began rubbing against her cheek.
     "Oh my God," she said, "you're going to skull fuck me."
     "It's not my dick, woman," he said.
     "What else would it be?" She cringed, tightening the eyelids over her eyes.
     "The last time I checked, they didn't sell condoms made out of tissue," he said. "Open your eyes. You can't know the truth blind."
     Slowly opening one eye she saw fingers holding a single tissue, wiping away the tears from one cheek. She opened her other eye as the man moved his hand to wipe her other cheek.
     "You're too beautiful to be crying," he said. "It makes me sad to see it."
     She looked over at his other hand holding the nickel plated .45 handgun still pointed at her head.
     "You, sad? Of all people," she said.
     He ignored her statement, dropped the moist tissue onto her lap, and picked up the packet of tissues, holding it out for her to take.
     "Continue wiping away your tears," he said.
     She took hold of the tissues, looking at him as he stood up. For a moment, seeing his face for the first time, she had deja vu. She recognized him, but couldn't remember from where. She watched him as he moved over to the chair, and sat down, the gun still in her direction.
     "This is the final step," he began to say, "which involves you sitting there, and simply listening to what I have to say. You may only speak when I ask you a question. Okay?"
     There was a moment of silence.
     "You see, that was a question," he said. "I'll be more specific. Do you understand when you're aloud to talk?"
     "Yes," she replied, more tears rolling down her cheeks.
     "And you speak when I what?"
     "Ask a question," she said.
     "Excellent. I told you to wipe away your tears. The sight of your crying eyes makes me sick."
     She took out a tissue, and commenced using it.
     "Good," he said. "Thank you, beautiful. Do you recognize me?"
     Her eyes somewhat clear of tears, looked at his face. She tried to remember, but could not find the memory.
     "Um, I don't think so," she said. "You kind of remind me of someone I've met, but you're not him."
     "Well, people do look like other people," he said, smirking. "But in your reply to my comment on your corny YouTube video, you said you recognized me from my Twitter account which you follow. Then you went on about how I objectified you, how you weren't a thing I can have as my own - as if it were even possible - and how sad and regretful you felt about following me on Twitter in the first place. And blah, blah, blah." He began speaking in a feminine tone. "'I'm a person, not a toy you can play with. I feel sad for the human race men like you exist.' Waah, waah, waaaah!" His voice went back to normal, and he asked, "Do recollect typing such a lecture? Does it finally come to mind?"
     There was silence as she began thinking. It slowly came to her, like a fog being burned away by the rising sun.
     "Yes," she said. "I remember you now. You said --"
     "I 'said!?'" he yelped.
     He shot up out of the chair so fast she spasmed on the floor. She almost covered her face again, but her arms were unable to function.
     "You fuckers think anything written in the comment section is some kind of concrete truth, like people two-thousand years from now are gonna read it, and say, 'Hey, look here at this. This is real. Books? Fuck those things. This right here be the voice of our ancestors. We learn history better with this shit.'"
     The man sat back down in the chair, letting out a heavy sigh.
     "I mean, what the fuck, girl," he continued, "it was just a fucking joke about you bending over in front of the camera while you were in nothing but your underwear, and a tight, gray tank top. The joke was making fun of myself anyways. I wrote, 'I'm a straight, white male. Don't judge me!.' El-oh-fucking-el. Let me ask you something. If I put the letters J and K at the end of the sentence, would you have thought it was funny?"
     She tilted her head, and her eyes shifted from side to side, as if looking for the right answer around the room.
     "It's not a hard question," he said. "Yes, or no."
     She took a moment to reflect, then said, "I knew it was a joke, and my reply was a joke as well. Sorry."
     The man froze, not even seeming to breathe. The hand not holding the gun balled up into a fist. She could see the knuckles look as if they were going to tear through the skin.
     He said, slowly, "You...were...joking?"
     "Yes," she replied. "It was like six months ago, man."
     The man's eyes began twitching.
     "I know," he said. "And you want to know what happened in those six months?"
     "Okay?" She didn't want to, but knew he was going to tell her anyway.
     "You have over a million followers on Twitter, almost a quarter million subscribers on your YouTube channel. And do you know how many of them are fucking SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIORS?!"
     "No," she replied, shaking her head.
     "Enough to ruin my fucking life!" he yelled -- more like roared. "After you left that hypocritical lecture of a reply I was bombarded by those fucking assholes on Twitter. They called me a rapist, a misogynist, a, uh -- what do you call it? Oh, yeah, a rape apologist. And worst of all, a fucking goddamn pedophile. Someone hacked my e-mail, and put kiddy porn on my account. It was fucking disgusting! And those fuckers were crafty and well coordinated, because before I could even delete them I got swatted, and the pigs found that shit on my computer. So now I'm a sex offender. Shit, fuck. All because of your goddamn reply. Couldn't you have put 'JK' at the end of your reply?"
     "Oh my God," she gasped. "I didn't know. I am so sorry. I was just --"
     "Just what?" he interrupted, leaning forward in the chair.
     "I just didn't want to be perceived as some kind of woman that would allow such comments without some sort of reprisal. I don't want my fans thinking I'm a slut."
     "Well, think about this, missy, it's kind of hard to do that while posting some pics on Instagram of you half naked. In some of your videos you walk around in only a bra --" He stopped himself, and slapped his hand on the side of his head in frustration. "I'm getting off track here. Look, I know you're not a slut, but to a lot of dimwitted, straight males you are. So fuck you. We live in an age where both sexes are dumb as shit, because they take a minor mistake in one's life, whether it be a moment, a sentence written, or something said aloud and recorded, and define the person by it, regardless of what the person does in his or her life. A mere moment does not define a person's whole life. So again I say, fuck you."
     He got up off the chair, moved over to the electric keyboard, put a hand under it, lifted it off it's legs, and flipped it sideways. It slammed against the wall, the piano keys fell to the floor.
     "And fuck your music too, asshole," he said. "That is not even a fraction of what you've done to me. I was just a poet, goddamnit! Seeking inspiration from the wonderful world that is the internet. A fucking nobody who will remain a nobody. And you're nothing more than a comedic musician that can't take a fucking joke."
     He sat back in the chair, calming himself down by taking a few deep breaths.
     "But you know what? I still like you. I like how talented you are, the sound of your voice, when you smile and laugh, when you wear baggy pants and a black t-shirt, and especially when you don't have makeup on your face like a painted whore -- not that you ever look like one, I'm just using a simile. None of this is actually your fault. I'm going to let you in on a big secret. You're gonna like it."
     He reached into the front pocket of his jean shorts, and took out a loaded magazine.
     "The gun actually had no bullets in it this entire time," he informed.
     He inserted the magazine into the handgun, and cocked a bullet into its chamber.
     "And by the way, I didn't come here to kill you, I only wanted to see you in the flesh."
     He put the barrel of the gun to his right temple.
     "And have your beautiful face be the last image I see before I die. It truly does suck you're not smiling."
     "No!" she yelled, putting out her hand. "DON'T!"
     He pulled the trigger. The hammer came down...but there was only a clicking sound.
     "Damn," he said, disappointed. "These fucking things always jam."
     He slid open the gun's chamber, inspecting it to see if there were an obstruction inside of it.
     In a fit of blinding rage, the woman roared.
     The man looked up, and there she was, standing over him. Before he could think, she swung a hard right hook right into the left side of his face, knocking him out.
     About five minutes later he was awakened by something cold being pressed on his face. His eyes blinked open to see the woman kneeling beside his laid out body, holding a package of frozen green peas on the side of the face she had punched. She held the gun in her other hand.
     "Why would you try to kill yourself?" she asked.
     "Being punched by you was totally worth it," he said. "I love a woman who can defend herself. I think you broke my tooth."
     "Answer my fucking question," she demanded. "I'm in charge now."
     "You can turn off the camera now," he said.
     "What?" she said, bemused.
     "The one on the tripod. It was on for the prank."
     She stood up, then ran to the camera mounted on the tripod in the corner of the room. He was telling the truth, it was recording. She walked back over to him.
     "But this gun is real," she said, holding it out. "I should know, I --"
     "You've used one at the gun range," he said, still lying on the floor, holding the frozen green peas on his face. "I saw the video." He started to reach into his pocket.
     She pointed the gun at him, saying, "Don't do shit. Show me your hands."
     "Don't worry," he said, continuing to reach into his pocket.
     He took out something that looked like a little rod, holding it up for her to see between his thumb and index finger.
     "This here is the firing pin for the gun," he informed. "Plus, the bullets in the magazine are made out of plastic. I took this thing out of the gun because you must take every precaution when using a real handgun. Rest in peace, Brandon Lee. Oh, and the keyboard I broke isn't yours, I bought that cheap shit this morning at Walmart. Yours is in your roommate's room."
     "So this was all a fucking prank?" she said, anger welling inside, her face turning red.
     "Yes," he answered.
     "And what about all that shit you said happened to you? Is any of it true?"
     He sat up, and said, "Well, some Feminist did tell me to do the world a favor and drink cyanide."
     "This," she said, gesturing back and forth at the room, "was not funny. I should call the cops. You broke into my apartment, and with a real gun."
     "Your roommate gave me the key," he said.
     "Bullshit."
     "Girl, I'm telling you the truth. Call her."
     "Stay right where you are," she commanded, stepping sideways to her cellphone on the floor, still aiming the gun at the guy.
     "Okay," he muttered. "My head hurts, and I taste blood."
     She knelt to pick up the phone, looked at the screen to see that it was already connected to her roommates phone.
     "I called her when you gave me your phone," the guy said, "she wanted to listen in while she was on her lunch break."
     She put the phone to her ear, and said, "Were you really in on this shit?"
     A pause as she listened.
     "Why?!"
     Another pause.
     "But -- but I cleaned the carpet in the living room. You can't even tell anything happened. There's not one fucking STAIN!"
     A short pause as she listened to her roommate. The guy could here the girl's voice from the phone's speaker. She was surely pissed about whatever they both were referring to.
     "We'll get our deposit back. What are you talking about a squishing sound when you walk over the spot? By the time we move out there will be no squishing sound. The landlord just looks to see we didn't put wholes in the wall."
     The last pause.
     "Principal? Fuck your principal! I thought I was going to be raped and killed. Fucking asshole!"
     She then threw her cellphone at the wall, smashing it to pieces, dropped the gun on the floor, then turned and ran at the guy. She kicked him in the ribs.
     "Ah, fuck," he said in pain. "I think you broke a rib. We even now?"
     She leaned forward, and said, "Fuck no." Then raised a fist. "After I kick your ass, I'm erasing the video."
     "Wait, hold on a sec," he said, holding up a hand. "I just want to say something."
     "Like what?" She kept her fist up, ready to swing.
     "I'm a subscriber to your wonderful YouTube channel," he began to say. "I'm one of your friendos. What just happened, I know is a little fucked up. It's the first time I've participated in a prank video. Yes, you can delete the video on the camera, but you have a real cool story to tell your friends and the new people you'll meet when you get more famous. And one last thing: I apologize for that comment. I meant it as a joke. I respect you as a human being. And I'll make it up to you by taking you out on a date. Now, I am only hypothesizing, but what if this is one fucked up beginning of a great relationship?"
     "Are you done?" she asked, her fist still poised in the air.
     "Yeah, that was it," he said. "You can't blame a straight, white male for trying."
     She swung -- and swung hard -- connecting her fist right on the frozen green peas the guy was holding on his face, causing it to burst open, sending frozen peas in all directions. The guy turned over on the floor, and she kicked him hard in the stomach, then proceeded to stomp him from hip to shoulder as the guy got into the fetal position. She then kicked him so he'd lay on his back, got on top of him, grabbed him by the collar, and socked him on the nose, breaking it.
     "Chantilly Lace," he said meekly.
     "What the fuck does that mean?" she asked about to slap him with the back of her hand.
     Smiling, showing off his bloody teeth, he recited, "'Oh, baby, you know what I like.'"
     "Are you certifiably unstable, or on drugs?" she inquired.
     "No drugs," he replied, blood running down his chin. "Just unstable enough to do a stupid YouTube prank video."
     She then proceeded to bitchslap him. He took the beating without protest, accepting the pain like an honest man should, because she was his hero after all.