Horror Inside Victory

Right before turning the curve on Mendocino Drive where they'd have a clear view at the front of the school through the windshield, Jack turned off the headlights as he turned the steering wheel.
     "Great idea, Jack," Mike praised, almost whispering. "Park under the tree. It's a full moon tonight, so I don't think a cop will notice the car here in the dark shade."
     "Dude, there's a neighborhood just a block behind us we just drove through," Jack reminded, as he parked the car near the curb under the tree, just like Mike suggested. "If a pig did see the car here, he'll assume it's owned by someone in one of the fifty houses there."
     "You're right, man, but every action must proceed with every ounce of caution. We are on a mission, and none of us here want it aborted." Mike looked down Mendocino Drive where it ended at Victory Boulevard. He said, "Do you think this is exactly where Ronnie Filbert parked his car before he simply crossed that street?"
     "No," Rose said from the backseat, "he actually parked on the other side of this street, the car facing away from the school, as if he were going to make a tire-screeching getaway."

     Jack turned around to look at Rose, one eyebrow above the other. 

     "Why did we bring her?" he asked his girlfriend Tiffany, who sat between Rose and Jack's girl, Sharla, in the backseat. 

     "I told you, babe," Tiffany began to say, "Rose knows all about what happened at Victory High School twenty years ago. It's cool to have people who are knowledgeable around you, you know. You can't just walk into an abandoned building at midnight without knowing exactly where to go." 

     "Come on, man," Mike said. "Rose is the one who got the bottle of whiskey for us, anyways." 

     "Goddamn right," Sharla said to her boy, Jack. "I don't want to go in that dead place sober." 

     Jack turned his gaze away from the silent, timid Rose back to the old High School a few hundred yards away. His eyes went along the entire length of chain link fence bordering the parking lot and sidewalk. 

     "Okay, fine," Jack said with a sigh. "We're all here to have a scary, fun Halloween night. Booze and speaking to a dead monster." 

     "You didn't forget the Ouija board, right, Rose?" Mike asked. 

     Rose gripped the handle of her backpack sitting at her feet on the car's floor mat. She said, "It's with the bottle of whiskey in my backpack here." 

     "Mike, get the bolt cutter from the trunk," Jack said, reaching for the trunk release lever beside his left shin. But before he pulled on it, he stopped, and said, "How about you get that whiskey open now, Rose?" 

     Those about to get out of the car took their hand off the doorhandles. 

     "Now why the hell would we start drinking now, Jack?" Tiffany asked. "It's for the party in there, not in here." 

     "Well, I feel like a swig before walking over -- as a group, mind you -- and cutting a hole in that rusty fence," Jack said. "Any of you hear about how a little liquid courage can help along the way? Why do you think all those C.E.O's in New York have bottles of expensive booze in their office? It's to be gung-ho." 

     "Whatever," Tiffany said. "Rose, just get it out so we'll warm right up." 

     Rose zipped open her backpack, took out the bottle, and opened it. She held it up for Tiffany to swig first. 

     "No," Tiffany said, with a nod toward Rose. "You got it for us, you get first taste." 

     Rose took the first gulp before passing it along to Tiffany. 

     "I just hope none of you guys got Covid," Mike said. 

     Before Tiffany took her first swig of the whiskey, she said, "Alcohol kills the Covid virus, stupid." 

     "That's not what Fauci said," Mike pointed out. 

     "Wasn't he fired?" Sharla asked, taking hold of the bottle from Tiffany. "I haven't seen him much on X, or CNN lately." 

     "No, that's fake news," Mike said. "He stepped down so he can run for Governor." 

     "I thought it was because he got sued by like all of New York City," Sharla said, handing the bottle over the car seat to Jack. 

     "People, for fuck sake," Jack said, taking the bottle from Sharla, "this isn't the time for politics." 

     "But we're going into an abandoned High School that closed twenty years ago, because of a mass shooting," Mike said. 

     "Look, I'm not going to use the Ouija board in there so I can debate with that demon, Ronnie Filbert, about fucking gun control," Jack said, then took a big swig of the whiskey. After three good swallows, he held it in front of Mike. "Politics ain't no thing to get drunk to." 

     "What if Ronnie doesn't say anything to us at all?" Mike asked, taking hold of the bottle. 

     Jack wiped away the alcohol moistness from his lips left behind from drinking the booze, and then said, "If no one is willing to move that pointer thing to give us realistic fake answers, then we'll just finish the night getting shit-faced, and spend the rest of Halloween night looking for all the bullet holes. Don't forget the two flashlights in the trunk when you get the bolt cutter." 

     The group of five sauntered down Mendocino Drive to the crosswalk at the traffic light. The boys were in the lead, with the girls trailing behind. Sharla and Tiffany both walked side-by-side with Rose was last in line a few feet behind them, gripping the shoulder straps of the backpack she wore high between her shoulder blades. Jack had looked both ways before leading the group across Victory Boulevard. The traffic was basically dead that Halloween night; the only oncoming car had drove by them well after they had already crossed the street, and hid out of view behind bushes at the corner of the condemned high school property. 

     Jack sat on his haunches, and began cutting a hole in the chain link fence. Mike turned on the flashlight he was holding to help Jack cut in the right spot for a clean opening. 

     "Don't turn on the damn light, man," Jack demanded. "You want people to see us when they drive by?" 

     Mike immediately turned off the flashlight, and said, "Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you cut the fence right, and didn't cut your finger off." 

     "Don't worry," Jack began to say, "I've done this kind of thing plenty of times. I know what I'm doing." 

     "What if we're caught by the security?" Tiffany asked. 

     "Then we just take off running," Jack said, as he continued to cut the fence. "Just remember where the hole in the fence is here." 

     "What if it's a cop, and not security?" Mike asked. "And he pulls a gun on us?" 

     "Then I suggest you put your hands up." Jack was almost done cutting the hole. "Since we're all under eighteen years of age, the pig might just call our parents to pick us up, or just kick us out. Either way, I don't think he'd want to fill out paperwork over some drunk kids walking into this shithole school." 

     When Jack completed cutting the fence, he stood up, then kicked on it. The round circle of loose fence fell to the old pavement with a small crashing sound, not loud enough to cause a passerby to be curious. No one was walking near the property on the sidewalk, anyway. 

     Mike was about to bend down to move through the hole into the old parking lot of Victory High School, but Jack put up an arm to stop him. 

     "No," he said to his friend. "I think Rose should have the honor of going in first, and lead the way inside for us since she knows most about what happened here twenty years ago. What you think, Rose?" 

     "Okay," she said. "It'll be my pleasure to give you guys the tour of tragedy." 

     Rose moved passed the others, bent down to step through the hole. 

     When she stood up in the parking lot, she turned around to Jack on the other side, and said, "Good job cutting that hole. For a second, I thought I'd get something snagged on the fence going through." 

     "Thanks, Rose," Jack said, smiling at her. 

     "Well, is it ladies first, or dickheads second?" Tiffany asked, sounding somewhat peeved over Jack's positive reaction to Rose's compliment. 

     "Since a lady has already gone in, yes, us dickheads should continue our chivalry," Jack said, gesturing for Tiffany and Sharla to be next inside the high school property. 

     After all the ladies were in the parking lot, Tiffany went up to Rose as Jack and Mike were making their way through the hole in the fence. 

     "What was that?" she quietly asked. "Were you hitting on my man?" 

     Rose looked at Tiffany, taken aback by the accusation. She didn't know how to respond. 

     "You think you can steal him from me?" Tiffany sounded more fierce that time, like a cat snapping at its owner. 

     Rose finally managed to speak: 

     "No, Tiffany. Never." 

     "Keep that thought cemented like a tombstone in your mind," Tiffany said, pointing at Rose's head. 

     Rose nodded. 

     Sharla didn't even notice the conversation between Tiffany and Rose, she was simply waiting for the boys to get through the hole. When Mike's shirt was snagged by the fence as he went through, she thought Jack could have cut the hole just a little bit bigger. 

     "Goddamnit," Mike uttered. "Now I need a new shirt." 

     "You need a band-aid?" Jack asked. 

     "No," Mike replied, putting his finger in the hole of his jacket on the shoulder. "I just need a new jacket." 

     Jack looked over at Rose. He said, "Okay, Rose. Show us where Ronnie Filbert entered the building before he started killing students." 

     Tiffany was still looking into Rose's eyes with a furrowed brow. She said, "Yeah, Rose lead the way." 

     Jack handed Rose a flashlight. He said, "Just don't turn that on until we're all inside." 

     "Um, Ronnie entered the west side of the school building through the double doors," Rose told the group. "Then he went into the first floor bathroom, sat inside a stall until second period began, strapped himself with his weapons, then went into the hallway, and locked the double doors at each end of the first floor hallway with a chain and padlock." 

     Rose gestured for the group to follower her to the double doors she had mentioned Ronnie Filbert had gone through twenty years prior. Arriving at the doors, she tightly gripped the handle of the right side door, pulled it open, and then entered without looking at the rest of the group behind her. Jack turned to look at everyone else, shrugged his shoulders, then followed Rose into the darkness. 

     "I can't see a damn thing," Mike said, as he just passed the threshold behind Tiffany and Sharla. "Should I leave the door open?" 

     "No, dude," Tiffany said. "Make sure we can still open it from the inside." 

     Mike did as she commanded. He then tested the door to see for sure it did not lock from the inside. 

     "It's all good," he confirmed to the group. "We ain't trapped like sheep." 

     "Quiet," Rose said from farther down the dark hallway. 

     Sharla gasped, and said, "Don't do that, Rose. Not when it's totally dark like this." 

     There was a clicking sound that echoed down the hallway. It was Rose's flashlight turning on. The rest of the group looked down to see Rose standing in the middle of the first floor hallway, shining the flashlight on her face. 

     "You might be scared now," Rose said, "but not as scared, or horrified as the students were once Ronnie began shooting at them with a machine gun in this very spot. You see, he didn't go from room to room, picking off students as they sat, pretending to learn, he pulled fire alarm at the bottom of the stairwell behind me. He patiently waited until this hallway was sufficiently filled with living bodies before... turning them into fresh, bloody corpses." 

     "Shit, Rose," Jack began saying as he walked down the hallway to where Rose stood, "you're sounding creepy telling that story. Obsessive." 

     Mike turned on his flashlight at the end of the hallway where they had entered, shining it along the ground, walls, and lockers as he observed the surfaces, hoping to find old blood stains, or bullet holes. He found it odd how clean it actually was; there was hardly a full layer of dust. 

     "What's wrong with sounding creepy like any other narrator of scary horror stories that happen to be true?" Rose said. "It's Halloween, after all. Rather an appropriate time to experience something authentic." 

     Rose took off her backpack, zipped it open, and got out the Ouija board box. She said, "We should do it here, where the bloody horror began." 

     Jack made his way to where Rose stood, both Tiffany and Sharla close behind him. 

     "So where's that stairwell you just mentioned?" he asked. 

     Rose turned to shine the flashlight on it. The stairwell was about thirty feet behind her. 

     "At the last flight of stairs there's a short hallway beside it leading to a custodian supply room," Rose said. "Ronnie hid there until he started shooting his machine gun." 

     "We should use the Ouija board to speak with him here," Jack said. "Right in this spot." 

     "Seriously?" Tiffany said. "I'm not sitting on this dirty floor." 

     Jack turned to look at Mike in the dim light coming from Rose's flashlight, but he wasn't near them. He saw that Mike was still standing near the double doors they all had entered in from, his flashlight illuminating the palm of his hand as he observed its surface after rubbing it on a locker door. 

     "Hey, Mike," Jack whisper yelled from the middle of the hallway, "get over here. Help me move some desks in here." 

     Jack and Mike dragged out four desks from the nearest classroom. Rose stopped them from getting a fifth one for her. 

     "No need for me to sit," she told Jack, "the Ouija board thing is for all of you. I'll just stand, and help you out if you don't understand the answers it gives you." 

     "Hey, you got to sit somewhere if you're gonna keep drinking," Jack said. 

     Rose got out the bottle, took one big gulp, and then handed it to Jack. 

     "The rest is for all of you," she said. 

     "Cool," Jack said, taking hold of the whiskey bottle. 

     With the old classroom desks put together, and the Ouija board laying on the combined desks between the four of them, they began using it two at a time, passing around the bottle of whiskey as they took turns handling the planchette. The flashlight stood shining upward at the ceiling on Mike's table, illuminating the area so they could see the Ouija board enough for all of them to read the letters. 

     At first, no one bothered to move the planchette on purpose to answer their stupid, ridiculously juvenile questions. Rose knew these peers of hers would not take talking to the ghost of someone like Ronnie Filbert seriously with questions such as: How many inches was your dick? or Were there incels back in your century? 

     Annoyed with their dumbass questions that were obviously not being answered at all, Rose turned away, and walked to the stairwell where she told the others the mass shooting began. 

     "We're not getting one answer from the netherworld," Sharla said. 

     "That's because no one's moving the thing to give us one," Jack said. 

     "Where's the fun in that?" Tiffany asked. "We've got to take this seriously." 

     "Let's face it," Jack said, rubbing both hands over his face. "There is no afterlife, even on Halloween night." 

     "Wait, I've got a good question," Mike said. "Why isn't this hallway as dirty as you'd expect twenty years after it has been condemned?" 

     "What do you mean?" Jack asked, placing his hands on the table. He began feeling dizzy from the booze coursing through his veins. "Like with bloodstains. Those kind of go away over time, or crime scene cleanup people did away with them at the time." 

     "No, not blood, dirt. I rubbed the palm of my hand on a locker down the hall over there, and there was hardly a year's worth of dust buildup on it. I mean, look at this." 

     Mike rubbed the surface of the desk he was sitting in, raised it near his mouth, and blew the dust into the light of the flashlight. The fog of accumulated dust rose from the flashlight's shining light. 

     "See how it rises," Mike pointed out, "twenty years worth of dust would fall on the light bulb. Here, it rises. Why is that?" 

     "That's because Victory High School is still alive like any other haunted place," Rose said from the darkness. 

     "Bullshit," Jack said, chuckling. "Where's the heartbeat, then?" 

     Tiffany grabbed Jack's arm. He looked at her, and saw in the dim light, she was staring down at the Ouija board with wide, frightened eyes. 

     "The letters," she whispered, terrified. 

     "What?" Jack asked. 

     "They're moving." 

     Jack looked down at the Ouija board, and could see they were in fact moving. 

     "I see it too," Sharla said. "They're all moving together. Like forming into one single shape." 

     "What kind of shape?" Mike asked. 

     "A hand," Sharla replied, her voice shivering. 

     An arm burst from the Ouija board, with sharp, bloody claws for fingertips, dark gray skin, and wet hair growing from it. Tiffany and Sharla screamed, both jumping up from their desks. Jack found himself unable to move. 

     "Oh, shit," Mike yelled, moving to stand up from his desk and run away. 

     Before he could rise, the demon's hand grabbed Mike's entire head, palm covering his face. The others heard his muffled screams for a moment until the demonic hand crushed his entire skull in one effortless squeeze. Blood, and chunks of skull splattered on the horrified, living three. 

     Jack managed to finally get up from his desk, bumping into the combined desks, knocking over the flashlight. Tiffany went to him, took hold of his hand, and pulled him to run towards the double doors. 

     "Fucking run, Jack!" she yelled. 

     They made it five yards down the hallway before being stopped by the sound of heavy growling coming from the darkness. 

     "No fucking way," Jack said, his voice devoid of all manliness puberty ever gave him. 

     The growling of the unseen beast stopped. Heavy breathing commenced soon after. Tiffany felt the warmth on the surface of her exposed skin with each exhale coming from right in front of them. 

     "Where does my pain come from?" the beast growled. 

     The flashlight that Jack had knocked over rolled to a complete stop, illuminating what was speaking to Jack and Tiffany. 

     It was a Gargoyle standing ten feet tall, with a wingspan nearly reaching both sides of the hallway, blocking Tiffany and Jack's way out of the building. They both screamed, and ran into the nearest classroom. 

     On the other side of the desks, Sharla took off from the sounds of their screams. She saw Rose at the bottom of the stairwell, shining her flashlight upward as she began to ascend the flight of stairs. Sharla stopped beside her. 

     "Rose, we need to leave," Sharla said, grabbing Rose's arm. "Is there another way out of here?" 

     Rose did not respond, looking fixated up at the flight of stairs. 

     "Rose, what's wrong with you?" Sharla asked, desperate. "Mike just fucking died. I think Jack and Tiffany are about to be slaughtered by Ronnie. And you... you're going up the stairs like a moron in a slasher movie. For what?" 

     Rose finally turned her head to look at Sharla with glazed eyes. She asked, "Can't you see it?" 

     "See what, Rose?" 

     "Ronnie's Heaven," Rose responded. "Look." 

     Sharla looked up the flight of stairs, and saw orange light coming from the floor above. Then she felt immense heat. The light got brighter as it revealed its source. Lava. It began pouring down the stairwell, going directly towards them both. Sharla looked upon it with horror. Her life was going to end. Rose grinned as if she were relieved at the sight of nature's most deadly substance. She pulled her arm away from Sharla's grip, and took the first steps up the scorching lava. 

     "Rose, NO!" Sharla screamed as she began backing away, feeling the deadly heat upon her skin. 

     She saw Rose turn to flames as the lava made it's way to the ground of the first floor hallway. Sharla covered her eyes with her arm as she ran down the hallway. She opened the first door she came to, opened it, went inside a room, and slammed the door shut. When she opened her eyes, she realized the room was just a bathroom. 

     As she cried over her dead friends, there suddenly was the sound of a girl whimpering from one of the bathroom stalls. 

     "Hello," Sharla called out. "Who's that? Is that you, Tiffany? It's me, Sharla. Come out." 

     The female whimpering stopped. Sharla moved farther inside the bathroom. 

     "Where are you?" she asked. 

     "Sharla!" a wicked female voice screeched. 

     A bathroom stall door slammed open, and a figure dressed all in black appeared from inside it. Sharla spasmed at the sight of it. The figure was a woman with a veil obscuring her face. 

     "Your name is 'Sharla?'" it asked. 

     "Yes," Sharla replied, her body shaking. 

     The woman in black jumped at Sharla, knocking her flat on her back on the dirty bathroom floor. The face behind the veil so close to Sharla's that the smell of burnt coal burned her nostrils. 

     "That's my name too," the woman in black said. 

     The woman then screamed so loud, Sharla became paralyzed, her face stuck into contortion. 

Rose found herself on the third floor, standing right outside the very classroom Ronnie Filbert held hostage over thirty students, and one corpse of a teacher twenty years earlier. She turned off the flashlight, and then opened the door. 

     Upon its opening, red light emerged from inside the classroom; Rose stood in the hallway, bathed in it, and pleased by the touch of it. She went inside where there had been a bloodbath twenty years before, only which she could imagine picturing in her mind, since no photos of the mass murder scene had been released to the public. 

     But in that moment, remaining still in the old classroom filled with red light like a darkroom for developing photographs, Rose found what she was not expecting at all. 

     Sitting at a lone desk in the middle of the room was a teenaged, brunette girl, her hands laid flat on the desk, head lowered, and her long hair covering her entire face from Rose's view. Across from her at the front of the class was a teenaged boy with a shaved head sitting on top of the teacher's desk, silently staring at the girl. Rose immediately knew who the boy was by how he dressed. 

     "Ronnie?" she said. 

     Ronnie turned to look at Rose with despairing eyes. 

     "Yes," he replied. 

     "If you're up here, then who is down there scaring them to death?" Rose asked, stepping closer to Ronnie. 

     She stopped when Ronnie hopped off the teacher's desk, and moved closer to her. He stood before her, staring at a stranger with an uninterested, blank expression. 

     "The innocent I took from your world, who are filled with so much hatred, are unable to move on to a better, more peaceful plateau of existence," Ronnie said, "so they remain down below, trapped, screaming and raging to bring vengeance upon me. That is their Hell. Those who come across their path will suffer a mere glimpse of the pain the innocent endure as long as they selfishly desire to achieve the pleasure in making me suffer." 

     "Why am I not afraid, Ronnie?" Rose asked. 

     "Because you're in love with me," Ronnie said. 

     Rose began to cry. She wanted to hug Ronnie, but knew that all she'd touch was only in her imagination. 

     "I love you so much, Ronnie," she said, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. "Ever since I read your words I've loved you. You're the only one in this fucked up world who doesn't make me feel all alone like those fucking morons downstairs. They could never be grateful for meeting the dead. Never." 

     "I know, Rose," Ronnie said. "You don't need them. You're a good person. You don't even need a bastard like me." 

     Rose continued to cry, and said, "I'm not a good person." 

     "Yes, you are, Rose. You didn't hurt anybody like I did." 

     "No, Ronnie. I did a bad thing. They didn't deserve it." 

     "It's okay, Rose," Ronnie said, leaning in closer to her. "Putting LSD into the whiskey is probably what they always wanted, anyway. Kids will be kids, especially when they're teenagers. They can handle--"

     Rose heard a gunshot from outside the school building. 

     "What the fuck was that?" Rose blurted. 

     "Their Hell on Earth," Ronnie said, then took a deep breath. "While my Hell is up here in this terrible, dirty room." 

     "What Hell is that, exactly?" Rose asked. 

     Ronnie was back sitting on top of the teacher's desk. He said, "My one true love, Rosemary, won't simply just raise her head to look at me. If only she'd allow me to see her beautiful face just one more time, then I could be able to move on."

     "My first name is Rosemarie," Rose informed the uninterested Ronnie. 

     "Tragedy and horror is not fair to those who suffer most from it," Ronnie said, staring directly at Rosemary. 

     Rose left the classroom. In the dark hallway she couldn't figure out what to do next, because for a moment she totally forgot about the gunshot. She was reminded of it when a man's voice called from the first floor of the building. She decided to take off to where she knew there was another way out of the building at the backside of the west wing, a way to go around to exactly where the hole in the fence was without being seen by anyone in the parking lot.

     Sneaking her way around to the front of Victory High School, Rose crept to the corner of the building, and tactfully looked at the parking lot. She saw a police car and a security vehicle with their emergency lights on parked near the far end of the building from where she was. A police officer and security guard stood, leaning on the security vehicle, smoking cigarettes. Rose saw their head lights shining on two bloody, dead bodies. Even though Rose was tripping on LSD, she could tell one of the dead bodies was Tiffany. Her jaw dropped. 

     Unwilling to remain in the shadows any longer on school property, to maybe realize what she was actually seeing was part of a psychedelic hallucination, Rose made a run for the hole in the fence. She crawled through it without getting snagged. She then ran straight to Mendocino Drive where Jack's car was still parked. 

     Before even bothering to open the car door, Rose rolled her eyes, knowing Jack still had the keys on him -- probably all covered in blood, for all she knew. Those morons got caught, and for some ungodly reason, two were dead. So Rose decided to get an Uber ride back to the city. With her young LSD laced mind, she managed to successfully schedule an Uber to her exact location. 

     As she waited, she stood in the exact spot where she knew Ronnie had parked his car twenty years earlier on the day he committed the mass shooting inside Victory High School. Even though the cop and security guard could see her if they simply looked over at Mendocino Drive, Rose wanted to live dangerously in those last moments. 

     An ambulance drove through the open fence gates, and park near the cop's car. The paramedics went inside an entrance, escorted by the cop. Another cop car drove into the parking lot. 

     For some reason, Rose wasn't nervous at all; no one else would suspect she was ever their, because her backpack didn't have her name on it. Then she heard Mike's voice yell the words: "NINJAS! NINJAS FIGHTING!"

     When the Uber was turning onto Mendocino, Rose's final thoughts as she looked at the abandoned Victory High School for the last time were that if Mike or Sharla said she was there with them, she'd simply deny it. They were hallucinating on LSD, anyway. 

     "You Rose?" asked the Uber driver. 

     Rose got in the backseat of the car. The driver drove off the opposite way from Victory High School. 

     "What happened at Victory?" the driver asked. 

     Rose giggled, and said, "Um, I have no idea. I guess bums smoking meth accidentally stabbed each other." 

     "I graduated from Victory, you know," the driver informed for conversation sake. "Class of '04. Did you?" 

     "No," Rose said. "I go to high school in the city." 

     "From the change of smell once you sat in the backseat, I could swear you went to college. HA! But don't you worry, you'll get home safe." 

     "Wait," Rose said, "did you say you graduated from Victory High in 2004?" 

     "Uh, yeah," the driver said. 

     "So, you survived Ronnie's Massacre?" Rose asked, excited, leaning forward in the backseat. 

     "The what-now?" he asked. 

     "The Victory High School mass shooting in 2003. If you graduated in '04, then you were there when it happened." 

     "There never was a mass shooting at Victory," the driver said. 

     Rose went silent, sitting back in the seat, confused. 

     She asked: "Then why is it closed?" 

     The driver replied: "Because the mold. It was going to be demolished about two years ago, but that goddamn mayor embezzled the funds, and gambled it away in Vegas. He's serving five to ten because of it. This town's biggest scandal in its history." 

     "Oh," Rose muttered, a bit disappointed. "That's interesting, I guess." 

     

     

    

       

Work of Paradise

Before I woke up naked next to Paradise, I was dreaming about Summer. As always, I don't remember the exact details of the dream's setting -- where we were, nor what we were doing -- but all I knew was that Summer was finally, truly happy. Her smile meant so much to me. There must have been some light from behind her blinding my eyes, because it basically shocked me awake. 

     I sat up quickly, turned my head to see Paradise slowly waking up herself as she turned over under the bed sheet, exposing her breasts. I got up off the futon bed, and began putting on my clothes. She sat up, running her hand through her long hair as her eyes blinked to fully awake. 

     "You want to go out for some breakfast, on me?" I asked, putting on my t-shirt. 

     Paradise shook her head, declining my offer. She basically told me it was too stereotypical of me to do so. 

     "I got cereal in the kitchen downstairs," I said. 

     "I'll get my clothes on, and meet you down there," Paradise said. 

     I walked out of my room, moved down the stairs, walked past the table covered with marijuana trimmings I forgot to put in a silver bag, and went to the kitchen to get two bowls from the cabinet, and cereal from off the counter. After sitting at the wood table in the living room, pouring myself a bowl of cereal, I was about to fill the other one for Paradise as she was making her way down the stairs. I had a gut feeling she wasn't going to stay for a short breakfast. 

     The night before she gave no indication of not enjoying herself after coming back from the club. Before we had gone up to my room to have sex, neither of us were too tipsy from alcohol, but both of us were stoned from the grass we smoked at The Boss's blue house. I had shown her around: the cannabis clones in the garage, the tables where we'd trim the marijuana to get ready to sell at the dispensary in town, last was my friend's bong that we smoked some great Green Crack sativa. She enjoyed it; giggling and laughing at things that weren't actually funny. 

     "What were those bags in the garage?" Paradise had asked before I began smoking the weed from the bong myself. 

     "We keep the marijuana buds in there after we trim them, then when my boss buys mason chars, we fill them up with the bud, label them, and he takes them to the dispensary," I replied, somewhat impressing her without even trying; I was just speaking facts. 

     As I began eating the cereal, Paradise walked up to the table, standing near me, looking down at the empty seat before the empty cereal bowl on the table waiting to be filled. 

     "I believe you've treated me enough up to this point," Paradise said, looking down at me. "Next time I'll treat you. Dinner on me, and I choose the next club to party at." 

     "Okay, you can choose the next club," I began to say, "I'm a bit too chivalrous for that. But if you insist, I'll be obliged in accepting a free meal the next time you come over here." 

     "Yeah, Olavi, about me coming here again for a sleep over," Paradise began saying, sounding somewhat regretful, "I don't think it's a good idea. Next time we hook up it's got to be at a hotel, or some other place." 

     "What about your place?" I suggested. 

     "My roommates aren't cool with your type." 

     This statement baffled me. 

     Type? I thought. What did she mean by using that word in reference to me. 

     The taste of the chewed cereal in my mouth immediately became bitter -- a psychological reaction for sure. 

     So I had to ask her the obvious question: "My type? What sort of type are you on about?" 

     "Well, let me clarify," Paradise began to say, "it's not you, the person you are, it's the business you're a part of." 

     I looked around at my Boss's house, confused. It did seem like one of those trap houses, but the biggest difference being there was furniture anyone could use, and the walls didn't have holes in them, or were covered in meth-induced psychosis inspired tweaker graffiti. 

     "The medicinal marijuana business, you mean?" I asked. 

     "Yes," she replied. "And I don't know for sure if the business is legit. I mean, look at this place. Why is there wall-to-wall tarp covering the floor?" 

     I informed, "Because of cleanliness, so we can sweep up the dust and leftover trimming that fall off the table. I told you that last night." 

     "Okay, yeah. And why is there black garbage bag plastic covering the windows?" Paradise pointed to the window near the table I was sitting at, then pointed at the one on the other side of the room. 

     "That's for privacy, so no one can look in at what we're doing," I said. 

     "But the curtains are down on the inside," she said. "So what's the point?" 

     "I don't know, Sharlene," I admitted, using her real name. "The Boss set up everything years ago before I even moved to Santa Barbara to work for him. It's just precaution, I guess." 

     Paradise quickly lowered her hand, slapping her hip in an act of casual frustration. She then said, "Let me ask you something else. What if the cops come bursting in here, and put you in handcuffs?" 

     "Look, the year is 2011, not 1984. Reagan and Nixon are dead," I told Paradise. "So the reality is the pigs already know about this house, who owns it, and all about the great California outdoor grown weed stuffed inside this place. If they'd actually do what you just hypothesized, they'd need a damn good reason, requiring a warrant signed by some asshole Judge. So far, I haven't seen any lawful reason for a SWAT team to bust down that front door. I know my Boss is having legal troubles in court over a mistake his stupid ass made regarding his dispensary's permit, but I assure you, Sharlene, this place is safe from the law." 

     Paradise stepped closer to me, and asked, "What if some thugs simply bust down that front door while you're all alone, stoned and trimming, listening to Damian Marley?" 

     My response to that scary idea was to merely chuckle. 

     "I'm being serious, Olavi," Paradise said. 

     "I guess nothing," I responded, looking up at her beautiful face, expecting her to rub my cheek and kiss my lips for comfort. I asked, "Do you fear for my life?" 

     Her reaction was not exactly what I expected. She took one step back, with a blank expression on her face, as if it were one of those garbage bags blocking the view from outside eyes. At that moment I believed she was simply hiding a feeling of concern for my safety. What she said next was quite the contrary before she moved on from the subject. 

     "Obviously, Olavi," she replied. "Anyway, the thing about my roommates. One wants to be a doctor, the other, a detective, so I can't bring someone like you around. They need their reputations clean. So do I." 

     "But you're a stripper," I said. 

     Sometimes it's a bad idea to state the truth, because it just doesn't hurt those who hear it, it hurts those who say it as well. 

     Paradise took one step forward like a baseball pitcher about to throw a strike, and slapped me in the face, hard. The sound of her palm meeting my cheek echoed from the two rooms upstairs. 

     "AH!" I yelped. Then in shock and pain, I asked, "The fuck you hit me for?" 

     Paradise pointed her finger right at my strained face, and yelled angrily, "Look, stoner, there's a big fucking difference between your immoral life, and mine. Mine is a hundred percent legal for anyone at the age of eighteen and above. YOU need the State government's permission to put a grass dick in your mouth so you can be able to feel good about your shitty, miserable existence." 

     Before I knew it, Paradise was no longer standing near me, the front door slammed shut, and as I rubbed my stinging cheek, I looked over at the empty bowl on the other side of the table. I hoped she was going to get herself a better breakfast than just the cereal I had to offer. 

     After breakfast I made myself a cup of German Organic Instant Coffee, rolled myself a tomara (tobacco and Green Crack marijuana) and went out to the back porch to smoke the stinging pain away from my red cheek. 

     As I sat their thinking, I guessed I would no longer go out to the only strip club in Santa Barbara with the guys from then on. I did consider maybe giving it a month before entering that establishment of naked women; I'd be willing to get kicked out of a place like that anyway -- something to check off the bucket list. 

     It was time to move on, grow up, be mature for a change. The next good time in the ecstasy of intimacy must be with a college girl, I thought. A hard working academic going places, who had plans, knowing every turn on the road ahead. A sugar momma, so to speak -- even if she was a bit younger than I. I'd be willing to help pay off her student loans at first, being that I was in the medicinal marijuana industry. 

     Speaking of work, it was time to trim marijuana. Even though that day started out rough, work was smooth as always; just sitting at one of the work tables, my iPod playing Gwar on a portable player's speakers, with every fifteen minute break smoking a tomara on the back porch. The whole day I pondered about what Paradise had said regarding our chosen professions. This immorality of both as presumably seen by the square side of society. Her being a stripper was normal to people like me, but regarded as a vice to even those who watched her dance naked on stage with hungry eyes. 

     While the business I worked in was hardly a decade old in the legal sense, being that medicinal marijuana wasn't legalized in California until 1996, and at that moment the year was 2011. When I told old friends back home the kind of job I had in Santa Barbara, they'd assume I simply worked for a drug dealers -- manufacturing for whole sale before the distribution process. It was if they thought I were connected to El Chapo himself, for fuck sake. Things may have been shady in this medicinal business with all the intended, or unintended loopholes, but not even near to being bloody -- at least from what I could tell so far. 

     But I came to the conclusion Paradise was right about keeping her roommates from being associated with a marijuana trimmer. My immorality was young, and sometimes dumb like a teenager playing with a loaded gun. Her immorality was old, wise, and even respected by quiet religious zealots. All I could do was laugh to myself, alone in the Blue house full of weed packed inside silver bags. 

     I guess I did say the wrong thing to Paradise, and deserved to be slapped. Or she was just another uptight, self-righteous prick, and I got exactly what I wanted out of her -- sex with a stripper checked off my bucket list. 

     After the sun had gone down, I began doing bong hits of some great Blue Dream, and watched the movie American Gangster on a portable DVD player. 

     "This is how they see me, Paradise," I said aloud to myself. 

     I looked around at the empty house with my bloodshot eyes, pointing at the small LCD screen as Russel Crowe arrested Denzel Washington. 

     I said, "That there. This is what they thing of my fate. Those who could never understand a real paradise without some kind of sin. I'm the kind of Frank Lucas who brings smiles to unhappy faces, not make dead bodies pile up in dirty rooms." 

     When the movie was over it was just past midnight. The house was silent. As I began to roll another tomara, a small crunching sound broke the soothing silence. I looked up toward the kitchen, because at first I thought it was only the fridge's ice maker. It was only after I looked back down at my unrolled tomara that the crunching sound got louder, and it became the sound of wood breaking. My stoned, paranoid mind pictured the house collapsing right on top of me. 

     Then there was a loud bang as the front door slammed open, following the sound of feet running down the short hallway into the kitchen. Because of a standing, unfolded Japanese room divider in the kitchen blocking my view of the front door I could not see who just broke in the house full of weed. 

     "Aw, shit," I quietly said. 

     "You two, go in the garage and get the bags," a male voice commanded. "Him and I will handle the stoner." 

     I stood up from the work table, and walked over near the wood table where I had breakfast that morning to see what the actual fuck was going on -- maybe my paranoid mind was imagining a break in with criminal intent. For a split second I thought the front door was slammed open by accident by some of the co-workers whom I hadn't seen in the past month. But what I saw coming around the Japanese divider were two men clad in all black clothing, wearing ski masks. I shuddered on my feet when I saw that the one coming towards me was holding a brand new crowbar. 

     "You, stop right there!" the ski masked man said, pointing the curved end of the crowbar right at me. "Don't you fucking move." 

     I held up my hands, completely surprised they weren't shaking. 

     "Don't bother putting your hands in the air," the ski masked man said. "Because I know you don't have any guns." 

     I lowered my hands. I thought that if this asshole decided to beat me to death with that crowbar, I wouldn't protest; up to that point in my life, I wasn't going out a virgin -- having had sex with the most beautiful, sexiest women I had ever met. 

     The ski masked man with the crowbar came closer to me, the curved end of the tool, which surely was used to break the wooden front door off its secured lock, inches from my emotionless, stoned face. 

     The other ski masked man stepped closer behind the one threatening me, and asked, "How the fuck are you so sure this fool ain't strapped?" 

     The crowbar man sighed, obviously annoyed. He turned around with his back to me, still holding the crowbar, but with a looser grip. 

     He said, "Because that's what the bitch said. This idiot gave her a lovely, convenient house tour. She told me she saw no guns, or even a damn cheap samurai sword." 

     My mind, my body, my entire soul immediately raged into a private fire as it dawned on me about Paradise's betrayal. Sharlene (her real name) wasn't some righteous, beautiful angel trying to better my corrupt, dirty world, but just another shady shithead living off stolen hard work. 

     The ski masked man continued to speak with his back to me, "Just this passive stoner here who told her he'd do nothin' if this place was raided by us." 

     When I noticed he pointed the curved end of the crowbar without turning his head in my direction, I took the opportunity to grab the crowbar from the moron's loose grip, and raised it over my head. As a lion in the wilderness would do when he'd defend his territory, or impress a lioness that he wanted to make cubs with, I roared with immense, raging dominance. I must have truly scared the thieves, because they cowered immediately, nearly falling on their asses, and stretching out their arms in my direction, as if bare hands could stop a metal crowbar from cracking their empty skulls. 

     "Don't anybody move," I demanded. "Not one damn centimeter at all." 

     The room went silent. Other than the ski masked men's heavy breathing, I could hear the rustling sound of the silver bags in the garage being handled by the others I had yet to see. 

     "Everything cool in there?" a male voice called from inside the garage. "You guys didn't kill the guy, right?" 

     With my eyes wide with rage and total hatred, I stared at the weak thugs before me, my arm over my head, ready to pound the two fucks. 

     "So the bitch, in all her so-called wisdom of immorality, sent dogs to pick up free treats," I said through gritting teeth. 

     Both men nodded their ski masked heads in confirmation. 

     I could see in their eyes the fools who I thought were thugs from certain Santa Barbara streets hardly anyone liked to speak of -- but I was familiar with -- weren't of that sort at all. I simply saw they were simple strawberry eaters who would faint after one minute picking them in the sun. I sighted -- both in relief, as well as in disappointment. When I saw two other ski masked men walk into the kitchen from the garage, both holding two silver bags full of marijuana buds under each arm, I smiled. 

     I almost wanted to laugh, but instead threw the crowbar up over the wood breakfast table, the tool spun in the air like a big ninja star, almost making a whistling sound off its metallic surface before stabbing into the wall. The sound of it smashing the drywall made all those wannabe thieves shudder. One of the dudes in the kitchen dropped a silver bag. 

     As some powder pieces of the drywall fell from the crowbar sticking out of the wall like a big coat hook, I said to the nervous boys: 

     "Since that Canadian capitalist shitstain, masquerading as a socialist Hindu Rastafari clown Boss hasn't paid me in a month, take the rest of the silver bags in the garage. It's all yours. Enjoy." 

     "Are you serious?" asked one of the ski masks in the kitchen. 

     "Yes," I replied. "Now go get the shit. Just take those ski masks off before you go outside, so the neighbors don't call the pigs. I'll sit back at the table over here so I don't see your faces." 

     I walked over and sat in the spot where I had been rolling a tomara. 

     "Well, fuck it," said a ski masked man in the kitchen. "Do what the man says." 

     Three of the ski masked men ran into the garage like kids after all the candy just fell out of a piñata. The one who had held the crowbar in my face stood in place, staring down at me. 

     "Um," he muttered, pointing up at the crowbar stuck in the wall. "Can I get the crowbar back?" 

     I sat back in the chair looking up at the tool turned clumsy decoration. 

     I said, "No. It's actually better stabbed up there when the Boss comes back from Hollywood. I'll tell his stupid ass you came in like, you know, an Orc from Lord of the Rings, and did that for intimidation purposes before pulling a gun on me." 

     I raised my hands, playfully impersonating a hostage. 

     "Okay. You're right, man." The man began taking off his ski mask in an act of comradery, I presumed. 

     "Whoa, whoa, don't take off your mask," I said, before I could see any detail of his face. "It's better I don't recognize your face on the streets if we cross paths. Please." 

     "Oh, shit. You're right. Right." He fitted the mask back over his head. "Yeah, okay. Still anonymous to you here. You know, this is kind of weird." 

     "You want to know what's weird?" I began to say. "Is some stripper who fucks one of her customers, then says she can't associate with a legal marijuana farmer, because it might hurt her already sullied reputation. Then to top that off, she sends four guys here to rob this legit business. Man, this is one fucked up situation. Paradise my ass." 

     Somewhat distraught, I put a hand over my face. 

     "Wow," the ski mask said. "That's some heavy shit, man. Are you gonna be okay?" 

     I chuckled at his unexpected concern, removed my hand from over my face, and said, "Don't you worry about me. I've been through heartbreak before, but not with this added betrayal. I got this weed here to help me get over it. Go, and enjoy that shit in those silver bags. Sell a few ounces. Make a profit. Buy a new crowbar." 

     After a moment of silence, he said, "Thank you. And sorry Sharlene is such a bitch." 

     "Don't mention it," I said. "It's sometimes a bitch eat bitch kind of world we're living in, you know." 

     As they had come in, they had rushed out as soon as all the silver bags in the garage were gone. I waited in the chair for a total of ten minutes before standing up, and walking to close the busted front door. I could see that it could close, but easily be pushed open. I sat back down at the trimming table in the living room. Instead of finishing to roll the tomara I began before the door burst open, I reached inside my front jeans pocket, took out my pack of American Spirit cigarettes, and lit one inside my Boss's house of marijuana. Such a huge no-no in his hippie, vegan eyes. 

     Fuck it, I thought, I just did that fake wannabe Hollywood bitch a favor. 

     As I enjoyed smoking tobacco inside a building for the first time in my life, I got my cellphone from out my other jean pocket, and called the man who helped get me that marijuana job. It rang eight times before my friend Mario answered it. 

     I heard music playing in the background before Mario drunkenly said, "Hello. Who's sniss?" 

     "Hey, Mario," I said. "It's Olavi." 

     "Yo!" he hollered into his cellphone, causing a small occurrence of crackling from his end of the line. "How is it back over there?" 

     "It's not good, man," I said with a sigh. 

     "How was that hot thing Paradise?" Mario asked, not acknowledging my downbeat tone. "You should've brought her out here to Vegas with us. We doing some real orgy shit here--" 

     "Hey, I'm telling you something serious," I interrupted. "You listening?" 

     "Hold on," Mario said. 

     There was a pause as I could hear Mario going from one room playing music to a quieter one -- most likely the hotel bathroom. 

     "Alright, what's up?" Mario asked. 

     "Look, there's been a break in here at the Boss's house. It happened about twenty minutes ago." 

     "No fucking way!" Mario yelled. 

     "Yes. That cunt Paradise fucked me so she can then fuck me by telling some idiots they can do a smash and grab while I'm all alone here." 

     "Oh my God. Are you okay?" Mario's stoned, drunk voice seemed to almost believe he was talking to a ghost. 

     "I'm all good," I assured him. "But here's the thing: I know the manager of the dispensary, Conner, is going to be here in the morning, finding a busted door, and an empty house, because I'm leaving tonight. I won't be here when he arrives." 

     "Why you leaving?" Mario asked, shocked. "What if they come back?" 

     "They won't," I said "They took all of it. When Conner gets here tomorrow, he'll call the Boss in L.A., then the Boss will call you. I want you to tell him that I'm in Vegas with you guys, and that we thought Brandon, or Marcus was suppose to be watching over this place last night, while we were in Vegas." 

     "Why?" Mario asked, confused, not managing to focus, or follow the exact details of my instructions. "I mean, it wasn't your fault." 

     I looked up at the crowbar sticking out of the wall, and said into my cellphone, "Well, I did end up having the upper hand, and I let the morons take the silver bags of weed in the garage." 

     "You let them take all of it!?" Mario yelped in the Vegas hotel bathroom. "All the marijuana's gone?" 

     "No, no," I corrected. "All the really good stuff in silver bags are still locked up under the stairs, and in the closet upstairs. Plus the bag I was trimming at the table in the living room today. Those idiots took all the silver bags in the garage filled with moldy weed. With a bit of luck, they're too stupid to tell the difference between good green bud, and moldy shit that'll probably kill them if they smoke it." 

     There was silence on Mario's end of the line. 

     Hoping he didn't pass out, I said, "So if the Boss believes I wasn't here when the moldy weed was stolen, he won't feel guilty after finding out some college kids died from pneumonia. And with your help, in the Boss's mind, I was participating in your orgy with hookers, or whatever." 

     "Okay," Mario said. "Next time I invite you to party in Vegas, you're coming." 

     "Duly noted," I said. "Now, continue with your orgies, Mr. Eyes Wide Bloodshot." 

     I hung up, then put out the finished cigarette on top of the trimming table. Before going upstair to my room, and packing my things I lit up another cigarette just for the hell of it. 

     "So much for Paradise," I said. 

     

     

     

Appropriate Fame

A nobody like him found fame when he wasn't even looking for it, and it was for a reason he wished never happened. 

     When Raymond slid a copy of the ticket he printed out back at home, the host standing behind the counter asked, "So, no QR code?" 

     Raymond looked at her, confused. He asked, "What's that you say?" 

     The host raised an eyebrow, saying, "Um, it's what people scan with their phones to save time, so they don't have to Google anything." 

     "Isn't Googling stuff saving one's time in the first place?" Raymond asked. 

     The host of The Comedy Storage that evening could tell that Raymond was being genuine; not sarcastic in an attempt to make her either laugh, or comically become perturbed. Raymond Krexler was not a comedian. 

     "Anyways," the host began saying, "I'm just going to scan the QR code, and you're going to take out your driver's license." 

     "Yes, ma'am," Raymond said, taking out his wallet from his jean's pocket, opened it, and found his driver's license. 

     "'Ma'am'," the host of The Comedy Storage repeated as she took Raymond's I.D. and handed the ticket back to him. "Seriously?" 

     "Oh, I'm sorry," Raymond said, flustering nervously. "Are you one of those... um, shit... trans -- in transition to be like the opposite of a man?" 

     The host almost started laughing as she checked Raymond's date of birth on his driver's license. 

     "No, Raymond, I'm all woman from birth to death." 

     "Oh, thank God," Raymond said, folding his ticket, and putting it in his back pocket. "This is my first time in the Hollywood Land environment. I don't want to fuck up things, you know. Plus, your name threw me off." 

     Raymond pointed to the host's name tag pinned to her black t-shirt. He said, "Logan. I forget it's a unisex name." 

     "No worries, Raymond," Logan said, handing him back his I.D. "I know things can be hard for Gen X."

     "Technically, I'm a millennial," Raymond corrected. 

     "Whatever, Raymond. There's a two drink minimum. Alcoholic, or non. Enjoy the show. Welcome to The Comedy Storage, where all the best jokes are found."

     Walking down the hallway leading to the sitting area in the main stage room, Raymond couldn't help but admire all the classic standup comedians depicted in amazing neon lights who started their successful careers at The Comedy Storage. He knew that in a few minutes he'd be sitting by himself at one of the tables before the main stage, laughing and giggling at the next Sam Kinison, Andy Kaufman, or Ellen DeGeneres. But Raymond was not solely at the infamous star making comedy club to hopefully witness the next Dave Chappelle; he wanted to meet the woman of his dreams, a standup comedian who was slowly, but surely on the rise: Leslie Dunkman. 

     Around six months prior to arriving in Los Angeles for a week long vacation, Raymond was eating lunch in the break room at the recycling facility he worked at in Oakland. Before he got to eating the lettuce, tomato, and turkey sandwich his mother had made him, he was browsing through YouTube to watch a video as he ate. He found one titled: Leslie Dunkman On Being dumped. 

     He clicked on it, laid his iPhone on the table, and began eating his sandwich. The footage was amateur; it was filmed with a phone from the very back of the audience. As he listened to Leslie do her bit about being dumped by a fat guy for not having a "beach-bod," Raymond almost choked on the sandwich when he laughed mid-swallow. He put the food down, picked up his cellphone to look closer at Leslie. He fell in love with her right then and there. 

     He later found her Twitter, read her witty tweets, watched the cute and funny skits that she and her friends filmed. All the while Raymond kept his fingers crossed, hoping she was actually single. There was no indication throughout her social media regarding a relationship status with either a boyfriend, or girlfriend. On Twitter she had six thousand followers, while on Instagram she achieved just over fifteen thousand. 

     Raymond saw on Instagram that Leslie would post videos of her part-time work as a tattoo artist. He admired the work she did. So much so that he decided to finally go somewhere on his vacation. Usually he'd do a stay-cation at home back in Oakland, sometimes taking a BART train to San Francisco, and get drunk at a bar he liked called The Riptide on open mid night to watch local musicians impersonate their hippie idols. 

     When he told his coworkers where he'd spend the weeklong vacation, one of them said, "About damn time you take a drive to see some of the world, even if it's in the same damn state." 

     A week later he found himself ordering a Racer Five I.P.A and a shot of Wild Turkey at one of the most infamous Comedy Clubs in the entire world. 

     "Shit, two drinks already?" the bartender said. "You're not depressed about sucking at an audition, are you?" The bartender then turned to pour Raymond's booze. 

     "Audition?" Raymond asked, confused. Then after a moment, he said, "Oh, I get it, you think I'm an actor. No, I'm just a blue-collar worker on vacation. I always order a beer and a shot after work." 

     As the bartender poured the shot of Wild Turkey, he said, "That makes sense. So, where do you hail from, out of state?" 

     "Oakland," Raymond replied, sliding over the his debit card for the drinks. 

     "No shit?" the bartender responded. "I'm from Pinole." 

     "Whoa, cool," Raymond said, lifting his shot glass. "Here's to a small world." 

     "Want an open tab?" 

     Raymond gave the bartender a thumbs up to say, Yes. To the bartender's amazement, Raymond gulped down the Wild Turkey, then washed it down with some of the Racer Five. 

     "Fuck, man, you are blue-collar," the bartender said. "My name's Kevin." He then reached over to shake Raymond's hand. 

     "I'm Raymond." 

     As the two Bay Area fellows greeted one another at the bar, a twenty-something comedian yelled into the mic onstage, "Hey, lovebirds at the bar! Shut the fuck up! I'm bombing up here!" 

     Still holding on to the bartender's hand, Raymond half-turned to look at the stage and people sitting at the tables. There were a few giggles, but it was mostly shocked silence. 

     Raymond raised his hand, and said, "I'm sorry. My bad." 

     The comedian onstage impersonated Raymond in a childlike voice, "'My bad, oh my bad.'" The comedian then continued his bit about giving himself a blow job. 

     His grip still holding Raymond's hand, Kevin steadily pulled him closer to quietly speak in his ear: "Don't take that personally. He does that when he's getting no laughs, and if anybody so happens to be ordering at the bar. Are you cool?" 

     "Oh, yes," Raymond affirmed. "I totally get it." 

     Raymond then -- as stealthily as he could -- walked over and sat at an empty table near the back. He saw the young comedian staring at him as he continued to do a lame bit about being locked inside an outhouse in Finland. He was the only one to laugh before sipping on his beer. 

     When the young comedian was finished onstage, Raymond and some others clapped. Raymond followed the guy with his eyes for a bit until he realized the dude was making his way towards him. 

     "Hey, man," the young man said, "I'm sorry about that. It's what I pull if none of my jokes are landing." 

     "Kevin informed me about that," Raymond said. "Even if that weren't true, I'd still be cool with it. I'm no Will Smith." 

     The young comedian chuckled, saying, "Well, thank you for that. The comedy world needs more people like you. My name's Adam. What's yours?" 

     "Raymond Krexler," Raymond replied, shaking Adam's hand. 

     "Cool name. Look, I want to make it up to you. Come with me to the green room."

     "Really?" Raymond said, shocked. 

     "Yeah, man," Adam assured. "And when you've paid for your second drink, booze is on the house as long as you're back there." 

     "This is my second drink," Raymond said. 

     "That's your second glass of beer already?" Adam asked. 

     "No, my first drink was a shot of Wild Turkey," Raymond informed. 

     "What? Did you have a bad audition earlier today?" 

     As Raymond followed Adam into the green room, the comic announced him as soon as he passed through the threshold: "May I introduce a Sir Raymond Krexler from Oakland, California! Everyone shut up, and say, 'Hello, Raymond!'" 

     A group of around five comedians -- ages ranging from twenty-five to early thirties -- turned to look in Raymond's direction. 

     A young lady Raymond wasn't familiar with, said to Adam, "Fresh meat from the slaughter, dude?" 

     "No, no, Raymond here is just a blue-collar paying customer," Adam informed. 

     Another young comedian, who was finishing a marijuana joint, said to the group, "It's another traumatized tourist, Adam means." 

     "Not again, Adam," a voice familiar to Raymond called out from the open bar. "You need to work on your bits, and you just need to keep your shit together when all remains silent out there." 

     Raymond's eyes brightened at the sight of Leslie Dunkman, and his ears were soothed by the sound of her voice. He hoped no one noticed the sound of his breathing nearly making him gasp with joy. 

     The stoner dubbed out his joint on the bottom of his shoe, and said, "So, Oakland, what you drinking?" 

     "Racer Five," Raymond replied, taking a sip of the beer in his hand. 

     "No," the stoned comedian said, "what do you want a shot of? I'm sure Adam told you it's complimentary." 

     "Wild Turkey, then," Raymond said. 

     Everyone in the room, except for Adam, gasped. Some of the other ladies placing a hand over their chest to emphasize the shock. 

     "Damn, Adam," the stoner blurted. 

     "What the fuck did you say to this poor man, Adam?" Leslie asked. 

     "What?" Adam basically whined. "It was the usual. My voice started echoing back from over those sheep about to fall asleep, and Raymond here so happened to just come in, and actually was talking to Kevin at the bar." 

     "Kevin did explain it to me almost immediately," Raymond said. "It's all good. I'm cool. I just love Wild Turkey." 

     "Well, okay then, come with me over to the bar," Leslie said, beckoning him to join her. 

     Smiling brightly, Raymond said, "Certainly. I'm thirsting to down another one." 

     As Raymond came up to the small corner bar, Leslie was popping open a fresh new bottle of the bourbon. He knew why she had to open a new one, so that was the subject of conversation he started with in speaking to the girl of his dreams. 

     "I see there are never any Wild Turkey drinkers back here," he said, as Leslie filled two shot glasses. 

     "Yeah, every newbie wants to be levelheaded before going up," Leslie said, handing Raymond the full shot glass. "Except for Steven over there." She pointed at the stoner who spoke to Raymond earlier. She continued, "He's high on weed after doing a few lines in the bathroom." 

     Raymond looked over at Steven standing in the short hallway leading out of the green room. He saw Steven hopping up and down, sizing himself up as if he were about to run the hundred yard dash for Olympic gold. 

     "I'm breaking both legs," Steven yelled to everyone. "See you at the E.R. later." He then was gone as Raymond heard the high comedian being announced on the main stage. 

     "He's at least funnier than Adam," Leslie said. 

     "Hey, that hurts," Adam said, sitting on one of the couches. 

     Leslie told him to grow a pear, and write better jokes. She then raised her shot glass, and said to Raymond, "Here's to real talent." 

     Raymond raised his own shot glass level with Leslie's, and said, "To your talent." 

     They both downed the bourbon. Raymond chased it down by gulping the rest of his beer. Leslie couldn't help but stare at him doing so as she chased down the bourbon's burn with bottled water. 

     "Goddamn, dude," Leslie said. "You are truly blue-collar. Are you in construction?" 

     "No," Raymond replied. "I sort through recycling on a moving conveyer belt. Separate the paper from the plastic. Unscrew the bottle caps, etc. etc." 

     "Do you like it?" Leslie asked, pouring bourbon into the shot glasses once again. 

     "Thank you," Raymond said, gesturing at the new shot of Wild Turkey coming his way. "Yeah, I like it. Once you get past the nasty smell, and the mundane boredom of the job, the eight hour shifts wiz by like nothing. Though it took a while to not drink and smoke weed on the job every once in a while."

     Leslie giggled. She then asked a fairly common question of any kind of tourist, "What brings you out here to La La Land?" 

     The booze Raymond had ingested since being in The Comedy Storage was about to make him honest for once. They don't call it liquid courage for nothing. 

     "For you," Raymond said. 

     "What?" Leslie uttered. 

     "I wanted to spend my first vacation away from home to come see you here perform onstage," Raymond said, his eyes becoming hazy from inebriation. He couldn't wait for his next shot. He continued, "Never thought I'd be lucky enough to be back here actually talking face to face like this. I've never been so lucky. Like ever." 

     Leslie's expression went blank at first, then a look of concern formed, almost like worry and fear. 

     "I recognize you," Leslie said. "You liked all my Instagram posts." 

     "Of course I did," Raymond said, chuckling. "I'm your biggest fan." 

     Leslie hastily walked around Raymond, making a beeline straight out of the green room. 

     "Hey, where are you going?" Adam asked. 

     "We didn't drink our second round Wild Turkey shots yet," Raymond said. 

     "The fuck you think I'm going, the bathroom," Leslie said, not looking at anyone else in the room before disappearing. 

     "Must be a number two poo poo," Adam said. "Yo, Raymond, come sit on the couch with Stacie and I. She wants you to regale her on why people up in the Bay Area say, 'Hella' all the time." 

     Answering such a query from a Southern Californian wasn't the first time for Raymond; one of his supervisors at his job was from Los Angeles, always asking about the local vernacular. He decided to drink the two shots Leslie had left behind. He then moved over to sit on the couch between Adam and Stacie. 

     "What exactly does saying 'hella' actually quantify?" Stacie asked. 

     Before he could give her an answer a large man entered the green room. He yelled, "Where's this Raymond?" 

     A female comedian Raymond had not been formerly introduced to pointed him out for the big guy. 

     "That's Travis, the head of the bouncers around these parts," Adam told Raymond. "Hey, Trav, this here Raymond is from your neck of the woods up in--" 

     Travis quickly went up to Raymond, looking down at him sitting on the couch, he asked, "What are you doing back here?" 

     "Yo, Trav, I--," Adam began to say. 

     Travis put a hand up to Adam's face to shut him up. He said, "I'm only talking to Cathy Bates here. I'll ask gain: What the fuck are you doing here?" 

     "Um, I came to see the show," Raymond said. "It's my first time in L.A. -- "

     "Back here, in the green room," Travis interrupted. "Why are you in here?" 

     The room was silent. Raymond observed everyone's confused expressions for a moment. 

     "Adam invited me to hangout," Raymond said. 

     "You've made Leslie uncomfortable," Travis said. "You got to leave the premises." 

     "Look, I didn't -- " Raymond attempted to say before -- to everyone else's shock -- Travis bent down, hooked his arm under Raymond's left armpit, picked him off of the couch, causing Adam to spill his drink, and hastily dragged Raymond out of the green room. Raymond attempted to physically protest, but Travis tightened his hold on him, hurting his shoulder. 

     "Fuck, man, that hurt!" Raymond yelped. 

     "Good," Travis said as they emerged into view of the crowd near the bar. "It's what a stalker like you deserves." 

     "Stalker?" Raymond said, shocked. "I ain't a fucking stalker, yo." 

     Raymond attempted to walk upright, but Travis was relentless, holding him down. It caused Raymond to knock into the very table he had been sitting at when Adam walked up to him. 

     "Try that again, and I'll knock you out," Travis yelled. 

     This caused all the people in the audience to turn their heads toward the commotion. They only got the tail end of it as Travis continued to drag Raymond toward the outside patio for smoking instead of the entrance he had come in through earlier when he gave his ticket to Logan. 

     As Travis was pulling the stumbling Raymond through the empty patio, Raymond said, "Look, sir, there's a simple misunderstanding. I was here just to see the show, nothing -- " 

     Travis got Raymond to the patio entrance, and threw him on the concrete sidewalk. 

     "-- nefarious," Raymond yelped as he hit the ground. 

     "Not only are you eighty-sixed, you're banned from ever entering this place again," Travis said. "You're cancelled, bitch." 

     As Raymond slowly got up to his feet, he said, "How could I be cancelled if I'm not even a fucking celebrity?" He started to laugh. 

     "You being smart, you bitch?" Travis stepped toward Raymond, and pushed him off his feet. 

     Raymond fell backward onto the pavement in between two parked cars. He cursed in pain. 

     Travis pointed down at him, and said, "No incels allowed in here, boy." He then turned around to go back in the building. 

     "Wait," Raymond called out, still laying on the pavement, "my debit card. Kevin still has it." 

     Travis turned back around, and said, "Your ass pays for two drinks from the bar, and four drinks from the green room." 

     "That's fine," Raymond said. 

     "Plus the eighteen percent gratuity for --"

     Travis was interrupted when -- from out of Raymond's view, due to lying between the two parked cars -- loud gunfire erupted. Three bullets in total hit Travis: two in the chest, one right in the gut. He fell to the sidewalk on his back. 

     When the shooter came near to the entrance of the patio, he looked down at Travis laying on the concrete, dying. He decided not to put another AR-15 bullet in Travis again; the bouncer was finished. He looked over between the two parked cars where he saw Travis push Raymond toward. He did not see anyone laying on the pavement. The shooter figured the fallen man had run off like a coward, so, decked out all in black like a member of a police SWAT Team without the helmet, the murderer turned toward to go inside The Comedy Storage, and continue his killing spree. As he passed the railings, he saw the patio bartender simply standing behind the counter, shaking, too shocked and horrified to move. The shooter took aim on the deathly pale bartender, but before he could shoot the AR-15 he was bum-rushed, his body slammed into the wall. 

     It was Raymond. After the shooter bounced off the wall he turned to Raymond, and raised his gun to shoot him. Raymond slapped the barrel of the gun with his hand. It went off, the bullet hitting the ground. The shooter raised it again, and this time Raymond gripped the hot barrel with his other hand, lifted it up above his head. The gun went off one last time, with the bullet going into the ceiling. 

     "Not tonight, bitch!" Raymond yelled. He then punched the shooter in the left cheek. 

     The shooter lost hold of the gun when Raymond's hard fist caused his head to hit the wall. Raymond got hold of the rifle with both his hands, turned it sideways, pulled it close to him, then slammed the center of it across the shooter's throat. The shooter, who hadn't said a word since before murdering Travis, looked at Raymond in the eyes, his teeth bared like a rabid dog desperately wanting to bite any kind of flesh near it. 

     Raymond, his forehead dripping with sweat, stared right back at the shooter's hateful eyes, and said, "You're not taking her away from me." 

     As fast as he could, Raymond pulled back the gun, and slammed it right into the shooter's throat. This caused the shooter's raging, contorted face to turn into a fish out of water. His jaw dropped. Raymond knew he broke the bastard's windpipe. When he released the rifle from pressing against the shooter's neck, he immediately heard the heaving sound of oxygen barely making it to the idiot's lungs. 

     "Drowning on land rather sucks, don't it, shithead?" Raymond said, then grabbed the shooter by his collar and, as hard as he could, pulled the choking man and threw him on the ground behind him. The shooter's hands went to his throat after hitting the ground. 

     "So you think you can turn a laugh factory of happiness and joy into a slaughter house of screams and horror," Raymond said, moving closer to the shooter laying on the ground, ejecting the rifle's magazine, and popping out the last round from the chamber, letting them bounce on the ground. Standing over the heaving shooter, Raymond, his hands gripping the AR-15's barrel and grip, raised the murder machine over his head like a baseball bat, he said, "This is how you really use a gun this big." 

     He began hitting the shooter hard: Once in the left leg, then twice in the stomach. This made the shooter turn on his stomach in pain, trying to crawl away. Raymond hit him three times in the back. This made the shooter turn back around, giving up, and laying on his back. He looked up at Raymond, tears in his eyes, his lungs desperate for a full breath of air. 

     Raymond tossed away the rifle, put a finger behind his right ear, and asked, "What's that you said? Oh, that's right. You can't talk. I'll make sure you're never able to speak again." 

     Raymond stepped right onto the shooter's throat, and crushed any chance of the killer ever breathing fresh air again. Raymond failed to notice the shooter reaching for a semi-automatic handgun he had in a holster at his hip. In his last moments of life he raised it, and blindly fired once.

     "AW! SHIT!" Raymond screamed. "My ASS!" 

     In utter shock, Raymond fell to the ground of the patio, cursing in frustration at the fact he didn't notice the shooter's handgun as he was beating him with the rifle. Raymond, breathing heavily in agony at the pain coming from his right butt cheek, he looked over to the shooter holding the handgun with a twitching grip, still aimed at the ceiling. Raymond watched the murderer's last moments on Earth. 

     A year and a half later Raymond attended the red carpet for the film premiere of Comedy's Guardian, which was about the murder of Travis on that terrible night at The Comedy Storage. As he nervously walked in front of photographers, and spoke with entertainment reporters, Logan held his hand, and at times, put an arm around Raymond's shivering shoulder's. When she'd kiss him on the cheek, she would whisper in his ear, "You're doing good. Just be yourself. Everyone likes you." 

     All the comedians who were at The Comedy Storage the night Raymond saved them found some kind of fame. Logan had just filmed a standup special for Netflix. Raymond had written a few jokes for her, but he didn't know if they made the final cut. The two had been dating since reconnecting on the set of the movie when Raymond and her were consulting the actors playing them. 

     The first day Raymond was on the film set, Leslie Dunkman -- who actually was playing herself in the film -- attempted to approach him, and thank him for saving her life. He turned his back on her in front of the entire film crew, and never said a word to her since that terrible night Travis was murdered by some kind of monster. 

     It was because Leslie was the girl of his dreams. Raymond made sure to keep it that way. 

     

     

     

Henry's Secret

Chris Hagen's eyes were on Henry Cowart as soon as he entered Mondo's Restaurant, because Chris was facing the entrance while sitting at a booth. Chris had waited patiently for almost a full half-hour. And even though the two had never met in the flesh before that moment, these two strangers could put each other's name to the right face. 

     Chris raised his arm to wave at Henry, saying, "Hello, Mr. Cowart?" 

     With an affable grin, Henry walked over to the booth. Chris stood up, and shook Henry's hand. 

     "It's great to finally meet you, sir," Chris said. 

     "Call me Henry, please," Henry said, letting go of Chris' friendly grip. 

     "All right, cool. Please, sit down, and let's eat." Chris gestured to the seat opposite to where he had been sitting. 

     Henry took off the hiking backpack he was wearing, placed it on the booth's seat, leaning it against the restaurant's wall beside them. After sitting down, he said to Chris, "I'm sorry about being late. The clock's alarm in the hotel room didn't work this morning." 

     "That's okay," Chris said, waving his hand. "Your apology is quite unnecessary." 

     "It's just that I feel bad about it, being that we're doing this thing for your uncle." 

     "Nah, none of that," Chris told him. "You're here. And the day isn't lost. So let's eat before we do this." Chris beckoned for the waiter to take their order. "You know what you want to eat?" 

     Henry looked down at the menu laying on the table before him, browsed the burger selection, finding exactly what he wanted right when the waiter got to their table. 

     When the waiter walked away with their order written on the note pad in one hand, and the menus in the other, Chris asked Henry: "So, you're a vegetarian?" 

     "No," Henry said, "I'm actually a vegan. Why do you ask? Are you one of those meat-eaters that can't understand how one cannot eat non-living food?" 

     "Oh no, no," Chris said, almost stuttering in nervousness. "I didn't mean to sound like an ass." 

     "No, man," Henry said, holding up his hand, and smiling a bit. "I'm just fucking with you. Yes, I'm vegan. And if the cook forgets to not include the cheese in the veggie burger, I'll just scrape it off." 

     "The thing is that my uncle was extremely health conscious before he left this world," Chris informed. "Years before he died. Even after he got appendicitis like that one actor when he switched to just eating fruits and vegetables way too fast." 

     "That happens a lot, you know," Henry informed. "People should do the research before becoming a vegan. They've got to ease their body into it." 

     Henry put up his index finger in front of Chris' face to emphasize what he said next: "It can be dangerous to eat healthy." 

     Chris let out a cackle loud enough for other patron's in the restaurant to turn and look in his direction. Noticing the slight commotion he caused, Chris immediately covered his mouth. Henry simply giggled. 

     Ten minutes later their burgers and french fries arrived to the booth. As they ate, neither of them said a word until the plates were empty. 

     "You know, last night I was wondering," Henry began to say. 

     "Yes?" Chris asked. 

     "I was going to text you my question, but felt more comfortable asking you in person." 

     "Shoot," Chris said. "I'm comfortable answering any of your questions. Just not anything regarding what my social security number is, my credit cards, or passwords." 

     "And I would expect the same by you, being that we're strangers, Chris. That brings me to exactly what I was wondering. You stated on Twitter that your uncle requested in his will that his ashes be scattered near Doubtful Lake by you, and a complete stranger. Why a complete stranger?" 

     "I've asked myself the same question, as well as my entire family," Chris said. "The thing is, he and I spent a lot of time together while I grew up. He'd always come around to visit his sister -- my mom -- and he'd hang out with me all the time. He was like a second father to me." 

     "Oh, I see," Henry said. "He didn't have a family of his own?" 

     "No, he never succeeded in getting a wife," Chris said. "Though he came close a few times. And to further elaborate on your original question, I think he felt that I didn't get out much, and not have many friends. You know, I have friends. Not many. I don't see them all the time. It's because I am more of a homebody." 

     "Well, you can now say you have a new friend, Chris," Henry said. 

     There was a moment of silence as Chris stared at him blankly. He then grinned. 

     "Time will tell," he said to Henry. "There are no guarantees in life. That's what my uncle taught me, anyways." 

     "What was your uncle's name, by the way?" Henry asked. 

     "Oh yeah," Chris said, smiling and shaking his head for a moment. "That's right. I never told you his name. Um, I'll tell you when we get to Doubtful Lake." 

     "That makes sense," Henry said. "It would do him a better honor." 

     "Thank you," Chris said. 

     Chris paid the bill before they both walked outside to the parking lot. 

     "Want me to follow you to the Cascade Pass Trailhead in my own car?" Henry asked. 

     "No," Chris replied. "I'll drive us both in my car." 

     "You've got a nice looking vehicle there," Henry commented as he followed Chris to a white four-door car. 

     "Thanks. You can put your backpack in the backseat. Hope you got plenty of water in there." 

     After making himself comfortable in the passenger seat, Henry looked at the backseat as he put on his seatbelt. 

     "Where's your backpack?" Henry asked. 

     Chris started the car's engine, and said, "In the trunk." 

     "Is your uncle's ashes in the trunk too?" 

     "Yes, in the backpack." 

     Chris drove his car out of Mondo's Restaurant parking lot, and got onto Cascade River Road going east toward the Trailhead. 

     A few miles down the road, Chris pointed to a sign that said: Gilbert's Cabin: One Mile. 

     "You see that?" Chris asked. 

     "Yeah. It says we're about to pass Gilbert's Cabin. Do you want to stop and see it, or something?" 

     "No. I've already been up there to see it. I was surprised the place was still in good condition. I learned people volunteered to clear out the shrubbery surrounding the path that leads up to it." 

     "I'm surprised no one bought the place to live in it," Henry said. 

     "It's in no condition to be a place of shelter. It has no doors, no glass where the windows are suppose to be. Just a hundred-forty year old cabin with a layer of dirt inside for a floor. Though the fire place still stands right in the middle of the small building. You know, it makes me think." 

     "Like what?" Henry asked. 

     "A place that old, that empty," Chris began to say, then his voice faded away to silence. 

     "What?" Henry asked.

     "Huh," Chris uttered. 

     "I believe you were making some point," Henry reminded. 

     "Oh, yeah," Chris said, almost as if coming out of a daydream. "Secrets. Even though Gilbert's Cabin is completely empty, it still has its secrets." 

     They both remained quiet until Chris drove to the end of Cascade River Road where the parking lot for the Cascade Pass Trailhead was. The end of the road for cars was the beginning of the path for hikers. 

     "There aren't any other cars parked here," Henry observed. 

     As Chris parked his car nearest to the entrance of the hiking trail, he said, "That's because it's in between holiday seasons right now, and if there is anyone hiking up there now probably took an Uber ride here." 

     "Wow, I'm shocked there are Uber drivers even out here in the area," Henry said, getting out of the car. 

     "Uber's everywhere, my man," Chris said, closing the car door, then walking toward the car's trunk. He pressed a button on his car's remote door opener, popping open the trunk, and leaned in to get the backpack with his uncle's ashes inside it. 

     Henry hung his own backpack over his shoulders, and said, "So, he's really in there, huh?" 

     Without looking at Henry, Chris said, "Yes. And he will soon repent and finally be at peace." Chris closed the trunk, then headed to the Trailhead hiking path without looking at Henry. 

     As Henry followed Chris on the hiking trail to their final destination near Doubtful Lake, neither of them said a word until they got to the spot Chris had picked to spread his uncle's ashes. Henry felt it more appropriate to not say anything unless Chris spoke. 

     When Doubtful Lake came into view, Chris came to a complete stop. Henry stayed a few feet behind him, and thought he'd only stand beside Chris if he requested. For a minute Chris remained unmoved as he gazed at the lake just down the hill to its calm shore. 

     "Here we are, Uncle Patrick," Chris said, as he took off his backpack, placing it on the ground at his feet. He bend down, zipped open the backpack, and reached inside. 

     Henry quietly took off his own backpack, placed it on the ground at his feet, then looked around. As far as he could tell, they were the only two people present in the immediate vicinity, along with Uncle Patrick's ashes. 

     Chris took out the silver urn from the backpack with both hands. He lifted it before his eyes. On the urn's reflective surface he could see Henry getting on one knee beside his backpack. 

     "Thank you for kneeling, Henry," Chris said into the reflection. 

     Henry looked up at Chris, and said, "Oh, um, I was just getting some water." 

     "Well, it's honorable and appropriate you do so, irregardless," Chris said, smiling, a tear rolling down his cheek. "Because I'm grateful you came. A complete stranger as my Uncle Patrick requested." 

     Chris' gaze went back to Doubtful Lake, and held the urn closer to his chest. 

     He began to say, "You asked earlier about the reason he requested in his will for a stranger to be present at the spreading of his ashes. It's because he wanted me to ask you to forgive him, if you had it in your heart, that is." 

     "Forgive him for what?" Henry asked. 

     Chris heard Henry zipping open his backpack behind him, and the sound of his hands reaching inside it. 

     "The man in my arms right now was serial killer Patrick Herckman," Chris said, more tears flowing from his eyes. "I didn't know that fact until the trial. The evidence was overwhelming, and he deserved to be put to death two months ago. It destroyed my family. Not as bad as the families of his victims, but destroyed us nonetheless. Decide whether you forgive him, or not in silence as I spread his ashes here at Doubtful Lake. You, Henry Cowart, a complete stranger must fulfill my Uncle's final wishes by simply--"

     Chris was interrupted by Henry, who walked up right behind him as he was talking: "My real name's not Henry Cowart, and I'm no stranger to Patrick." 

     The gun in Henry's gloved hand went off, blasting the bullet into Chris' right temple. Chris fell to the ground, his last heartbeats streaming out the blood from the bullet hole. The urn holding Uncle Patrick's rolled away from Chris' body, the lid open, spilling some of the ashes onto the dirt and rocks of the hiking path. 

     Henry bent down to place the unregistered handgun into the palm of Chris' limp right hand. He raised back up, turned in a complete circle to observe the quiet, empty area, then looked back down at the dead body of Chris. 

     "Two lives for the many lives taken by your insane, sick, disgusting dear old Uncle fucking Patrick," Henry said. "Here's a secret for you, stupid. Even though she chose my brother over me, I loved her enough to risk my freedom and avenge her rape, and murder by the hands of that demon." 

     Before picking up his backpack and heading to the parking lot, Henry grabbed Chris' car keys from the dead man's pocket. After wiping down the passenger side of the car Chris drove, he tossed the keys into the bushes to make it seem like Chris committed suicide while holding his serial killer Uncle's ashes. He then got himself an Uber to drive him straight to the hotel. He was late to the restaurant that morning, because he walked by foot from the hotel instead of driving, so he did not have to go back there for someone to maybe remember his face. 

     Chris Hagen's body was found a day later. Law Enforcement immediately suspected foul play, but in the attempt of finding the DNA of Chris' possible murderer, they realized that Chris Hagen's own DNA matched semen found inside one of Patrick Herckman's victims after recovering the body five years earlier. Further investigation revealed that skin samples under another female victim's nails were matched to Chris as well. Revealing the secret that he was Patrick Herckman's mysterious family accomplice they had been looking for. The terrible revelation was that the authorities never suspected the nephew, meaning they didn't check everyone. 

     Henry's secret was safe with what ashes were left near Doubtful Lake.