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

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

The Crazy between Us(Lovebird Reunion)

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


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

The Crazy between Us (Wannabe Cochran)

The nightmare was not over. Gilbert couldn’t wake himself up. This whole scene was too disorienting to be of the real world. Sitting in the prison cell alone all he had to look at was the white brick walls, the gray cement floor, the stainless steal toilet beside the stainless steal sink, and listening to that fucking annoying sound fluorescent lights make went there you’re alone in a room with no other sounds to drown it out. Gilbert thought to himself that if this were real, he’d find a way to kill himself, but of course there was a camera on the ceiling in the corner of the cell watching his every move.
    He had not yet been appointed legal representation, but they did allow him a phone call, which he assumed was being recorded, of course. There was only one person on the outside that he thought could help him. Blair was not that person. It was another lady in Gilbert’s life that avoided talking to him. He hoped this person would make an exception because family is the most important thing all people need to survive. Right?
    Gilbert was escorted into a room with pay phones on all sides of the room. He sat on a bench before a phone. He turned to the corrections officer who escorted him.
    “Do you have some quarters, man?” Gilbert asked. “I don’t have money.”
    The officer scoffed, then said, “The calls free, dumb-ass.” He closed the door.
    “Why are people so rude to me?” Gilbert said aloud to himself. “What have I done to deserve this?”
    “Excuse me, I’m on the phone here. Shut up.”
    Gilbert looked around and saw another prisoner on the other side of the room, looking at him angrily.
    “Sorry, man,” Gilbert whispered.
    “See you in the showers, bitch,” the man said, then went back to his conversation on the phone.
    Just what I need, Gilbert thought. Can it get any worse?
    Then he realized he was about to call his sister, and he immediately wanted to take the phone cord and choke himself.
    The phone on the other line rang five times before it was finally answered.
    “Hello,” Gilbert’s sister said, her tone amiable.
    “Hello, Veronica, it’s Gilbert. How are you doing? It’s been a long time. Great to hear your voice. How’s your family? I bet you’re on top of the world.” He had to get as much in with the niceties as possible before Veronica hung up on him.
    “You motherfucker,” Veronica snapped into his ear. “I didn’t expect to get a call from you. What the fuck have you got yourself into now? You’re on the news for killing those poor college kids in California.”
    “How could I when I live in fucking Oregon, Veronica?”
    “Don’t get smart with me, little bastard. I’ll hang up this damn phone.”
    “Okay, sorry. I’m just going through Hell right now. I don’t know what to do. I’m at a loss. Look, I’m not being charged with the murders, I’m being charged as an accessory to the murders. I need help, Veronica. Please. You’re the only one.”
    “How the fuck you expect me to help?”
    “Your husband’s a lawyer, woman. I need his assistance. So if you just ask him if he can-.”
    “He’s a divorce lawyer, he doesn’t do murder cases. Never has. Ever.”
    “Can he make an exception? I can’t pay for a lawyer of my own.”
    “No,” she answered with no hint of reconsidering. Her decisions were usually final and unwavering.
    “Can you at least ask him?”
    “I don’t want Larry involved in whatever you’re involved in.”
    “I’m not involved in anything,” Gilbert said loudly in the phone. “I don’t know how my incarceration is in any way justifiable, or even legal.”
    The other prisoner shushed, then said, “Mothafucka’, what did I say?”
    Gilbert held the phone receiver away from his face, turned to look at the other prisoner, and shot him a look that he didn’t expect from Gilbert.
    “When we’re in the shower’s, I’m gonna shove a fresh soap up your ass, faggot!” Gilbert proclaimed.    “Now, would you be kind enough as to not interrupt me while I’m on the fucking phone.”
    “Damn,” the other prisoner said, “I’m just sayin’.” He then went on to sweet-talking his mother.
    Gilbert put the phone receiver back to his ear.
    “Sorry about that, Veronica,” he said.
    “Whatever,” Veronica said not caring.
    “Look, you’re the only one I’ve got. My only family. Mom and Dad are gone.”
    “What about Blair and her family? Maybe one of her cousins is a lawyer.”
    “Blair left. I don’t know why she left, or where she went. She hasn’t answered my calls. FBI agents said she hasn’t even answered their calls.”
    “That’s too bad.” Veronica continued to be disinterested in his woe.
    “Can you at least be here for me. For support.”
    “No,” she said, then hung up the phone.
    The silence was like death to Gilbert. He screamed, slammed the phone receiver into the phone on the wall until it broke in half, then roared the word ‘fuck’ as loud and for as long as he could. His head dropped. Tears fell onto his orange prison outfit like a broken faucet.
    A hand went on his shoulder. He looked up to see the other prisoner looking down at him with compassionate eyes.
    “You okay, man?” he asked Gilbert.
    “No. I’m dead.”
    A day later, still without legal representation, Gilbert was transferred by bus to San Luis Obispo County, California where the college town Shaker Krista was located. He had been to California only twice with his family when he was a kid. The only place they visited was Disneyland, never anywhere else. He had wanted to take a trip to San Francisco, but he never managed to save up enough money. The chances of ever seeing the great city were slim at this point of his life. He didn’t believe he’ll still have his job in Eugene when this event ends — if he ever’s able to go back, that is. He was the only prisoner on the bus, which didn’t make him feel special. The drive was dreary and mentally weary. Nothing but moving land passing by. He felt nothing. The spirit draining from him.
    After the almost twelve hour trip, the bus neared the jail where Gilbert was to be held during the trial, he noticed a crowd of people lining both sides of the road leading to the building. He saw people holding up signs. One said: “It’s not your fault.” Another said: “How could you let it happen?” The one that was the strangest to Gilbert, a sign shaped like a heart, being held up by a young woman said: “You’re HOT! I’ll be your Blair!”
    “Your fans, kid,” said the corrections officer holding a shotgun behind the gate, giggling. “You got ones that hate you, love you, and want to fuck you.”
    “A world gone mad,” Gilbert muttered to himself.
    A few hours after settling into his holding cell, Gilbert was then escorted to a room where he finally met with his legal council. What he expected was a poorly paid, cheap-suit wearing, super-caffeinated dude who didn’t have the time to shave that morning. So Gilbert sat at a table, handcuffed, without hope, a corrections officer standing in the corner. The door opened. A tubby blond white man, cleaned-shaven, wearing a dark blue suit with a red tie, a handkerchief in his outside breast-pocket, and holding a black briefcase, walked through the threshold.
    He pointed to Gilbert, then looked up at the corrections officer.
    “This is a consultation,” the tubby man said with a hint of a Texas accent. “Why is my client handcuffed?” Before the officer could say a word. “Take off his cuffs, and leave. I need to speak with my client privately. You know the drill.”
    The corrections officer unlocked Gilbert’s cuffs.
    “Thanks, man,” Gilbert said.
    “Don’t be polite to him,” the tubby man almost demanded. “To treat you like this is inhumane.” He waved at the officer. “Goodbye now. Call you when we’re done.”
    The corrections officer left the room without looking or saying a word.
    The tubby lawyer placed his briefcase on the table, then reached his hand to Gilbert.
    “Hello there, my unfortunate friend, my name’s Allen Johnson, attorney at law,” he said.
    Gilbert shook the man’s hand. Mr. Johnson shook with a stiff, stern grip as if the man met his idol. For a second Gilbert’s limp arm felt as if it were being handled like a whip.
    “Damn, Mr. Johnson,” Gilbert said, “I’m gonna need arm later.”
    Mr. Johnson released his grip, then held his hands up.
    “Sorry about that,” he said. “I just can’t suppress the excitement of finally meeting you. And please, do call me Allen.”
    “I’m sorry to say, Allen, due to my predicament, the feelings not mutual. You don’t look like you work for the State.”
    “That’s because, Gilbert, I am not court appointment. I specialize in cases that involve the violations of civil liberties. I do work for the L.O.L., who have assigned me to your case.”
    “The what?” Gilbert asked, bewildered. “The Laugh Out Louds? Oh dear God, I must be in Hell. I’ve seriously died and gone straight to Hell.”
    “It stands for: League of Liberty. And no, you’re not in Hell, you’re still in California. And what is happening to you is not only hellish, it is inconceivable, intolerable, unconstitutional, and worst of all, tyrannical.”
    “You sound like Johnny Cochran.”
    “That man is my idol,” Allen said, holding up a hand and looking at something that wasn’t there with wide eyes. “I have a poster of him on the wall in my office behind my desk. The first thing people see when they enter the room. Mr. Vergo, have you watched the television this week at all?”
    “No.”
    “The media coverage on your case hasn’t been this big since the O.J. Simpson trial. TMZ is talking about you, and you’re not even a celebrity. The video of you being put in the back of the police car has gone viral, and almost plays nonstop when they talk about you on the news networks.”
    “You’re talking about it like it’s a good thing,” Gilbert said, unimpressed. “And even mentioning the Simpson trial makes me feel more hopeless.”

Ultra-tripleX Vlog# 9: Omnia Vanitas
“Hey there, my one and only viewer, thanks for watching and listening. Please do share my videos with friends and loved ones. I, Ultra-tripleX, need the exposure like everyone else who has something to say about the world. Everyone wants attention. When we’re children, we love the attention we get from our mothers, then our fathers, then eventually almost anyone we meet on the journey through life, then finally from a significant other. It’s the one and only act of selfishness all look upon as tolerable. The one thing I desire most in my adult life is the love and attention of a woman, which I have yet to succeed in obtaining. I think I’d prefer a lady with different interests to my own because if I were to spend the rest of my life with someone who lived and thought like me, then the relationship may become stale and boring. No one wants that. Much like my preferable, ideal woman, I want my youtube audience to consist of the people part of the majority in civilization. Those people I view as (makes quote signs with fingers) ‘Eyes wide, but blind,’ due to their narrow minded understanding about how the world is. It’s not totally their fault; they were just raised that way. The environment molded their thoughts into being in a permanent state of misunderstanding. I’d like to think my videos can help them achieve a certain enlightenment, (chuckles) a kind of windshield wiper to bring them clarity. Is it selfish of me? Maybe. But the so called(makes quote signs with fingers again) ‘normal’ society of this age seems simply abnormal to people like me. You see, people like me have minds that contain ideals, thoughts, and beliefs which are incomparable to that of the majority’s. We are not here to hate you, nor love you, we are here to help you. Yes, I am envious of the popular youtube channels who acquire thousands to millions of views because I (points index finger at face) have something to say, something all who can understand my words needs to hear. It’s not that I see myself as a prophet, but an informer. And my words do not come from a higher power — I don’t believe in deities — but from my own mind based on my observations of the human species. Now, I admit I’m nobody special, and if you hate what I say, by all means go someplace else and waste your time watching cats shit on piano keys. I know most will not take me seriously because, you know, I’m a garbage man. I’m not embarrassed to admit it — it pays my bills, feeds me, and most of all, keeps me talking, keeps me expressing myself. It’s getting late. I got to go to bed. Like, subscribe if you want, and see you later.”

Allen Johnson paced around the room while he spoke to Gilbert, never sitting down in the chair, and sometimes stopping directly behind him, pontificating the words he said.
    “I have not yet seen the evidence the prosecution has against you, which was provided to them by the FBI, and I assume, other federal agencies,” Allen said.
    “Like what other agencies?” Gilbert asked.
    “The NSA, of course. And maybe with the help from factions within the CIA.”
Gilbert craned his neck to look at Allen in bewilderment, but only managed to get the lawyer just right within his peripheral.
    “Doesn’t that sound a little paranoid, man?” Gilbert asked. “A bit of an over-exaggeration?” Then he said, “Wait, I’ve been incarcerated for simply watching a fucking youtube video. Never mind. You don’t have to answer those questions.”
    “They will call you ‘paranoid,’ they will question your mental state, your mental history, any criminal record. Fuck, they will even look into how many times you watched, and jerked off to porno. And, Gilbert, they will say and do the exact same thing to me.”
    “You’re talking about the persecution, right?”
    “Not only them, sir, but everyone else out there in the media and it’s audience,” Allen said, now leaning forward with one hand on the table, a finger pointing to the wall.
    “Didn’t Johnny Cochran at least make O.J. Simpson feel better during their meetings?” Gilbert asked.     “Because you’re failing at it right now with me.”
    “I’m just telling you the truth, Mr. Vergo. And the truth is a bitch loves you for a few years, then divorces you, and takes the house, kids, car, and eighty percent of your paycheck.”
    “Huh?” Gilbert uttered, confused, his mouth agape.
    Allen Johnson stood straight up, and began to pace the room again. This time he was sure to be in full view before Gilbert.
    “Gilbert, you do know what the Patriot Act is, do you?”
    “Yeah, I know about it.”
    “There’s something in it called ‘Section 215,’ sometimes referred to as ‘Hunting down the Lone Wolf.’ It stipulates that government agencies can spy on people suspected of planning to commit terrorist acts, or anything similar. And the person spied on doesn’t have to fit the definition of an actual terrorist. It basically gives legitimacy for monitoring American Citizens, invading the constitutional right to privacy.”
    “What does that have to do with my situation?” Gilbert asked, raising his hands, palms facing the ceiling, then dropped them back on the table with a solid thud. “If they detained me for being an accessory to a terrorist act, then don’t you think I wouldn’t be here, but at Guantanamo Bay? I’d be the only non-muslim.”
    “Now, this is only an assumption,” Allen began to say, “but I think you’re being made an example of simply being associated with the shooter — what’s his name? Oh, Ultra-tripleX. That’s what the media’s calling him. They’re not even using his real name when they talk about him. So fucking sick. Anyways, the Patriot Act expired this past summer.”
    “Cool, then they have no legal legitimacy to charge me as an accessory.”
    “Well,” Allen said, rubbing his turkey neck, “it was renewed, with a majority vote by congress, and signed by President Obama. It’s referred to now as ‘The Freedom Act.’ The only thing both the Liberals and Conservatives agree on is protecting the people from terrorism by taking their liberties away.”
    “Why do they give ‘em those democratic names?” Gilbert said, dropping his hands on the table again.    “They should just call it ‘The Nazi Act,’ for fuck sake. I mean, I simply clicked a mouse, and now I’m here for helping kill a bunch of people in a city I’ve never been to before.”
    Allen finally slid the chair from under the table, and sat in it. He opened his briefcase, took out a blank legal pad, and retrieved a gold pen from his jacket pocket.
    “All right,” he said, writing down something on the legal pad, “let’s get down to business. So what happened after you were detained and booked?”
    “I was questioned by two FBI guys.”
    “How did you know they were FBI agents?” Allen asked, eyes staring down at what he was writing.
    “They had those jackets on that said ‘FBI’ on them, and they introduced themselves as FBI agents.”
    “Did they show IDs?”
    “No. Also their names were Anderson and Smith. I thought that was funny.”
    Allen looked at Gilbert, brow raised.
    “If they didn’t show you their identification, then how did you know they were really FBI agents?” he asked.
    “The thought of asking to see their business cards didn’t occur to me.”
    “It could have been cops posing as FBI agents.”
    “Hey, Allen, they said they were FBI agents, and I thought nothing to think otherwise.”
    “Fine, but you never know. What did they ask you?”
    “They played a recording of a message I left my girlfriend. They said they were monitoring my phone calls that morning.”
    “Fucking fascists,” Allen muttered, shaking his head as he took note. “What else?”
    “Then they got into my connection with Paulo Henders, a.k.a Ultra-tripleX.”
    “What was the connection they claimed you had with Mr. Henders?”
    “They had a copy of an e-mail I wrote to him. Along with his reply. Oh, and the fact I was the only person not only subscribed to his youtube channel, but the only one to watch all his videos.”
    “And you confirmed this to them? Why?” Allen said.
    “They had a copy of the e-mail. I saw it, I read it. Look, man, I thought it was a prank being played on me. I thought I was on a damn TV show. It felt so fucking unreal.”
    “To keep your reputation from being defiled, deny, deny, deny, and stay in denial,” Allen said in reverence.
    “Okay, Cochran.”
    “Gilbert, every time you refer to me as Johnny Cochran,” Allen said, sniffing, and wiping away an imaginary tear, “You make me want to cry.”
    “Then just keep on rhyming, Counselor.”

Ultra-tripleX Vlog# 11: Libera te ex Inferis
“Hey there, my one and only viewer. It’s you know fucking who, Ultra-tripleX. Please do excuse my mood in this video, I’m not having a very uplifting time in my life right now. I feel like there’s a heavy weight on my shoulders that I can not find myself to shake off. It seems permanently stuck atop of me, as if I were the foundation of the Pyramid of Giza, buried under it’s grand glory for all to see while I lie buried under it for none to see. But though my spirit is dimmed, I will continue on with my expression, because it’s a freedom that will always be with me, regardless of whatever consequences come my way. Words, for all of us living, is what can free us from the torment of existence. When we are happy, words are there to keep it happy. When we are in a state of hellish experiences, words are there to aid us out of it. Depending on the context, words can either be harmful, or a loving embrace, but they are still words that can enlighten us. I don’t really know where I’m getting at, what the fuck I’m talking about, if what I’m saying is getting me or anyone else anywhere, but I will continue to speak regardless — relentlessly, unfalteringly until there is no breath with in me to do so. Morbid it may be, but death is inevitable and life is full. I went out to a bar last night with coworkers, and I got incredibly drunk. I didn’t make a fool of myself, but the others thought I did. I ended up dancing by myself in the middle of the dance floor without a care in the world. Women avoided me. I guess they thought it was strange I’d simply jump in amongst the crowd without someone else to dance with, and just start moving my hips, feet, shoulders to the music. It wasn’t even the type of music I liked, but being as drunk as I was, I found myself loving it. Is that how life should be enjoyed? Your senses dulled, numb, dumbfounded at the lights and beats of enjoyable chaos? That’s how I see it. All these substances people partake in: the cocaine, the marijuana, the alcohol, the shrooms, the LSD. Are all there to make people forget about such things like injustice, corruption, and the ignorance of society. I can’t help but be mad about it. Most of all mad at myself for joining in with the zombification of the human spirit. And also the fact I am now totally hungover. How can people like this shit? My head hurts, and I can’t go about the day with full awareness. It does not make me feel free. I must always feel free. Otherwise I can’t fully experience the joy of life, especially if I did with a woman by my side. How could people be so stupid to rely on damaging themselves physically, mentally, and spiritually to be happy? It’s astonishing. It’s aggravating. And it’s horrifying. As I’ve said before, I can’t find a girlfriend I’d like in some stupid bar. Maybe I should try and go to school at the community college, work my way to the State University. I remember one of my teachers in high school saying she loved the fact that she went to college, because that’s where she met her husband. She said this as if it were better than getting the college degree that earned her the right to be a teacher. I think I may be too old to try and find love in college; a lot of the ladies are ten to twelve years younger than me. Kind of makes me feel icky to think about that kind of age difference, but there are some who are late in the game of academics who are close, if not older than I. I don’t know, if my mood changes for the better, I might just decide to use my free time to go back to school. Alright, my one only viewer so far, see you later. Please do try and share my videos. Maybe I’ll finally get a damn twitter going.”

SOC #33: The Write Way

First I'd like to begin with the wrong way: and that is taking a prolonged break when you make it to the halfway point of a novel, because you forget a few things - the most important things - like character's names, especially if their names are truly uncommon. Then you forget details once you glance at the few pages you had written before stopping, when you ask yourself questions you'd know if you didn't stop: Like did you mention the character's parents. "Shit," I thought in my brain, "did I even think of his parents, like at all. Are they dead, or alive?" So begin backtracking by skimming over the 70 plus pages I have written so far, and while attempting to find if the parents were even talked about in the narration, or if one of the character's said anything, I begin to find typos, and sentences that must be rewritten. I begin fixing them and forget why I was going through what I had written. What was I looking for? Goddamn it. Must fix the typos for later, the second draft/rewrite. Now I must try to remember why I was scanning through the story in the first place. Oh, okay. About a half hour - or maybe an hour - later I find no mention of the character's parents, just his sibling he had a short conversation with. Okay, that's done. I scroll back down to where I left off and begin writing. Then I forget how I spelled the main character's last name. So I scroll back up, find more issues in the text that must be fixed. "Fucking shit," I say out loud to myself, "save it until the rewrite, you dumb-shit." My mother walks in, and asks, "What's wrong?" I say, "Just speaking out loud to myself. Just trying to make the book better, if it could ever be." She leaves. I look at the computer screen, and again forget what I was looking for in the first place. Oh, yeah, the character's fucking last name. I find it. I want to stab myself in the leg with my pen for forgetting how to spell the guy's fucking name; I should've known. DUH! I scroll back to where I left off, continue to type. It may be shitty at the moment, but all can be fixed later. I can take my time then when- FUCK! Who was the ex-girlfriend screwing at the moment. Another name I had forgotten. "Never again," I whisper to myself, "I will never take another break that lasts longer than a day, or a short lunch break,  from writing a novel until the first draft is done." You know what? No break until I feel I am satisfied. I again scroll through the text, find who the girl is screwing. A simple name to remember. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I continue writing until I get to a point where a little research is required. The story is a situation that may, or may not happen in real life, but there are moments in the story that at the least must sound authentic. So I go to the internet, google the topic I must research. Find a youtube video to watch, then a few more I must watch for clarification. Then I am totally bored, and find something funny to watch. It's two hours later when I realize that I am waisting my time not writing. FUCK! SHIT! Now where was I. NOTE TO SELF: research things later; you don't need to know everything; it's only a first draft, you fucking moron. Am I even good enough for this? Will I ever be good enough to make a living at writing? You know, I just want enough to quit my day job. Don't think about money, think about the work. A true artist doesn't focus on the money, but on the work. It's three hours later when I finally stop watching the goddamn youtube videos and begin writing again. Fuck it. If I fuck up someone's name, fix it later. I did the same thing when I wrote my first novel: I misspelled someone's name like three times. I didn't realize it until the editor pointed it out to me. The biggest enemy of a writer is not only the gargantuan monster that is Doubt, but the fucking distracting questions a writer continuously asks themselves while writing. Get it done, then bitch about it later is all I got to say.

Gratuitous repentance

"For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth." - Romans 1:18

It was suppose to be a casual encounter after a simple reply from a craigslist posting; Armando wasn't expecting to find a doorman standing outside the dive bar dressed in black as if he were working security for a club that sold a single bottle of Grey Goose for five thousand dollars a bottle to simply sit in a private booth. As he walked toward the bar, Armando slowly realized the street was unnaturally deserted that early in the night, being it was not even nine o'clock at night yet. There was only him, and the doorman standing quietly in front of the bar's closed door, facing out, head slightly turned at the sound of Armando's footsteps, one hand holding his wrist before him. Armando had the feeling the doorman hand a gun under the black coat he was wearing, ready for any threat that would appear. 

    A little nervous, and curious at the same time, Armando stopped before the doorman, staring up at him. 

     He asked, "Is the place closed for a private party, or something?"

   The doorman looked Armando up and down, then moved his head left to right at the street and sidewalk, scanning for anyone else. The street was still vacant of anyone else. The doorman then looked up at the windows of the surrounding buildings, and held up his right arm with his index finger raised. 

   He then fixed his gaze back to Armando, and said, "Are you the one who posted on the craigslist?" 

    "Yes," Armando answered, a bit confused. "I thought you and I were going to meet inside the bar." 

    "No," the doorman said, "I'm not the one who replied. He's waiting for you inside. Go on in." 

    The doorman opened the door, gesturing to Armando to go inside. 

    Hesitating, almost wanting to leave, Armando said, "This is - " He cleared his throat with the thought that his night would end with his body cut up, all his limbs put in a trash bag, and tossed into the Hudson River. "I have to tell you, dude, this is kind of weird. I'm not being turned on by this...whatever this is." 

    The doorman said, in a most professional and serious tone, "I assure you, sir, there's nothing to be afraid of. He told me to tell you, if you were scared, that there may be true happiness for you at the end of this night. And most of all, satisfaction." 

    "Okay, sounds like it'll be the greatest fuck I'll ever have," Armando said. 

    He slowly entered the dimly lit bar. Usually the place at that time of night would have a small crowd of people from the neighborhood looking to relax and get buzzed in a quiet atmosphere away from the howling parties of the city's nightlife. But on that particular night the bar was empty with the exception of the bartender whom Armando had never seen before. 

    "Where's Charlie tonight?" Armando asked the - he guessed - new employee. 

    The bartender, a well dressed and clean cut man, didn't answer, but pointed at a booth across the room occupied by a man smoking a cigarette with a drink on the table before him which seemed to be a whiskey on the rocks. Armando slowly walked up to the booth. The man, who wore an expensive black pinstriped suit with a red tie with small stripes of blue and white, seemed to have a slight strained expression as he took sometime to look at Armando. 

    "Hello there," the man said. "Thank you for coming." 

  The man seemed he could have been a few years older than Armando, but due to his haggard appearance, dressed in a dirty hoodie sweatshirt, dirty blue jeans, and wearing three year old shoes, he felt almost twenty years older than the man sitting in the booth. 

    "Please have a seat," the man said to him, gesturing with his hand for Armando to sit on the other side of the booth. 

    Armando just stood there, not moving, perplexed not only by the setting he found himself in, but by the polite man sitting before him. 

    Noticing Armando's hesitation, the man said, "Now I know what you're thinking. 'This man here, who replied to my posting for a casual fuck, not only had the bar closed to make the meeting more private, but is smoking a cigarette inside which is banned in this fine city.' Am I close?" 

    "Close enough," Armando said, then sat down. 

    "Cool. What would you like to drink? It's on me." 

    "A Lagunitas," Armando said.

    "You sure you don't want anything stronger?" 

    "And a shot of tequila." 

    The man looked over at the bartender. He said, "A Lagunitas and a shot of tequila for my friend here. And a refill of Van Winkle for me, please." 

    Armando's brow flicked up. He pointed at the nearly empty glass of whiskey on the table, and asked, "That's Van Winkle whiskey?" 

    "Yes it is," the man said. "It's all I drink."

    "Wow, man," Armando said, impressed. "You are one rich motherfucker. For a casual, anonymous fuck, you go all out."

    As the bartender placed the drinks on the table, the man said, "This isn't a casual meeting before a casual, anonymous fuck, Mr. Thadien."

    A flush of shock came upon Armando's face when he heard what the man just said. Paranoia and horror came to his emotions as well as the immense desire to jump out of that booth and make a run for it, but he knew this man would not allow him to get very far. 

    The man noticed the look on Armando's face immediately, and his own jovial attitude to that point was gone. 

    He said softly to Armando, "Swig down that shot of tequila, Mr. Thadien, and try to relax." Then the man said slowly, enunciating each word, "I am not a monster."

    Armando downed the shot of tequila, chased it with the Lagunitas. He looked over to the bartender, pointing to the empty shot glass. The bartender filled another shot glass with tequila. 

    "Thank you," Armando said. 

    He became uneasy, not wanting to look at the man in front of him, scratching his head, thinking about sitting in the bathroom stall, and shooting up the heroin he scored the day before. 

   The man let out a long, heavy sigh. He placed the cigarette butt on top of the wooden table, squishing the burning raspberry with the palm of his hand. 

    "May I call you 'Armando,' Mr. Thadien?" The man asked.

    "That's fine, sir," Armando replied, still not looking at the man. 

    "I want you to look at me, Armando. You don't have to talk. I just want you to listen to what I must say to you. And I want you to look into my eyes as I say it. Please do that for me." 
    With what seemed like great effort, Armando raised his head and looked at the man's face. 
    The man was silent for a moment as he reached into his inner jacket pocket, retrieved a gold cigarette case, opened it, took out a cigarette, offering it to Armando. Armando shook his head. The man lit the cigarette with a gold Zippo lighter, deeply breathing in the tobacco's carbon monoxide. 
   "I've met you before," the man began to say. "Well, actually, I've seen you before. You wouldn't remember because at the time you were blindfolded with a few other boys as you were escorted through the foyer at my father's house. I was sixteen at the time. It was during my so called 'Sweet Sixteen' initiation into the disgusting world my father was apart of. You see, the world people like my father and I occupy is what I consider the 'Above the Law of man' where the worst of human nature can be acted upon if the human has the power to do so without the consequences of being exposed."
    The man took another long drag of his cigarette looking uneasy before he continued speaking. 
    "That night my father had two choices to gain the trust of his wicked friends: keep the lifestyle secret from me - which would give me less opportunity in my own personal life as an adult - or expose it to me, make me watch as he and the others did what they did to you and the others that night. Armando, you must -" 
    The man's breath caught in his throat. His hand rose before him, shaking. 
    "Armando," the man continued, finding it difficult, but continuing to explain, "you must understand I had no choice. I was just a kid. After they began molesting you and the others, I left. And I must've made myself forget about that night, even the gun shots I heard from my room. The memory didn't come back to me until my father was on his deathbed last month. The moments before he died he reminded me of that dreadful night. He asked for my forgiveness, and hoped that he would be able to go to heaven. I said nothing." 
    The man picked up the glass of whiskey and drank it all up. He let out a painful sigh after finishing the drink. Armando's mind was on the horrific night. The night his best friend was shot in the back when he fought the rapist monsters.
    "I killed him," the man said. 
    "What?" Armando said, his painful memory interrupted. 
    "I killed my father." The man now looking down at the table, holding up his hand. Thumb, index, and middle finger close together. "Like this. I closed these fingers on his throat, choking him in his final moments of life. He attempted to stop me, but was too weak to do so. Now I have all his fucking money to do as I please. I had people look for men who posted on craigslist looking to sell their ass under the guise of seeking anonymous sex. I know that you and the others were made to be opiate addicts by assholes like my father. I remembered the birthmark on your shoulder from that night, and the picture you put up with the post showed that same birthmark."
    "Why am I here?" Armando asked. "Do you want me to forgive your father to find some sort of peace?" 
    "No, Armando," the man said. "As the religious would say, 'Only God forgives.' And -" The man reached in another inner jacket pocket and took out a yellow envelope, "'The Devil punishes'" He then slid the envelope across the table.
    "What is that?" Armando said. 
    "It's a list," the man replied. "Now I can't give you the list of all the people like my father, because this wouldn't be an envelope, it would be a book. A fucking huge book. What I can give you is a list of people that help provide the services to the sick, super rich monsters like my father. What you do with this information is up to you. These are people that aren't known to the public. Some are easy to find, some are listed in the phone book, and have Facebook pages."
    Armando picked up the envelope. 
    "Don't open it until I leave, or wait until you get home," the man said, getting up from the booth. "And try getting off the heroin. I want you better. You were a good playwright back in that school. I actually saw it. 'Silent Knight in silver armor.' Great play? After you get off the H, write one for broadway."
    "How could I trust you?" Armando said. 
    "That's why I didn't give you my name. Neither of us can trust each other. Both of us must have faith." 
    Armando said, with the thought of shooting up heroin, "I don't believe in God." 
    Before leaving, the man leaned in close to Armando's ear and said softly, "I don't either."