2014年08月29日 IFF: Rick Ingram continues

Over the radio a pleasant and soft speaking man, probably with a mustache, said: 

"That was Al Jarreau's, I Will Be Here For You, following up from After All, and Teach Me Tonight, concluding this part of our smooth-grooved block-party weekend.  

We'll follow him up with some Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes, with Teddy Pendergrass on vocals. I'm Mark Redd and you're listening KXZP, this is Wake Up Everybody"

Mose reached over to turn down the speakers. I glanced over at him making a face, don't even try it. My face must have been a little more than I wanted to be, since his eyes tightened at me. I shrugged at looked back at the house across the street. It was still warm outside. That's no problem either way. I was told that it might rain tonight, even a light sprinkle. 

Good. Extra cover is always welcomed. 

But this was a doubled-edged sword, because while we'd be covered so would everyone else.

I tried not to think much. Beyond what I should have been doing, I found my mind wandering. A solution to this was on the floor, behind front-passenger's seat. There were still a few beers left, and two energy-drinks -- those were Mose's. The music wasn't loud enough to muffle the sound of the stay-tab from my second or third can of beer.

"Rick, do you think that's a good idea?"

"Where you come off telling me how to do this kind of stuff?" After putting down a third of the beer in one hard sip.

"Why don't you have one yourself? To take the edge off." I continued wiping off excess beer that I had missed, stopping it from running down to my chin.

Mose shrugged and reached behind him for one of the beers. He opened it and took a sip that wouldn't even quench a small bird's thirst. He rested the beer in his lap and gazed back the house, as if he was thinking of something else other than the assignment. His open right hand resting on the left which held his beer looked tense. Watching him was less dramatic and more depressing. He didn't even realize I was staring at him. He's probably moon-bound at this rate. His face went from one of concentration to a somber reflection of yesterday.

It's probably the music. I mused.

"Do you think he's in there?" Mose asked as if he was talking to himself.

"I don't know." Then I took another sip. For Christ's-sake we're going to need more beer. I couldn't focus too much on the assignment either. The music was killing me in its own way, and I didn't like to do back-to-back high risk assignments on short notice.

"Let's get out of here," I said turning on the car lights first then the engine. "We've got better things to do." I signaled, looked in the mirror, and behind my shoulder wondering in case I missed something, and pulled onto the road. Where are we going to go from here? I had a few places in mind, but everything seemed equally boring.

"Rick what's going on?" Mose apparently woke up from his semi-trance.

"We're going to get something to eat and talk. And enough of this music." I quickly switched over to a pre-set pop station to lighten the mood, where surprisingly Al Jarreau was playing. "Goddamn 3 time Grammy winner, in three separate categories."

"There's just no escape!" Mose blurted as he theatrically raised his arms beer in hand.

"There's always an escape." I said, as I signaled towards the freeway on ramp. Out of the corner of my right eye I saw Mose's playful face from a few seconds ago turn grim. He looked away from he out the window.

There's always an escape.

Traffic was light and what normally would take thirty minutes on the highway, took us twenty minutes. Mose had finished his beer by then, and I was working on an extra. I parked the rig along the curb, across the street from the only known and working pay-phone in the city.

My car blended in the way it should: a white Subaru 2005 Impreza. The only difference was that this car wasn't in my name or on the insurance. It made things a lot easier for what I did for a living. No, I didn't steal the car, but an ex-girlfriend here and there sure did help with borrowed transportation. Clean transportation.

I learned right away when I was still carrying a badge that using other people's car could change things up dramatically, so would a wardrobe, and not shaving for a few days. But the thing that I missed was camaraderie. It helped to learn and use as much as I could out here because what I did was significantly more dangerous, because out here I had to be extra careful. No cavalry is going to come and save me. Hell, if I make a mistake, they might be running me down. The clients I get don't ask me to do anything illegal, save for the Nest, but producing the results they want may require some questionable tactics. Out here with no badge, no blues, though I still kept the suit, I'm alone. Save for Mose, I'm alone. No that's not true, I've got others like Pe—

"What are we doing here?" I could see Mose was getting irritable wondering why we were stopped but doing nothing

"I'm going to make a phone call, I've got someone to talk to. AND DON'T DRINK ALL THE BEER."
          "I didn't know we had any left." He said smiling at me.

4 PM IN THE MORNING

(IIF: Ingram Story)

Mose came into my office at about 4 pm. He sat down across from me. This time he remembered to remove my tie from the chair. Lately I haven't given a damn about much, but his consideration looking for and navigating his ass from crushing my belongings seemed like I should. I should give a damn. I didn't, even though I wanted to try.

It was hard for me to take his gesture at face value. He cared enough for me, or what he thought of me. What did he think of me? And yet, how could he know that I could care less at that moment. It didn't matter, and so while I rubbed my eyes in what felt like the early morning, I told him to help himself to some coffee.

He is the only man I've ever known that will consistently drink stale or cold coffee if offered to by a superior, unless he's on business. Fortunately for me I get the best of both worlds, not only am I his friend but his superior; moreover, when he drinks the stale stuff, I have an excuse to make new coffee. Either way it's a win-win, as a second cup for him means washing out the horrible taste of the first.

"What's on the agenda?" I asked him as I buttoned up my shirt.

"We'll Rick, here's your mail." He said placing it somewhere on the desk that wasn't cluttered.

"And?" His long drawn out pauses, while deliberate we both knew, were getting on my nerves. And we both knew that as well.

"Cosgrave."

Well shit. I rubbed the back my head and looked down at him. 

"What does he want?" That was about all I cared to muster with Cosgrave's name being the topic.

"He wants to meet you. He says he's got intel on Hirsch-Landers, and it's something else too."

My eyebrows raised and Mose caught the hint, continuing on:

"He knows you were able to get information from the records department, and he also knows I've ran a few of the names on the list."

"How the fuck does he know that?"

"I'm being followed, and someone bugged my room." I made a face at him. "No-no, I didn't remove any of them, but I found them alright. What else? The that fact I was followed here too! I'm sure he knows that I know I'm being followed, but Christ. Why would this happen? Then he calls a meeting?" Mose seemed to be as confused as he was ashamed.

"Forget the coffee." I said, gesturing him to stand. "Hand me my tie." We're going out. 

Mose picked up on this and picked up two pieces of mail from the desk.

"I think you should look at these first. The address looks odd."

One said, "PANNETTA" from sender. Hand written on the opposite side was "URGENT" twice underlined. Half way to the door, I stopped, walking back behind my desk. I opened a drawer and found my war trophy Walther P-38 that I had bought from a neighbor.

"You ready?"

Mose nodded a nervous "Yes" to me.

"Don't worry Mose. I don't expect anything to happen." At least to you. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that. Not this earl-- Well, not before dinner time.

Whiskey Oh?: A short story by the writer

When someone said, "Bomb" Gary almost didn't notice. He had been minding his own business, as he usually does with headphones crammed into his ears, while peering down at his phone. The shanties and songs from Gilbert and Sullivan were more of an interest to him. He'd been reading up on them because he wanted something to sing while he was alone. Looking up from his seat he noticed people looking at him, others, and towards the driver. For a moment he realized something was wrong. His heart rate went up and he wanted to panic with the rest of the lot.

But he didn't, at least not outwardly. He turned off his music, unplugged his headphones, and shoved them in his pocket along with his phone. He tipped his head into the aisle to see what was going on. His fingers were pulsing with the adrenaline. No one seemed to notice his excitement, since they where already hopped up on their own.

He stopped thinking about those shanties he was reading. No amount of:
"Whiskey is the life of man, 
Always was since the world began!"
Would calm his nerves. Although a little voice in his head suggested that while the words might not calm him, actual whiskey might. He smiled nervously, even though no one else seemed to be smiling. And thankfully to his surprised, no one really noticed.

A distinct, but fuzzy sounding voice was heard overhead. It was the driver speaking into the intercom, but it was unintelligible gibberish. A woman behind Gary wouldn't stop babbling about what needed to be done. Soon the bus rolled to a stop, and people shuffled off the bus.

Gary shrugged, smiled, and walked over to another bus stop. The police would later report a pressure-cooker bomb was found. It exploded when a bomb technician tried to defuse it. He lived, surprisingly.

As Gary stood there waiting for another bus he could hear the lyrics in his head.
"Some like whiskey, some like beer,
I wish I had a barrel here."

He pulled out his headphones and phone, turn his music back on, and tried to forget the day's events
He knew others might not forget, but he would do is best to block it out of his mind at the least. That night he drank. But this night he celebrated life through death. And not the other way around, though he was fond of it. But not that night. Not at all.

2012年5月27日 Is-It-Fiction: For Higher part 2

The bathroom surprisingly still had powdered soap. I haven't used this in at least 16 years. I washed my hands thoroughly under the faucet, which was either broken or intentionally set to fire-hose pressures. I knew why I didn't want to go back and talk to Mose. I was getting addicted to the rush. I loved being on the force, but I also loved the addiction of the other work I did. The work I wasn't supposed to do.

Hemingway was right when he said hunting man is an addiction, outside of continuing investigations, I started to love the hunt. I tried drinking it away when it started to bother me, but it didn't work. Later, I thought if I tried having a wo-- a decent woman, in my life it would have went away. It didn't. Assignments from birds compromised the integrity of my work. I couldn't solve cases the clean way anymore. I had quit. Most people thought I quit because Pennetta had retired, but that was only part of the story.

I liked the killing. It wasn't easy work, but I found the work to be, rewarding. For once they weren't getting out. For once, they weren't getting smarter. I didn't have to waste time building cases anymore. But I also couldn't look at myself in the mirror as much. Not without a few drinks first. A few. There wasn't a nicer way to word "enough," without tacking on another addiction to suppress my darker addiction.

Harbin. How many Harbins were there in this city? I didn't want to know. I'm sure the birds knew. They knew everything. I griped under my breath reaching for a paper towel. At least they have paper towels. Some restaurants in this part of town didn't even have soap in their bathrooms. You'd also be lucky to find toilet-paper sometimes.

I knew what I was going to do before I even heard my own voice. You've already decided to deal with Harbin. You already knew you were going to get him before you even saw the picture of the girl. You knew this would come back. I thought leaving the force would have made this kind of work easier, but the miserable feelings lingered.

The first man I killed was a child molester, but honestly that wasn't the worst part of it. I had used an old STEN part kit I bought from a guy out of state. He didn't even ask for ID.

"Are you a felon?"

"No." I said.

"Good enough for me." He said smiling while shaking my hand.

It took a few weekends and some reading to figure out how to make a receiver for the STEN. After it was built of course I had to test it immediately. It worked without any problems. The waiting part came next. With other assignments and weather, I had to wait until a major downpour came in. Kind of like last night's. I mumbled.

Ernest "Joe" Franklin was a short man, around five and a half feet. He had a record, and I was vaguely aware of him before The Nest picked him for me. At first sight I couldn't imagine him as a child-molesting rapist. He was the most pitiful and insignificant man I've ever seen outside of bums. Neither large nor small. He gave no hint of predatory behavior. He was dressed humbly. Most people wouldn't think much of Franklin at first, but I knew otherwise.

I wore shoes bought from second hand store. They were two sizes larger than my average ten or eleven sized shoes. I hated how some brands' size 10 might fit well, but another's would be too tight. The shoes for this assignment would be doubled up with several thick socks. I hated loose shoes. They weren't the only things that changed, of course the clothes changed too. Black slacks with a dark maroon shirt, and a dark grey over-coat, almost black. It was an XXL, it worked wonderfully with hiding the STEN. I felt like Death dressing up for Valentine's Day.

He lived in a shitty apartment complex that looked worse than housing provided for east German's before the wall came down. I don't know why I knocked on his door. Lack of planning. I later told myself. Moreover, I don't know why he answered his door at 10:53 pm. But a meek voice came through the door, barely audible.

"Yes?..."

"Mr. Franklin, my name is detective Ellis Wagner, we need to talk." I lied.

A bolt snapped from the door in front me. Joe Franklin opened the door half way, pausing only to look up and down at me and my clothes. He knows. I panicked and pulled out the STEN. The sling I had made from old shoe-laces got caught on the rim of my belt buckle.

Franklin tired to shut the door, but I pushed forward. He didn't yell or anything. I think he knew. He moved towards the kitchen with gestures that reminded me of a cockroach. Which is exactly what he was. I said throwing the paper towels in the trash.

I dumped more than half the mag in him in my frenzied state. His kitchen was just long enough that I was able to keep some distance from him, which was good since there was a lot of blood. I stood there briefly. I don't know for how long, but I reloaded STEN. Then I put the more than half empty magazine in my coat pocket. It popped out slightly since the pockets weren't deep enough.

But that wasn't the problem. The problem was a woman screaming from behind me. I had no idea Franklin had a woman over. It was also the last time I rushed into an assignment like this. 

Beyond her twisted facial expressions, I could tell she was probably near or at forty years old. She looked much older though, probably because she had aged physically from either drug use, heavy smoking, or hanging out in the sun too long. I'm sure it was all three.

She quickly did a one-eighty hugging the wall as she rushed around a corner for the bedroom. I was sweating bullets from this one. She saw me. She saw me. I remember thinking. I shot through the living room wall into the bedroom area. My ears were ringing a little bit as I carefully crept towards the bedroom door, pushing it open with the muzzle of the gun.

She was barely crawling towards the window with what little life she had left. It was pathetic, frightening, and depressing. Even if I did nothing, she'd bleed out before she would even have a chance to stand. I gave a quick burst.

Hemingway was right. I thought again. Of course, the most frightening thing wasn't really watching her terror or Franklin's, it was the exhilaration I felt as I left the building. Are you one of them now? Are you doing the right thing? Of course you are. I said lying to myself.

No one seemed to really pay much attention to me. Crime wasn't committed by suit wearing fellows out here, or rather if it was, there weren't any witnesses coming forward. People only did that when children were at risk. But sometimes even that wasn't enough.

It was really was like hunting. It felt even better knowing Franklin would never hurt anyone ever again. I later found out his woman friend was just some two-bit druggie. It did matter. I still have to go back to my desk the next day at the station. I said to myself dumping the gun and clothes.

I later found out she tried to get help, and even called the police a few times when her bad choices in boyfriends got too rowdy with her. But like most women she never pressed charges. It was a time when women with black eyes could decide whether or not they wanted to. Women like that reminded me of raccoons. Now they can't do that, and now she'll never be able to again.

I did hate it at first. I hated the lying. I loved my job, I loved the force. I did. I really loved being there. I loved how kids looked at me when some of us would visit high-schools or middle-schools. But the job never ended, and it followed me home. It never turned off. I can't even remember her name... What was it again?

I opened the bathroom door. Back to reality. But Franklin and that woman were real. That's right, they WERE real. I'm sure you're the only one who remembers them. I pursed my lips as I walked back the booth Mose and were sitting.

It was raining outside and our food had already come. He never waited for me when it came to food. Eat while you can. Eat up. After while the food will lose its taste. I remembered.

After Franklin and woman, I realized I was fortunate enough to have to bump her off. But the first ones. The first ones were hard. If my first one was a woman, maybe I wouldn't have been able to do it. It never got easier after they stopped moving. Only more addicting.

"So what's it gunna be?" Mose said with food still in his mouth.

I frowned a bit looking at him, then I turned to look at the rain outside.

2012年5月24日 IIF: For Higher Part 1

The office door opened again, and I was too tired to even take a peek at who it was, and like most days-- okay every other day, I was hoping it was someone who had just enough of a grudge that they would end it for me.

"Rick, it looks like you have mail." Mose said as he closed and the locked the door behind him. I sat up and reached out without looking at him to hand me the mail. It was still raining outside. Grey and miserable.

There were three bills, two for utilities, and one for printing services. I had needed new business cards for such a long time, it never occurred to me to restock them. I could always use the cards I have left over from the force... But I knew that using those would give the image that I'm still on the force. Even then I still kept at least two of those official police cards in my wallet. Just in case. But In case for what?

The last four pieces were a large and annoying-looking coupon pamphlet, which had ads for stores I had never heard of; a post card, I think from a cousin or aunt, I can't remember nor care who went where; a general envelope from a friend in Columbus, it contained financial records of a case I've asked to just give a second opinion on; and an odd, but half an inch thick manila envelope with typed font.

The envelope's font didn't look like it was printed on from a printer, but rather it looked as if someone had taken the time to type on it with an old manual typewriter. The electric typewriters have a different kind of ribbon that's a little harder to find these days.

I tossed the rest of the bullshit mail on my desk. Mose picked up the ads pamphlet to skim through them as I opened the manila envelope. Inside was what looked to be a copy of a faxed document. The dates and times were blacked out in advance on the original, so that nothing showed up on the copy I was holding.

"Ingram, there is work for you. Do you still work at the cleaners?"

I don't do work like this anymore... I had a feeling this kind of work would come back.

"Terry Harbin, 33 years old. No physical defects. Athletic or body builder. Works in sales over at Phantom Point advertising. Lives at 232 Alton Drive, in The Forest. Single, no pets."

The Forest being an area of town where the up-and-ups lived. It was because they actually had an opportunity to have trees around them, whereas the rest of us poor bastards had to live in the city. The description continued on about his neighbors, a Korean couple with two small dogs - breed unknown - and another recluse like Harbin.

"...Harbin has a history of rough abuse towards women and escorts. Seven months ago two counts of rape, one count of aggravated murder, and three assault charges were dropped due to lack of evidence. The Nest suspects that number should be as high as thirteen counts of rape, two counts murder, and numerous assault charges.  

There is belief that Harbin is a sadomasochistic, including acts of molestation, murder, mutilation, rape, and torturing victims. Included are photos of the only known murder."

I ignored the loose dossier on Harbin and looked at the 8 1/2" by 11" black and white photos. There was a sticky note blocking out the victim, with the text, 

"Deceased: Celeste Vickers, 20 years old
Vocation: Student/Unemployed
Last seen: July 8th"

Of course I would have peeled away the sticky note to look at the girl in question, but I was not yet ready for that kind of commitment. It's bad to look at pictures of dead bodies if you can avoid it. I told myself. In this case, if I looked at the girl it very well would have already sealed my decision to do this kind of work again. 

It seemed to be some kind small room for an apartment where the victim had died. The carpet in the picture was or seemed to be a very light color, except the surrounding area of sticky note. A black blob-ish looking ring blocking out the deceased. 

Black, in a black and white photo, almost always was blood in my line of work. Always blood. Once it was red wine, but I wasn't able to determine that from the picture alone. I only found out later that the questionable black spot on a carpet was a cheap Cabernet. It was one of those rare chances when I actually had access to a crime scene. And that was another case...

In my current line of work, sometimes I've only been able to go back and pick up the broken pieces. The Nest however showed us where I could find the breaker, and with those broken pieces and shards of people's lives and families, I'd cut the fucker's throat out. In this case, Harbin. But I hadn't decided to do anything yet. Of course, I'm certain I'm not the only one The Nest uses, that I knew for a certainty.

"Anything interesting?" Mose said, without looking up from ads.

"It's from birds." I said cryptically.

Mose looked up from the pamphlet, and made a face as if he wanted to throw the ads away. I nodded and waved a "go ahead" with my hand.

"What do they want?" I guess he knows it's important.

"What do you think?"

Mose smiled looking down at the corner of my desk, "I don't know yet."

"You'd rather not know." I said staring at him.

"So what are you gonna do then?" I knew he meant, "we".

"I'm thinking." I don't do this kind of work anymore. But you know you can do it, I heard a little voice say.

"Is that the file?" Mose motioned towards the envelope, photo, and dossier I was still holding.

"..." You don't want to look at this Mose. "If you look at this, you don't get to go back. This kind of stuff doesn't end. Even if you don't do it anymore, it follows you home. You can't justify it."

"I'm not a cop." Mose said smirking. I could tell his face had that 'And you're no longer one!' look to it.

"Fine." I said tossing the files onto the desk.

Mose picked up the file and then sat down again across from me. I could tell he was scanning more of the dossier than I did. His lips pursed for a second then he spoke, "What is The Nest?"

I had completely forgotten what or who they were. I remember one day two men approached me when I was scheduled as an assistant liaison officer for the then police commissioner when the then VP was in town.

Two men, well-dressed pulled me aside. They spoke gently, but firmly. Neither wore rings, nor had noticeable scars, corrective lenses, or any abnormal features. They honestly looked B-grade models working mid-level management, who did cardio and lifted weights two or three times a week.

The card they handed me had no address, nor phone number. Egg-shell white, with raised lettering. It had the name "C.S. Drenning", nothing else on the card, not even a title. The backside, said, "We'll contact you." And had the letters ZX-AE-Canary.

"We're interesting in having you work for our agency."

"What agency is that?"

"Well, that's irrelevant now, just know that we're travelling with the VP's caravan."

"What kind of work."

"We'll contact you."

"What if I'm not interested?"

"Then our profilers failed."

They profiled me? "I'm not going to do anything illegal. You know I'm a badge."

"Aren't we all?"

"I think we're done here."

"You'll be hearing from us."

I doubt that.

But I did hear from them, albeit about seven months later.

Sitting in a coffee shop three blocks from my precinct, I was approached by two men, who looked and acted the same.

"Mr. Ingram, hello."

"Can I help you?"

"Do you still have our card?"

"We'll contact you." the other man said.

Actually I do. I pulled it out, and while faded it was still there.

The other man took it, while the first one continued to smile at me. The other man looked carefully at the card, and fingered it with his thumb stratching at the surface of the lettering.

"Okay." He said towards the first man.

"Thank you for your time Mr. Ingram, will be visiting you later this evening."

"I have plans." I quipped

"They're cancelled."

What the--

"We'll see you tonight, good day."

Several times over the past seven years. I was given recovery assignments and cleaning assignments. Most of the things I wanted to do with the badge on, but couldn't. Among other issues, I was practically living a double life. Up-holding the law, and breaking it to maintain "a balance" as they called it. Any leads to identify Drenning failed. I found out nothing more about him except meeting his "partner" in France once while on vacation.

When I ran into Drenning's partner I knew they had to have operations not only in the states, with retainers in Ohio, L.A., and Quebec, but also in Sartrouville in France. It was when I was on vacation for two weeks touring castles and chateaus in Europe, when I was approached in a men's lavatory at a cafe in Sartrouville. The man who bumped into me was Drenning's partner.

"Hello-- Isn't it, Mr. Ingram!" He feigned surprise.

"Yes it is, how are you?" I asked.

"Yes. Enjoying France?" He said ignoring the question I asked.

"Yes the castles are nice. Are you here for something?"

"Oh? The coffee here is quite nice. Maybe if you are here longer we could arrange a time to meet over coffee? We'd love to have you."

"I'm busy." I lied. So far France had been a total bust and didn't interest me at all

"Would you like the number of the hotel I'm staying at?" I continued.

"I see. Oh thank you for your number. We'll contact you."

Drenning's partner walked out with a smile, his pressed navy blue pin-striped suit looked expensive. On his right wrist he wore a Breitling Navitimer Premier in 18K gold. That watch was at least double what I made in a month. Right wrist... A lefty.  

I didn't know more than that about locations. But they gave me work, and they did contact me, of course that was after I got back state-side. 

Eventually I had to stop cleaning, I wasn't sleeping well anymore. I was worried someone would come after me, but no one did. Occasionally I got mail, sometimes I answered and sometimes I didn't. It still came in, nothing that was traceable. 

Of course, I was too scared to ask anyone else for help. Inspector Pennetta offered some advice, but never anything direct which was unusual of him. It wasn't like Pennetta and I didn't do hard-boiled things off the record, but any "agency" asking us to do it was a different issue all together. Some of the things they asked...

They'd come into to town once in a while, during major events, like the VP visiting or conferences. That's how I later learned a few were based in Ohio. From there, I found the few other offices, but nothing helped after that. I never got any clear answers with my leads, other than the cryptic and confusing, "We'll contact you." I heard this so often, that when I heard it out of context from some hooker in the red-light, I started to think even she worked for The Nest. It's how I knew these guys, whoever they were, played hard-ball.

I came back from those years and looked at Mose, "Did you drive here?" I said reaching for my grey suede shoes. They didn't match well with my brown my slacks in nice weather, but I didn't care anyhow nor did it matter since it was still raining.

With a toothy-grin Mose replied, "Right out-side."

2012年5月8日 IIF: "Leave the cold outside"

"Please don't let it rain. Don't stumble on my pride." The lyrics were the only thing left that I could remember from the evening. Mose motioned to the driver, either money or something. I didn't care nor wait.

My eyes were heavy and blurry. I was still tired, and yet knowing I needed to be awake, my body could have cared less. I'd been awake for 16 hours, running on semi-empty. And no, I didn't just wake up. Yawning felt like it could have have sucked me into a deep sleep every time my jaw even made the motion to yawn.

In my office the desk seemed to warp before my eyes as if it were a distant mirage. It's grotesque dance only stimulated a brief smirk on my face. I don't think I could have done any other facial expressions without a biblical flood of negative emotions pouring down on my soul.

A warm burning sensation, neither pleasant or unpleasant crept up from my wrists and thighs up to my torso. I heard Mose behind me, but it didn't matter to me none. I think he was worse off. I took off my tie and threw it at the top of the file cabinet. It fell in the garbage bin.

"Rick I-uh, I'ma gonna go, unless you need anything." His speech slurred worse than a retard's.

"Yeah, I think that'd be a good idea. I think you've had enough for tonight."

He nodded as if he were actually retarded, then retreated from the office quietly closing the door locking it. I crept over to the desk, lording over some leftover alcohol that while covered, still lingered from the previous night. I'm sure it's still good. I told myself. Isn't alcohol an antiseptic?

Looking outside into the night I saw my reflection. You're still good. Damaged goods, refurbished, limited edition, working prototype, drinkin', hard-boiled... No that last part isn't totally true. As far as I'm concerned there are only three or four hard-boiled guys left alive. And I ain't one of them. Slouching at the desk chair I smiled at my reflection. Yeah maybe you're those things. Who knows?

"Still good." Who knows? Who the fuck cares outside of Arturo or Mose? No one else matters. You know you're like beer. I griped at myself. You're not like wine, you don't age. You ferment. Sitting on my chair I stared briefly outside then at the ceiling.

"Yes I do." I whispered to myself, reaching over to flick on the turntable.

2012年4月29日 Loose-leaf

Things around us

Over the years, almost a decade now?
Anyway, for almost a decade I've written often.

Sometimes I've wrote about life, death, dreams, short (and shitty) stories, fiction, non-fiction, domestic violence, depression, suicide, happiness, animals, ninjas, and whatever else I could think of.

I guess it also falls under "is it fiction" but most, if not all, of the IIF stuff I write is strictly for this blog alone. I have a label called "FTB" called "From the book(s)". Well actually it should also include loose-leaf papers, because this morning I found one.

Here it is,

When I first kissed another woman, long after we had ended I knew my heart would never let you go. My lips became metal tacks and broken glass, the fluids became warped & soupy. I felt like I was going to vomit, the tar being pushed down my throat. It was my tongue, & hers. A sunflower started growing out of her mouth into mine, as my lips tore into the flower. Pleasure, pain, & joy. Nothing that would signify having a soul existed. I could feel & see the flower's fluid dripping down on our chins.

It was black like my own tar tongue fluid. Soupy, it tasted like a 9-volt & blood. Her eyes had electric eels swimming in her pupils. 

I woke up after being vomited out a shark with a beak. 

I saw a man holding a shotgun to his stomach, one he fired & blew his guts & intestine out I could see children behind him with their mouths open, catching the blood & guts with mouths that opened as high as my eyes. 

He turned the shotgun on me & fired a trident at my forehead. I felt full, & refreshed with vigor, until an Eagle perched on the trident then flew me away over a volcano of boiling spiders. The island volcano was a giant tarantula of lush forests, trying to float in an ocean of sand & blood. 

The Eagle wiggled the trident out of my skull & I could see photographs of you flying out of my eyes, mouth, & wound. 

I fell up, as if jumping into the volcano. 

The spiders feasted upon my body, while the spiders eating me were being eaten by other spiders. 

When I woke up I was sideways in the shower, breathing blood, steam, air, & hot water.

I saw an unhappy man looking at me, then I remembered you crying.

My body felt hotter than the water. 

When I saw a flash from the man,

I woke up in a bed next to the woman, & I cried because it wasn't you.

2012年4月9日 IIF: Time and tide wait for no man

IIF (Is-It-Fiction?): The Rick Ingram story

A client came into my office today. But I can't say more about the client, since NDAs limits the hell out of me. Somehow most of my clients also sign NDAs, and invariably they violate them every-time they open their mouth in my office. NDAs don't mean shit in my office, but surprisingly the ones who don't respect them often demand me to respect their privacy by forcing me to confidentiality. It's a vicious cycle of entertainment, disappointment, and disgust. The same people who end up being dishonest are the ones who require even more security than those who are just concerned about everyday life. I have never seen anyone else in such a prison, outside of those in real ones.

Today's client confronted me with Its pain. I was told, albeit indirectly, that pain levels vary for everyone, and everyone naturally does their best to reduce pain as much as possible. No shit.

The question I asked, in my head, was "How does it seem 'natural'? When one lies one's way through a painful experience to reduce pain? Would not the 'ideal' outcome then become a lie?"

"Do you regret what you did?"

"No." I heard without any delay.

"What do you think of what you did up until this point?"

"I made a mistake, okay?" The creature was defensive.

"Do you know who you are?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out." There was a delay.

"Do you know what you want?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out." Again a delay.

"Then how can you have honesty with your word?"

"It's all I can do."

"Can is a choice. I can ride a bicycle, but I am not at this moment. You have a choice."

"But I can't take the pain."

Maybe I'm too biased. I thought privately. Yet, you forget that you brought this on yourself intentionally. 

You wanted something, and now you don't want to pay for it.

And you continue lying.

You let fear take over.

You let greed take over.

And now you'll let your heart feel game-over.

[to be...] KEPT UNTIL NEEDED
OR SOLD

I shook my head inside it, knowing there is no "GET OUT OF JAIL FREE" card. I watched as a disgusting and self-predicted coldness, which the client once brought as a personal observation, begin to rise over Its soul. I was frustrated, disappointed, and disgusted. I couldn't respect that, I couldn't jump into a pit with that just to shove them out. Even though I wanted to do that. But I wasn't in a position where whatever I did in regards to saving the client would be respected or reciprocated on the same level. The client wouldn't know how to respect personal salvation or absolution, moreover I wasn't sure if It wanted that to begin with.

It concluded Its awkward behavior by describing how It was sorry for making things "difficult," without actually realizing the appropriate verb in this scenario should be "worse."

Whatever progress I thought was made with It, was either shit on, vomited on, or kicked. How did I feel about It? What else could I have felt after so much, given my position?!

How did I really feel?

I felt like It makes me regret having It as my client, because It takes a step back from what I consider to be important and then It shits all over the important work It's been working on with me. "Because [It's] in pain." Yet, It covers Its own shit with lies and pig vomit. How does THAT make me feel? Used, beat down. And worse, left for emotional dead. Only to be poked with by a stick. I watched It as It side-stepped everything of moral or ethical integrity. "It can't have the best of both worlds." I thought for the umpteenth time. And of course, I've told It that endlessly.

After I kicked the client out I called Mose. He brought over the finest bourbon his money could afford, which was fine because he's employed by me. Albeit his finest happens to remind me of my poorest, but I don't mind too much. Progress had been made earlier in the day with two other clients, so again, I didn't mind too much.

I could hear through another part of my mind singing a song I couldn't recall where I had heard it from. It's funny, because most of my "knowledge" of music is from riding around in cabs. You hear at lot of music that way.

The lyrics came back to me,

Black heart dead soul

Apathy and misery

Loss of control

Any of the above would describe me

I hate being human

All I do is fuck everything up

Someone just please put a gun to my head 

I just don't care anymore

I'm broken tired and sore

I just don't care anymore

From my black heart 

Faceless humans

Just want to get inside me

Shut down long ago

Not even the closest know me

Like a leper everything I touch

Rots dies then turns to dust

Everyone should just stay away from me 

I just don't care anymore

I'm broken tired and sore

I just don't care anymore

From my black heart

Such happy lyrics. I mused quietly.

"Mose, pour one for yourself too. I'm not doing this alone y'know?"

"Way ahead of you." he quipped at me. I could tell that the first tumbler was going to be his. By the amount alone, I could only imagine that his problems were worse than my own.

2012年3月17日 Heroin again

I got an email from someone about a post I made about drugs (heroin, etc), and addiction.

From: Concerned Reader

Date: Thu, Mar 15, 2012 at 11:03 AM

Subject: using

To: Repugnant Thoughts Everyday

I am disturbed that you mentioned heroin the other day. My answer is,: I would be disappointed but it is your choice.

Who am i to judge you?

So to say, heroin would be a career ender, would be most accurate. Addiction

nearly killed me. [sic]

Yummy!!

I had to remind the reader that IIF stands for "Is-It-Fiction?" which means it is a combination of truth, fiction, or is a half-truth(s), the latter of which we all know "is the worst kind of a lie." Sometimes I use half-truths when writing fiction, and that's why it's called "fiction." 

I almost should call it Friction Fiction, because whatever I talk about in the fiction realm seems to get the most attention and "friction" with my audience. I could puke, but I'm having too much fun maintaining my smile, due to epic amounts of heroin and liquor.

Last night I watched an emo-kid get hit my Bob's car as Magic Moments by Perry Como blasted on the radio. It's a cliche to say the kid fly like a rag-doll, as it was more like hitting a small deer. I could have sworn part of the kid's knee cap, or caps-- are still in grill. Bob slowed down, mouth gaping open at what just had happened. He looked around, checking for anyone in his mirrors. Then he slowly kept driving forward as if nothing happened.

"That was a close one." 

"For who?!" 

"Holy shit! You're still here!?" 

Said Bob looking over at me.

Magiiiiicc Mooooments over the radio continued to play.

2012年3月10日 IIF: Drugs again

I had breakfast today, you'd be surprised what heroin does to a person.

In fact, just saying "heroin" plus any personal pronoun, gives just about anyone the creeps, outside of those on it. My twelve step program was to take less than 12 steps to acquire more. I reached over for the phone.

The best part of waking up

An hour later I was downtown on 53rd and 3rd just standing on the street, trying to turn a trick. You wouldn't believe what people out here do for just a hit. Just a hit, we only live for this stuff. We only die for it. I don't live for anything else. I just want it in my veins, what can you do? Nothing. Can't do anything else. I'm just under this tree wondering what I can lose. Nothing hits harder and better than this. Oh yeah... What can you do? Take it away, it's all your fault. I'm just sitting here with nothing to lose.  

Gimme Shelter came on the radio. The guy on the edge of the bed had just injected the fucking outer-limits into his arm and I could tell he was already in outer-fucking-space. He fell off the bed. Full face-plant onto the floor. I was already on my way there too when someone put a cigarette in my mouth.

My suit must have run out of oxygen or something, because I was having a hard time breathing. I think it was the smoke. It rose up from the floor. A zombie holding a wine glass smiled at me. It drank in front of me, but the wine just fell through its mandible. I watched through the smoke as large ants the size of large scorpions with the heads of dogs run forward to lick the wine off the vomit stained floor.

I got up and swam to the kitchen, climbing into the fridge. I shut the door just enough to turn off the light. I grabbed a bottle of whipped cream-- did a whip-it until I passed ou---

2012年2月21日 Dogs

Is it fiction yet?

Pride is for lions in groups, and dogs who don't believe in wasting food.

"Yeah, I don't like Catholics."

"Huh..."

Now enters a guy into the conversation who was just over hearing me, apparently he took my commentary personally towards him, which was a mistake on his part. And although I didn't say it, I meant to say militant Catholics. 

"What did you say about Catholics?" 

Is what I think he said, but I could have been wrong. He said something angrily and started to close in on me from 5 feet to 2.5 feet away in a very threatening manner.

Standing and thinking,
not possible for some people

I can't remember what he said as it all sounded like angry grunting. He stood there trying to stare me down, and it was more or less working. I didn't have the heart to tell him not to threaten me with commentary, but I backed down. I said something like, "I don't mind." or "I like Catholics." to sooth his anger. What bothered me the most was that if someone says, "I don't like Nazis." I wouldn't get up in their face and threaten violence. Nor would I if someone said, "I don't like Jews." If they said, "I think Jews should die." That's another issue.

Here's probably how it played in mister angry-man's head,

What was said: I don't like Catholics.
What he heard: CATHOLICS ARE A BUNCH OF CHILD-MOLESTERS
What other people heard: I'm generally a noisy asshole who talks about my dislikes VERY loudly 

I guess the dude can't stand and think.

It's a shame the guy didn't take a moment to assess what was being said.

I suppose what made me disappointed in that guy was if he threatened my life or another's body, maiming, or exploiting my disability, I would consider using lethal force. In fact, I don't think he even knew why I had my hand in my pocket... As I painfully smiled at him.

Angry guy's wife after she
calls him an asshole

We have a right to feel the way we do. We have likes and dislikes, if someone doesn't like what I'm saying they voice their opinion or leave (or ask me to leave if it's their house). I don't like Israeli Apartheid Week put on by Palestinians, but this is America and I can counter-protest; however, it is never okay for violence or physical intimidation to come into effect so that a person gets what they want or "wins" an argument. We have a natural human right to defend our bodies, home, and another from violent aggression. 

Just like most dogs, I'm wondering if his pride got to the better of him. I'm also wondering if a complete stranger can piss him off with just 4 words, - which clearly convey the OPINION of one person, - what is going to happen to when his GF/Wife tells him he's an asshole? I can't imagine she'll go to work the next day without a lot of foundation and huge-sunglasses.

When left, I actually looked over to the "Huh-face" girl and said,
"That's exactly what I'm talking about with Catholics!"

I don't think I learned anything, yet.

It's a shame I might run into this guy again.
My response?
I'll do what I normally do with angry people: Smile!

2012年2月14日 Structures

Yesterday someone told me that a person should be happy when they have security and a structured life. I'm always amazed to hear this from atheists or religious extremists. Sometimes no matter what the structure is it doesn't make us happy, even though at times it does here or there. I would associate that "here or there" feeling with pleasure, which means it constantly has to be refreshed. Pleasure is always fleeting and never accommodates the depth of quiet contemplation, or dialog reflecting on the past.

***

I remember several trips to zoos and parks. Days that were supposed to be meaningful. Sometimes there was pleasure, but when I think about those times I don't really feel anything. With other instances yes, but of course it was a totally different feeling to begin with. Dates I went on, at least the ones I can remember, didn't have the depth that other, simpler things in life had. 

Long conversations with Dapl, or rather long monologues (6+ hours) from Dapl as he sat on the couch drinking. Sauna talk with Fozzjnen, drunkin'-chess-fight-clubin'-life's-bureaucracy-KILL-IT-DEATH-METAL: Jazz bitches PERKELE. Fig and I playing verbal tennis about life and what it means, and no one has or wants any points (gotta love tennis). Getting drunk and quoting lines from Office Space with Wainwright, fuckin' A. The ghost voice of Grillman: a disembodied voice to watch my own shadows. Staying up late counting cards while listening to Roy Orbison with Krimull, and of course downloading massive of amounts of porn, printing endless pages for insertion into large binders. I think that was while we were in middle school. Tennis scores, porn, conversation, beer, contemplation... What else is there? Of course God allows these things to fit somehow...

Would I take those things away?
Nope.

This place looks secure

Would I trade that for a structured life?
No.
A life with security? 

I don't know.
Would it make me happier? 

Probably not.

I could tell you what it means. I don't think you'd understand. How can I describe to you what it was and will be? It is what will be? Isn't it?

Am I less myself when I try to understand myself? I don't know. Or am I more? I don't know. Should I know who I am? I want to know. Who really knows who I am, outside of myself? I want to know.

They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.

Fuck you Franklin.

What is liberty? What does it mean to have emotional or spiritual liberty? Certainly some structured foundations could accommodate this on a case by case basis, but I could also show how one without structure could also have liberty.

***

Nothing looked normal,
but it never was anyhow.

I woke up sometime later. Damp and in pain, I tried to straighten my leg. It refused to cooperate so I felt around for my bag. I smelled like cheap booze and vomit. Though there was the after taste of it, I didn't see any vomit on my clothes or nearby. I recognized my location, because I was along side of large grove of blackberry bushes near my house. I shrugged smiling and stood up. My shoes were totally soaked, even though I didn't wake up in any mud or water puddles.

After walking about half a block I couldn't even remember if I woke up in or near the blackberry bushes. My hands were lightly bruised, and in pain from the cold. They smelled like smoke. For a moment I thought the situation was entertaining. I caught myself smiling to no one. I'm sure God watches.

I got home. Nothing looked normal, but it never was anyhow. Everything in white, outside of a few things. Of course nothing moved or looked mutated, but the absence of life gave the rooms a different look. The lifelessness still retained character and identity, just as the living-dead are not living, but still retain identity.

I took what felt like the longest 5 minutes shower, and drank two glasses of water.

The mirror frowned at me, and I stuck my tongue out at it. From a small portion of the mirror I saw a friend that I left in the hallway. Without looking away from the mirror the lights flicked off.

I woke up a few hours later on a bus to work. Or home? I couldn't remember which one it was. The other passengers looked like reptiles, always staring. Only blinking every so often. My eyes felt heavy, and I went back to sleep.

Waking up again, I missed my stop.

No driver, no passengers. everything was off and dark.
Someone or something from outside the bus said, "You should have expected me."
It wasn't a yell, but it wasn't a happy sounding voice either.
I felt around for my things. They were missing.
I hurried off the bus cautiously looking around for an ambush. It never came, and I didn't see anyone.

There was a bar nearby. As I opening the door it noticed a bright light on my face, from some kind of flashlight. When the light was gone, so was the bar.

I was outside again, damp and cold.
I recognized my location, because I was along side of large row of rose bushes near my house.
I took a rose and put it in my pocket. Then I smiled and stood up.

2011年11月24日 Convenience stores

IIF: (The Ingram Story) 

I use the review mirror for a number of things, but mainly for making sure that none of the coke I just bought is left on my nose. Whatever is missed usually ends up in my mouth anyway. My parents raised me well not to waste anything. Somehow the numbness is even better when I'm watching my finger slowly rub it onto my gums. 

The guy inside has a good thing going for him. I think he's making around 80k per year, and that's not including his job as the head clerk. He's got good advice too. He doesn't get high, he keeps things under the radar, and he recommends good beer for driving. I don't have to pay for beer when it's only me in the store. I just have to buy gum or some-shit. It's always essential to have a can that looks slightly like an energy drink. That way one could drink and drive, and ideally no one is the wiser, that is until you get pulled over.

"This is good stuff."

I didn't give shit, looking back at mirror I noticed the sub-woofer shaking the rear window. Ugghhh, what next? I thought yawning. I'm sure I had other things to do. Mose hadn't called in about week or so, but I'm sure he's busy. And I hadn't done jack shit since I last stepped out of Cosgrave's fucking castle. Ideally Cosgrave will be too greedy to groom anyone for his position after he retires, or gets killed... Anyhow. Fuck. This is good stuff. 

Putting the car in gear I felt invincible driving back to the office. I finished beer about two-thirds of the way there, and threw it out the window at an intersection about a quarter of a mile away from my destination.

Some homeless fucker asked for me for some money, and I gave him whatever loose change, cough drop wrappers, and lint I had in my coat pocket. Upon entering the building I paused looking at the stairs. Something was really wrong, but I couldn't place it until I realized it: I'm fucking sober. Shii-....

I turned around, got back in the car, and drove to a convenience store.

Damnit, this time I'll have to pay for beer. Someone's gotta make coke that lasts at least two hours, I might as well go see a fuckin' movie for the price of this shit.

I don't even remember looking at the clock when I got back to the office, so I can't really tell you what time it was when I got there. It was late though, really late.

2011年11月16日 IIF?: Blue-Men 3

I could never understand how The Family allowed such a deviation. It was possible that the demand of gold deemed his "currency" acceptable for exchange. That also was another interesting discussion, as Time never carried any form of standard money. He somehow arranged his transactions in a way where whomever acquired his goods would also acquire his share of debt elsewhere. The routine had been done so often, he never spoke about about how or by what means he'd pay with wherever he went. Tonight I'd watch the bar-tender use a notebook to write something after he ordered. This was Time, and outside his average-looking frame & regal facial features, which stood out further by his MM movements, we had yet to determine if he was a skinner or something more.

I wanted to believe he wasn't what he was, I wanted to believe The Family, and what they told me about him. I woke up that night when I decided to confront him. It felt like a mistake at the time, and whether or not I'd encounter a deviation from The Family, I spoke to him regardless of the consequences. 

"Hey, you. You, Time isn't it?"

He said nothing and only sipped his bourbon cocktail, if it could be called that, since it only contained soda water, besides ice. Alcohol consumption was banned without a license, unless it contained Helpers.

"Hey deaf-ears! You better answer, I'm an Engineer with The Family." I declared to him utilizing The Family's speed guidelines: No Fear, No Anger, No emotion.

When he turned at me his face and lips moving upward. Just looking at his face doing this expression I'd encounter a deviation. Well, not a deviation, but at re-education on procedure. Nothing but his head, face and neck moved as he began focusing on me. It appeared as if he was physically capable of boring The Temple, which I learned about in Schooling. I could feel it in my chest from his gaze alone. He said only one thing that night,  

"I still remember."

"Remember?" I was so shocked from witnessing his face moving upward into what I can only say looked like a hellish sort of mask.

"That everyday I'm feeling a little more optimistic." That word, "optimistic" was changed several years before I was even born. My job with The Family only allowed me access to its origins, he'd be better off with the proper usage now, "Family Oriented." But he didn't appear like he'd be concerned with a deviation. That night I was exposed, and there was nothing The Family could do.

2011年11月15日 IIF?: Blue-Men 2

We, or at least I, couldn't verify whether or not he was human. His mannerism had not changed since I had first seen him, some 20-odd years ago. Nor did his appearance. He wore the same grey fedora, grey suit with vest, over a white and black tie. It never once saw him without it. It also appeared as if it never changed in physical appearance, be it aging or smoke. I don't think I ever saw him eat once either. He did drink however. 

Well, I think I'd seen him chewing on a cherry a few times. Though he'd always spit it out onto a napkin after a minute or so. He'd always wipe his teeth methodically, using his index finger to retrieve any pieces left between his gums, & going so far as to wipe his tongue as well. There were two things no one could figure out about his peculiar behavior. The first was where he lived. The second was where or if he worked. There was speculation he was a high-classer, but the Blue-Men could never prove if he committed any deviation, since no one reported any deviate behavior that could be linked to him. 

He appeared to finance his activities through some sort of unwritten deal with the friends corner. All I knew was that he had sold over 80 kilos of gold over the years. Always in two forms. A pocket watch or gold diskettes, no bigger than an average woman's palm. They looked similar to a coaster, but slimmer. I heard that the weight was always the same with the discs, but the watches were the primary concern of most of us who watched him. It was the exactness of the watches. First they never would operate, though their design didn't seem as if they wouldn't. Outside of the black paint used for the raised lettering of the numbers, and glass, the watch was of gold entirely. 

Some years back I saw the insides of the a watch from him. It looked like a regular pocket watch, but with precision I had never seen before. I remember biting my lip as I gawked at the most beautiful sprockets and gears I have ever seen since. The set up, while unconventional, was neither of an extraordinary origin or natural to me & my engineering background. The useful of my background proved entirely worthless to the Blue-Men, and I never disputed it. I never understood the purpose of such, we're told they know best, they have always worked, and what works is what is right as we've been told growing up.

2011年11月14日 IIF?: Before Blue-Men 1

Is-it-fiction?

Prologue:

The clock was telling me again, with single words and lines. The weather said there was a 60 percent chance I would not have to do it on my own. But the clock kept at it, with every tick and tock, I heard it.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

No longer were there any words or fashion in which I could describe to you what the clock was saying to me. I almost laughed when I wondered what a digital clock would say. It wouldn't say anything, would it? Is it the mechanical or the digital that becomes more or less human? My speculation only helped me avoid the degree of pain I felt. A degree that only is measurable by the tools that inflicted such agony. My speculation was my tool that did both simultaneously. 

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

As if the words wouldn't end. Even without the clock, Time would always be there saying it to me unconsciously. Any attempt to reflect on anything would acknowledge its existence and participation. Time IS part of everything I knew. And everything that Time was telling me was summed up into one word without definitive reason: CRY.

It never ended, at least not in my soul. I could see others moving around, lucid fleshy-looking creatures. It reminded me of the chalk-like taste after taking certain medicines.

They're everywhere, never really here or there specifically. As if their unconscious semi-dead, if not asleep, state prevented them from lingering in a single moment and space for a definitive or measurable time. More fleshy-looking people could seen through the windows. I know there is real blood, but all I can see is just simple flashes of people. Their own clocks with Time on their shoulders, weighing some down, hiding it from some of them, only confused me or them further.

CRY.

CRY.

I couldn't understand the purpose of it, nor did I want to. The structure of it all was the same familiar dehumanization of the clock Time gave me.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

CRY.

And in those 15 seconds, I lost consciousness.

The burden of breathing appeared to bring me out of my sleep, or whatever I could call such an unconscious state. I couldn't tell if I was unconscious, sleeping, or if I was dead. I didn't feel anything at first. Then a rush jolted my heavy body. I felt like I was moving for the first time. Even though the movements themselves were familiar I couldn't recall the last time I felt such weight. Everything felt like it was the first of the last time, and I was unable to identify my surroundings due to the disorientation caused from waking.

Burning came fast, up and under my sternum. I wanted to rip all of it out. Flesh and bone, then the organs. I could imagine what they would look like as I tore them from my chest and threw them at the floor and wall.

And the massive amounts of blood I would be choking on in the process.
I could see it.
I have seen it.

Blue-Men taught us well. And for some reason I thought of the first time they injected me. Was this how it felt? I chose not to make an effort at remembering.