The Blue Boy

Oskar first saw the little blue boy sitting on a bench down the path from where Oskar was flicking small bits of bread out to a hungry flock of ducks. (Or maybe they were simply gluttonous. With the vast numbers of bread-toting children that frequented the park on weekends, Oskar could scarcely fathom these animals remaining hungry for long.)  The boy looked a few years younger than Oskar.  His face was round and luminously pale and topped by a fine black field of cowlicks.  He was wrapped in a puffy winter coat that strained against him, clearly a size too small.  His legs were draped in a pair of sweatpants that could have fit both his legs in one side.  The cuff of the pants brushed the ground, but his feet swung freely above it. 

Pitying the little pauper, Oskar hobbled over to say hi and share some of his bread with the boy when the first smell of rot crept up on him.  It was a damp smell that grew exponentially as Oskar closed the space between himself and the blue boy.  By the time Oskar was within three feet of the boy, the smell had grown strong enough to develop its own taste and texture.  The air had the spongy, pulsating feel of water-rotted wood filled with squirming insect larva.  The smell was a physical force.  It filled Oskar’s mind and made it difficult to think or even to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Oskar suddenly wanted nothing more than to stay as far away from the little blue boy as possible.  He had no idea how people could stand being within a hundred feet of the boy, much less to run and skate and play.  Oskar was a voracious learner of the highest degree, reading most anything he could get a hold of.  He could recall tearing through stories of certain phenomenon that only children could observe, but the adults here were not alone in their unawareness.  Two children side-armed a Frisbee back and forth not more than ten feet behind the boy’s bench. 

The rotting, fetid smell doubled in intensity and Oskar staggered a step backwards and caught his foot on a broken branch.  He pin wheeled his arms wildly and had to spin around to keep from falling over.  It was still a very near thing.  He scowled childishly at the dead branch that had nearly tripped him.  Some dumb high school kid had probably thrown it on the path trying to trip a biker.  When Oskar turned back to the little blue boy, he found himself looking directly into the little boy’s pale green eyes.  Caught staring, the blue boy’s eyes widened slightly and he started fidgeting, pulling at his fingers and licking his lips.  A long moment passed before the boy was satisfied that his curiosity was not going to earn him Oskar’s ire.  He tilted his head slightly, his curious gaze intensified and a tattered triangular strip of his scalp peeled away from his skull and hung limply between his left eye and ear. 

The wound was bloodless and tinged a painful purple-blue color that was deeper than the shallow blue hue that touched the entirety of the boy’s exposed skin.  The boy shifted his head back upright and the wound attempted to swing back against his scalp again, but could not defy gravity and continued to bob loosely.  It was this final gesture that suddenly and completely broke Oskar’s will.  He spun clumsily on his heel, narrowly avoiding falling flat once more, and sprinted in raw, breathless terror away from the park, away from the bench, away from the little blue boy with the torn head.  Oskar ran home at full-tilt for nearly ten minutes before having to slow down and trot the rest of the way.  By the time he got back to his house he was utterly out of breath, his legs felt numb and watery, and his mind was a howling void that could not piece together what he had seen only minutes before.  All he could see was the bobbing flap of dead flesh. 

****

Nearly twenty years passed before Oskar gave another moment’s waking thought to the little blue boy sitting on the park bench.  Within ten minutes of arriving home all those years ago, his mind had started up a rather standard procedure.  It had slowly clouded over the events that it had no classification for nor understanding of. 

It took Oskar a bit longer to notice the smell this time and far longer to actually lay eyes on what logic demanded be an apparition or hallucination. 

He was walking through Bed, Bath, and Beyond.  It was the weekend and he and Alice needed a new toaster.  Their current one now belched thin tendrils of ugly black smoke whenever it heated up.  This was a fairly significant problem, considering the job of a toaster.  Oskar, dutiful as always, had wandered off to find a sales agent in hopes of discovering which toaster would die the least painful death after the longest lifespan.  Amidst innumerable throw pillows, loofahs, and blenders Oskar strode through the aisles in search of assistance. 

Slightly taller than average with a thin frame, bleary green eyes, and mousy brown hair that was starting to thin ever so slightly, Oskar fit the mold of a young man looking to settle into his life perfectly.  He was relatively unremarkable looking, with only the sharp bend in his poorly healed nose standing out.  He had broken it when he was younger after falling out of a tree in the playground during recess one day and the school nurse had set it with a rather distinctive crook. 

Upon finally grabbing the attention of a nearby employee, Oskar led her back to his wife and filled her in on the tragic demise of their toaster.  Petite, brunette, and eye-catching enough to hurt any marriage, the saleswoman was more than happy to point out the varying brands and models of toasters that they carried and dutifully read all the different features off the information cards attached beneath the displays.  Oskar was the first man she had helped in the past two weeks who had not watched with unwavering attentiveness as she bubbled on about this product and that.  In fact, Oskar had not so much as glanced in either her or the toasters’ direction since he had met up with his wife again.  His entire focus was narrowed to the little blue boy perched lightly atop a display stand.

Oskar’s ears rang, his eyes watered, and his whole body tingled uncomfortably as panic bent his every sense to its jarring whims.  Oskar felt himself drowning, weightless.  He could not obey even the simple laws of gravity, he felt himself floating along numbly, unsure if his thoughts were wafting away or if his body had really lost anchor.  The world rocked to and fro, seemingly at random, and the colors around him waxed and waned with it. 

Oskar closed his eyes tightly and clamped his teeth down.  He told himself it was a panic attack, he had been having optical and auditory hallucinations with the attacks since he was a child and this was no more than that.  He had learned a number of tricks to help bring himself under control.  He also kept a small bottle of Klonopin with him wherever he went.  Keeping his eyes closed, he opened the bottle with practiced ease and dry swallowed a couple of the small, circular pills.  Giving the drugs time to take effect, he counted, stretched, and breathed as subtly as possible and wondered why Alice had not looked over and noticed his clear distress.

After exhausting his small bag of tricks, Oskar cautiously opened his eyes.  The world had stopped swaying, the colors remained solid, and the weightlessness gave way to gravity.  The little blue boy was still there, staring at Oskar with round, curious eyes.  The flap of skin at his hairline had dislodged itself once more and the boy looked on the verge of tears.

Oskar screamed.

****

Oskar awoke those nine years ago with little to no recollection of what had caused his panic attack and had asked only to be taken home.  He apologized profusely to his wife, to the employee, and to those patrons of Bed, Bath, and Beyond whom he had disturbed (all parties were quick to wave aside his apologies) and then passed the car keys over to Alice.  The rest of the day had been an uneventful mix of Oskar resting and Alice worrying and by the next day neither party gave the attack another thought. 

Oskar himself did not give the little blue boy another thought until Sam drowned.

Sam was seven years old, the pride and joy of his parents, Oskar and Alice.  They had done everything to make sure his life was a good one.  They gave him a sweet, simple name they both preferred to their own rather stiff first names.  They allowed him the adventures, innocence, and free spirited joy of childhood, even at the expense of their own sanity.  They taught him to find out for himself what was right and wrong and forgave him the exuberant mistakes of youth.

The police ruled Oskar’s suicide a clear case of guilt over the death of a son.  No one had ever been told that Oskar had seen his young son’s dead body twice before the police came to his door and asked him to make an identification.  Oskar knew what had happened before seeing the body.  When the police officer explained that Sam and his friends had gone to the local pool when no lifeguards had been present, Oskar understood.  The boy had been running around the edge of the pool, he had lost his balance rounding a corner and had fallen.  His head smashed against the concrete lip of the pool and had torn open along his hairline.  Unconscious and bleeding, the boy had drowned while his panicked friends called 911 and cried.  Oskar knew all this before the officer was halfway through his story and long before the sheet was pulled back on Sam.

Cyanide & Happiness

I only recently started reading the online comic series "Cyanide & Happiness".  Stellar humor if you're into low brow and offensive cheap shots taken at everyone and everything possible.  AIDS, Christianity's messiah, Santa Claus, serial killers, and midgets (as shown above) are all fair game.  Press your tongue firmly in your cheek, suspend any sense of human civility, and start browsing the six years worth of hilarity.  I've been flipping through all the older comics and it is well worth the time spent.  They dip into the morbidly disrespectful more often than any sane group of humans should and they hope to make you laugh and then hate yourself for doing so.  If you have an ounce of shame, a shred of human decency, or any self-respect just avoid this comic.  If you don't take life so terribly seriously then you'll find yourself a gem of a comic series to follow.

Simple Gestures

It was not an uncommon occurrence for Abby to stand sit under the playground tree for ten or more minutes after school, nose propped just over her book.  The book changed every week, she was a voracious reader, but the subject of her attention did not.  Rain or shine, Calvin would sit on the curb with his friends, James and Stewart and wait for Stewart’s mom to come pick them up.  They would talk and laugh and roughhouse just a little, though Calvin was always on the losing end of any prolonged physicality; a small gut and second chin were not signs of distinguished athletic prowess.  They would carry on thusly until the silver sedan pulled up that marked freedom for all three.  Invariably following this, Abby would avert her gaze from the chain link fence and down to her book long enough to avoid suspicion.  Having a crush in the fourth grade was little more than unfulfilled longing (though this was a name Abby had yet to connect with her emotion), unrelenting ridicule, and unending awkwardness.  Abby was smart enough, and shy enough, to avoid such torments.  She had time.  Both she and Calvin would continue their enrollment at Mount Calvary up to and through the eighth grade.  She would have a chance to talk to him under more ideal circumstances sooner or later.  Until then her collection of battered second-hand books, her library card, and her confidants Jennifer and Maeve would pull her through the harsh winter. 

As per usual, her scouting trips were performed alone.  Jennifer and Maeve’s parents picked them up with a haste such as Abby had never known.  And, as per usual, Abby stood up, packed up her book and started her short trek home alone.  For all intents and purposes, she was an only child.  Nora loved Abby to death, but was nearly twenty years her elder and grew up completely separate from her younger sister.  She never had constant advice from a sibling who had been through it all before and thus she was left on her own to ponder events she had no true understanding of.  And so, with thoughts of chubby chins and bright blue eyes putting her legs into autopilot, Abby stepped in front of a speeding motorcyclist.  The front wheel pulverized her preadolescent hip bone and coccyx into an unrecognizable mass of bone shards.  Shattered bone acted as shrapnel and tore into blood vessel, arteries, and vital organs. 

Even if the biker had not panicked and accelerated off at more than twice the legal speed after righting himself, Abby would have been lucky to live long enough to be declared Dead On Arrival.  As the scene played out, no call was made to emergency rescue, no ambulance arrived to rush her to a hospital, and no doctor said “we did all we could”.  A passing jogger found her broken body some six hours later, after dozens of panicked calls from Abby’s parents, and reported it to the police.  The police arrived and identified her by the magic markered name in her backpack and called the family for official identification of the body. 

Abby’s funeral service was very private and with not but the most necessary formalities.  All parties involved wished to mourn silently and hope for closure.  They had lost a daughter, a sister, a best friend long before her life could be fully lived.  The chance to know the woman she would become was taken from all of them.  But theirs was not the only chance taken before it could grow. 

Abby had died clinging to the hope that her world would mature enough to bring Calvin into it.  Her world would never mature.  She would never better know the sweet, boy-ish kindness hidden plainly on his face.  Abby had lost more than her life. 

****

Calvin heard about the death of his classmate a day afterward from his edgy and slightly pushier than normal mother.  Word spread quickly in Lindenwood and the death of a polite, intelligent, and terribly young girl in what police assumed to be a hit and run was nearly the word alive.  Every mother with a child yet to reach college had heard about it and all had, to varying degrees warned them of such dangers.  Maeve’s parents had forbidden her to walk near a major road without adult supervision until the person responsible for Abby’s death was apprehended and jailed.  James’ mom had whispered careful tips on how to avoid such terrible incidents while his father lorded over a full glass with a bruised hand. 

Mary found herself horrendously unsure of how to both break the news to Calvin and to handle the conversation that would follow.  This was Calvin’s only first-hand experience with death and it could very well affect the way children his age were allowed to play, or even how he himself was allowed to simply leave the house.  After a restless night of deliberation, she rolled herself out of her misused bed and prepared all of Calvin’s school supplies, his lunch, and his after school snack.  From there she sat herself down on the sofa, hands folded neatly in her lap, and waited for six o’clock to roll around and Calvin to come hopping down the stairs.  (The child woke like clockwork, it never failed.)  Four forty-five ticked to life and Mary unfurled her hands and, after a moment of searching, found the television remote and thumbed over to the news station.   She had no interest in the news at that moment, but found the fuzzy, out of focus background noise to be comforting. 

She sat, wound up with more motherly concern than could possibly be healthy, and tried not to watch the clock tick.

****

Calvin rolled out of bed.  His entire room was cast in the early morning fuzz that came from too much sleep in one’s eyes and waking during one’s REM cycle (though Calvin was years away from even being offered the chance to study such things in classes).  He balled his fists and buried them into his eye sockets until all the offending gunk was out of his eyes and the world before him was filled with the usual spots that came with pushing one’s eyes and the unfamiliar blurriness of a poor night’s sleep.  Calvin looked over at his clock, it read 6:03.  Not an unusual time for him to awake, but he had never been one for nightmares, nighttime antsiness, or any other impediment to a healthy night’s sleep.  He had woken twice during the night for no apparent reason, but thankfully had been able to roll over and fall back to sleep straight away.  He had not dreamt that night either, which was quite peculiar.  Calvin was not known for having brilliant and vividly artistic dreamscapes, but dreams of some sort were a staple of his nightlife.  This concerned Calvin slightly, his Mom had read in one of her magazines that dreaming while you sleep was a very good sign and often meant you were sleeping well and were off to a good start to the day. 

However Calvin’s resilient optimism worked at a second grade level and by the time he had zipped up his khaki slacks and pulled his polo shirt over his spastic mop of blonde hair, he was ready for another day with his friends and football during recess.  Calvin was not terribly athletic, as his figure would lead you to believe, but he loved James and Stewart and they loved football and Calvin loved that he was friends with two of the coolest kids in class.  They were good to him.  They would throw him passes even knowing that he would probably drop them, and even if he did catch them he would be tagged down with great rapidity.  And on the frequent occasions that he did drop the pass, they were always the ones to tell the other kids to shut up if they start snickering.  They were great friends.  They whispered and joked with him through boring classes and let him concentrate on his notes when he found a class interesting.

Calvin trotted down the stairs, mulling over his breakfast choices:  cereal or oatmeal.  Cinnamon Apple oatmeal from the packet was an absolute delicacy in Calvin’s mind and thus cereal rarely won the day.  His entrance into the kitchen on this day was different from most other days.  Mary was pacing rapidly around the kitchen, performing her morning chores with a speed Calvin found alarming.  What little he could see of her facial expression was pinched and cloudy.  Calvin briefly thought on the date and, realizing that was not the source of his Mother’s agitation, wondered if there was another possible connection to dad he was not thinking of.  Hesitant to make his breakfast while his mother was so distraught and guilty for not knowing why, Calvin went to his ace in the hole:  he took two quick steps towards his Mother and wrapped his arms around her stomach as tightly as was appropriate and nuzzled his face against her rib cage.  

****

Mary nearly jumped out of her skin when Calvin clamped his arms around her.  She had been so distracted by the coming conversation they would have that she had not even noticed his entering the room.  She stood rooted in place for a moment before realizing that Calvin was trying to comfort her.  She knew it did not matter how long he had been standing there watching her, she was nervous enough and he had seen her in distress often enough that he knew something was wrong.

Mary returned her warmest and most motherly hug and decided that being up front with him would be best in the long run.  She had to parent enough for two and it was hard enough without trying to candy coat and euphemize the world.

****

Calvin was noticeably more withdrawn during the drive to school the next day.  Thankfully he had drawn front seat rights and was at a slight distance from the horse play in the back.  His mind was far from the coming day’s events.  His thoughts were firmly entrenched in a hazy nostalgia he was years too young for.  He was not quite sure why his mind was sifting through what limited memories of Abby he had, but it was.  Answering questions in class, looking over at them during recess and lunch, always a little bit shy, she seemed like a nice enough kid—for a girl.  What few memories he had, floated in and out of his mind for the entire drive to school, much to the chagrin of his friends, who kicked his seat and jabbed the back of his neck with their fingers hoping to grab his attention. 

And so it was for the entirety of the school day.  Calvin went through his daily paces moderately distracted but never fully knowing why.  It was odd to look to the back of the room and find her seat empty.  It gave him goosebumps and more than once he felt himself shiver. 

Her friends, Jennifer and some girl with an “M-” name Calvin could never remember, seemed quite sad and lost that day.  Each time he passed them in the halls or in the classrooms he felt the maddeningly awkward but alarmingly irresistible urge to hug them and tell them that “it would be ok”, a strangely solemn and final phrase that Calvin took a sudden disliking to.  It was a phrase not meant for casual or friendly conversation.

****

The ride back home with Stewart’s mom was as uneventful as the ride with his own mother to school.  (James’ mom never drove, it was an unspoken ruling.)  James and Stewart squawked and squirmed behind Calvin’s seat, never allowing him to drift too fully from reality, but never completely breaking his nearly subconscious reverie. 

When the sedan slowed to drop off at Calvin’s home, Mrs. Cameron waved him goodbye as he exited the car and flashed a smile that made Calvin blush deeply.  Something about Mrs. Cameron had always made Calvin blush; she was very nice, very tall, and very red-headed.  Calvin had long since harbored this crush as a closely guarded secret.  She was a married woman and a friend’s mom.

Calvin waved back, smiled timidly, and, turning quickly on his heel, headed for his front door. 

****

Night had fallen on Lindenwood’s semi-suburban community, Tall Trees, not that such things mattered.  Hers was a world of utter grayscale and uncertain solidity.  Objects flickered in and out of existence, some faded ever so slightly and surreally, and others still grew too bright to view even through periphery.  The laws of sound were equally malleable for her.  Some noises distorted and muffled as if underwater, some drew out into unbearable whines, and whispers abound in every corner.  Whispers, however, was the wrong word and she knew it.  Some of them did not whisper.  A better word would be Voices, but even that described only her comprehension of them.  They felt worse than normal voices, somehow ugly and oily.  Some of these Voices did whisper, enticing little sentiments just out of earshot.  Others were guttural and animalistic.  She did not like to think what types of people were making these sounds.  The worse were the Voices that were very clearly human.  They gibbered and howled madly, lusting so savagely for something they could not express.  Their cries were devoid of all substance and form, but she knew to stay away from them.  She had always been a smart girl.

Smart or not, she was still very young and this new world was not a kind place.  Already it was winding tendrils of unease and turmoil in through her every pore.  She herself felt grayer, as if she were part of this dark, unstable world. 

Her only solace was his room.  His room was the furthest point from the Voices, the place where objects stayed more solid and sounds rung more truly.  She stood in doorway every second she could.  It was as close to his room as she could get.  She was not allowed in, despite all attempts to step through the door, it would not let her.  She had begun to wonder if the door was keeping her out so as to keep the Voices out or if she was not letting herself in the room in case the Voices did follow her in.  After all, one had to be careful when entering someone’s home uninvited, it was quite rude. 

She looked in on him, his sleep peaceful and still.  He was what kept the Voices out of the room.  Her wistful gaze never left him as she recited her nightly rite.  Again and again, she murmured her name to the sleeping form, her whisper mournfully enticing.  She felt the pull of this place on her and knew that she was allowing them root in her, but her ritual was a near compulsion.  It was fervent necessity.  It was validation.

****

Calvin woke slowly, his dreams fading to simple shapes and shades and then reforming to the dark contours of his moonlit bedroom.  His mouth tasted like a cotton wad and his legs were cramped.  He was in the process of waking himself up further when he realized it was still hours away from his six o’clock starting gun.  A sound sleeper, unaccustomed to waking at such premier hours, Calvin rolled over the side of his bed and gazed out the window.  The silent, calm of his neighborhood glazed by a waxing moon’s glow was an eerie sight to Calvin.  It was a view no young, curious child could pass up, especially not once beset with such a sudden wakefulness. 

He opened his mouth wide and ran his tongue over the far corners of his mouth, trying to wash the cotton out of his mouth.  Having achieved this goal, he found himself unable to focus on the glowing portrait painted outside his window.  Calvin found his brain completely locked in what James would no doubt colorfully dub a “brain fart”.

****

She had watched him wake and her murmuring was beginning to spiral out of her control.  She could no sooner stop her whispering than she could stop a speeding train.  And then he spoke.

“Abby”

Crystal clear in a world of distortion and unreality, his voice slammed shut the floodgates of her whispering.  The dark, oily Voices quieted and Abby stepped through the door into the room’s warm glow.

That Guy

In all the heist movies, someone always gets pinched or sick or whatever at the very last minute and everyone else has to scramble to find a replacement.  I was the replacement.  I was “that guy”.  And whenever “that guy” exists in the group there’s always someone else in the crew who has to vouches for the newbie.  Hey, don’t worry, man. He’s cool.  That’d be Dempster.  He is the one vouching for me.  Except in all the heist movies, I am not cool.  I’m a narc or a coward or a psychopath.  I am the one who fucks the whole plan to hell.  Looking around, I kind of think I deserve the title of “that guy”.  I walked into this little dress rehearsal in a slate three-piece suit of acceptable quality with a dark duffel bag holding a ski mask, gloves, and a shoulder rig for a 9mm.  The standard apparel of the room is punk rock rags, ski masks, and semi-automatic rifles. 

Yeah, I really am “that guy.”

They all have that look on their faces.  They’ve all brushed up on Bank Jobs 101. They know I’m going to be the one to fuck everything to hell.  How am I supposed to hold up my end of things if I’m worried about wrinkling my suit and I’m packing a piece of European plastic?

But Dempster knows how it is.  I’m a professional who wants to get paid.  I like the image the suit conveys and the simplicity of a Glock 9mm.  He knows I’m cool.

Dress rehearsal goes down and the unspoken hostility continues.  Sure, I got all the steps down, but I could still crack under pressure and I’ve just got that look about me.  Yeah, I’m smart and can think on my feet, but I could also get to thinking that screwing these guys over would benefit me more, I am an outsider after all.  Course Dempster vouched for me, but I’m still the weirdo in the three-piece suit.  All of this is more than enough to bury to me, but fortunately there’s not enough time to buy me a plot or fit me for cement sneakers.  They’re stuck with me if they don’t want to scrap the plan and they hate it. 

***

T-minus two weeks faded to t-minus two hours and four punks and a three-piece suit go over one last verbal run through the ringer before they each reenact their favorite heist film. 

The job’s a quick one.  “Get in, get the money, and haul your ass the fuck out” as Dempster described it to me.  The cops are inevitably going to get called.  No good heist works under the assumption that you can stop the police from crashing the party, so good jobs rely on delaying that 911 call or that silent alarm until you’ve started getting money shoveled into your pockets.  After that, and even more important, is getting the fuck out before the cops laid out the red carpet for you. 

We did just that.  Mostly. 

Our escape coincided with the first surge of police activities.  This was not a wholly unforeseen event and the plan was still a simple one:  scatter, ditch any black-and-white tag-alongs and meet at the designated safe point.  Anyone who cannot perform such a task within an hour of exiting the bank was then left to fend for him or herself.  Those who did were treated to a slow ride home in a cramped white cable van. 

An hour ticked by on my watch and the van rumbled gamely to life.  I made sure my duffel was secured on the passenger-side floor and those who had not performed the required task were left to fend for themselves. 

***

The color television set was probably the only thing that had changed in the hotel room since its construction over fifty years ago.  The big report on the news is still the bank robbery earlier today.  Four of the five suspects were apprehended.  The fifth, a man of medium height and build, was last seen in a dark suit and was said to still be at large.

Silentium Est Aureum

It was that dog.  That goddamn, motherfucking neighbor dog.  Nora had tried to talk to the little shit’s owner, but they had just credited it to a youthful exuberance that would most assuredly fade as the dog grew older.  This explanation did a fantastic job of allowing her to sleep well until the dog finally grew out of its idiot yipping. 

After talking to the family had failed, Nora had attempted to confront the problem in a more head-on manner while the neighbors were out at work.  An unemployable nurse had plenty of time to discipline the dog just one-on-one.  The problem with a strange woman trying to discipline a rambunctious young dachshund was that the little dogs could be quite aggressive.  Nora had left with a pair of bite marks on her left leg that she could not quite identify as either friendly or malicious. 

It was three nights since the bite and her attempted disciplining of the little dog appeared to have had absolutely no effect.  It was well after midnight and still the idiot yipping poured over the fence and through her bedroom window.  It was an ice pick burrowing through her skull.  Maddening did not begin to explain the sensation; it was a roiling agony sweeping through all reaches of her mind.

It was that night that Nora decided to reclaim the silence of the night.  That mongrel dog deserved it.  After all, the little shit had had the nerve to bite her.

****

The next morning, Nora roused herself at five.  She had slept little and lightly the night before and it was no problem to awake early enough to go about her preparations.  She emptied out her largest purse while starting a pot of coffee and went into the garage to lay hands on the medical supplies she had squirreled away before they had fired her.  She found what she was looking for and set them neatly in the black leather purse.  From her garage she shuffled into her kitchen, poured herself a mug of black coffee and gathered another instrument she would need. 

When eight o’clock rolled around and the neighbors had not yet left Nora felt her resolve slip.  A desperate voice of reason pushed itself forward.  What if one of them was sick and taking the day off work?  What if she was seen by a passing jogger?  Worst yet, what if this was wrong?  These doubts passed quickly as two well-dressed figures walked with linked hands to a white Toyota parked in the driveway.  This was the last time Nora’s failing voice of sanity ever spoke up.  Instead, steadfast and unbreakable surety took over.  She had been waiting for their departure for more than two hours, sitting in a battered easy chair, sipping her coffee, and peering through the blinds.

She counted out a full five minutes on her wristwatch before feeling satisfied that they had not left anything worth turning around for.  She set her mug aside and relieved herself before retrieving her bag.

Nora left through the side door.

She flicked the neighbor’s gate open.

A syringe emptied.

A paralytic activated.

A needle flashed.

Thick, black thread bit into flesh.

A crooked grin stitched over silenced jaws.

A knife tore.

The dog bled.

She flicked the neighbor’s gate open.

Nora returned through the side door.

Silence reigned. 

****

Noisome disturbances intruded upon silence’s ascendancy soon after. 

Within minutes of arriving home Mister and Misses Yappy Dog (Nora had never felt the urge to retain their names) had found their dog and the bitch was calling her.  Nora had been expecting no less and had thusly situated herself next to the phone in her living room, again lounging in her battered easy chair.  This time, however, the preparations were mental, not physical. 

She let the phone ring three times before picking up the handset.  It would be best that they not know she had been waiting for this very call.  No sooner had the phone reached her ear then did the furiously shrill voice of Misses Yappy Dog rip through her eardrum, all a-light with teary acrimony and quivering indignation.  The piercing voice pushed on, indignation mounting with every denial of guilt Nora uttered.  Not that it really mattered; the shrill woman on the other end of the line had nothing real to base her accusations on. 

She let the woman wail on until she had no wind with which to speak and Nora hung up quietly while the woman took pause to inhale.

The police came by shortly after Nora and her neighbor finished their discourse.  They spoke first to Mister and Misses Yappy Dog and then to Nora to investigate the dog owners’ claim.  They left soon after.  They too had nothing concrete to go on. 

And so, with the police gone and the banshee next door stewing in her own juices, Nora sat back and reveled in the silence. 

****

Three days had passed and Nora had received not a moment of peace since she had hung up on the blubbering neighbor bitch.  At all hours of the day she called (apparently showing up for work was not longer a priority for her).  She demanded Nora take responsibility for her dog’s murder.  Inwardly scoffing at the notion that a repulsive mutt such as that was capable of being murdered, she corrected the maddening notion mentally.  She had simply, and almost nobly, cleansed the neighborhood of that despicable mongrel, but she had absolutely no intention of sharing that information with the shrieking hag next door.  Nora continued politely contradicting the accusations and once more set the phone back into the cradle without ceremony. 

****

Three more days of agonizing torment ensued before Nora decided once more to reclaim the silence of the night.

****

Nora sat waiting in her easy chair, this time preparing herself for nightfall.  This time discipline would reach out to the source of Nora’s problem.  Not the yippy dog that had once tormented her so, but the woman—that goddamn, motherfucking neighbor woman.  Her large leather bag was once more filled with supplies from her garage and kitchen.  Now, in addition to the syringe filled with a high-grade paralytic, a heavy needle, a thick spool of thread, and long chef knife, were two thumbtacks and two small post-it notes with three words scrawled unevenly across both. 

Silence is golden.

Californication

So, I haven't done much of anything on this blog of late nor have I done anything since the start that involved me in any more personal a way than my short stories.  I'm sure no one's really been following this and few people are even poking their heads in for a second date but hey, a guy can pretend, right?

Well, I recently synched my Xbox 360 to my Netflix account.  This means I can now stream some of Netflix's rather copious television and movie selection through my Xbox.  Not everything can be streamed, but it's still a solid deal and I've been catching up on all kinds of fun X-Files episodes.  In need of a break from the X-Files but with nothing really catching my fancy I scrolled through their library and found Californication.  I've never really had HBO or Showtime or anything like that so I knew next to nothing about this show before I started off.  But it starred David Duchovny (Mulder from the X-Files) and the description of the pilot episode was sufficently entertaining to draw me in.


It's about Hank Moody (Duchovny) and his fucked up life.  He's a writer who drinks too much, fucks too much, and writes nothing of any real value anymore.  It's a Showtime series, so there is a wholesome abundance of partial nudity, profanity, and fist fights, but it ends up meaning more than such menial ingredients would suggest.  The profanity is rather excessive, but it fits.  Hank is an astounding prick.  He's clever and quick on feet and not bad in a fight.  He drinks too much, accepts more pot than a grown-man really should, and has sex with any and all female takers (seriously, the man's game is both impressive and tongue-in-cheek entertaining).  Most of the sex scenes show all kinds of breasts and ass, but this is intentional.  Hank's addiction to pointless sex is all but parodied by the lack of modesty and self-respect demonstrated in the show.  You can tell when he really values the sex he's having simply by how much classier it is handled by the directors.

His writer's block is one of the more difficult parts of his life.  His first three books were nearly universally praised, but when the viewer jumps into the show Hank's been five years without anything new worth publishing.  He eventually gets offered a job blogging for a HelLA magazine.  He loathes the idea.  He's a man with a fiery hatred of all of humanity's pointless and petty idiocies and he feels that texting and instant messaging have wrecked people's ability to communicate intelligently.  The problem is that he needs the money and they want him to write about what he loves to write about, bitching about humanity.  His latest novel's title was God Hates Us All and I always got the impression that he truly believes the sentiment.  He accepts the job and everyone seems to hope it will lead to something bigger.

Worse than his writer's block though, is his ex-"wife", Karen.  They were never officially married, but they were obviously quite serious and Hank is still crazy about her.  She and Becca, her daughter with Hank, live with Bill (husband to-be) and his daughter, Mia (important character to-be).  Hank hates Bill, Bill hates Hank, Hank loves Karen, and Karen still cares for Hank.  Many of Hank's vices can be traced back to his failings with Karen.  On top of his troubles with Karen, his daughter Becca is reaching her teens.  She's a sharp little girl, but a child nonetheless.  For all the times she coolly and clinically announces the presence of a shaved vagina in his father's bedroom, she a moment of utter childish naivety, namely her questioning the possibility of a reunion between Hank and Karen.

This troubled family though, is what offers Hank the greatest ability to put his quick wit and quick fists to good use.  There a enough moments littered through the show to show-off Hank's decency.  He's really a good guy, he's just a bit more fucked up than is healthy.  This kindness on Hank's part rarely feels cheesy or contrived, it's too honest for that.  This is not a show bent on exposing the world's ills or an enormous government conspiracy, this show is about the life of one Hank Moody.  He's a flawed character, but one I can relate to in a great amount of detail.  That is what drew me into the show so fully, it's funny and entertaining but it's also easy to relate to.  I found Hank offering turns of phrases and twisted cynicism up that I myself say on a regular basis.  I'd like to be a writer someday, but I have all kinds of person issues that can easily fuck up the works.  I hate the world's petty idiocies, but find myself falling short of the expectations I set down.  I can relate to his generous dose of self-loathing.  All of this takes an entertaining show and elevates it to the kind of show that can hold audiences captive.

If you have the chance, check this show out.  It's great.