*Coffee relieves indigestion: rocky's unexpected return* Act1: Misery prefers company

an incredibly boring story courtesy of "The Great Flavonian." 

see him astound!

see him conquer! 

see him prematurely ejaculate!

please read the following segments divided into acts 1-7 entitled :

"Coffee Relieves Indigestion: Rocky's unexpected revenge"

Act1: Misery seems to prefer company

the scene is thus:

 a blue modern shanty house, its mediocre wooden structure tilting slightly to the right, stands on concrete stilts its windows placably black and empty. the facade wears a comforting but sad expression for its occupants sleep soundly inside and are no longer actively enjoying the roomy interior. off to one side of this cheeringly melancholy house sits an open carport, the house's smaller cousin. when looking at the carport one might mistake it for a guest room currently under construction with its flimsy concrete skeleton baring, for all to see a striped couch wet from the humidity of the night and spotted with mold, and an old floor lamp banished to the empty garage that hopes, one day, to serve a brilliant purpose and dreading the day it ends up discarded like all the other excess furniture. the night air remains still as stone, breeze so slight as not to even be called movement, crickets whispering to one another like lovers in a library whose compulsion to serenade one another greatly overpowers the strict rules of conduct associated with those rigid public institution. nature remains respectfully quiet as if sensing the overall sadness of the early morn. the wind may not be blowing but the chill in the motionless air is enough to cause discomfort.

the scene appears empty at first. sure there's an opossum snooping around the garage interior with the hopes of discovering forgotten edible treasures, its cunning form winding behind that woebegone floor lamp. an overly alert owl, only its silhouette and bright golden eyes are visible to the inquisitive marsupial below, watches with exaggerated curiosity. its attention remains fixed until a blubbering sob breaks the natural harmony of the night. disgusting wet sniffles and moans soon follow and the creatures seem to retreat repugnantly into the night. 

   "oh, woe is me," the oblivious, unseen being cries to the night, "woe is me for my heart has been abroken." his attempt at poetic expression falls very short, clearly this thing feels very sorry for himself, absolutely convinced he has played victim in some negative circumstances of late.

we pan up to the roof of the carport to find a most pathetic, sobbing individual, pants sagging well below his boney waist and wrinkled parka bunched up awkwardly under his fetal form. his face is a mess; bright red eyes brimming with tears eager for a good jog down the cheeks and a face that resembles an edible root, possibly a rutabaga. his lips, chapped from the cold, peel back over yellow teeth as if a knife had sliced open the spinal area of a turkey to reveal the normally unexposed skeletal structure to the world. if one were to be viewing this sad, sad scene from above one might be under the impression that this fully clothed adult male had spent his whole life in the womb and had, till now, been forcefully ejected, what with his bean shaped posture and childlike whimpering. 

his hands, shaking feebly, comb the exterior of his shorts looking for the entry slit into his shallow pocket, searching as if self aware for that special box. his fingers, almost jaundice in appearance, withdraw with a familiar, albeit bent and wrinkled, pillar of filtered tobacco. his trembling fingers struggled to properly place the cigarette within the grasp of his slimy, reptilian lips. 

he sparks the lighter and a bright flame leaps into existence ready to destroy, to chemically transform, and to heat the first thing it comes into contact with. the initial drag quiets his sobs, the tears stop flowing and the jerky spasm often associated with mental stress slowly cease to be, the second quiets his moaning. his nostrils still happily work their mucus magic unaware that their sodden faced operator has stopped crying, the nerve signal mysteriously lost somewhere between the optical nerve endings and the albuquerque post office. 

while rubbing the snot onto the sleeve of his coat the man, whose name is paul, sits himself up into a more respectable, though still slouched, position and gazes through blurry, rain streaked braindows, at his immediate surroundings. a long stretch of translucent mucus runs the length of his arm, he examines it curiously. a racing slug perhaps? or a seemingly inexhaustible reserve of nose honey. he feels a pang of embarrassment, already was he the laughing stock of his entire social circle, the clueless third wheel who doesn't get the joke everyone's telling, but now he was a whimpering weakling unable to take such an predictable emotional blow. 

his friends, the roommates, sleep soundly inside, unaware of the inner torment and self loathing bout of depression their compadre is going through. he half hoped his moaning would be noticed by them, half afraid of the regret he would feel in the morning by laying his emotions bare. as much sadness as he felt at this point in time he found himself almost enjoying it. it seemed to paul comparable to an old acquaintance, a vagabond, who travels in and out of your life. he takes up room on the couch, sure, but offers undivided attention when the need is most. he assures you that you're right and whatever issue has you all balled up is an act of evil committed by people who are in the wrong. not always looked forward to, but welcomed all the same. misery, that disreputable hobo whose haggard appearance destroys even the most ravenous of appetite, just so happens to be in the neighborhood this time of the year. passing through, he glances up at the brooding paul atop the roof and decides to stop in and see what sort of turmoil a frequent friend is going through. his presence brings tears, as satisfying as rupturing a swollen blister, the release is so sweet and soothing that the prick of the heated needle is soon forgotten. 

Paul senses an aura of grave need, surrounding his long time friend and paul looks up questioningly, hoping to get some answers or a bit of advice from this silent fellow. he reaches over gently and, with a dirt smudged smile, wipes the collecting tears from paul's bulbous, veiny eye lids. 

'where will I go?' he inwardly addresses his hobo friend, ' and what will we do when I get there? i can't seem to sleep, i can't seem to eat. my stomach aches to no end and my brain is all heated up!" 

wordlessly misery takes him by the reign and begins to lead. paul's mind becomes blank, almost zen like, each step away from the house becomes much lighter. both meander clumsily through the secret path that lay behind the wooden blue house and up to the main, one way street. paul blindly puts his trust in misery sensing that his traveling friend has an appointment with someone or something, and that this appointment may give direction to the rest of the evening and early morning. there is a sense of complacent urgency and passive determination in the way misery guides, another being must be waiting near this unusually quiet road, perhaps further down. 

on arrival paul finds that he no longer senses his friends presence, as i have said before, paul's mind is devoid of thought and feeling at this point in time. the only 'feeling' is an urge, a compulsion to explore the convenient store down the road, a lingering sense of meaning to this directionless walk. 

it's a short distance from house to store, the walk takes no longer than three minutes or so. the convenient store is quiet and dark like the rest of the small town at this hour. paul frequents the establishment in the daytime to buy a cheap pack of smokes or even the occasional beer, in fact a week earlier, paul had come to purchase many different cheeses for fajita night. cheesy fajitas often cheered paul up. but not now, no. the very thought of food seemed make his throat tighten up. paul was here for something more than than just tobacco, alcohol or cheese. paul was here to kill an overwhelming nagging sensation, to meet a mysterious friend of a friend. paul was here to find meaning, a goal to this sleepless, most distressing night. 

the store is, unsurprisingly, empty and locked, the hours of operation (according to the store window) don't go beyond ten o'clock in the PM. it's three in the morning at this point. the parking lot and gas pumps, out of order signs swaying gently to a breeze unfelt, were ghostly empty. shady, bleary eyed and foolish looking, paul peers curiously into the window at the dimly lit isles sparsely packed with foreign goods, junk food snacks and at the chipped paint on the walls. perhaps his appointment lies in wait, ready to unlock the doors and greet him warmly. 

a slight movement from the periphery of his vision, the dimension of the damned, slowly draws his attention to his left. had the fiend come to do battle? there, maliciously staring from behind a corner, peaked a hideous face and two gnarled hands gripping the building's edge with white knuckled anticipation. grubby, wrinkled and foreboding was its mien. the texture of his skin reminds paul of the pictures he had seen in his health book back in high school of dissected smokers lungs, black and yellow like the craggy surface of some alien planet. his beady eyes regard paul with interest, yellow irises behind which some evil plan is being concocted, his pulse visible through bulging veins in his forehead. he crooks a finger at the now frightened paul, beckoning him forth. 

paul, with much hesitation, approaches the man he inwardly senses is an apothecary of some sort. how he knew is a mystery to even paul. it seems he has met this man before, in passing perhaps, but does not usually associate with his type of character. the apothecary seized his hand suddenly, his body still hidden behind the sharp corner, and slowly rotated paul's hand until the palm lay open and ready to receive. his grip on the building's edge had appeared to paul to be bloodless, but now he realized he had been quite mistaken for his hands were warmed immediately within the apothecary's grasp. the strangers eyes never stray from paul's stricken face until a glass object is placed firmly into his awaiting hand. within his palm, paul sees, is a green vial, polished and reflective, with a cork stopper to keep the contents from spilling. he can hear a small amount of liquid stirring within. a questioning glance is shot at the apothecary whose wicked, smiling face gradually retreats back behind the corner and disappears. 

instructions of every sort trickle into paul's empty brain, this liquid when taken, would help him inflict pain and wrath on his new enemy whose whereabouts became suddenly clear to him. these beings were from the same realm, the forbidden dimension from which this unknown enemy had spawned, the periphery!  the escapee had broken the code, the rule that binds them to their world, and that could not go unpunished. the fugitive, according to the mentally intrusive plans, must be sought out, confronted and destroyed. paul was only too willing to comply.

Act 2: spinal knives and foreign worlds

an introspective narrative:

you remember it clearly, after all it was the after fajitas, you were in a perky mood and the current problems and suspicions seemed trivial and foolish, things of a more irresponsible past. the first half of the shift was great, you swung that ancient wok like a mighty battle axe from atop an armored horse. veggies galore, a dash of garlic and a tablespoon of water, the chicken lightly browning at the bottom of the cooking pan. you were alerted of the meal's completion by the strong smell of sizzling garlic and teriyaki sauce that hung over the smoking alley. the restaurant's atmosphere is so clear in your mind: soy sauce, along with other hardened food sauces, frozen in the act of dripping down the sides of those grey trash containers, beautiful dishes just emanating sterility in the form of heavy clouds of steam, and the servers bustling busy bodies darting from front to back, empty handed or loaded to the T with various plated foods and dishes. the last positive image in your mind.

you talk shit with your co-worker while effortlessly flipping the food in the wok, you update her on the current, hopefully deceased drama in your life. she started by asking about the women in your life. you then gave her a lengthy speech about handling women, caring for them and such. she rolled her eyes and you laughed, a great big throaty laugh that now seems so forced when you recall that last happy moment. she then asked you how you chose your girlfriends, their qualities and physical characteristics to which you responded with, 

"i like my girls like i like my coffee. ground up and in the freezer." 

speaking of which, you then felt the urge to order more espresso.

the amount of caffeine running through your bloodstream helps to loosen the tongue on such touchy subjects. your heart pumps massive amounts of euphoric, life giving oxygen to your over active brain. you think, for a second, about the word pharmakon with its double meaning, existing both as a cure and a poison, and how oxygen is very much like that. it's then that your eye twitches and your tongue stills. 

the corner of your eye, the periphery, alerts you of a new, foreign presence in this reality. the periphery, as you know, is the dubious realm where shadows and slights, colors and ghostly forms lurk. there are laws and regulations separating the two realities from one another. the only way you know it exists is the casual fluke, the occasional slip of the curtain, between the two opposing worlds. when this happens one is able to see into the mirror realm known as the periphery. but something must have went wrong, horribly wrong, for that was no ordinary shifting shadow, that was real and very much present. a glimpse is all it took for you to take notice of the impossible, so impossible was it that you actually began to blame the negative effects of the abundant oxygen in your brain. the glimpse revealed an abomination, a blue veneer peppered with boom boxes and microphones, childlike designs found decorating a toddlers blanket or underwear. perhaps, you think, it was just that, a glimpse. it never hurts to double check, though, just to confirm that this projection was nothing more than the product of an over active imagination. 

casual, you tell yourself, casual and calmly that is how this must be approached. you tell yourself this but your gut revolts, it tightens up painfully. 

you weaved your way through those same darting bodies you noticed, mere obstructions now and nothing more. the pronged racks lined neatly with their array of china and soup bowls have a purpose that could work as an excuse. you grab at  the dishes that belonged up front, an excuse for leaving the confines of the kitchen. you speed through the darkened hallway that connects the back room to the front with the tower of plates in your grip precariously swaying back and forth. the front is bustling with activity, tonight it seems, is a popular night for the restaurant. you now see why the servers hurried so, but this is of no concern to you at the moment, you have to identify the imminent threat. 

while placing the dishes in their appropriate slots you casually run your eyes over the dining area, the fleeting projection tattooed to your minds eye. you halt, fearfully, in the middle of the bar. there, confidently staring directly back at you, was the strangely decorated sheet you wished were not there. not one of the servers seemed to realize the threat, they generously served the abomination sake and beer. he swallowed, unseen gaze never leaving your face, it's expression seemed to scream: that's right. i known you can see me, i know you know what i am. a fictional creature, an improbability in your rigid reality. i escaped the boundaries of my restrictive world and there is nothing you can do about it. i am impervious to all your mortal weapons and tools, but are you to mine? well, you'll find out soon enough what damage i can do. do you dare confront me or the matter at hand? 

you smiled, not simpering, but certainly not assertively. just a simple smile of recognition, take it as you will you evil sheet. after all, you said to yourself, who am i to play judge and jailer? a mere mortal man, not a supernatural bone in this body. but, beneath the calm, frozen surface of Europa, swirls a frothy sea of horrible thoughts and negative emotions that you know will haunt your every action for the rest of the evening. it continues to spin the entire shift on, a maelstrom forms beneath your icy exterior. you wait on the edge of your toes, expecting the satisfying gurgle a toilet makes once it has successfully swallowed the shit you fed it. but you are disappointed, that's for sure, and your eager toes begin to burn horribly after a while. your stomach voicing a 'here, here' in response.

the night draws to a close, you hope the diaphanous specter remains up front. you hope to god it doesn't approach you in the back and break another boundary. oh, but he does. it reappears, beer coiled in it's corner, and mockingly saunters back to lean against a nearby shelving unit piled high with various kitchen storage items. you wonder if this creature can even speak, much less drink. whatever looks or telepathic thoughts are exchanged are lost to you for you remained composed under the frozen surface of Jupiter's moon. you never once met his challenging stare. 

how could this shade break the border? why does the strange pattern on the sheet seem so oddly familiar? has it haunted you before, or maybe it was something related to it, some distant kin. you decided to see how it would play out, the most unwise choice you could make. did it occur to you that this abomination might have already put it's mischievous plans into action? no, you told yourself, you were hoping to confront the living or nonliving shit out of it at a later point in time. big mistake, friend. already it's evil deeds were at work.

Act 3: opposing sunrises setting

where we left off: 

paul had obtained the weapon of destruction from the very creatures the abomination is linked to. agents, they are, of the periphery sent to aide and uphold the archaic treaty the two realms both agreed upon long ago. a glass vial of some unfathomable chemical obtained from the apothecary seemed an unlikely weapon of destruction to paul, but who was he to know? the inexplicable urge to come to the convenient store slowly vanished with the disappearance of the malevolent weapon provider. paul started to think again, the absence of thought he had just experienced for however long (he guessed minutes, but felt hours) flooded back into his consciousness. it was as if a damn containing every imaginative detail of the evil deed, fictional and exaggerated, had unpredictably burst. he felt himself becoming, once again, a pathetic, whimpering lump of flesh. his hand shot up to steady himself against the store's front wall, surprised by the sudden wave of dizziness that overcame him, and abruptly vomited yellow, acidic bile. it wasn't the  gushing of a full stomach, but the drizzle of a spout only half opened. it dribbled onto his dirty shoes and exploded on impact. the unfavorable taste of sour lemons and hot sauce coated his mouth, and another heave shortly followed, this one strong enough to force vomit into and out of his nostrils. 

paul needed a drink of water and quick but he knew something else was supposed to happen, something so momentous and essential that he could not possibly return home. besides, only more pain awaited him there, it seemed to fester and leak from inside the very walls. the closest source of free water, that paul could think of, was at the stadium- due west. paul looked up at the westward horizon with it's stadium lights ablaze. a second sunrise, blue, dim and forever rising in the west, opposite in every way to our standard sun. perhaps, he supposed, he had hit the border between the periphery and his home realm. it would seem that their sun never quite rose but permanently hovered in the act of rising. that's it, paul thought, that's the direction i must go. equipped with the weapon of the fiends home world and being lodged somewhere in limbo between dimensions, paul set off west. 

each step brought more and more pain to his dully aching gut, his throat remained dry and his saliva (which he constantly swallowed hoping to quench, if not rid himself of, that awful burning sensation) congealed bitterly in the back of his mouth. he crossed empty roads approaching the artificial dawn ahead until finally the stadium, the town's ziggurat, loomed menacingly ahead of him. when  seeing it, though, paul realized that his enemy lie, not here, but further on into the blasted lands and beyond the overpass. ne'er-do-wells and thieves lay in wait for the unwary traveler, it would be risky, but paul was willing to take it, anything to satisfy the urge that would eventually drive him mad. 

he stumbled, thirst driving him crazy, to the water fountain across the way, by the ticket booth. he leaned the full weight of his body against its metal shell and pushed the fountain's button, polka dotted with green and white oxidization. with each gulp of water he felt his disposition improve, the problem was that every swallow of cold liquid was immediately followed by an even more intense thirst. he drank, still, until he felt his throbbing belly would burst. his abdomen still seemed to be displeased, this paul attributed to the amount of coffee he had regrettably  consumed earlier that night. this was before the problem came to light, before he heard the terrible news and before discovering the fruition of the sheets sowing. 

paul staggered on, one hand hovering on his distended belly the other gripping an already lit cigarette. each puff disgusted him and calmed him at the same time. a pharmakon, he supposed, once again marveling at the conflicting meanings the word held. his mind slowly dimming, his eyes slowly separating, his mouth slowly gaping. a thin sliver of drool ran down his foolish, beet red face. he wasn't among the living, he was in the border lands among the periphery but still within his own realm so as not to break the code. he vaguely comprehends the odd assortment of flashes and shapes, colors and spots, objects and humanoid forms that dance in and out of his vision. the denizens of the forbidden space. 

paul came to around the laundro-mat. the entire front of his shirt reeked and clung wetly to his chest and upon closer inspection the sickly sweet smell of bile invaded his still running nose. the mucus, whose path remained undisturbed in paul's comatose daze, had ferried itself across his gaping maw and crept along the chin until reaching his neck. his slitted eyes bulged wetly against two swollen eyelids and rolled about lazily like two fat maggots under a layer of rotting organic flesh. up ahead, directly in his path, approached two strangely dressed men, one much larger than the other, their faces obscured by beanies stretched well past the brow. paul, realizing the potential danger of the situation, calmly swerved towards the back of the silent laundry store. 

he ducked under a dryer vent, jets of warm, spring time scented air gushed down pauls exposed ass crack. this sent a chill of pleasure up his boney spine. after waiting a for a minute or so, paul felt it was safe to at least peek out from behind the corner of the store. the two men, hands shoved snugly into their hoodie pockets, appeared to be waiting for something at a nearby bus stop, directly across and in front of paul's hiding spot. something or someone, paul was not sure which. 

not too long after, the dryer exhaust shut off and paul began to shiver uncontrollably, the unquenchable thirst began to creep back into his burned throat, returning stronger than ever. his stomach ached bitterly and his bowels began grumbling noisily, his uncomfortably hunched position doing little to mitigate the gastrointestinal turmoil. he felt gas coming but, for some reason he couldn't pass it. this offered him some relief, if slightly more discomfort, for the fart could potentially arouse the attention of the two strange men standing by the bus stop. he wished to discover what foul deeds the two had and if they had anything to do with him or his mission. 

the night, still cold and silent as before, slowly dragged by and the two subjects of paul's paranoia seemed to be growing rather impatient. a grumble could be heard form time to time but from which one and what it was about, paul could not tell. surely they had seen him duck behind the laundro-mat, if they meant any harm shouldn't they have confronted him by now? 

paul, still squatting, readjusted his crouch so as to possibly let the build up of methane escape slowly and silently. his anus flexed powerfully allowing a pinprick sized hole to be formed, noxious fumes began seeping forth and a squeek, well timed with a cough from one of the two men, was the only noise from paul. while this eased his pain considerably, it did nothing for the throat pains that began tickling his esophagus. he would have to cough and very soon. 

It was then that the taller one removed the beanie that prevented paul from identifying him. he knew the man, vaguely, they had been introduced by an absent minded mutual friend, Co-worker C, jimbo was his name and paul was none too impressed by his intimidating character. he had heard that this man, large and powerful, had been imprisoned twice on assault charges. of the two people he had beaten, one paul knew was eating through a straw for about a month, his jaws wired shut. the other victim currently lived with his mother, he never quite recovered after that severe beating. If the taller one was jimbo then the shorter one must be lefty, his shadow and only companion. lefty paul was unfamiliar with, though he had heard that the two men jimbo had pummeled were not on friendly terms with lefty. lefty was probably the brains, then, making jimbo the brawn. paul was sure that if he was seen by the two of them he would end up making a hospital visit. not now, maybe later.

just then paul saw a flash of light to the left of the men. the two slowly began making their way towards the sudden movement, gradually creeping out of paul's sight, they whispered excitedly to one another. paul quietly moved to the front most corner of the building hoping to get a better view of the wicked men, only to catch the back end of jimbo as he clambered stupidly into a blue sedan. the windows were heavily tinted so paul could not ascertain the identity or form of the driver. it switched gears, abruptly did a U turn adn sped down the main road. paul could just make out the red lights as they turned left down Lime street. this must be where the creature's layer is. those bastards must've been in cahoots with that blasted sheet, thought paul to himself. he chuckled dryly to himself, wincing slightly, but very proud of his fourth rate detective skills. he began walking towards Lime street. 

the street, upon closer examination, is more of a thin stretch of pavement wide enough for maybe half a car to get into. the street lights have all but been forgotten by the city workmen and have long since blown out. he looks down the dark path, the last bit of available light shining behind him. the form stretching before paul, his own shadow, made him seem double his original size. he admires the darkened shade, its long, alien like fingers and extended legs, and begins to laugh. clearly the circumstances of the night have all but driven our poor paul mad. he delights in his shadow, feeling much larger than life and twice as human. his penis, also, seemed two sizes too large. of course, this was only just a shadow and nothing more, but it had a great effect on paul's disintegrating mental state. 

"when," he wondered aloud, "when will i fall back into that beautiful state?" 

he began his walk down the narrow street as if it were a sunny day at the park.

Act 4: these are no lip stick stains, that's high grade seminal fluid

another introspective recollection:

leaving town did little to settle your thoughts. you left for no more than three days, forty-eight hours consumed with that mental image you stained your mind with and that dull ache your gut had been feeling since it's appearance. the last day, though, you drank yourself into a stupor and dulled yourself with excessive drug use till your obsession seemed faint and foolish. upon returning home you felt that familiar turmoil, you thought you had destroyed, nestling it's buttocks back into the the two concave impressions it left on your brain. this feeling was accompanied by an overpowering urge to have sex. this you attributed to your short absence and the biological factoids you had read somewhere in the past, most likely a trashy pornographic magazine. according to the article, most males feel this way after a prolonged, sexual hiatus. usually it's said to be just the disruption of one's routine sexual activities or a lack thereof. but you had read otherwise. when a female mate is left by herself it is instinctually assumed, by the male, that some rival male may have tried to impregnate her in his absence. now, in order to combat that and increase the chances of one's legacy being passed on rather than the rival's, a semen reserve of some sort is built up during the separation. upon arriving, the male is biologically driven to unload this massive amount of sperm cells into his mate not only to increase your chances of impregnation but to potentially engage and destroy the sperm of his rivals. 

so, naturally, you had a pathetically short session with your mate. she seemed a little numb, her senses of joy dulled by some unseen blunt force, and a little distant, never quite meeting your lustful gaze. she faked an orgasm in order  to get your sweaty body off of her and than went about her nightly routine of cooking and cleaning. you helped her, for the most part, but she said little to you. her disconnected ways only hindered the reassurance you hoped sex would bring, your gut continued complaining, a hallow groan and a steady ache clued you in, activated those paranoid brain cells of yours. had she discovered the otherworldly intruder? did she know of it's evil plot? perhaps she was equally stressed out, maybe from work or even your abnormal manner of late, these factors might have   mixed her up emotionally. whatever the case, your stomach, you believed, played a convincing canary and the coal mine lay just around the corner.

now, your stomach was always a trifle bit unsettled. when you pictured your gut you always thought of a giant potato on toothpick legs waddling around in circles. but after seeing that fiend from the periphery come to life, your potato-like stomach found itself balancing on a single wooden pick precariously keeping itself upright by swaying and leaning towards or with the unpredictable gusts of wind. you worried constantly, never quite at ease, and this resulted in a loss of appetite. fajita night seemed so far away, the very idea of ever having eaten one repulsed you to no end. you had to continue working though, a job isn't easy to come by in this town, especially during this season, and rent, as well as the utilities, was on the rise. just keep drinking coffee, you told yourself, coffee and go-go juice, maybe a pill here and there, but not everywhere. 

your stomach growled and trembled as if its lining had suddenly fissured and grown into a active fault line. 

the closest you came to calming yourself was after a period of two days, right after you returned, through constant self-reassurance. the abomination had all but vanished after its initial appearance at the restaurant, what possible reason could it have to attack you? what ill act, what crime, what heinous incident have you ever involved yourself in that might somehow offend a creature of another world? none that you could think of. ah, but being something other than human, why would it need any reason? was it even capable of being rational or reasoned with? you knew nothing of the world from which it came nor of it's social norms, rules, or practices. this thing was as predictable as the weather which, steadily, began to grow muggy and rainy. nothing like rain during winter to raise one's spirits. 

yes, these thoughts seemed to tug-o-war with one another, two burly brothers in blue and red, both of equal strength and ability. it was after these two days that they finally exhausted one another and left your brain a stretchy, rubber mess that resembled a chew toy rather than a thinking organ. mushy brains, you know, don't work as well as solid ones. having mentally exhausted yourself with worry you fell into a deep, long sleep. 

it began with a whisper, nothing more, but with your heightened state of stress and awareness that whisper resounded within your brain like a foghorn in an empty warehouse. the whisper permanently remained out of visible sight, just around the corner, and barely audible. it was always one step ahead of you. when you rounded the corner it hushed up or when you entered a room it smiled innocently and winked. something was amiss, you knew that, something involving some aspect of your personal life. but now it was no longer personal, it became a source of constant entertainment and debate between those around you. already you began to feel your delicate mental state begin to bend and crack under the invisible pressure of these elusive rumors. 

you returned home later that evening after noticing the strange, secretive comments passed around out of earshot, to an empty house. the darkness from the outside suggested perhaps that no one had ever lived here, but that, at one point, your house once thrived with joyful life and had all since been forgotten. you became afraid, the dark had never seemed so intimidating before, but you knew something awaited your arrival inside. something sinister. it could be avoided, you knew, but did you dare remain in your tumultuously ignorant state, perpetually paranoid and twitchy? of course not, besides solving of this harebrained mystery, you felt that overwhelming curiosity one feels when others get a joke that they, themselves, do not. hahaha. 

you unlocked the front door and felt blindly along the wall until that familiar switch seemed to up and appear between your fingers. sudden light reveals the door to your room is slightly ajar. with hands trembling uncontrollably you grab and push the door knob into your room, convinced the dastardly sheet lay beyond  ready to pounce. but there was nothing, turning on the light confirmed this. the same dirty laundry, disheveled belongings and gaudy furniture greeted you. at this point you began laughing at your situation, how absurd! to think you had believed that this other worldly creature had singled you out among an entire city full of more deserving victims! relief washed over you as if you had slipped on a sweater straight from the dryer on a cold day. never had you felt so relieved in your life! a great gust of a sigh exhaled from between your lips. "whooosh!"

of course, this pleasant feeling was short lived for, from under a pile of fresh laundry, peaked a very familiar, very malefic corner. you withdrew the now lifeless sheet a look of stupid confusion on your face. the very same sheet that had haunted your thoughts, had frequented your place of work and had, possibly, been  plotting behind your back now lay there almost innocently. how could this be? how was it that something, just one week prior, had been moving around menacingly but now lay here inconspicuously? you didn't know anything, then, but suspected that these evasive rumors were, in some way, the final puzzle piece. 

the panic that resulted of this shocking surprise sent waves of nausea through your body, you found yourself doubled over the toilet dry heaving. you lost track of time then, and came to when your roommates returned from god knows where. they looked beat and they seemed to carry some awfully heavy burden with them. your heart rose and fell and rose again, the rumor had blessed them, those closest to you, with the knowledge and responsibility of passing it on. now, because everyone else seemed to know, the rumor, its insatiable appetite for ears  as wild as a fire in dry season, had finally been forced to spread it to the very last person, the very last pair of ears, in this pathetically small city. 

she had run off. she had lost feeling. she was a different person. she did not care, nor had never cared. she was with someone else. someone with odd birth marks dotting his satin skin. someone or something. sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex. 

Act 5: "the rumor: an unreliable chain of exaggerated personal theories and second hand fact

when paul left town that beautiful evening, a small party was planned in preparation of co-worker A's birthday. a modest gathering of fellow employees and neighbors, friends and acquaintances of miss A. paul felt little regret about missing, happy instead, to give the said co-worker his regards. parties were a dime a distinction in this town, no noticeable difference between any given gathering besides maybe a t-shirt color or an outfit accessory. paul's trip, though necessary, was not exactly looked forward too, he would rather have stayed and worked out this impending crisis and maybe fit in a few more hours at work for some holiday money. but, as it were, paul was obligated to leave. 

the party was to held at co-worker B's house not too far from paul's neighborhood, just down the street actually. a decently priced keg was purchased for the occasion and invites were sent via cell phone texting. what was assumed would be a small gathering of friends and co-workers soon turned out to be a massive block party. the apple of paul's eye, along with his two room mates, were one of the many who decided to attend this, soon to be, wild get together. 

the room mates, unaware of the the fiends release, casually went about their merry carousing way, socializing with both friends and complete strangers alike. the apple, realizing she was no longer under the supervision of the two oblivious room mates, also went about her way with devious plans formulating within her sharp mind. what started out as an innocent drink soon became a vindictive binge, full on hammered. she was free, finally, of paul's overly cautious, annoyingly timid character; his non-existant masculinity and borderline feminine manner. paul's  friends, deceived by her innocent exterior and muddled by excessive amounts of alcohol, would never think to suspect that she, the good little girl, would ever go astray. the alcohol, acting like an adhesive, only helped to piece together this mishmash collection of lustful thoughts. in the end she concluded this: she needed to get laid. but her insecurities could not permit her to leave such a constant companion, someone who would always make her feel special. she had to keep this affair clandestine. 

two men seemed to stand out to her when she reached this conclusion, two shady characters that seemed to stand apart from the rest of the mingling party. she wasn't sure why, but their presence seemed to have a magnetic effect on her, she sensed that they hid something. a fanciful birthday gift with a pretty bow addressed to her and only her. not only where they different, she realized, but they were also almost complete strangers. she had never seen paul around them, perhaps they could keep a secret.

upon approaching, the taller man, jimbo, slowly craned his large form downward to light a freshly packed cigarette that dangled from her smug lips. her eyes never left his beaming face even when the lighter flickered eagerly with contact. the second man, lefty, spoke softly from jimbo's side: 

 "what exactly are you looking for, sweet thing?" 

she exhaled a cloud of smoke seductively towards his shadowed form before responding. 

 "something different. something forbidden," she paused again before finishing, "something fun." 

he smiled at this and jimbo straightened himself. 

"fun." jimbo said softly.

 "i know someone you might like to meet," lefty rasped softly "someone foreign to this place. a close friend of mine." a look from jimbo made lefty quickly correct himself, "excuse me, ours."

 "really," she arched an eyebrow at this, "is he attractive?" 

 "very." both replied simultaneously. 

perhaps it was the alcohol that made her feel so daring, perhaps it was the frustration, the point is, though, was that she was sold. the three of them climbed into a nearby blue sedan. the party remained undisturbed as they drove off to some unknown location. 

co-worker C, a friend of hers, noticed an hour or so later that the apple had disappeared. fearing that she had drank herself sick, miss C began searching the surrounding area with the help of co-worker B. miss B, a friend of paul's, asked around the gathering and through her drunken inquiry she came to find out that the apple had, earlier, been speaking in a hushed tone with two friends of miss C's and that they had all climbed into a car without a word to anyone about where they were going or why. 

miss C, in the mean time, had come across a blue sedan in her neighbors yard that was, until she came into view, violently rocking. thinking she had interrupted one of the guests at the party, she turned back. as she came back into her yard, she remembered, with shock, that she had actually recognized that car as jimbo's. hoping to play a friendly prank on a decent friend she snuck back to the now still car to give the two sexually engaged occupants a nasty scare. 

she ripped the door open and screamed triumphantly only to find an empty car with a soiled pair of leopard print, female undergarments. having gone swimming one bright summer afternoon with the apple, she had, like most decently acquainted female friends, had the chance to change from wet clothes to dry ones with her. these panties stirred some familiar memory within her inebriated mind that didn't came to light until much later. 

miss C than returned to the party, slightly confused, and met up with her companion miss B. the two were equally astonished by the apple's mysterious disappearance. they compared notes and, at this point, the familiar feeling struck miss C like lightning. the apple had left with a man, someone other than paul, and, would most likely, not be returning to the gathering that night. 

the apple was found at home by paul's loyal, but drunk friends. they had absolutely no knowledge of the turn of events that had occurred that evening, they even convinced her to drink more with them on the front porch. one more day and paul would return, they happily sang. this would be the last time anyone of them would get along as well as they did. already the two co-workers, B and C, were piecing the nights mysterious event together, the whisper watched with strained interest as the look of shocked horror began to dawn on their now enlightened faces." 

after your two roommates, bedraggled and depressed, finished their second hand tale you flopped limply into a nearby couch. 

"there are two types of shit in this world. floating shit and sinking shit." one of your roommates said.

"there's also shit that won't flush." the other roommate chimed in. 

"right. whether or not they sink or float, or whether or not they flush down the first time, doesn't matter." 

"the point is," the other started to finish,"shit is just shit and you, the shitter, hold the trigger." 

they rose, thinking you needed time to consider their convoluted bit of advice, patted your slumped shoulder and retired for the evening

Act 6: revenge is a dish best predigested and served in a soup bowl

the scene is thus:

paul wandered, right hand clutching an aching side, down the narrow pathway. with each step the area became colder and darker, each of his clumsy steps seemed to be hitting light switches in a room with perhaps millions of lights devoid of warmth. he was adrift between worlds, after all, and the sun here held no more warmth than the moon in his reality. his head remained blank, random thoughts raced by on their ways to god knows where in his mind, semi trucks with drivers hopped up on speed just thoughtlessly delivering goods. plans, directions, questions and meaning, no thought remained long enough to mull over nor did paul feel any real urge to dwell on them. what happened had happened, whether or not there was a reason behind it was of no consequence. 

he hit the third block line, though it was hard to say without any street signs or traffic lights to mark, and turned left down a driveway. the naked trees desperate for company blindly reached across the driveway for the comfort of their neighbors, their branches intertwined like boney fingers. paul thought of the old couples he had seen walking together in the city parks, palsied, liver spotted hands weakly grasping one another as if, at any moment, one might just float away like a hot air balloon piloted by a smiling grim reaper. 

paul like balloons. 

the trees parted, finally, revealing a dimly lit cookie cutter house, one of those nondescript suburban homes from the late seventies, with chipped navy blue trimmings and a sky blue coat on the walls. paul, never quite set on a course of action, navigated his body with blank dead reckoning. he numbly approached the front door of the house and knocked, almost politely. parked to his left lay the blue sedan he had heard so much about, the engine clicked with content as it cooled. he knocked again, but still no one seemed to stir within. the dim light emanating from the living room window remained uninterrupted, no shadows crossed the line of light, no other lights were switched on either. a growing sense of unease emerged from somewhere amongst the grunts and groans his stomach made. 

he took notice, then, of a small pile of lumber to his immediate right, neatly stacked and waiting beside the front step. he selected a good sized block of wood, tossing it lightly from frozen hand to frozen hand, and heaved it with as much strength as he could muster at the clucking car's passenger window. with a loud 'thucrack!' it lodged itself into the car about halfway. still no response. 

he sauntered over, wiping his dripping nose on his sleeve now crispy and flaky with dried snot, and removed the log. the hole, about the width of a baseball, revealed to him, not one, but two pairs of leopard print panties that he identified immediately. the colors of one inverted and oppositional of the first, and appearing to be quite dry. she had intercourse with him earlier, paul thought, but not recently. 

his vision went suddenly white then and his head rang loudly, the sound was not a crystal clear chime or 'dong' like a common church bell, but flawed and cracked, more like the liberty bell. it rang defectively and painfully. paul's senses began gradually returning to him then, his fingers felt dewey grass and his spine felt the random pointy stones and gravel strewn across the yard. he lay face up on the sticky wet leaves of the lawn while something trickled sweetly down the sides of his face. his head had been forced into the car door, the force and impact had split his pale forehead open and blood began fleeing excitedly from his open wound. 

three figures stood above him, one smiling gleefully, two with fear stricken faces, they shifted back and forth nervously. the smiling man, paul could only assume, was the fiend. how he had taken on such a human-like form was, at this moment, beyond him. the fiend pressed his bare foot against paul's painfully swollen gut and pressed roughly. being dazed and bloody, paul could not help but express his dismay with a single burst of explosive gas followed by bits of fecal matter. it warmed him up, to some degree, but did nothing to help the crucial matter at hand. the fiend laughed, the raspy sound of desiccated scriptures being pulled from underneath piles of other archaic records. sulfuric smoke spewed forth from that horrid slit of a mouth. painful tremors began racking paul's splayed and helpless form. what had he hoped to accomplish, he wondered to himself, besides increasing the amount of shame he already felt? 

the fiends foot, though encased in a black loafer, revealed to paul the fiends strange skin pattern for, where the shoe ended and the hem of his khaki pants began, was solid navy blue skin. the edge of a boom box only slightly visible from beneath the pant leg and a microphone, the wire seeming to connect to some amplifier in the shoe. the monster, it seems, had shed his old skin in paul's bedroom, a strange process of metamorphosis these peripheral demons underwent after spending a certain amount of time in this reality. a guess, on paul;s part, but likely true. the rest of his menacing form seemed obscured by shadow. yellow teeth and bloodshot eyes the only  beacon in it's abysmal umbra. 

the fiend flicked it's twisted hand then, motioning the two lackeys to join in. they froze, their eyes glazing over, and with rigid, robotic conveyance they grasped paul's legs and arms and held him dutifully, awaiting their masters next command. with foot still planted firmly on paul's throbbing gut, the abomination leaned inward to get a closer look at his victim's tortured expression. the same strange patterns ran over it's gruesome mien, they seemed to dance and shift, flickering more and more excitedly as their masters face drew nearer and nearer. this creature believed it's victory was at hand.

paul, bound by the his captors steadfast grip, felt the seething concoction of emotions erupting within, the frozen surface that once held them at bay shattered violently giving way to an active volcano, the hideous face of his enemy was within mouth's reach and paul reacted without thought. he felt his teeth sinking into a cold rubbery material, that could not possibly be human skin, and tasted bitter metallic liquid, much similar to the water at the stadium drinking fountain. the abomination, losing all concentration, reacted to the nose bite by jerking it's head back suddenly. this reaction caused much of the flickering skin on it's nose to rip free, it roared in pain and seemed to bat at invisible insects buzzing about the gushing nose. fountains of blood splashed paul's face, the dangling shred of skin till clamped firmly between his teeth. 

this unexpected attack broke the creatures hold on his minions, they loosened their grip on paul's limbs and gaped in astonishment at their flailing master. paul, now free to do as he pleased, hefted himself upright and, with surprising speed, stumbled away from his three adversaries. he managed to take five steps before plunging, face first, into the grass. his stomach was quite agitated and had been rather rattled up by the fiends foot and the taste and swallowing of fresh blood, it seemed to pull the energy right out of from under him. the three, composure now regained, stormed towards paul who, once again, curled himself up into fetal position, eyes tightly closed. the apothecary's face floated in the darkness and he remembered that mysterious vial of green liquid. 

paul weakly uncorked it, aware now that his enemies stood above him, perhaps plotting his slow and painful demise, and chugged the bottle's entire contents just as the large lackey grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. the abomination, face no longer gleeful, now full of pure anger and pain, pummeled the abdomen that jimbo presented him with. what seemed like years passed until finally, perhaps winded, the creature ceased his beatings. the smaller man, lefty, then handed it something sharp, something that glinted in the little available light. with this in hand, the fiend looked into paul's eyes and finally grinned, black blood spilling over it's mouth and chin, dribbling with sickening 'plopping' sounds onto paul's dangling feet. a swipe, a sharp sting and a sudden feeling of displaced weight was all paul felt, and then jimbo tossed him blithely to one side, his limp hand grazing the abomination's tense grip. paul felt himself hit the tree and his spine shatter. but through all the abuse, he had not one single thought and made not a peep, this aroused the creature considerably. 

paul, in his sad state, somehow felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. he cradled his juicy intestines, now exposed to the cold elements, with the calm expression of a first time mother doting on her ugly, slimy newborn. while rocking his digestive organs back and forth, he began brushing bits of leaves and dirt off his exterior that had accumulated on impact. a soft smile, warm and welcoming, shone brilliantly from his face down onto his guts. he felt them twitch in his protective embrace and a sudden warm, substantial amount of weight was added to the little bit of defecation that stained the interior of his boxer shorts. finally, he thought, the unsettling gut feelings and pains he had were lifted, cured, even. 

the fiend, along with his two minions, seemed utterly astounded by this unexpected reaction and approached the tree slowly and cautiously, the smile the creature once held up proudly now seemed to sway with uncertainty, held up by a single unsteady nail. the smell, the three creatures realized, became more putrid with each step, the heat also seemed to increase for paul's intestines steamed intensely in the winter air. they stopped short, a good two paces out of reach, when they noticed the soft cooing noise paul made, a lullaby without any real melody or rhythm. just one long, warbling musical tone. 

paul lifted a hand, bloody and slimy with internal organ juices, and almost seemed to present the three gaping monsters with the piece of stolen metal. the triangular shaped shard had been wretched free of the fiend's grip, and now paul was armed, but was he dangerous? 

he slowly brought the sharp end down towards his newly exposed organ and sliced, his facial expression revealing no pain to the fiend. he then presented a sliver of intestinal tract, inflamed and bloated, that pulsed happily in the palm of his opened hand. it began to swell, then, and, as if it had taken a life of it's own, began glowing a radioactive green. the three trembled slightly, but they remained still unable to free themselves from the horror that was unraveling before them. the pulsing picked up, bulging in random areas. the fiends crimson eyes grew wide on it's blood caked face, realization dawning on it's horribly disfigured face. it was not the only creature that could step between the realms boundaries, neither was this pathetic man. the apothecary, the vagabond, the whisper. they could all jump between, the only one the fiend had been on friendly terms with was already exhausted, meaning, any of the others could just as easily supply this mortal with a immortal weapon. oh, the fool he had been underestimating his peers meddling! 

the appendix, green pharmacon breathing life into it's cheesy fajita soul, grew bigger and bigger, it's movements becoming more excitable with each size increase until it spilled out of paul's trembling hand. blob like movements seemed the only forward movement the creature was capable of, it approached the the fiend with blobby determination. a gurgling sound, like a fat man chuckling, resounded from somewhere inside the appendix, it sent chills down the abominations spine. the durability of this enigmatic organ's skin, once strained enough, began to fail. pin prick holes began appearing, one at first, then another not to long after, soon more followed, releasing with them a steaming yellow digestive liquid. the appendix's 'footprints' reacting to the wet earth like molten lava on ice. 

paul's enemies backed fearfully away, one step at a time, and then turned to run, finally able to free their terror filled eyes. the second they spun around though, a large hole, the size of a grapefruit, split open and a fountain of acidic goo doused the three of them. the appendix, its contents now able to escape, began to deflate significantly with each gallon lost, the hole began emitting an unflattering sound, that of butt cheeks applauding its masterpiece performance. 

all at once the three fools froze in their tracks and slowly began to turn towards paul's now exhausted form. skin began peeling away, flaps that eventually shriveled into themselves, revealing a bleached skeleton underneath. their eyes, faces quickly losing muscle and tissue giving way bubbling green froth, rolled wildly about in their sockets until, they too, began to liquify, dribbling poetically down exposed cheek bones. screams of all pitches and tones, pleas for mercy and promises for revenge, sang out breaking the stillness of the night. music to paul's bleeding ears. the steaming remains of the three creatures then tumbled into one another in a heap of crispy white bones. 

leaning comfortably against the base of the tree with his intestines on his lap, paul felt himself drift sleepily into the unconscious realm, attaining that near  zen state that had brought him here and had kept him mentally sound throughout the journey.

Act 7: A hot cup of joe after a large meal settles the stomach

continuing where we left off: 

paul couldn't say how long he lay there dozing, seconds, minutes or hours, all he knew was the sun of his reality, not the inverted one of the periphery, began to rise from its rightful place. shaking away the sleep that accumulated around his eyes and stretching the knots that had formed within his shoulders, paul, minute man rip van winkle, began to come too. his spine was still broken, the severity of the break he could not say, his legs remained motionless before him, dirty and splayed in a V like fashion. with the throat tightening odor of human defecation wafting up to his now snot free nose was intensified as paul began rummaging about in his pockets. the first smoke of the day, he thought, is always the best. He lit and exhaled contentedly, surveying the damage done the night before. it all seemed so hazy and distant, as if it were the foolish escapades of the hard headed youth this old man once was. 

paul knew he should be dead by now. his intestines were, after all, on public display and his spine felt to be protruding from his backside, broken edge grating against his makeshift laz-e-boy. he also knew that he had succeeded in the mission bestowed upon him by those devious and enigmatic periphery representatives. still the strange green liquid seemed to course through his veins making him feel fresh and, almost, energetic. why, if his body hadn't been in such a poor state, paul might even have considered joining a little fun run, had one been happening. something else must happen, that was it, it wasn't completely over. he smoked a little while longer till the smell of bacon, eggs, sausage and pancakes (or maybe even french toast) broke through the fecal fog that surrounded him. he had a cooking shift today, that was it, maybe he was meant to work one last time before expiring. then he noticed, or rather heard, movement within the recently deceased fiend's house. a sleepy smile began to creep across his healthy blushing face. he felt like some coffee. 

he waited a while longer until the disappearance of her under cover lover began to dawn upon her. she tentatively opened the front door, reassuring herself that his vehicle was still soundly parked in the driveway, and stopped short when her eyes fell on the mess that lay sprawled out beside the tree trunk. she wore an apron and nothing else, an apron that demanded the cook be kissed, and within her grasp sizzled the rapidly crisping bacon paul had smell from outside. 

she never expected paul could have found out so quickly of her infidelity, after all and honestly, he wasn't the quickest rabbit in the brood. but mistaken she was, for here sat paul eyeing her nearly naked form with amusement, she returned the look with one of shocked bemusement. her bacon began to smoke and burn. she set the crackling pan to one side of the doorstep, with the manner and demure of a patient mother gently chiding her whining child. she smoothed her hands on the front of her apron and began walking towards paul, a slight blush betraying what would have normally appeared to be a calm disposition. 

she said hello and good morning. in response paul smiled cheerfully, if only a tad bit sleepily in her direction. she saw his wounds, unaware that his spine had split, and inwardly felt that if he forgave her she would call an ambulance for him, save his rapidly fading life.

"i don't know how this looks to you, i don't know how to explain this to you, i don't..." she stopped theatrically, a star performer pacing her sentences, exaggerating her pauses and of course...

"i don't know..." that utterly inessential, dramatic repeat followed by an ellipses.  

as if on cue, she began to tear up until she burst into full on crying. between sobs she apologized to paul for all she had done to him. she admitted that she had sex with multiple men, different men, and at different times in their relationship. how she couldn't stand being without him which was why she never left. how she loved him, now, more than ever. how relieved she felt that she could now, finally, be honest with him. he smiled, stoic expression phlegmatic and unmoving. 

then mistaking his smile for a sign of forgiveness and feeling now that she had, despite being caught, obtained the higher ground in the argument, began subtly hinting that he had driven her away. she kept it light at first, then it became a little rougher, hints and precautionary advice gave way to demands and accusations. man up for once in your sniveling life, seemed to be the most prominent of the demands. he smiled wordlessly back, this reaction to her scolding set her off for a second. she peered at him suspiciously. was he dead? 

she leaned in, closer, hoping to spot some eye movement or feel some rank breath. she thought that feeling his pulse might complicate matters further, what if they finger printed his pathetic corpse and found her prints on his beaten neck or wrist? unlikely, yeah, but possible. she floated closer closer until there noses nearly touched, his eyes flickered down to her now fully exposed cleavage and darted back up, his sunny smile now wicked and sharp like a crescent moon. she had no time to scream, his movements were quick and precise, two flowing loops of his fleshy lasso and she was hog-tied. another flash and a loop around her throat shut off all breathing passages to her lungs. Paul could feel her writhing body begin to stretch the outer skin on his intestines but knew she would lose strength well before she would rip them open. her naked body, now arching in pain and desperation, collected leaves and dirt sticky with dew. 

their bodies were found three weeks later by a kid named wesley walsh, bicycling through on his way to school (he said it was short cut, really he was cutting class to smoke a joint) who had stopped to piss and noticed the smell. five bodies total, investigators feared that a psychopathic murdered was on the loose. when friends, co-workers and neighbors were questioned and the rumor was brought forth, the police reassessed their initial ruling. the investigators ruled out murder suicide noting that the would be killer, paul, could not have possibly melted three grown men with sulfuric acid, then ground up the forth, a women, into what appeared to be coffee grinds and stuffed her lower half in the freezer, all with a broken spine. the coffee cup in paul's hands did rouse some argument, though. word eventually leaked out, via rumor, that a serial killer was on the prowl. the police apprehended a suspicious looking homeless man outside of a nearby convenient store three nights later. the grizzled man was brought in for questioning. they found nothing but a pocket knife, a belt buckle with no strap, some loose change with pocket lint and a vial of sour apple gator aide. a similar vial was found at the scene of the murder along with fingerprints from paul's hand as well as the homeless suspect. the court figured this was substantial enough evidence to make a case. the suspect, in court, claimed that the vial held a magical pharmakon that, once imbibed, would assimilate itself into the body giving temporary life to one's insides and the ability to command the animated organs. all temporary, of course, for it worked doubly as a potent poison that eventually drained the life of the individual. he was sentenced to life in prison with psychiatric care. 

The homeless man disappeared during the Christmas season that followed. a large hole in the prison wall, appearing to be the work of a large explosive device (though the guards on duty claimed not to have heard a peep) and theorized that it was a two man operation. his corpse, along with that of an unidentifiable male, was discovered not too far from paul's place of work. the homeless man, serene smile on warty face, lay face up in snow with his rib cage exposed as if a time bomb had been nestled in place of his heart. the mystery corpse, on the other hand, suffered severe burns to the front side of his body. and, along with an empty bottle of sour apple gator aide swaying softly by his badly burned side, were words written in blood: The rumor is finished. all escapees are accounted for and the border secured. our mission was a success. have a happy holiday!

the land of potato soup

your name is paul

the first half of the night felt great. you swung that ancient wok up and down, tossing stir fry mix seemed not unlike tossing salad mix. anal. veggies galore, dash of garlic and a tablespoon of water, flavor condensed into vapor all wafting up the hood system and out into the alley. the alley itself smells strongly of sizzling teriyaki sauce and garlic. you know this, right?  the inside smells as it usually does, the air saturated with the sickly sweet smell of soy sauce, aged and dried in the act of running down the sides of the grey trash cans placed conveniently around the restaurant. it's liquid defying the laws of gravity with the help of whatever secret ingredients this mystery sauce contains and the natural toll time takes on edibles. salt and soy? nah.

you talk shit with your co-worker, updating her on the present situation you're in, normally these sort of events remain hidden from the untrustworthy public, but because things seem to be running along oh so well and because you've just taken in enough caffeine to kill a horse, you feel your over active tongue give into the rush an overly strained heart and a brain pumped full of oxygen presents. you speak, at lengths, about your trip, arrival and return, as well as the usual problems associated with a prolonged love life: respect, fidelity and future plans. your co-worker seemed interested enough, especially when you mentioned the shirt. remember? this was the first shift after a weeks absence, you traveled extensively throughout the United States. you came home to a foreign article of clothing that had a strong, pungent odor of masculinity. right?  

the corner of your eye, the dubious realm of shifting shadows and familiar humanoid forms and, possibly, mistaken movements or colors,  announces, quite suddenly, the appearance of a  new character onto your mental stage. the actor arrives from off stage left, a navy blue veneer dotted with boom boxes and microphones, such an innocent front for something, you're convinced, is the ultimate threat to the circumstances at hand. so quick was this image projected that you fear you did not actually see it, just a creation of your overly hyped imagination. but if it was actually there? well, then, the threat is imminent, you know this, it must be confronted as soon as possible. the pattern on the sheet teases you with familiarity. right? do you confront the matter now, possibly make a fool out of yourself? perhaps you were mistaken, as i said before, the realm this fleeting abomination arose from is a strange one, often deceiving the most composed of minds. hell, what you saw could have just been a glimpse of movement, a leak of activity from this forbidden realm, and nothing more. casual, that is how this must be approached, casual and calmly for you have made mistakes before and, as you know, it is never good to repeat these sort of mix ups. 

you weaved your way through oblivious employees, who dart to an fro, and past the great array of dishes. yes. those pronged racks arranged with steaming china and soup bowls. those great sheets of plastic, multi colored dishes stacked between the prongs form crop circle signs. the linear soup cup arrangement (red miso bowls, white salad bowls, red miso bowls, white salad bowl, etc.) and square plates, limed up domino style, or the swirl approach, dishes arranged in beautiful patterns circular patterns around immense ceramic entree plates. the nicer the arrangement is, i believe makes it more likely those darting bodies will take notice, and actually put them away. the brightest flower is often pollinated by even the most distracted of bees. but, right now, you cannot be distracted by such things. yes, strange, obsessive observations, but not now. no. there is another matter you must tend to. perhaps you can make use of these things...? 

you grabbed at the dishes, randomly, and through the darkened hall, the doorway between front and backstage, into the dimly lit front you went. you casually put away those godforsaken plates all the while you ran your eyes over the dining area, looking for the uncertain, strangely decorated sheet. yes, so damn familiar, isn't it? your eyes halt halfway and yes, it is real, that sheet with its innocently designed facade is there and it's enjoying itself. so, not only is it real, it's confident. and quite aware that you've noticed its presence and not giving two fucks about it. it seemed to say to you, quite loudly, "so what if I, a fictional creature, escaped the boundaries of my world. i'm here and ready, nothing you throw at me can effect me. i am impervious to all tools and weaponry of this reality, but mine to you? well, you'll find out soon enough, that is, if you have the balls to confront the matter." 

you smiled in its direction, not a waning smile, but certainly not assertive. just a simple smile, take that as you will, positive or negative. 'who am i to play jailer?' your expression said. but beneath the frozen surface of Europa lies a raging sea of god knows what. a swirling maelstrom of negative emotions and thoughts will haunt you the entire evening after that. you feel like you're balanced on the edge of your toes, craving the satisfying gurgle that a toilet makes once it has been successfully flushed, watching the dirty log swirl about. but i am disappointed, that's for sure, and my toes began to burn horribly after a while, that shit just bobs there, calmly.  

we'll see how this plays out. this diaphanous specter can't stick around for too much longer, can he? oh , but he does. you retreat back to the lair of solitude, which really isn't all that solitary, and mope. it isn't after too long after that it reappears, beer in its coiled sheet edge. can this creature even speak, you wonder. or, much less, drink? who knows, really. what looks exchanged or words spoken within this span of time are lost, for you are submerged beneath the icy surface of Europa. you keep focus on the cooking at hand and eventually the creature retires, perhaps losing interest your passive mien or perhaps losing interest in the mundane routine our reality offers, but still, you are left without peace of mind. if this can happen once, if these creatures with their ambiguous intentions, have the ability to free themselves from the confines of their world, how often will they appear? when will their true objectives be clear? should you wait on it? wait for them to put, quite possibly, their insidious plans into action? no, you tell yourself, you will seek them out, break out of this layer and confront the living or un-living shit out of them. how will this night end and when will it ever end?

suddenly, you find yourself pondering the matter on your roof, many a beer carcass by your side, unable to sit on the slope you lay them in organized rings on the edge of the chimney. dead indians or 'engines,' is how you remember them called. something else happened between the end of the shift and now, but you aren't quite sure what. information was circulated throughout the restaurant, talk of a party honoring the arrival of the sheet, you believe. there was also the bar you insisted on going to alone. now, how does getting drunk help your situation? drinking till there's no worry or pain? nah, that's a bit cliche. wait. like flower petals to bees or dish racks to servers, the plan will manifest itself within, perhaps it will be attracted by your pathetically slouched form and mustard yellow finger tips, and pollinate your ideas. they will grow and blossom in turn, and the way shall be made clear. correct? maybe. just wait, be patient, that's all. shush.

quite suddenly, you are blinded by two mental projections playing almost simultaneously in your head. the plan has arrived, finally, all it took was a twelve pack and a pot of coffee. in one you are gripping both edges of the sheets, a gentle smile on your placid face, as if you had just pulled this enemy from the dryer and its comforting warmth had settled over you. you appear to be folding the sheet for storage until, at the last second, a maniacal grin and a wide eyed expression burns away the calm, like dryer lint to lighter flame,  and the sheet is roughly torn in two. those boom boxes battered and corded microphones cut. yes, sure that is a good reaction, destroying the cocky bastard. but does that still not leave the gateway open for more beastly, otherworldly creatures? the other image is one of patience, the straight forward approach, you assumed. this series of images portrays you draping the sheet over your empty bed, neatly tucking it beneath your pillows, and you lay down on it, hands folded behind your head with a thoughtful expression on your carefree face. still, it's quite possible the sheet will enfold your form and smother your unsuspecting body. 

quiet now. you see them arriving, how much time has past since your epiphany? you wonder. the car pulls up the driveway, is the mischievous fabric lurking within? or have they arrived alone? you hope for the lone crowd, but crave sighting his softened edges curled around her neck, his company and you're on to it and its intentions. that's right. your vantage point offers some secrecy, from here you can figure out what is really going on between the sheeted one and the female. make a noise and you'll be discovered, who knows, the stretch of fabric may well destroy you. you will the mental images back into place, both seem much much more detailed. you burn the fabric after savagely ripping it into shreds, you confront the fabric, drilling it confidently with questions. 'what have you been up to?' you ask, "friend or foe,' you specify. 

you're not sure what the rules are for this foreign reality, so you'll never be exactly sure which of the two scenarios took place. you are sure of this though, the sheet was not in the car with them and, to this day, has not made an appearance. your mind seems to be more at ease for the moment, but uncertainty seems to encrust the outer edges of this loaf of bread. 

amazing what effect a stray piece of laundry can have on one's peace of mind.

< 

the conflict

like watching your reflection in the mirror
knowing that it's not quite what others see
but what your mind has convinced itself of.
a flimsy character out of a short fiction.
you know you're not a liar
you know what this man is and what he has done
and you see yourself within him.
he is, after all, human.
much like you.
and you, like him, are very capable of the very evils
he possesses.

admitting there's a problem

i see them in france or spain, or whatever other hip country or continent. 

i tell myself it's only the hipness of the place that draws them there, not the experiences or the sights, but sometimes i wonder. why the hell am i so deserving when they're the ones working their asses off? 

i guess they don't always bust behind, some just come from wealthy backgrounds. 

but still, they're younger, more active and attractive. 

they can commit to their schooling, and still seem to have fun, while i putter along directionless and hopeful. 

no amount of reading will get me there.

no amount of writing. 

i feel stupid, real stupid. 

while perusing the internet, spying on old familiar faces, i've stumbled upon some very sad news. i can't believe cocaine habits and pity whoring could take you so damn far in this world. they go from tokyo to brussels to sydney to new york, taking memorable snap shots all along the way. i've always believed that some of these bastards had a real shit storm headed their way, some horrible karma lurking in their unsuspecting shadows, but somehow they've sidestepped their impending reciprocation and continued merrily on their way. 

without schooling.

without changing.

parents feeding them money, maybe? hell if i know. hell if i'll ever know.

some people, i realize, i've wrongly accused of some stupid trivial thing or another. i can see that. i can also see them doing much better than i, you know, traveling around and enjoying themselves and yada yada. as jealous as i get, i can only shrug my stupid shoulders and forget about it. but the others...

shit.

i can only say this:

life isn't fair, goddamnit.

mad scientist in the fish aisle.

a variety of filters and subterranean bubblers. 

kissing gouramies, blood parrots, schools of piranha like oscars, cichlids and tiger-striped barbs. 

a small wooden desk, blotchy with chemical spills and slightly warped by accidental fish bag spills. underneath sat large empty buckets that, judging by the silhouette of the drowning toddler, once contained something hazardous. now only slippery moss and algae.

old aquarium parts, light bulb fixtures white with calcium deposits, glass feeder doors, broken aqua green nets and other bizarre equipment, some having no place in the fish aisle.

aqua boy, professor xenitor.

the stare of a man fresh out of a coma.

skin made of plastic cling wrap. stares into your soul. 

an evil telepathic super genius.

customers emitting rays or vibes that sickly resemble those of a chinese foot binder or a goatse enthusiast. obsessive, lacking some important quality 

khmer rouge

to keep you is no benefit. to destroy you is no loss.

12:03 AM*rough draft

My eyes snapped open like a pair of over zealous roller shades and my red rimmed eyes skim about the all too familiar living room. two dirty sneakers, where bare feet reside, rest on a glass coffee table. I notice on either side of my periphery a stretch of green leather couch, empty but welcoming. it was as if i had been expecting guests earlier in the evening. but, over the course of the night, had drank myself into a comatose state.

the first thing my immediate gaze attaches itself to is the lime green and dark brown skyline of some translucent cityscape that lay before me on a glass infrastructure that resembled the coffee table i had remembered being empty hours before. i feel the the right side of my cheek tighten and contort into an odd smile. i had remained still as stone, a sleeping mountain chiseled over decades by some ancient race of people into the vague form of an omnipotent being. a mount rushmore of some sort. whose unseen divine powers had once held influence over a primitive civilizations moral structure and whose wrath had once commanded the outcome of precious crop conditions.

over time, however, these people seemed to have lost faith in their all powerful creator and turned, instead, to scientific research and basic reasoning. this great mountain became a mere reminder of the archaic and embarrassing beginnings of this now great race. a tourist attraction.

this being has slept for too long. clouds of dust, skin of the ages, crumbles and swirls with every slight movement. his people have vanished into obscurity, leaving only vacant buildings and deathly quiet streets.

the living room is dimly lit by a dull yellow hallway light, half hidden behind a corner, a dying star reflecting on a blank television set. it all adds to the utter loneliness of the room.

my giant hand slithers down the empty street once proudly called budweiser memorial drive and up heineken avenue, resting on marlboro square. the leather clings to my body as i rise up and every bone in my body creaks in protest. my skin felt two sizes too small. i can already tell this will be another eventful, sleep depraved night.

a meeting is to be held at two.

while cracking open the unopened pack of smokes i find myself wandering over to my parents liquor cabinet and browsing through the fine assortment of cheap liquor, most are covered with a thin layer of dust. it's pretty apparent that my folks aren't heavy drinkers. the fullest of the bottles, a bottle of *brandy*, stands out among the rest. a bright label, a cheery smile and some heavy lidded eyes.

"hello." i said, my words somewhat muffled by the tobacco stick dangling from my lips.

"eh? oh, you again." he said almost impatiently.

i remove the cigarette.

"yes, you'll do quite nicely. these things don't go particularly smoothly without a drip, you understand." i start heading for the back sliding glass door.

"yeah, yeah. do what you gotta do, i guess." he said.

-the full moon casts subtle light on my backyard. a white-blueish glow that creates an odd feeling of calm. the way the ocean waves silently lapping at the sandy shores can put you in a zen state, of some sort. the light seems edible, delicious even. a subtle taste so familiar, but so allusive to the senses. a butterfly that refuses to be pinned down and displayed. the light fills you like cold milk but breaks like ice or glass, so as not to cut up the roof of your mouth. like icing on cake. yellow, on the other hand, seems more ketchup and mustard like, more aggressive and abrasive on the pallet, but also smooth and creamy. the blue seems to soften the harsh edges of any angles, from the castle-like concrete retaining wall to the swaying blades of grass.-

also, within my window, i see my familiar shape. the two different types of lighting competing make the details of my body almost indiscernible. my form, outlined by a halo of dim yellow, seemed dotted, easily detachable from the world around it. the inside, or filling, blank and shadowed, only a heavy brow line and a prominent nose remain visible. as if molded out of clay and yard debris, a golem bending and moving to its masters will. strangely camouflaged with what lay beyond this sheet of glass, another bit of earth and life, an assemblage of active carbon, oxygen and hydrogen molecules. i also notice the reflection of a blinking red dot. the answering machine.

baited, i turn to regard it only to find my flight itinerary laid out neatly at its side.

"something on your mind, kid? you look a little sick." brandy asked me curiously.

"hmmn, just a little shocked i guess. things seem to be moving at an extremely quick pace. i'm just sort of carried along with it"

"oh," he glances down at the flight plan, "denver? san francisco? how about aberdeen? tokyo? something a little different?"

"boy, i wish," i say regretfully, "money, or lack thereof, is the problem."
"can't help you there."

'no, you can't, seeing as how you're partly to blame. if only things weren't so uninteresting without your company."

i grip and yank at the handle on the sliding glass door and step out into night air thick with insects and humidity. clutching my companion by the neck i rush out into the fray, a field medic in search of an escape from the constant, bloodsucking barrage of mosquitoes. the gelatin air suffocating, suppressing, almost painfully wrecking havoc on my pitiful sweating body. to think the night had appeared so peaceful from the inside.