Ethical Bribery

By Daniel O’Shea

      The boy didn’t require a flame, or even a fuse. David ran around the department store, taking down racks of clothes, shoe displays, and subsequently, the hem of an older woman’s dress. Nancy tried to follow closely behind him, apologizing to any witnesses or victims. The older woman was not kind to Nancy, and her son’s maniacal behavior.

      The older woman said, “What kind of boy puts her hands on a woman? You should be ashamed of what you’re raising”.

      Nancy looked directly in the woman’s eyes with a soft smile. “I am so sorry, ma’am. He had a little too much dessert, and not enough lunch”.

      “That still doesn’t make it right. Get your kid under control. For Christ’s sake!”

      “Again, I’m really very sorry. Can I have your dress fixed?”

      The woman stared back at her, judging her. She said, “No, that’s alright”. The woman squeezed past Nancy, making sure to push clothes off the rack, similar to what David had just done.

      Nancy could feel the glare searing her back as she walked forward. A quick scan of the store in front of her revealed a demonstrative calm. Nancy currently found herself in the shoe section. She sat down, and took a deep breath. She rubbed her temples in a counter-clockwise motion. David had disappeared again.

      Nancy didn’t talk much with David anymore. Well, it wasn’t that she didn’t talk with David. It was that David barely responded, always seemed to be somewhere else. She seemed more concerned recently about his happiness. A mother always does. Is David happy? Am I providing with every opportunity? Does he blame himself for the divorce? These were the sort of questions that passed through her head multiple times a day. A giant cardboard display was rocking back and forth in the men’s formal wear section.

      David was yanking ties off their hangers, giggling along the way. He could see his mom fast approaching with a frantic look on her face. He hadn’t yet been spotted. David turned and ran along the far wall of the store, crouching down the whole way, before tripping over his untied shoes. His mom still hadn’t caught up yet, so he athletically rolled under a display of women’s business suites. David was now pretending this was Vietnam, just like Grandpa had graphically described to him. The Vietcong was gaining ground, and David was the only American soldier remaining. His mother slowly strolled past his location. David could see his mother put her hands on her hips, and gaze around the remaining rows of apparel. He waited patiently for the right moment, and dove head first into the women’s bathroom. David allowed the door to close on its own, then slowly slithered to a vertical position. He was hoping his mother hadn’t spotted him, especially since he had worn his camouflage sweats to the store. It remained quiet, and David counted to ten.

      Nancy was developing a migraine. She had her weekly book club meeting in approximately one hour. Their marriage counselor had suggested going out and making more friends, or joining a club. The divorce was almost six months past, and Nancy was reading books and discussing them with her peers. That is, if she could escape this store.

      The book club would be discussing the first Catherine Harris book. This was the book that inspired the HBO series, True Blood. Nancy had needed to get David a new pair of pants, drop him off at the babysitter, and then make it to the book club. She also had to finish reading the book. The maternal radar knew son was somewhere in the women’s section. The one place a small boy could really embarrass his mother. Nancy went to the bra and lingerie section, hoping to get lucky. The department store had once again gotten quiet, like being in the eye of a hurricane. Nancy began taking slow, heavy steps, aping a lioness hunting her cub.

      Each aisle, every clothing rack, Nancy checked. She went into the dressing rooms, both men’s and the women’s. David was nowhere to be found. She began wondering if she had passed him four or five times already. Logically, David could be anywhere that she wasn’t at all times. Nancy garnered a second wind of valor, and began searching for David again.

      David slipped out of the bathroom without being noticed. The woman in the last stall was making fresh air rare. He was going to try and forget that experience all together. David was going to attempt to sneak back up behind his mother. He was taken quite a bit off guard when the Vietcong went right to the commode he had just been occupying. She came marching out, looking a bit frustrated, and equally light headed. David always knew when his mother was angry, as she began to gnaw on her bottom lip. David was so close to her, he could see the light tear forming in her right stocking.

      Nancy was growing very impatient. She had nearly chewed her lip to infection. Nancy had never been much for discipline. This was one of the main points of the divorce. The constant argument of discipline versus none whatsoever made for numerous hours of fighting, and very little sex or sleep. Nancy just knew deep down that David had a good sense of right and wrong. The dough eyes that she had fallen in love with were the only good thing that her son had inherited from his father.

      The book club meeting was at six o’clock. Nancy fished the cell phone out of her purse. Its LED display told her it was time to leave fifteen minutes ago. I guess David is going to have those same ratty pants a couple of more days. She rubbed her temples clockwise this time, then returned to the restroom. She called her girlfriend to let her know she was going to be a little late, but didn’t tell her why.”The pitfalls of pride,” she muttered to herself. Nancy rinsed cold water on her face, and then stared at the mirror’s reflection. Not too bad, considering the shenanigans, and sleepless nights. You are still beautiful. As she stepped out of the bathroom, she noticed a familiar pair of blinking sneakers, untied, under a clothing rack. Upon closer inspection, Nancy realized that her son also needed new shoes.

      David was frosty with excitement. He hadn’t been this close to the enemy since the battle had begun. He repositioned himself, so his back was to the enemy. He was reloading his weapons, quietly, preparing for another fight or flight situation. David’s hands were clammy, and he was taking small, shallow breaths. His mother had begun to circle the adjacent racks, slowly convening on him like a shark. David could hear his mother clearing her throat.

      Nancy addressed the three clothing racks right in front of her. She said, “David, come on out now. I would like to discuss the possibility of a Game Stop trip. I saw the new Mortal Kombat game just came out. I also know it’s a mature video game. Requires parental permission. It may be in your future if you come out”.

      Silence once again enveloped the women’s clothing racks. David’s sneakers remained perfectly still, except for the pair of red blinking lights. He didn’t like the sound of surrender. His grandfather never would have given up. Besides, he was still waiting on the new Tekken game, as well as the new Madden, and NBA Live. David knew this was yet another empty promise. One always had to be aware of the white flag when approaching the Vietcong. David could see right thru the enemy’s diversionary tactics. He remained perfectly still.

      A minute or so later, Nancy could feel her blood pressure rising. On to round two, Nancy thought. “Okay David, you don’t want a new video game? That’s fine. I can arrange no television, or video games this entire weekend, including the babysitter’s tonight. Which we’re gonna be late for now, thank you very much. So, what’s it gonna be, David? Hmmm?”

      David remained steadfast. He knew perfectly well that his mother couldn’t cash in on that threat; especially since the divorce. In times prior, David still ended up in front of the television on the weekends. He hated his mom’s book club, and he hated the babysitter. David wanted to keep her distracted long enough that they could just go home. All David wanted to do was go home and watch Sponge Bob. This would take some finesse on his part. He began to wonder what option three was going to be.

      David found out soon enough. There sounded like a commotion everywhere in the store. The loud speaker was making reverberations in every corner of the store. His mother’s voice became stern, and echoed all over the store, and it was directed at one, hidden American soldier.

      Nancy said, “Alright mister. Third and final option. Leave me alone, I’ll give it back. I’m threatening my son. Yeah right, you couldn’t catch that boy with help from the SWAT team. David, if you don’t come out right now, all weekend plans with grandpa will be suspended until further notice. And by further notice, I mean not till Christmas”.

      The cashier yanked the phone away from Nancy. Nancy didn’t hear his complaints. She scanned the rows of clothing by the bathroom. She noticed a small, camouflaged child running through the aisles. David came running around the register, then landed below Nancy’s purse. David said, “Here I am Mommy”.

      Nancy said, “Alright David, time to go”.

      “What about my pants?”

      “Your pants are gonna have to wait now honey. We ran out of time”.

      “Are you dropping me off at Michelle’s house?”

      Nancy stared deeply into David’s eyes. She said, ‘Do you have a problem with Michelle? Should I just skip book club, and take you home so you can watch Sponge Bob in peace?”

      “That would be awesome mom. You’re the best!”

      Nancy quickly responded, “Nice try David. So what’s your problem with Michelle? You don’t like her anymore?”

      “No, no, mommy, I like Michelle fine. It’s just that well, she gotta new boyfriend. They play blanket monster the whole time, and don’t talk to me, or play with me”.

      “David Lee, stop that right now! I know whatch’re doing right now, knock it off. Michelle doesn’t have a boyfriend. I would know. I have a Facebook sweetie. I would know if Michelle had a boyfriend, or if she broke up with one, or whatever’s going on with her at all times”.

      Nancy and David’s conversation was interrupted by the National Anthem. She began fishing through her purse, while holding David’s chest. David had a bad habit of assaulting vehicles in the parking lot. This was the one occasion where she did not need that to happen. She finally got to her phone and answered it.

      “Hey Andy, how are you, sir?”

      “Not too bad. Is my grandson around?”

      “Yes, hold on one second. And make sure he tells you what he just did”.

      “I will, Nancy”.

      David took the phone from his mother. His face had lit up as soon as he realized who was on the phone.

      “Hey Grandpa! How’s it going?”

      “So what’s this I hear? You givin Momma trouble? You know she’s doing the best she can. Am I gonna have to teach you a lesson, Davy?”

      “No Granpa”. David giggled with excitement. He really loved his grandfather, particularly bed time. Bed time was war story time. The stories had Grandma in them, along with blood, guts, and decapitated ears and heads.

      Nancy listened to the conversation while she helped David into the front seat of her car. She heard him describe his shenanigans in the department store. David was entirely truthful down to every detail, even the ones she didn’t know about.

      As Nancy got into the driver side of the car, David asked, “Mommy, do you have anything you need to tell Grandpa?”

      “No, sweetie, tell him I’ll call him later”.

      “Okay, Mom. Okay Grandpa, um-hmm, um-hmm, I will. Okay. I love you too Grandpa”. 

David handed Nancy her cell phone. She put it back into her purse, and started the car. David became antsy as soon as they left the parking lot. He tapped his foot repeatedly during every car ride. David was still very concerned about the last offer in the clothing store. His grandfather was the only real positive male influence from his dad’s side of the family. He muttered, “So, um, Mom, can I still go to Granpa’s this weekend?”

      Nancy smiled, but only briefly. She said, “We’ll see sweetie”. Nancy maintained her poker face in the hopes that it might actually work this time. As they approached Michelle’s house, she glanced over at David. He smiled directly back at her. The little shit already knows he got his way. Nancy smiled kindly back at him.

      “Yes, of course, sweetie. You’re going back to Grandpa’s this Sunday”. Nancy pulled into Michelle’s driveway. She told David, “I’ll be back in about two and a half, three hours. Try not to be too mean to Michelle’s new boyfriend”.

      David gave his mother a kiss, and got out of the car slowly. He smiled at his mom, and she waved as she pulled away. Michelle came out and gave him the usual salutations.

      Nancy left David at the babysitter’s, and made her way to the book club. She left the radio off for the fifteen minute ride. Instead of letting her girlfriend’s know she was close, she drove with the windows up and the Garmin off.

      He’s always going to get his way. He’s a good kid though. I just wish he would come out of his shell a little more. I mean, I really am lucky. He could really care less about television, or  video games even. It’s his grandfather that’s important to him. Family first. Maybe this kid will turn out alright. He does have a good sense of right and wrong.

The Yellow Windbreaker

 By Michael Rodgers 

               The score was tied with three minutes left on the clock when she started in on me again.

They’ll be here any minute now! Why do you always have to make me crazy! Just once I wish you’d…

Okay, okay, okay! Stop screaming at me for crissakes. Just tell me if Michigan wins or loses. I say the words, but I know she doesn’t give a shit. I head for my old pick-up truck just to shut her up. The one game I care about all year long and she’s got me running errands for her ning errands for yingfriends. She sure got bitchy after the second kid…got bossy, too…and fat.

Jesus, do we really need another dinner party for her friends? Don’t those people ever eat at their own frigging houses? Of course, all the dinner parties are for her friends. My friends don’t come around much anymore. They say they don’t like the tension. Go figure. I don’t like the tension either, yet here I am. Stuck. Stuck with two kids who treat me like shit, a double mortgage and a wife who hates my guts. Okay, hate might be a bit strong, but still.

Eyup, nowadays it’s just me, the lawnmower and the TV on the weekends. Oh, and the dinner guests. Can’t forget the dinner guests. Snooty asses. What was I supposed to get again? Oh, yeah, baguettes. Heaven forbid we have a dinner with ordinary bread. The horror, the horror…

I found a space right in front of the store and that’s when I saw him. One of those human train wrecks. What the hell was he doing? It looked like he was arguing with the garbage can right there where the glass auto-doors open. His bright yellow windbreaker clashed hard with his greasy pants and his hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb since the Reagan Administration.

The garbage can was one of those domed models with the spring loaded door you have to push in on to dump your trash. I sat there watching the guy and thinking, the poor bastard. Then I thought, if he wanted a real argument, I could give him my address. Hell, I’d even drive him home. Let him deliver the baguettes or something. That oughta get a rise out of the old lady’s dough.

The argument with the garbage can continued, so I decided to sit there and see if the show had another act.  I couldn’t tell who was winning, but the homeless guy seemed to be holding his own…like I used to do. He’s silent for a minute as if he’s really focused on what the garbage can is saying. Then he throws his hands up in disgust, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. He turns real sharp, takes three quick steps away and then spins back as if the garbage can just insulted his sexual competence.

Yeah, I know. That old canard. Been there, done that. That’s like the beginning of the end when they hit you with that one. Call it a turning point or whatever, but when the venom sinks that deep, the road back to normalcy usually misses the guardrail and goes right off the cliff. I’ve seen a lot of guys post the white flag after that one. I know I did.

As I sat there watching, I wondered how the poor bum ended up arguing with a garbage can out in front of the Winn-Dixie on a Saturday night. Apparently homeless. Obvious mental issues. Probably been married before.

I have to give the old bird credit though, as far as I could tell he was giving as good as he was getting. Suddenly, he’s standing there with his hands on his hips and his head cocked to one side and leaning in real hard, like he’s taking some serious abuse, but I can tell he’s just about had it with this garbage can’s shit.

Then the homeless guy does something I’ll never forget. He takes off his shiny yellow wind-breaker and crams it right into the mouth of the garbage can leaving nothing, but part of one sleeve hanging out. That oughta shut the bitch up. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as he stomped off toward the corner of the building and away into the woods. He never looked back. I sat there for a long while trying to absorb what I’d just witnessed. In spite of his obvious problems, I felt a great admiration for the crazy old homeless guy. At least he didn’t compromise on his principles. He may have lost a windbreaker, but he still had his dignity.

It took another full minute to remember why I was sitting in the parking lot in the first place. Oh, yeah. The dinner guests need baguettes. To hell, I thought, I don’t even like baguettes. I cranked the ignition on the old pick up and drove away knowing I would need my own yellow windbreaker when I got home.

This Is My Life

 By Wendy Hobbs

      “What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger!” I have proven this mantra time and time again. Everyone has a story to tell. All too often it’s the reason why you don’t, but occasionally it’s the inspiration why you do. I unfortunately did not grow up in the most loving home. I spent my younger years with the only thing I could look forward to; learning. I had solid grades throughout school and aspired to attend college, to accomplish great things. No one on either side of my family had ever been a college graduate.

      When I was 17, I lost focus and dropped out of school, promptly getting married. I had two amazing boys shortly after and thought “Well, this is my life,” When my mother was 47 years old, she passed away from cancer. I was only 23 years old then. While I watched her take her last breath, feeling defeated, I whispered “This is my life.” My marriage could not survive this life altering event, and I divorced 2 years later. Before my mother’s passing, I began Cosmetology School and managed to graduate in my mother’s honor. I have continued my love of hair for 13 years, although I aspired for more. Later, I tried my luck at another marriage, gaining an 18 month old step daughter with it.

      My second marriage was emotionally draining and often abusive. Just when I realized I needed to get out, I had my third son. So again I thought to myself, THIS is my life!” More time passed and eventually we had to move in with my father. Four day later, my older brother also passed away from cancer. He was just 38 years old and much too young. At this point I begged God, “Please, DON’T let this be my life!”

      That was my wake up call. I began to change my perspective on living, “IS this my life?” I asked. Years have slipped by, while I have tried to steady myself on one stone after the next. Thinking about the short life span of my mother and my brother, I felt time could be running out. At 35 years old, I divorced my second husband but kept my beautiful daughter, who still lives with me. I pulled myself up, got my life on track and demanded, “This is MY life!”

      All along, my biggest obstacle has been myself. The many challenges I have faced are the things that did in fact, not kill me. These life moments that have made me stronger were my inspiration to return to my love of learning. The greatest gift I can give myself and my children is a degree. It may have taken me longer than most, but my determination is greater because of the stones I have stood on. This is my selfish accomplishment, which isn’t very selfish at all. This goal is for me, my time to succeed, while my children watch and silently learn. I can now proudly say “This is my LIFE!”

Biography

  Wendy Hobbs is an often overwhelmed, always challenged mother of 4 children that gets through every day with a determination of success. This narrative piece explains why she has that determination.

Purgatory Revisited

By Isabel Sina

        A trio of leisurely palms sways gently in the balmy tropical breeze, mere feet away from the shell-strewn shores of the Gulf of Mexico. I greedily inhale the salt drenched air while admiring the masterfully crafted Tiki Huts, standing courageously in the smoldering Florida sun. Determined to return to their homeland with a chocolaty tan, sun oil polished tourists from England and Germany, whose own dreary summers seem to have made a Faustian pact with the weather gods, roast peacefully in their yielding beach lounges. The mood among the crowd is giddy, and I can’t help but adopt their cheerful, relaxed attitude.

      While squinting against the sun to make sense of an unfamiliar shape on the horizon, I reassure myself that today is indeed the third of September 2011. Eleven years ago, almost to the day, my obligations to the Tiki Resort Motel did not allow me to play the role of a mellow and unconcerned tourist, but instead prompted me to don a pair of oversized shoes and consequently act as its overworked and somewhat underpaid mistress. 

      Naturally, the desire to acquire one’s own little piece of paradise represents a rather common and overly idealized fantasy, but it simply made sense at the time. The Tiki was a dream come true that slowly but surely turned into a modern version of Dante’s notorious inferno— the type of nightmare wherein elevated serotonin levels, caused by a hyper fusion of blood to the brain, wreak havoc and force one to awaken in the wee hours of the morning, soaked in cold sweat, vowing never again to indulge in another late night serving of the Outback’s celebrated Aussie Cheese Fries.

      The vexatious Tiki comprises ten one-bedroom efficiencies, each equipped with a full size kitchen. Speaking of gluttonous consumption, the amount and consistency of crumbs, muck, gook, grime, and other venomous culinary residues which had taken up residence there was appalling. Repulsive substances were slithering alongside the tired looking Formica counters, worn stainless steel pots, and murky wine goblets. The ten messy kitchens were not the only reason I started to develop a wicked latex allergy. The alarmingly unsanitary condition of the bathrooms prompted me to invest in a biohazard suit, which was shipped with a set of germ-impervious rubber boots and a tight fitting gas mask. Cleaning a bevy of raunchy toilets and scrubbing the relentless soap scum off the shower walls, made me repeatedly question my decision to buy this purported “piece of paradise.”

      One of the guests had the annoying habit of repeating the ominous phrase “when angels dare, the devil cannot help but notice.” Strangely enough, he was right on target with his gloomy prediction— the devil was a quotidian guest at the motel, one who, to paraphrase an old Eagles’ song, could check out any time but preferred never to leave.

      Lucifer arrived via a host of ingenious aliases. He once disguised himself as an extended family from the East Coast, determined to circumvent the rigorous no pet policy. These cunning guests tried to smuggle in their two-pound miniature Chihuahua by hiding the tiny canine in grandma’s elephantine Gucci bag. This same family later decided to misappropriate the five-foot porcelain bathtub by converting it to a giant pig-roasting device.

      More demonic mischief materialized: six rowdy, pheromone-propelled spring breakers, stimulated by too many rumrunners, tied the king size bed linens into a knotted rope in order to swing tarzanesque from the second floor balcony into the Gulf of Mexico. Satan’s infiltration was not the only one to which the resort was subjected–in the summer of 2001, an Act of God produced a flood of biblical proportions. Tropical storm Gabrielle came barreling in, dumping tons of water and sweeping the Tiki clean of all traces of enchantment. Even in the wake of this saturation, a severely crippled and soggy hut gamely carried on by candlepower and kerosene lamplight.

      Edward de Bono once said, “A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.” Many strange and extraordinary events took place during my ownership of the Tiki, events which I will never forget even though I often wish they could just “unhappen.” That, however, was then; this is now.

      I am no longer the enslaved owner of a resort motel in Fort Myers Beach, long past its prime as a superior lodging establishment. If I choose to do so, I can enjoy my time as a paying guest, ravage the linens, sear a pound of greasy bacon on the timeworn stove, and leave soap scum creations on the tiled shower walls. Conversely, I can behave in a respectful and polite manner out of consideration for the new owners and their many challenges ahead.

      As I scan the horizon and contemplate my alternatives, the German tourists signal me to come over to their place of refuge. A bald, burly man in his early sixties with a somewhat familiar face asks me: “We have been coming here for years. Do I know you from somewhere?”

Biography

Isabel Sina has a passion for languages and words, and grew up with her head buried in books. Having studied graphic design, and having taken a number of literature and writing courses, she decided to combine the two. In a nutshell, creative writing and design are her passions. Her goal is to inspire, to bring stories to life, and to create characters that jump off the page.

The Studio

By Gina Eairheart

      Her eyes had the ability to dig deep into your soul when she looked at you, leaving a person incapable of hiding behind their own lies that maybe, they truly believed themselves. They were the purest green I had ever seen, like the grass on a sunny spring morning with a mist of dew to enhance their color. My lie was that I wanted her and she seemed to know it, without my asking. Her light brown hair fell across her forehead and tumbled in waves to her shoulders, dripping like water down to the middle of her back. I wanted to tangle my hands into her soft brown locks of hair and pull her into me so I could taste the sweetness of her thick pink lips. Every morning I sat on the bus directly across from her and sometimes we chatted about the weather or politics, the subject never mattered to me much. Just to be in her presence and be able to watch her delicate movements with those frail looking freckled hands and to watch her lips form words was enough to make the rest of my day go smoothly. We always sat opposite each other on the bus to downtown every morning for our commute to work. Jennifer was an office clerk for an accountant, but her passion for life existed within her art, which mostly went unseen by the public inside the walls of her tiny studio. She more often than not described her work to me in great detail with enthusiasm that radiated out of those bright green eyes of hers and I wondered how she could see the things she did, both in her art and in people she met in life. I always worked up the courage every morning to finally ask her out, but never did. Today is the day, Kyle, I would say to the face staring back at me in the mirror. Then I would begin a close inspection of every surface of my face for nicks left from a shaving mishap or any acne that might be popping up here or there. Checking my smile for anything caught in between my teeth that brushing might have missed.

###

      I hopped up on the bus ready to make my move today was the day I reminded myself. She was radiant, almost glowing, and wearing a mini skirt and a blouse that cut in a low v-line between her breasts. I could smell her perfume filling the dank bus with a flowery scent.

      “Good morning Jennifer,” I said.

      “Morning Kyle, how’s it goin’ so far?”

      “Great! I get to look at a beautiful woman every morning. So what’s the occasion?”

      “Occasion? Oh, you must mean the new skirt?”

      “Yeah, you look amazing.”

      “Thank you, I was hoping you would notice,”

      Then the unthinkable happened, right at the moment when I sat down across from her. She stood up, gripping the vertical hand rail, smiled at me seductively and swung herself into the seat next to me. Her delicate hand found my right knee and slid up my inner thigh stopping midway between my knee and the crotch of my jeans. She leaned in and whispered softly in my ear.

      “So, you wanna skip work today?”

      “Yes,” I said.

      “Good, I want to show you something,”

      We got off the bus at 23rd street and made our way down the street holding hands, laughing and talking like we had been dating for years. My heart was pounding and my ears were ringing with the sounds of her soft voice. She took her keys out of her purse and unlocked the door to her studio. A rush of air stagnant with the smell of recently burned incense wafted past us. I peered into the darkness of her studio, as she disappeared a few steps inside the doorway.

      “Wait here,” She said.

      “Umm, Ok,” I replied.

      She left me there with my mind racing wanting to know what was inside, Jennifer had never really described her art to me, and the anxiety of wanting her and wanting to know more was building up inside of me. My heart was pounding hard enough that I thought it was going to break ribs and somehow escape my chest. Hearing a clicking noise from inside I briefly saw her face as she lit some candles, the room dark around her, with only her face and shoulders eliminated in a halo of golden light. When she stepped away from the candles I lost track of her movement and only the sound of those sexy red heels click, click, clicking against the floor, which sounded like concrete. Then she flipped a switch that lit the dark room with a hazy bluish light over canvas paintings hung neatly on the walls. Each painting had its own light, my eyes tried to focus on the closest one to the door. A human form appeared, animalistic, as though it was leaping out of the painting it was trapped in. Naked flesh with rippling muscles, the face seemed familiar, short dark brown hair, with icy blue eyes, the jawline strong and prominent. It was as though I was looking into my mirror at home, but with a crazed look in my eyes that I had never seen before.

      “Do you like it?” She whispered in my ear, I jumped, startled.

      “I…uh, yes. It seems…”

      “Seems animalistic, somehow familiar?” She asked.

      “Yes, exactly. It’s like looking in the mirror, did you, I mean is this me?”

      “Well, you don’t remember then? Hmmm, come on in here, maybe you just need a reminder. Sit over there, on the couch.”

      I felt my legs moving towards the couch obeying her command, not really wanting them to listen to her. What I wanted was to turn around and leave, fear was now pushing that heart of mine harder against my ribs. I sat on the couch and there were more paintings of me, surrounding me, and staring down at me as if accusing myself of having done something wrong. She watched as I took it all in, those eyes, I could feel them piercing my thoughts.

      “Would you like a drink?” She asked.

      “I would, but I really should be…”

      “Oh, come on, hon, I have your favorite scotch whiskey.”

      Before I knew what was happening she handed me the snifter of whiskey and the scent of it invaded my senses. I couldn’t resist and took a sip. She sat down next to me on the couch, let her hand fall gracefully between my thighs as she took a sip of her own drink. I wanted to run away, but my body wouldn’t move no matter how much I willed it.

      “Relax, you are so tense, darlin,’” She said.

      “What is goin’ on here? I mean, do you just sit around here painting portraits of me?”

      She laughed and set her drink on the table in front of us, then reached for my drink and sat it down next to hers. Then before I knew it she was straddling me sitting in my lap with her lips pressed firmly against mine. I grabbed her hair and pulled her head back exposing her neck and began to bite her neck softly at first, then with increasing intensity until I drew blood. Shocked at the iron taste in my mouth I released her hair and grabbed her legs just behind the delicate knees and stood up with her, kissing each other I turned around and laid her on the couch. I ran my hands up her legs and under her skirt and realized she wasn’t wearing panties. I pushed my fingers into her, wanting to please her.

      “Kyle!” She moaned.

      “You like that?”

      “Yes,” She said.

      I began to get dizzy and felt sick, it must have been the whiskey. I sat up, and held my head in my hands on the opposite end of the couch. She kneeled next to me and I could feel her putting something around my neck. It felt like leather, like a dog collar, with metal studs. She undressed me slowly. Then I heard a click at the back of my neck, she had hooked a leash to my collar.

      “Come on boy, come on.” She said.

      Tugging at my lead, she pulled me to the floor on my hands and knees. She led me into the back room of her studio, it was brightly lit almost blinding me. I crawled next to her feet to the blanket she had spread out on the floor. She took out what looked like a whip.

      “Now, you are gonna be a good boy this time, right?” She asked.

      “Yes, I promise.” I said.

      “That’s my boy, sit there I have work to do. No, not like that, sit up as if you are begging for a bone. That’s better, good boy, sit still now until I tell you to move.”

Biography

 Gina Eairheart is a student currently enrolled at State College of Florida. After a successful career in Architectural and Survey drafting for several years, she felt the need to further my education. Since enrolling in college, she has found out a lot about herself through the educational process. She thoroughly enjoy anything pertaining to the arts, which should have been no surprise due to her background; however, she had for most of my life suppressed the need for creating art and used her talents mostly for crafting as a hobby and undeniably for drafting plans for buildings and their land surveys. She found that writing and creating objects out of clay to be an enlightening experience that she will not soon let go by the wayside. She hopes you enjoy the stories and poems that come from this experience.

Serial Dating

  By Gina Eairheart

      I was scrolling through the photos on a dating website one bright and sunny morning when I first saw his photo. I thought wow, what a handsome man and those teeth, so straight and pearly white! So I decided to take a look at his profile, he was into everything I ever wanted in a man, romantic movies, dinners, walks on the beach. A near perfect match for me, I thought to myself. The eloquence of his words in black and white, his grammar and punctuation was perfect. There was not one reason I could see to not reach out to him. So I wrote;

      “Your profile is amazing! I would enjoy chatting with you sometime. -Lorraine”

      He responded almost immediately, with attentive detail.

      “I read your profile just now as well. And you seem to be just the lady I am looking for.  Eternally Yours, Bobby”

      We chatted online for several days in this manner he won me over with his charms and convinced me that I must meet this Bobby guy. And I hoped for the best when he made plans with me to meet him at the beach. We agreed that it should be the perfect setting.

      ###

      I sat there in the sand and watched the sun set over the twinkling water with its orange-red hues, reaching down to me with golden arms as if to wrap me up and hold me tight in the warmth I could already feel on my skin. I let my mind wander off to several different scenarios of what our meeting would be like. Would it be awkward? I wondered, or perhaps we would be so perfectly matched that it would feel like old friends meeting again after 20 years apart? I wasn’t sure of anything and the butterflies began their lazy flight in the pit of my stomach. I placed a firm hand on my belly to quell the involuntary spasms of the muscles there. I had gotten there early as we had decided that taking in the sunset would put me into a relaxed state of mind and make our meeting that much more romantic with just the right amount of longing. It was working, I already felt comfortable and anxious to meet him. My long sensuous legs stretched out and crossed in front of me, bare to the elements due to the jean miniskirt that hid very little of them. I had fixed my hair up into a loose bun with little tendrils falling down in curly strands of blonde hair. My deep blue eyes mimicked the water stretching for miles and miles in front of my view. I felt more alive than I had ever felt and could feel my own heart beat thumping rhythmically against my chest. As the sun went to sleep over the horizon, my heart thumped harder and the anticipation built to extreme highs and fearful lows. What if he is perfect for me, my life could change forever and if he isn’t what he claims to be, will I be so let down that depression consumes me? So I sat there waiting for what seemed like an eternity, perhaps I shouldn’t have come so early. Soon it was dark all around me; the stars came out to whisper their greetings. Twinkling against the darkened sky with their mother, she was the fullest moon possible. We had planned it that way, because a full moon was intoxicating.

      I didn’t hear him walking up behind me.  My senses were overloaded with the beauty of nature and my own anxious thoughts. The blindfold startled me as it wrapped tightly, quickly over my eyes. His voice was high-pitched when he whispered in my ear.

      “Don’t move, don’t scream or I will slit your pretty little throat right here under our blanket of stars. You wouldn’t want to ruin this moment, now would you Lorraine?”

      “No, but what are you doing? Is this you, Bobby?”

      “Yes, it’s me darling, we are going to have a perfect first date darling, I am going to enjoy every minute of it.”

      Then he grabbed my arms at the elbows and pulled me quickly to my feet. He was so strong and I oddly felt turned on and strangely safe. There was something familiar about his voice. Perhaps he reminded me a little of my ex-husband, who I loved so deeply. Until the day the bastard ran off with his red-headed little slut of a secretary. Bobby wrapped a heavy trench coat around my shoulders. Then I felt the metal cuff wrap around my left wrist and heard it click into place, then another click as he placed the other cuff around his right wrist. We were bound together and I could not escape even if I wanted to. We walked back to his car, he then took his cuff off of his own wrist and placed it on my right wrist in front of me and gently put me in the passenger seat of what must have been a sports car because it was low to the ground. I heard every tiny sound as he closed my door, walked around the car and got in the driver’s seat. Filled with anxiety and anticipation I reflected on my last day on earth. Soon I would not be alive anymore. Very soon he would end it all for me, but first he would make love to me. We were satisfying each-others’ needs, I needed to end this depression and he needed to end a life. We drove the back roads as planned until we found a nice little wooded area, miles away from any living human being. I had assured him that I would fight him off and scream for him. I would even manage to cry somehow, although this day was the best day of my pathetic life. Inside I was content as I screamed out in pain, the knife thick with my own blood slicing open my throat, I whispered to him.

      “Thank you.”

Biography

 Gina Eairheart is a student currently enrolled at State College of Florida. After a successful career in Architectural and Survey drafting for several years, she felt the need to further my education. Since enrolling in college, she has found out a lot about herself through the educational process. She thoroughly enjoy anything pertaining to the arts, which should have been no surprise due to her background; however, she had for most of my life suppressed the need for creating art and used her talents mostly for crafting as a hobby and undeniably for drafting plans for buildings and their land surveys. She found that writing and creating objects out of clay to be an enlightening experience that she will not soon let go by the wayside. She hopes you enjoy the stories and poems that come from this experience.

Crystal’s New Friend

By Anna Maldzhiev

She thrust her hands into her jeans pockets, and bent her head against the cold, windy rain. Should have worn my jacket, she thought to herself. She’d been warned before moving here that no matter what the weatherman said; always bring a jacket or umbrella. When she arrived at the bus stop and got under the covered protection from the rain, she shivered and huddled into herself.

A young man, about her age, hurried into the small shelter to stand next to her, and he shook off a little. She met his intense gaze and gave him a polite smile. In return, he smiled widely at her. A smile, she guessed, that had broken many hearts. She quickly averted her eyes, but not before she felt herself blush.

He greeted her and said something about the rain. The usual type of statement everyone in Portland makes this time of year. She smiled at him again. He lit a cigarette and rubbed his hands together as if to warm them.

“I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks,” she started, “I’m beginning to wonder if there is a sun in Oregon.”

“Only 2 more months of this, and then the sun comes out again and it all dries up. During winter, people seem to forget about the sun, and during summer, everyone tends to forget about the rain,” he shrugged with this reply. “I’m John by the way.” He extended his hand towards her.

“Crystal,” she said shyly, and shook his hand as her father had taught her.

“You live around here?” he questioned.

His directness made her nervous, but before she had time to question it, she found herself answering, “Yes. I live in the apartments down the road.” She fiddled with her backpack, absentmindedly rearranging the contents, not quite comfortable with making eye contact.

“Where you headed?” he asked. He shifted his weight and leaned against the plexi-glass wall, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Um, actually, I’m going out exploring. Have the day off work, thought I’d see what I could find.” She turned her eyes skyward; no break in the dreariness that hung over head in any direction. She realized that she’d picked a bad day. Damn weatherman, she thought.

His attention on her was flattering, though she was a little uneasy about telling this handsome stranger so much about herself. She hadn’t had a conversation with anyone other than her coworkers at the sub shop since moving here. “And what about you, where are you headed?” she inquired, trying to turn the conversation.

With that same contagious smile, he said, “I’m a freelance photographer. I work with a buddy downtown, he owns a large studio.”

“Neat.” She wasn’t sure what to say, and when she realized this sounded lame, she tucked her damp, long hair behind her shoulders and continued, “What do you take pictures of?”

“People mostly. I like to go to Pioneer’s Square and watch and take pictures. There is so much going on in our lives, it’s fun to capture some fleeting moments and lock them in time.” He finished his cigarette and threw it into the soggy street.

Before she could think of a response, the bus slowly pulled up alongside them, the loud brake whoosh seeming to end the conversation succinctly. He motioned for her to go first, and she hurried through the drizzle and hopped up the steps. She showed her bus pass to the driver before taking a seat near the front. Figuring he only talked with her at the bus stop to pass his time while waiting for the bus, she was surprised when he came and stood in front of her. He indicated with a look that he’d like to sit next to her, and she gave him a slight nod. With all of his charisma, she didn’t get why he was interested in someone so clumsy and plain.

He persuaded her to join him for coffee, and to let him show her around downtown since the rain had stopped. His eyes were the iciest blue she’d ever seen, and they seemed to seize her most inner thoughts. The whites of his eyes were tinged yellow, but this thought didn’t register in her mind. His jawline was strong and had slight stubble. Every time he smiled at her, she felt blood rise to her face, while her pulse quickened.

He picked a small café and after insisting to pay for her coffee, they sat in the back and talked for a while. She was amazed at how easy it was to talk with him, how she kept going on about herself and the events leading up to her move to Portland. All dreams and ideas came flowing out of her mouth when he turned those fierce eyes upon her. This was not like her, she was usually very guarded and kept to herself unless with family or good friends.

Then they began walking around downtown, while he pointed out certain places and told her some interesting facts about the history of the city. They passed an old homeless couple cuddling under the overpass, and he stopped to take a picture of them. The woman’s gray and brown dreads hung over her face as her head laid on the man’s shoulder. His head was bent towards hers, and his eyes closed, he appeared to be weeping silently. Maybe it was what John had said earlier about capturing moments in time, but she couldn’t help but feel that this couple was infinitely frozen together like this. She imagined their hands intertwined under their large wool blanket, grasping onto each other for all time and eternity.

Crystal and John ended up at the warehouse where he worked. Standing outside of the large building, she tried to think of an excuse to go back to her apartment alone as her nervousness mounted. But she’d found a friend, someone she felt she had connected with, and didn’t want to be rude. His charm and quick wit were enchanting, yet she now had this feeling of uneasiness that she couldn’t put her thumb on. 

He showed her around the large workplace, and the tour ended on the third floor in a small loft. There was a man, sitting facing the wall at a computer.

John tapped the man on the shoulder and said, “Hey Man, show some respect, this our new friend Crystal.” He said her name with a chuckle she noticed. With a glance at her, he said, “Crystal, this is Daman, one of the best photographers in all of Portland.”

Crystal caught the phrase “our new friend”, but wasn’t sure what to make of it. That musing was immediately dispelled when Daman turned around to acknowledge her and stuck out his hand towards her. His eyes were deep pools of dark brown, and his face was sunken in, reminding her of a skull with skin stretched taut across it. Those dark brown irises swam in a sea of yellow, he had no whites to his eyes. His skin had a strange pallor, and she thought momentarily that perhaps the lighting in the loft was messing with her eyes.  As she took his hand in hers, she fought the urge to pull away with repulsion. His fingers were cold, bony and clammy, also seeming as if they belonged to a skeleton. It was like she briefly held melting ice cubes in her hand. His face showed no emotion, not even registering this new acquaintance.

“Hi,” she said politely to the man, but found herself slowly edging closer to John for comfort. Without a word, Daman turned back to the computer.

“So, you like to party?” John asked her.

“Sure.” She shrugged slightly, not quite certain where he was going with this.

Another fear calming smile was shot in her direction as he walked over to a small fridge and pulled out three beers. When he placed one in front of Daman, he tapped the man three times on the shoulder and sniffled. With a slight nod of understanding and a small cough and sniffle of his own, Daman wheeled the computer chair to the small table on the left of the computer desk. From the top drawer, he pulled out various paraphernalia piled on a hand mirror. A thin rectangular  razor, a tiny baggy, and a thick card. Crystal heard herself give a sharp involuntary gasp.

John was next to her, holding the open beer out to her. “Not what you were expecting?” he asked.

She shook her head mutely, and tried to find an expression of indifference to put on her face. In high school she’d snorted coke a couple of times, and figured it really wasn’t that big of a deal. But then she saw Daman shake tiny, slightly purple, shards of glass onto the mirror and confusion set in.

“Its dope,” John said in answer to her unspoken question. When he saw that she still didn’t comprehend, he said “You know, crystal meth.”    

A spontaneous shudder started in her mouth and spread down through her toes as she watched the man’s practiced hand crunching the little oily shards with the card and then chopping the substance with the razor. The girl glanced towards the exit, but felt it was already too late, because she’d invested time and emotion, and had finally been accepted. Somehow she knew that if she made the decision to stay, her life would never be the same. Her throat felt swollen, and she couldn’t even swallow as she turned back to face the thick line of powder.

Biography

🙂

My Son is Dead

By David Drapeau

The wind blew into the house as I stared upon my desk. My wife, Helen walked in the room upon fixing her apron.

“You know honey, I can’t think while you look at me like that.”

She turned away and gave me the eye, and her feet sounded like cement on the wood floor. Then I heard a low sound that distracted me. My cat Jasper was purring and looking at me with an eye too.

“Okay Jasper, you just need me to keep you company?”

She purred some more and then jumped off the desk into our parlor. In the parlor my son was laying down. He was cold and a smell came from him. I couldn’t bear him anymore I had to do something with him, and I can’t wake him.

My son is dead.

My son is dead, oh so he is.

“No, that’s not right. Honey can you com help me with this thing?”

Helen walked into the room, looking as glum as usual with bloodshot eyes, a wet jacket, and a tired bruised face.

“No I can’t help you. You have to do some thing’s yourself.  I have to go out, I can’t bear to see Andrew like this anymore, get rid of him and make sure whatever I say, how much I beg for it that you don’t bring him back inside.”

Helen walked out like the tramp she was. I couldn’t stand the thought of her.

6/20/1909,

The western state of Arizona under new Outlaw Law.

Under commission of Baker T. Bradley the union officials….

What am I doing? I can’t write this either!  It’s too controversial and most of the townsfolk wouldn’t appreciate a story concerning their state. Dam bastards!

My son is still dead.

Time passed rather quickly and my senses began to lose it. I had a few too many shots then I felt dizzy and tired; I yawned and moved around in my chair. I drifted off into a dream state and had thoughts of the new phonograph models.

Just then, I heard a couple of strange sounds that emerged me from my daydreaming.

“Hello?”

Nobody replied except my cat. I looked over and saw her purring next to me. I also took another shot.

“I hate pussy! I hate you cat!! Why on dear earth did Helen ever want me to pick you up?”

Jasper just purred and purred, then purred some more and then purred again. She looked up and her big green eyes brighter. She jumped off and run away, but this time something scarred her.

“I know that look Jasper! Stop being a pussy! We both know the only person to scare you like that is Andrew!”

My son is really dead.

“Andrew!”

I turned around and thank god nobody was there. I looked into the parlor and saw Andrew still lying down. Odd how I thought Andrew was behind me.

But my son is dead.

Time passed by some more and a small breeze would blow in from time to time. I felt the cool air of my house on my face which gave me a point for my next great idea.

“I got it!”

I jumped right on the type and started typing my next big move.

“W! H! O! R! E!”

“P! O! R!”

“N!”

The words flumed out of my mouth and on to the type.

White Horse phonograph, the next big era of music.

“YES!!!!! I GOT IT!!!!”

I jumped up and down with joy. My newspaper chief will love my story. I ran all around my house. I even ran into my room and jumped on my bed like a kid again. I ran into the parlor and kissed….wait.

“Oh my god!  Andrew where are you!”

I panicked and looked all around the house.  I looked outside and saw some townsfolk’s looking at my house. Why did they stare at my house? Was I too overjoyed with my story?

My son is dead I think.

I looked back at them, and some ran off with disgust. I’m starting to panic, and it’s almost three. My dear Helen will be back soon. She will freak out that Andrew is gone! Then I’ll get yelled at and won’t get any sex tonight!

I paced backed and forth, down the hall and into the parlor.

“Where are you Andrew?”

I saw Jasper walking by and I grabbed her. The poor thing looked scarred and tired all at once.

“You’re tired of my game aren’t you? We will see how you like it”

I lost all my patience with that hairy pussy and I kicked the cat into the metal furnace. It made a loud thud and a moan.

My cat might be dead.

“That shows you! I know that you got Andrew to pull a trick on us!”

Just then, I heard a knock at the door. Was it Andrew? NO! It was a woman; I think it was Barbara Sheen my Landlady.

“Are you in there? I hear yelling and animals sounds coming from your house. Is Helen back yet?”

I opened the door and just looked at her.

“I’m in the middle of a crisis, BARB –ARA!” I mocked her.

“Well is there anything I can do to help you with it?”

“NO!! Never! I don’t need help!”

“Well then what were you doing?”

“I….” I shuddered for a moment thinking maybe I was having a bad dream and I could get away with saying this.

“I was having sex”

“Well, how is that? Helen isn’t home?”

“I was having sex with Jasper!”

“Oh so you must be one of those homosexual men?”

No this dumb whore didn’t realize my dilemma. I had a dead son missing, I injured my cat, and I can’t write anything because my story was made up, and my job requires real stories.

“Listen, Barb. Jasper is my cat!”

“Oh, well you can’t have”

“Yes Barb, get it through your head, I can.” I interrupted.

My son might be dead.

Barbara just looked at me in confusion then ran off my step and into town. I slammed the door to find the smell and odor gone.

“OKAYYY!! You little rat!! I’ve had enough with your problems!! I can’t stand the fact that you insult our family and that you can hide from me. Andrew!!”

I got so tired of this nonsense and my procrastination that I grabbed my revolver and then grabbed my cat. I put my revolver up to my cat and began to interrogate it.

“I know that you and my Andrew set up this plan to torture my thought and valued time, that’s why I’m going to take it easy on you!”

BANG! BANG! BANG!! I shot the gun off to the side and Jasper shivered in my hand. I began to cry and think of Andrew as I dropped my cat on the ground. She ran off into the bedroom and under the bed.

“OH! No you don’t! I won’t let this happen!”

Click. I reloaded my gun as I walked to the bedroom. I came closer to my bed, and then I creped down and saw Jaspers little face. Her eyes were so big and green, glossy and ready to die.

I heard another knock. So I ran over to the door thinking Barb was back. But as soon as I opened the door,

“You’re coming with us”

“Don’t grab me you bastard!”

The sheriff grabbed me and tied me up. I heard him talking of how I was going to jail for not paying Barb the rent for last month.

As I got dragged off I saw Helen walk in front of the house in dismay. She turned at me and then stepped aside.

“What! I was so stupid! I can’t write anything!!!”

What was I thinking, I can’t write anything. I should have done what I was told to and stopped messing around. Maybe if I didn’t create such a wasteland of made up stories and stuck to reality.

I looked back and saw Andrews’s corpse lying in front of the house. The small breeze knocked him out the window into the front of the house.

My son is dead.

Biography

I’m David Drapeau and I have written a very funny and interesting story. It’s about a writer and his struggles to write an article. Meanwhile, he hurts his cat blaming it for the sudden disappearance of his son’s body.

One Windy Morning

By Joel Hanson

 Stepping out the door, Brock was immediately disturbed by the wind in his face. He checked the weather application on his phone. Brock hated wind more than rain, more than snow, heat, hail or sleet. Wind ruffled your clothes and sent you hat or newspaper flying. Wind got up your sleeves and gave you a chill. Wind messed up your hair. They’ve made hair gel that can stop bullets, but not one that stops moving air. Brock dug the bulletproof hair gel, though. It was also exceptionally bright out today, but he carried sunglasses for just the occasion. You could wear a windbreaker, but they don’t completely stop the wind, they just lessen the sensation. Wind. Right?

Noting that he needed a better weather application, he silenced his phone before putting it back into his pocket in exchange for the silver aviators waiting there. He took his phone back out to snap a picture of himself for Facebook’s sake. “Lookin’ sly, my man.” he said as he uploaded it. Great new default. For all of wind’s downfalls, it did make you look badass. If only he’d had a cigarette dangling from his lip, he’d be a real Steve McQueen, but who could light one in this stupid wind?

“Oh, shit.” he thought, realizing that while fooling around on his phone, he’d been unwillingly heading toward work. He tried to enjoy the few moments he got between stepping out the door and arriving, but it didn’t take any time at all to get there. Once he took that first step out of the door, it was just natural. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to, maybe just slow down. If he did though, who knows how late he’d be? At the end of the week he would joke with his buds over a few beers about going postal. Just running in and shooting up the place. Ha. Ha.

His thoughts were interrupted when his coworker Cheryl approached him. “Hey there Brockie.”

“Oh, morning, Cheryl.” he groaned.

“What?” she yelled.

“Oh, I said good morning! But who can hear a damn thing in this stupid wind?” Brock yelled.

“Ha! Sounds like somebody’s got a case of the Mondays!” she yelled back over the breeze.

“Only every Monday.” he muttered under his breath.

“Well I’m going on in, see you in a few!” she yelled, waving as she continued on to work.

Cheryl was okay, if not a little too bubbly. He could never maintain a conversation that wasn’t work-related with her, but that’s fine. Brock kept work at work. He didn’t really want anything else getting into his job, or his job getting into his private life. Noticing how close he was, he began to ready himself for the grueling say ahead. Brock tugged at the cord.

“Something wrong, Magnus?” yelled Bill, clapping Brock on the back.

“My parachute won’t open, sir!” replied Brock.

“It’s probably just snagged on something, keep pulling on it! The backup’s easier to see! Don’t use it unless you have to! Afghanis don’t like to see parachutes! What are you carrying?”

“M4A1 sir!”

“Have it on standby if you use the emergency! See you on the ground!”

“Sir!” he saluted Captain Briggs as he drifted away. Brock hated Mondays, but someone had to bust up those terror cells, right?

Biography

Joel Hanson is a mediocre writer and amateur cowboy. He spends his spare time golfing, at the beach, napping in his hammock, wooing your little sister, making cocktails, playing PlayStation, cooking things he sees Emeril make, and bowling. His favorite television shows are Archer, Rescue Me, How I Met Your Mother, Jersey Shore, Rob Dyrdek’s Fantasy Factory, and Dragon Ball Z. Joel dreams of someday starting one of those giant bar brawls that you see in old western movies, pulling a gun on an attacker armed with a knife, rewriting Jaws to star the ocean’s real apex predator-the orca, and retiring to someplace exotic with a petite blonde to do his laundry. In the meantime, Joel is content to take long naps, drink tall beers, and cook short orders.