I stood on the bridge of my ship, The Katana, wondering what it was exactly that I had just witnessed.

“Go to stealth!” I yelled out. There was little time for wondering now. The explosion of our partner ship, The Air Cutter, was still plainly visible. Of course, the explosion had no sound. The view, however, was persuasion enough.

Our sensor tech had the stealth come up within a minute, and my pilot moved the ship approximately 1,000 miles further away from where the Air Cutter once was.

“Scanners!” I yelled out, somewhat more calmly this time, but still with a firm voice. No need to freak out. “Any ships in the surrounding area?”

There was a slight pause. “Nothing, sir.”

I was still tense, but I tried to relax myself. Be in control. “Well, what hit them then? An asteroid? A lintar?” Lintars were natural phenomena; interstellar clouds made mostly of atomic energy. A sort of natural nuclear bomb. They were extremely rare, and we would have spotted them with our scanners long ago, but at this point I was simply trying to think of anything at all that could be responsible for the Air Cutter’s sudden explosion.

Another pause. “No, sir. We never detected any asteroids large enough to completely destroy the Air Cutter, nor do I see any evidence of a collision with an asteroid. As for the lintar…” he paused again. “…we would have detected them a while back.”

“Well, Barton,” I said, walking towards him, but keeping my eyes on the viewport. “What is out there?”

Yet again, another pause. “Just space, sir.”

I closed my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair, thinking of any other possible scenarios. System malfunction? Impossible. The two ships’ AIs were in constant communication. Any hiccups in the Air Cutter’s systems would have been immediately reported to The Katana’s AI, and our AI would have reported it to me just as quickly. It was standard operating procedure for partner ships, especially this far out in space. Just to be sure, I walked over to my screen and checked the communication history of the two AIs. Speed, altitude adjustment. Distance differentiation. Standard systems check. Then… nothing. According to the history, our AI had tried to reestablish contact. No such luck.

“Captain, come see this.” It was Barton again. I briskly walked up to his screen and took a look at what he pointing at. An image of a blurry, small spot was on it.

“One of our ship’s cameras was trained on the Air Cutter. If I can enhance the image…” He trailed off and continued typing some commands on his keypad. Suddenly, the Air Cutter was onscreen, in focus and much larger. “There! Now, let’s play it…”

The video ran for about ten seconds. It showed the ship flying through space, without a care in the world. Suddenly, it exploded with no warning. But… there was something strange about it. Barton played the video again, pausing it at the point of the explosion. There it was again. The front end of the ship looked rather odd. Almost as if…

“The Air Cutter was rammed into.” Barton stated matter-of-factly. “There’s no question about it. Look.” He pointed at the screen again. By now, everyone on the bridge had arrived at his desk and was staring at his computer screen. “Notice how, just prior to the explosion, the front end of the ship sort of caves in.” He was right. The Air Cutter’s front end was pushed back. Every other area of the ship seemed fine, but the front was completely crushed inward.

“It almost looks like a soda can being crushed,” stated Lewis, the navigator.

I continued staring at the screen frozen on the image. “But, this doesn’t make any sense: a ship in stealth did this? It can’t be an accidental collision: the odds are completely against it. Why would someone want to destroy an explorer’s vessel?”

“Maybe it wasn’t a ship,” offered Barton. “At least, not one with people on board. Maybe it’s a wall… or, some sort of large object…”

“This still doesn’t make any sense.” I repeated. Did we trespass on some alien territory or something? If so, why would they only attack one vessel? And why would they do so by ramming an invisible… something into it?

“Alright,” I said, after another long pause. “We need to go back to Pure II. Lewis, set our course.”

“But, Captain,” Lewis asked. “That thing is still out there somewhere.”

I looked over in his direction as I headed back to my quarters. “The only thing we are doing out here is making dumb guesses at something we have absolutely no knowledge of. I’m betting that the scientists back at base can shed some light on this. Our AI has this area’s coordinates, and I don’t think that whatever attacked the Air Cutter will be going after us anytime soon. Don’t worry; we’ll be fine.”

Pure II

Pure II was a military/scientific research base on one of the moons of a gas giant. It was the furthest human post from earth, nearly 150 lightyears away. We were actually sent to explore this area of space at the request of both the scientists and the military. For a good price, of course.

We arrived at the installation about three days later, due to hyperdrive malfunctions. Once we had landed, I headed straight to the commanding officer of the base, General Harkin.

“Ah, Captain, I’m glad to see you back.” Harkin was staring at a hologrid of what seemed to be a mining facility, probably from Pure III.

“General Harkin,” I said, shaking his hand. He was a somewhat older man, probably in his late 80’s, but his demeanor did not show it.

“I’m sorry to hear about the Air Cutter. We lost some good men.” His voice somewhat sank as he said this.

“Well, what’s done can’t be undone.” I stated simply. I did not personally know anyone from the Air Cutter, save the captain, and he and I did not get along very well. I did not dare say that, of course. “Do you or the scientists here know anything about this… situation? We’re at a loss here.”

There was another slight pause, and I began wondering how many more of those I would hear in the future.

“There have been reports of ships… crashing I guess you can say, into invisible objects. The first case happened about one month ago. It was one of our scientists’ ships, wanting to study the Spiral.” He brought the area up on the hologrid and highlighted where the ship had exploded or crashed. It was 2.3 lightyears away.

“Pretty far,” I noted. The place where the Air Cutter had crashed was just under one lightyear away.

“The other two incidents,” he continued, “actually happened within the past two weeks.” He highlighted two more areas. “One about 1.5 LY’s away; the other almost two.” The three points on the hologrid then connected to make a triangle. “I don’t know what is happening out there, but I know that I don’t like it. With all three events, there was no other ship, no shooting, not even any planets near them.” He paused for a moment, staring at the three points.

That gave me an idea: “Could they be some sort of alien blockade using stealth technology?”

“That is one of our guesses, and many of my men seem to think so. Me? I’m not so sold on that one. The events seem a bit too far from each other. Also, there’s been no sign of intelligent life out there in any of the surrounding areas; current or ancient.” He turned off the hologrid and pointed to a man at the opposite end of the room. “This man has been leading our research on these events. He has a very interesting theory on the entire situation. Connor!”

The man named Connor came quickly over to our area of the room and stood on the opposite end of the now lifeless hologrid. He was a short, nervous looking man, and he wore glasses. Stereotypical looking scientist. I did not even think that anyone wore glasses anyway. Maybe he just liked the look.

“Actually,” he began. “If I may be so bold as to say-“

“Please be, Connor,” said General Harkin.

“There is major evidence of alien activity in this entire sector.”

That surprised me a bit. “Really?” I asked, my pride hurt just a bit with that. Finding intelligent life was supposed to be part of our job. “How so?”

Connor turned the hologrid back on, messed with some buttons and dials, then shifted our view of the surrounding area. The images turned into different shades of blue and purple, with some slight hints of green closer to some of the planets. “This is a thermal imaging map of this entire system, all the way out to approximately 3.752 AUs from the outermost planet of this system.” Did he choose 3.752 AUs simply to make himself sound smarter? “The purple sections indicate-“

“We’re not dumb, Connor,” said a slightly exasperated General Harkin. “Purple equals cold; blue, not as cold. Get to the point.”

Connor, rather than looking scared as I figured he would be, looked more upset at being cut off so rudely. “The green indicates that an area of space is either A) near a sun, or B) has had numerous ships passing through it. For instance, note the green around Pure II.”

“So… you’re saying that you’ve found certain areas in the surrounding systems with more green in them; green that we are not responsible for?”

Connor smiled. “No… not exactly.”

With that, he keyed a few more commands into the hologrid and another starmap appeared. This one covered the three “incident” areas (minus the Air Cutter’s). The only major difference with this map was the color: absolutely no purple and blue. It started with green, then turned to yellow, then orange, the red. The closer it got to the three impact points, the closer it got to red.

Connor was beaming. “Sirs,” he said, barely containing his joy. “What I think we have here is first contact with an alien civilization.”

I stared at the hologrid, trying to make sense of it all. “…So…” I stated, not really knowing where to begin. “They’re… constantly invisible?”

Connor shook his head. “I don’t think so; not in the way we understand. You and I can hop in a ship and go to stealth, no problem. These guys,” he pointed at the hologrid. “Are, in my opinion (and many of my fellow scientists agree with me), on an entirely different plane of existence; not exactly outside of the physical realm, as evidenced by our collisions with them, but not merely in our limited version of it either.”

I stared blankly at him, not understanding it.

“Look,” Connor said, pulling out a piece of paper. He drew three circles on it, and laid it out on top of the control desk. “Imagine that we lived in a two-dimensional universe. These three circles are you, me, and General Harkin.” For some reason, he drew smiley faces on each of them. “We are in two dimensions: length and width. Can we, in this state, even comprehend (let alone see) the third dimension, also known as height?”

I shook my head no.

“Good. Now, imagine that I,” he pulled a ball out of his pocket, one of those extremely bouncy ones that would fly all over the place if you threw them too hard. “As a three–dimensional being were walking through here. Or…rolling.” He moved the ball around the paper, carefully avoiding the three circles. “Everything is going fine, until one day…” the ball rolled over one of the circles. “’Oh! What’s this?! I seem to have hit something that I can’t see! What is it? A wall? Alien spies?’ Neither being can see each other, even though they both share two dimensions.”

“So, it would be like us not seeing a bug on the ground?”

“No, not in the least bit. These three-dimensional (actually, I should call them four-dimensional, shouldn’t I?) beings can only see other objects in four dimensions, even though they share three dimensions with us.

“Wait,” I asked. “How can you be so sure that they can’t see us? What evidence do you have?”

Connor shrugged his shoulders. “Can you make me a purely 2D object?”

I slowly nodded, understanding his point. But, one other question troubled me: “What about these collisions, then?”

“What about them?”

“Are they some sort of wall or something? They seem to be so.” With that, I pointed at the three dots. Lines started connecting them, making an oddly shaped triangle.

A laugh came from Connor. “Please, that is so simple.” He moved the starmap out of the way and pointed at three random spots from the blank space. “Any three points in space, once connected, make a plane. Much like any two points connected make a line.”

Stupid me, I knew that.

I still was not comfortable with his theory. It was too much theory; not enough fact. How did he conclude that the aliens were four dimensional, and not just invisible to our eyes? I asked him that question, and he went into another twenty minute speech on the… I cannot even remember what. My head was swimming. I needed to rest. I asked to be excused from the room, and walked back to my quarters.

As I was heading down one of the hallways Barton approached me, holding a mini hologrid in his hand.

“Captain, I think you should see this. I was calculating the-“

“Not now, Barton,” I said, walking past him. “I’m too tired to care. Tell Harkin and the scientist with him right now.

“But, I think that this proves my theory about-“

“NO. Tell Harkin.”

I kept going, not noticing what was showing on the hologrid he was holding. There were, I found out later, the four coordinates of the impacts on it, ours included.

No matter how you connected them, the four dots would make a flat shape, very much like a wall…

Some Museum

“Mommy! Mommy! Look! There it is again!”

Little Timmy was breathing heavily on the glass, causing that part of its surface to fog and grow much, much warmer. He backed away from the glass and grabbed his mother’s hand.

“Look!” he said again, excitedly.

“What?” she asked, more than a little annoyed. “What do you see?”

Timmy did not know. All he knew was that if he stared extra, extra hard, he could see…

“Let’s go, Tim-Tim, Daddy’s waiting for us. You can look at the…” she paused to read the sign. “… The Milky Way later.

And with that, Timmy and his mom went home.

He would only have 30 seconds to get out alive. Emilio stared at the remote detonator in his hand. Two buttons. If he is successful in his mission he presses the red one and detonates the charges he had just placed under the building. If he is unsuccessful he presses the green button and detonates the charges around his waist. In his line of work – failure was never an option.

Emilio carefully attached the last wire to the explosive device at the base of the massive concrete support column. He was lying on his stomach. His heavy breathing formed small tornado like whirls in the dirt. Many of the fine particles managed to find their way into eyes and his lungs. He suppressed the urge to cough. Failure – was not an option. Above him towered a 12 story concrete building, bustling with life. He did not know the nature of the lives being lived there. It was not his job to know. He was taught to leave his personal feelings out of the decision making process. He was taught to follow orders. He was trained – to press a button.

Three and half minutes later, Emilio had crawled his way to the edge of the building. He took a minute to catch his breath and to try to get some of the dirt out of his eyes. Looking out from under the building he spotted the getaway car that was left for him. He had to wait for the right moment to exit and cross the street. Failure was not an option. Once in the car, he could press the button and have 30 seconds to put some distance between himself and the explosions. If he could just make it to the car he would be free.

There was no hesitation when the right moment arrived. Emilio reacted without thinking. The next thing he knew he was in the driver seat, key in the ignition, and detonator in hand. He turned to look at the building. He saw two women, one of them pregnant, and 4 small children preparing to climb the steps that lead up to the door of the building he was about to destroy. The pregnant woman looked at him and smiled. It was a punch in the stomach. It was as if he had never seen a smile before. Things started to move in slow motion. He noticed the innocent, care-free expressions on the children’s faces. He thought of his own children. As tears began to stream down his cheeks he quietly asked himself, “Is failure an option?” Looking down at the detonator in his hand, he took a deep breath and pressed the button.

“You know,” David said, “this is illegal in some states.”

“What, gay sex?” Devon asked.

“No,” David said, then kissed Devon, inching closer to him on the ambulance stretcher, “having sex in an ambulance. If I get caught, I’m fucked.”

“Like you wouldn’t like that,” Devon said, sliding his hand across David’s stomach.

Devon worked as a security guard at Fawcett Memorial Hospital in Port Charlotte, Florida. This is where he hooked up with David, a paramedic he routinely received blow-jobs from on Wednesday nights. Devon did not believe himself to be a fag. He was having sex with David because he needed something from him, and he was willing to sacrifice his masculinity (so he thought it to be). They had been having sex for almost one month. Devon, during this time, was able to emotionally detach himself from David. This is something I have to do, Devon continuously reassured himself, especially after ejaculating.

“Fuck off,” David said, standing up, almost hitting his head on the center dome light, “and why do we always have to have sex in the rig?”

“You know it turns me on. I’ve told you that already.”

“Whatever.” David began searching for his pants on the floor of the ambulance.

“Hey,” Devon said as he grabbed David’s forearm, “do me a favor.”

“What?” Devon slipped into his pants.

“Teach me how to give someone an IV?”

“Why in the hell would you want me to do that?” David said, buttoning his pants, and then picking up his shirt.

“It’s just something I’ve always wanted to know how to do. Besides, I’m a security guard. I should know how to do these things. Who knows when the next nine eleven is going to be, you know?”

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” David said, reaching

above Devon to open the IV supply cabinet.

“Because you love me.” Devon said. Do I love him?

“I wonder about that.” David began to prepare Devon’s arm for an IV, carefully explaining each step. It took almost thirty minutes for the IV to complete. Afterwards, Devon convinced David to give him enough supplies to initiate two IVs.

“Well, I’ll see you next Wednesday.” Devon kissed David.

“You’d better,” David said, holding Devon tightly, not wanting to let him go.

“You know you will,” Devon said “Goodnight babe.”

While driving home, Devon’s cell phone rang. After reaching into his pocket, he took out his cell phone, holding it in sight of his driving vision, and read the LCD display: MOM. I know Mom. I know what day tomorrow is.

“Hi Mom. You’re calling late.” It was ten-thirty.

“I know Dev, I know. I was just thinking about, I was just thinking that, well your father.”

“It’s been ten years, Mom.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Tell me about it.” Devon said as he pulled off the road. This familiar conversation would require his full attention.

“Devon,” his mother said, “I hope you’re not still trying to find that damn medic. You should let it go.”

“You should take the same advice Mom,” Devon said, placing his hand atop an IV bag, “and I’m not trying to find this medic because I want to kick his ass. I just want to know what happened. That’s all.”

“We know what happened, Dev,” she said, and paused, “Your father died of a heart attack—“

“Well maybe if that damn medic did his job better, Dad would still be alive.” Devon, after realizing he was squeezing the IV bag, released his grip.

“I want to come down and see you tomorrow.”

“No,” Devon said, “I mean, I would love to see you. I just, well, I have plans. I have a date.”

“Really,” she said, “What’s her name?”

“Da—Debra.” Did I almost say David?

After Devon successfully convinced his mother to postpone her visit, Devon returned to the road. Often, he wished his mother would stop calling him on the eve of his father’s death. Each time she called, he felt himself beginning to forgive the medic who took care of his father on the day he died. Ultimately, Devon thought his mothers’ annual call was a distraction, pulling him away from his mission.

Now at home, Devon showered. He believed, after having sex with David, the shower would cleanse the homosexuality from his body. Clean, gay free and dry, he grabbed the IV supplies. Once in his backyard he carefully navigated, in darkness, to his shed. His work often performed at night, required privacy. Inside the shed, Devon placed the IV supplies in the appropriate location, just like David’s ambulance. Perfect, Devon thought as he closed and locked the door.

Before going to bed, Devon logged-on to FACEBOOK. It was this electronic medium which provided Devon the location of the medic he believed to be responsible for his father’s death. This instant communication, and abundance of information had eased the difficulty of murder. Locating an enemy or a potential target was a click away. Often, when Devon first began his on-line search for the medic, he would sing: “It’s a Small World After All.”

Devon was able to begin his search for this medic, Gregory Walsh, because the image of his name badge had been permanently etched into his mind: GREGORY WALSH, US ARMY, EMT. This, of course, was not all Devon was able to recall from that day. He could still see the medic, Gregory, fumbling around the ambulance, desperately trying to establish IV access, which he was not able to do. Devon could still here Gregory’s voice

telling his father: “You’re going to be alright.” He also recalled the grayness that flooded his father’s face, and most of all he remembered his pain and ire.

Devon clicked on the link to Gregory’s profile.

“Tomorrow,” Devon said, deleting Gregory’s page, “This is over tomorrow.” He shut down his computer, and then retired for the night.

Devon had been up and ready to go since five am. At six am he called in sick. Today, his plan was going into action. After careful observation of Gregory’s life, during the previous month, he learned that Gregory was single, living alone with his mentally disabled nephew, Kevin. Kevin, Monday through Friday, attended a local Easter Seals day program. Devon also learned Kevin was able to walk unaccompanied, each morning, to his bus stop.

“Hey,” Devon said, slowing his car down, “Kevin, the bus broke down, I’m here to pick you up.”

“Cool, I hate the bus. It sucks.”

“I hear you bud,” Devon said, now outside of his Dodge Caravan, placing his arm upon Kevin’s back, “They suck.”

Inside the van, Devon grabbed a bottle of Coke and offered it to Kevin.

“Want a Coke?”

“Yeah man, I love Coke. I love it.” Kevin quickly untwisted the cap and gulped half the bottle of soda.

“I love Coke too.” Devon Said. Earlier, Devon injected 10 milligrams of ATIVAN to the Coke Bottle. It would not be long before Kevin was rendered into unconsciousness.

Devon pulled into his driveway along with Kevin, drooling by his side, fast asleep. The driveway extended to the back of Devon’s house. He parked in front of his shed. Devon quickly carried Kevin from the van and into the shed, which he left unlocked that morning, knowing he would need quick access during the daylight hours. Twenty minutes had lapsed before Devon exited the shed. Once he locked the door, he returned to his vehicle. While driving to the hospital, Devon’s cell phone rang. As he did with all calls, he scanned the LCD display. DAVID.

“Hey babe,” Devon said with surprising ease.

“Hey babe, I know you only like to hook up in the ambulance

but I really want to see you tonight. I want you to come over for dinner.”

“Tonight?” This is the first time he asked me to visit his house. Does he know something? “Um, I might be able to. Can I call you in a few hours?” Devon asked, while pulling into the rear parking lot of Fawcett Memorial Hospital.

“Please,” David said, “I really want you to come over.”

“Yeah, I know,” Devon exited his van, “I promise, I’ll call. Okay?”

“You better.”

“I will.” Devon closed his cell phone. Damn fags. I might just need a blow-job after this. Erasing the thought from his mind, he continued to the service entrance of the hospital. Once inside, Devon displayed his security badge to the first kitchen employee spotted.

“Where’s the nearest phone?”

The employee pointed to her left at a door with a sign that read: KITCHEN MANAGER. Inside the office, alone, Devon picked up the phone and dialed Gregory’s cell phone number, which he obtained for an expensive on-line public record’s search.

“Mr. Walsh?”

“What’s wrong?” Gregory asked, after seeing Fawcett Memorial Hospital on his caller ID display.

“I’m afraid it’s your nephew, Kevin. We found your information in his wallet. He was involved in major bus accident.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. No, he’s being treated as we speak. You should come as soon as you can. His injuries are quite severe.”

“Perhaps you should have someone drive to the hospita—“

“I’m on the way.” Gregory said, cutting off the line.

Devon hung up the phone and exited the Kitchen Manager’s office. Once in his van, he drove to the emergency room parking lot. He calmly walked to the bench located adjacent to the ER entrance. Sitting, hoping his supervisor would not see him, he waited for Gregory’s Green Honda Accord to race into the parking lot.

The left side of Devon’s upper lip curled upward when he saw Gregory’s car. Gregory, not bothering to stop his engine, or close his door, leaped out of his car and ran for the entrance. Devon stopped him by placing his hand in the center of his chest.

“Mr. Walsh?”

“Yeah, my nephew, he’s hurt. Wait, why are you waiting for me. What the hell happened?” Gregory said, attempting to push his way forward into the emergency room.

“Mr. Walsh, please calm down. You nephew was just transferred to Tampa General Hospital. I was asked to meet you outside. Please, come with me.”

“Why?” Gregory asked as Devon placed his arm upon Gregory’s back, just like he did with Kevin.

“I was asked to drive you to Tampa.”

Inside Devon’s van, Gregory scrambled to find his seatbelt. As Devon drove out of the parking lot, Gregory turned toward Devon.

“Do I know you?” Gregory asked.

“No, I don’t think so, I just moved to Florida.”

“Since when do security guards drive people to hospitals? This is really fucking strange. I mean, what do you know? Was Kevin awake, did he say anything? Was he awake? Was he breathing on his own? Was he as—“

“Mr. Walsh, here,” Devon handed Gregory a bottle of water, “drink some of this, and please try to calm down.”

“Thanks.” Gregory sipped from the bottle.

“No problem.” Devon said as he continued to drive, hoping the increased dose of ATIVAN would take quick effect.

The ATIVAN succeeded in placing Gregory into a brief oblivion. Devon carried Gregory into his shed, like he did Kevin. This time he did not exit. This time he waited

inside, anticipating the opening of Gregory’s eyes.

“What the fuck, what happened? An accident?” Gregory asked, trying to move, but finding it difficult.

“No. Not an accident,” Devon said.

“Wait, why can’t I move?” Gregory asked, looking downward upon his body, taking notice of the duct tape, which bound him to the chair in which he sat. “What’s going on?” he asked again.

“It wasn’t an accident.” Devon said, walking closer to Gregory.

“There’s no windows, this isn’t an ambulance,” Gregory said.

“No, not a real ambulance. Pretty cool, yeah?” Devon asked, placing his hand upon an IV bag hanging from the ceiling, “It took almost a year to complete.”

Gregory then noticed that the IV bag Devon was holding was attached, via tubing, to a line connected to his bound nephews arm. Kevin, unconscious, was also bound, to an ambulance stretcher.

“Kevin! Kevin! I swear if you hurt him I’ll kill you!” Gregory said, while attempting to escape his confinement.

“You’ll kill me like you killed my father?” Devon asked.

“What?”

“You heard me. Like you killed my father. Don’t remember me? Think hard asshole. You let me sit in the same chair you’re sitting now. I watched you run around like a stupid fuck trying to save my father from dying and you couldn’t do it. You didn’t do shit.”

“I remember, I remember,” Gregory said, beginning to breath more rapidly, “I do, I’m so sorry man, I really, really am. I was young, I was an army medic, not trained well enough, I did everything I could, I did, I really did, please don’t hurt Kevin, please—“

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Devon yelled, grabbing hold of the drip chamber attached to the IV tubing connected to Kevin’s arm.

“Please, man, don’t,” Gregory said.

“You know,” Devon said, while his hand traveled downward, embracing the IV tubing, “giving an IV is very safe. It’s very safe, as long you bleed the line of air.”

“Don’t,” Gregory said.

“Oh shit, I didn’t bleed the line,” Devon said, opening the line.

“Greg, is that you?” Kevin, now awake, asked, “hey, this isn’t Easter Seals.”

“Yeah,” Devon said, “that’s Greg, Kevin, and I’m about to ease his pain.”

“Hey, this really hurts, Greg. Something really hurts.” Kevin spoke his last words to Gregory, followed by violent convulsions, and drool.

“You’re so fucking dead.” Gregory said.

“Me?” Devon asked, walking toward Gregory with a fresh roll of duct tape in his left hand, “not today.”

After Devon sealed Gregory’s mouth with five layers of duct tape, completely surrounding his head, opened the shed door and was about to shut off the light.

“You know what, I’m going to leave the light on. So you can watch Kevin rot before you die,” Devon closed and locked the door of the shed.

While walking back to his house all Devon could think about was a scene from “Gone With The Wind.” After Scarlett killed a Union soldier she said: “Well I guess I’ve done murder. Well I won’t think about that now. I’ll think about that tomorrow.” Why the hell am I thinking about Gone With The Wind, and Scarlett? Am I a fag or something?

Inside the house, Devon dialed David on his cell.

“Hey babe, what’s for dinner?”