Latin bulges | | Glimpse Of Real Freedom -【Chapter 5】

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Time seemed to pass much quicker when Ghrruk and I were swimming together, finding small insects or algae to eat, and sleeping in the same place by nightfall. It was strange at first, but I felt safer. As if teamwork made us stronger.
Our front legs started to grow a few weeks after the attack. I was surprised to see Ghrruk’s lost leg regrowing too. It was still a stump, but a little longer.
“Do you think it’ll regrow entirely?” I asked her.
“I hope so. I’m the only one with a missing leg.”
“There are a few others whose legs have been damaged by the predators, though.”
Ghrruk’s tail drooped a little. “I’d rather have a damaged leg than a stump. At least they have a chance that it’d heal…”
“Maybe yours will heal as well. I’ve been looking at it lately and I’m certain it’s growing back.”
“Or maybe our bodies are simply becoming larger. And so does the stump.”
She was quite negative when it came to her leg, even though she saw our future, and Thomas, in a very positive light. Speaking of which, Thomas did install a defense of sorts above our home to protect us from predators. It worked because we hadn’t been bothered since.
THUMP – THUMP – THUMP
Speaking of the human…
“Thomas!”
Ghrruk immediately swam up. She wasn’t as graceful as before her tail started to shrink. The main reason, though, was that she was kicking water with one leg, which made her veer slightly to the left. It was almost unnoticeable. Any other tadpole would think it was the usual way she swam.
She really likes him, I thought, following her from a distance. My trust issues weren’t completely gone. My trip inside the jar had left quite its mark.
Small red worms swirled down and all the other tadpoles frantically ascended to fill their bellies. I did as always, staying a little below the rest, catching whatever came through.
Funny how they trusted Thomas, yet slurped, expelled, and then slurped again on the worm, likely examining the worm to make sure it’s actual food.
“Oh. Oh! Look at you!” Thomas exclaimed. “Some of you have front legs! You’re becoming actual frogs. Amazing!”
Thomas’ face descended so close to the water his nose almost dipped in it. Most tadpoles scattered away in fright, before curiosity – and food! – got the better of them and compelled them return to peek at their savior. I was certain he was looking for me so.
“Ah! Ghost! There you are! Wait a minute.”
The moment he uttered my name I dived down.
Thomas stood up and left. Ghrruk came swimming back to me in swift leg bursts.
“Why do you think he left? He usually stays longer, telling us stories,” she said.
“I don’t know but I don’t have a good feeling about this. I think I’m going to hide behind a rock or something.”
As expected, when Thomas returned, he held a stick of sorts and was looking for something – me! But I had a few good hiding places. It had taken a lot of effort to dig up dirt and arrange things on the bottom.
He tried to catch me with that stick again and again, stirring the bottom of the pond in order to find me. Unlike the previous attempt, he didn’t linger for too long, where he’d be waiting for me to take a few gulps of breath. Whatever he tried to achieve, it didn’t seem that important to him. Or maybe he grew tired a lot quicker than the first time he saw me and my peculiarity.
Days turned into weeks, and slowly but surely, we had all grown our forelegs. Our tails were also shrinking, forcing us to adapt a new swimming technique. And best of all, I could distinguish tiny knobs poking out of Ghrruk’s lump, sign that her toes were growing back.
“See,” I said, undulating the end of my tail rapidly, “your leg is growing back!”
“I’m not so sure...”
“It’s really there. I know you can’t see it, but I can. Why won’t you believe me?”
“Because it feels completely different than how it was before. When I walked out of the pond, I could feel every toe on my right leg. My left was just… weird.”
A few bubbles left my mouth.
“Wait, when you what?”
“Walked out of the pond.”
“When did you… how did you walk out of the pond?”
I was so surprised, even though I had seen other tadpoles, or rather, froglets, climb up and out. But that wasn’t reason enough to follow them. I never even thought about it, what with all those predators out there. And let’s not forget Thomas.
“A few days ago,” she said, her body wobbling excitedly. “You were busy digging the sediment to improve our hiding spots, as usual, and when I noticed a fellow froglet clambering out, I wanted to take the leap myself.”
A stream of bubbles left my mouth.
“You went out of our home? To do what? Get killed? Wasn’t losing one leg enough?”
Ghrruk’s kicked her hind legs, floating right in front of me.
“That leg wasn’t my fault,” she declared, her tiny front legs making an abrupt, agitated movement. “I did what everyone else did. You are the weird one, always wishing to hide deep inside our pond, spending countless hours digging in the depths. Don’t you feel the urge to leave? To explore? To have a glimpse what is beyond the water?”
“Maybe later. Now, I want to avoid Thomas. And the predators.”
She slowly drifted backwards, creating some distance between us both.
“Then, we will have to go our separate ways. Thomas is our savior and the outside is safe. Hasn’t he told us that this place is like our pond? Encompassed in such way that we can’t leave but also that others can’t come in? Why won’t you trust him?”
“I guess it’s in my nature not to trust humans.”
Ghrruk blew a few bubbles out. Her mouth gaped open and close, as if she was gasping for air. I knew I had infuriated her.
“Well, I trust him. I have also needs. My body desires to leave this place and find… whatever I need to find.” She twirled in place. “Ghost. See you around.”
Ghrruk sprung her hind legs hard against the water, darting away for the surface. I trailed her until she climbed out of the pond.
Why does she have to do this now?
I carefully popped my head above the water, observing Ghrruk clambering out. Without even glancing behind her, she clumsily snuck between the blades of grass and she was gone.
“Ghrruk? Ghrruk!” I called.
No answer came. Other froglets were following her lead. I decided to dive down to the comfort of my hiding place near the plants, which had grown considerably since the attack. There, I pondered about Ghrruk, about Thomas, about the meaning of my life, and what I ought to do, leaving only for food or air.
During that period, Thomas came and went, unlike Ghrruk, who I didn’t see again. She was gone.
Sometimes, when I ascended, I broke the water to check whether Ghrruk was somewhere around the edge of the pond. All I could see were other froglets, sitting immobile in the shadow, waiting patiently for no apparent reason.
Each day, more froglets left the pond. Of course, they ended up returning. But the murky waters had never felt so lonely. Loneliness. A sense that had never occurred to me. Not before Ghrruk. Thinking about her made me anxious, constantly wondering where she went, and how often she returned to the pond. I was certain she did return, except she never came back to my place, so there was always that possibility... I could only hope she didn’t get eaten.
Then, one day, when my tail had shrunk a bit more and most of my brethren’s color changed from black with tiny specks of brown to a lighter color with larger specks, sometimes even a hue of green, my entire body tingled. A curious sensation, an impulse akin to Ghrruk’s.
This call of nature drove me to the sand bank that Thomas had built on the edge of the pond to let the froglets leave easier. Initially, I thought it was a trick to catch me. But then I realized that it was a lot of effort just for me, and thought he was simply trying to help us, as he has always done.
Ghrruk was right, a voice whispered inside.
My tiny head and eyes popped above the water. No sign of Thomas. I kicked my legs, a new form of swimming that was much faster than the tail undulation, until I set foot on the sand bank. I was about to leave our home. My tiny heart was racing.
Grains of sand stuck to my body. It was a small hindrance, but nothing that would impede my will to find out what was beyond. With a few awkward steps, advancing leg by leg, I arrived at the edge of the grass.
Maybe I will meet Ghrruk today? Mayb – aaah!
“Gotcha, Ghost!”
Thomas!? Why didn’t I hear him come?
My entire body was stuck between his two fingers, so small I was.
“Exactly as I thought! Your eyes. They’re red! They don’t look evil or anything. They’re just… red. That’s so weird.”
If I could’ve screamed, I would have. I attempted to squeeze myself out, but the force of his fingers was far beyond my ability to do anything. My legs were the only thing squirming in place.
“You know what? I think you deserve a new name. A better one.”
Another name? It can’t be much worse than “Ghost”.
“To be honest, I never really liked your name. I know, I’m the one who gave it to you, but it felt a little hollow. Too… translucent, if you know what I mean.”
Thomas chuckled, which scared me even more.
“Hmmm… ‘Red’ is too plain so let’s call you Carmine.”
That’s worse!
“Yes, Carmine sounds good. Do you know what it means?”
I don’t care, I just want to return to the tranquility of my pond and never leave it ever again!
“Carmine’s a Latin name that means ‘Song’. At least, that’s what my teacher told me. It’s also the name of a red color. Slightly deeper than crimson red, though I’m not gonna name you Crimson, right? Besides, Carmine is fitting for you.”
His hand suddenly moved towards his mouth. I was panicking, certain he’d gulp me down and that’d be the end of me. I was completely helpless, unable to get out of his strong grasp, rapidly advancing towards the two red bulges, widening into a circle until –
Smack.
My snout grazed his moist mouth and he inexplicably moved his hand back to where it was, with me still stuck between two fingers in the middle of the void.
“You’re adorable, Carmine. I hope you’ll sing a lot of beautiful songs once you get your frog voice.”
Another shadow loomed over me. Another human.
Thomas’ father? Oh no…
If being scared of what Thomas just did wasn’t enough, the human who detests me had arrived. From our very first encounter, I always felt uncomfortable whenever he was near. Likely because his first advice upon seeing me was to flush me down the drain – whatever that may be.
“Again with that disgusting thing. Throw it away, will you?” he growled.
“Why do you hate this frog so much? It’s such a cute thing. Look at it!”
“Yeah. It looks like piece of mold.”
“What? Because it’s white?”
“If I found that in the kitchen I wouldn’t touch it with my bare hands. Why won’t you just discard it? You’ve got hundreds of healthy frogs. Why are you so obsessed with this one in particular?”
“Maybe because Carmine’s a peculiar frog.”
“Carmine?” His whole body leaned back as he frowned. “Didn’t you name it Spooky or something like that?”
Thomas sighed and his eyes rolled. “No, dad, he was called Ghost, but now that his eye color is more pronounced, I think that Carmine’s a better name.”
“So you won’t –”
“No. Stop asking. He’s my favorite frog of all.”
The father’s head approached. His eyes filled the entire space in front of me.
“That’s why you’re squeezing him to death? Look at how frantically he tries to escape!”
“Oh, sorry, Carmine. I’ve been holding you for so long, it must hurt. Here!”
Thomas crouched and returned me back exactly where I was. Instead of continuing to the grass, I tumbled over. With one swift kick of my legs, I repositioned myself correctly and clambered through that sticky sand, which was now irritating my body – likely due to the lack of moisture – until I reached the water. I surged down to my hiding place and stayed there until Thomas was gone.
Around nighttime, part of me wished to try again, yet I didn’t. I was too scared to be picked up once more.
There’s no way I’m going back there.
But deep inside, I knew that I’d have to leave the pond. I knew I’d have to do the same as the others; explore the great outside and explore the rest of the world. For now, all I wished was to have Ghrruk in my vicinity so we could communicate, eat, and sleep together. If only I could have peace of mind in anticipation of what was to come next.
Good night Ghrruk. I miss you.
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I accidentally posted this to my username instead of my subreddit so here is is:
The Mortgage, Part 3
“Fuck,” I said as I drove to work in the old beater that only started on the fourth try because it could tell that I was pissed off. Ray’s case started at two o’clock, and I was heading to the office to get ready. “Fuck fuck fuckity fucking fuck. Fuck.” I’d wanted to tell Angela about Ray’s case, and how I was sorry that I hadn’t wanted to help him, but now I would, I would help him, and I would win, but then I’d gotten her all riled up on something else, something totally different, something way more serious.
My wife had given me a triple ultimatum: fix things up with her father, save idiot Ray from Sy-Co Corp., and somehow find a downpayment for the place she wanted to buy, in the little townhouse infill project in Bixity. It was like demanding I do a double bank shot, and then run over to the baseball diamond and hit a home run after first pointing to where it would land, Babe Ruth style.
Angela was mad at me, seriously mad. She’d slipped out that morning before I was even awake, sliding quietly past me on the couch. I didn’t realize she was gone until I heard the faint click of the front door closing. I jumped up, tripped over a blanket, and by the time I got up and my robe on, the elevator down the hall dinged, and Angela was gone before I opened the apartment door.
I swore at myself some more and pounded the steering wheel, “I fucked up,” I said, several times as I hit the wheel over and over again, until I accidentally honked it, and then looked all sheepish when the guy in front of me gave me the finger. I reached my office without further incident, but instead of walking in the front door, I went further down the hall, and into the office of Mark Cecil-Rowe, Barrister, LL.D, the man with the finest speaking voice I ever heard. When I entered his office I forgot for a minute about Angela and her father and sleeping on the couch the night before. I forget about everything, except the reason that I had come to Cecil-Rowe’s office: to stump him with a legal problem that I had solved, but which I was pretty sure he could not. In other words, I had come to preen and to brag and to boast. No one likes a showoff, and I had come to show off. I put my hand on the door and turned the knob. After a brief pause, I flung open the door.
“I’m a goddamn genius,” I said as I strolled into the older man’s office.
I noticed the echo of a hastily closed desk drawer hanging in the air. In Aaron’s office, where I rented space, a sudden act of concealment implied cocaine, but with Cecil-Rowe, the item in question was probably a mickey of vodka. I had the sense that he’d been drinking a bit before I arrived, but his powers of observation were unimpaired, and when he looked into my face, his expression showed sympathy, and actual pain.
“What have you done now?” he said, as set the papers before him to one side, and readied himself to hear my latest tale of legal brilliance.
“I’m a genius,” I said.
“Oh dear. Have a seat.”
“No really, I am. I’m a genius. I got this case that everyone says you can’t win, but I’m gonna win it, and when I do, I’m gonna look like a genius.” Cecil-Rowe gave me a sad indulgent smile.
“Whenever you tell me you’re a genius, I am always concerned about what is to follow. When you get wrapped up in what you call your genius, you tend to ignore the more mundane things we lawyers have to do to win a case. You think you’re going to win by genius alone.”
“Let me tell you why I’m a goddamn genius.” With effort I wiped the smug, self-satisfied expression that was on my face.
“Tell me why you’re a genius,” Cecil-Rowe said, “while I pour us a coffee.” He heaved his bulky body up from his chair and shuffled over to a counter. He picked up a carafe of hot coffee sitting on a hot plate, and poured two cups. “Speak,” he said, handing me one. I took a sip of the coffee, and told Cecil-Rowe the tale of Cousin Ray: his purchase of a franchise from Sy-Co Corp, its swift demise, the crash and burn in Commercial Court, the Minutes of Settlement, the seventy-one kilometer limit, and lastly, Sy-Co’s motion scheduled for two p.m. that very day, seeking an interim injunction shutting down Ray’s place.
Cecil-Rowe absorbed all this without the need to take notes. Instead, he sat back while he eyed me, taking the occasional sip of coffee, and smiling at the extravagant flourishes and details that brought out Ray’s story to full effect.
“Obviously Ray is dead on arrival,” he said, “but I guess this is the part where you tell me how you’re going to win.”
So I told him how I was going to win, but it didn’t have the desired effect. “I told ya I’m a genius, Mr. C,” cueing him to applaud, to admit what a brilliant lawyer I was. But there was no applause from Mark Cecil-Rowe. He looked at me without so much as a smile.
“You can cling to that genius notion as a consolation prize, after you get whipped this afternoon in court.”
“No way,” I said, “not a chance. I got this thing won hands down. I’m gonna kick ass in court today and--”
“And how exactly do you plan to do that, if you don’t have evidence?”
“What?”
“Evidence, Calledinthe9os. It’s what lawyers like me use to beat geniuses like you.”
“But I’m gonna win without proof. I don’t need proof. The argument I’m gonna make, relies on simple facts that are totally obvious, so the judge is gonna--” Cecil-Rowe stuck up his hand.
“Stop right there. I know what’s coming. You’re going to ask the judge to take *judicial notice.”
And he was right. That was exactly what I was going to do.
There are some things so obvious that you didn’t have to prove them, things that everyone knew. You didn’t have to prove that water froze at zero degrees and boiled at a hundred, or that Bixity was between West Bay and East Bay.
“You got it,” I said, “judicial notice all the way.”
“You’re going to tell the judge that the centerpiece of your argument, the lynchpin of your case is a fact known to pretty well everyone, and so you don’t need proof.”
“Exactly,” I said. Cecil-Rowe took another sip of his coffee, and left me hanging in the silence for a while before he spoke.
“If that’s true, then why does coming up with that argument make you a genius?”
“Oh, I said,”I didn’t think of that.”
“It is acceptable to rely on judicial notice for minor, ancillary points. But you never should walk into court thinking that the court will take judicial notice of your entire defence. It’s just too risky.”
“But how am I going to rustle up a witness in time for this afternoon?”
“Worry about that after you leave my office. I can’t help you with that. What I want to know, is why you’re doing this at the last minute.”
“What makes you think I’m doing this at the last minute?”
“Because you never would have resorted to judicial notice if you were properly prepared. If you’d opened this case a bit earlier, you’ve have everything lined up. But you got to work on it late, and so you want to rely on judicial notice. You’ve messed up, Calledinthe90s, and you know what my rule is when you mess up.” Cecil-Rowe didn’t extend aid to me, until I admitted the error of my ways. It was infuriating, but he was inflexible. So I fessed up.
“My idiot cousin Ray’s been trying to retain me for almost two weeks, but I was putting him off because I was mad at him. So now my wife’s mad at me, and if I don’t win this case, I’m dead. Plus her dad’s mad at me too and --” My brain roared into overdrive, a mess of family and law and fear, and at the centre of it, thoughts of Angela’s anger and her father. My mind took off, and then came to an instant halt at a helpful destination.
“Yes?” Cecil-Rowe said.
“Sorry. I just realized how to solve the evidence problem. Look, can I ask you about the thing I actually came here to ask you about?”
“You have a problem that’s worse than having no evidence? What could be worse than -- oh. You don’t have a retainer. Your client doesn't have any money.”
“Exactly. How do I get paid? That’s the problem.” I explained that Ray had no money, as in none, and that if he did have money, he wouldn’t spend it on me. Instead, he’d go back downtown and throw his cash at some big firm, who would take on his case, and proceed to lose it in a calm, careful, sober manner, ending in a reporting letter to Ray telling him that he’d lost.
“Now that’s a problem I can solve,” Cecil-Rowe said.
“Really? ‘Cause I can’t see a way around it. I think I’m gonna have to do this for free, and that really pisses me off.” Cecil-Rowe shook his head.
“You may or may not get paid, but you can set things up so that if you win, you’ll win pretty good.”
“How? Ray’s a deadbeat. Tapped out.”
“But is he desperate?”
“Totally. The first time he failed, he lost his own money, but if he goes under this time, he’s taking family money with him, and he’ll be the black sheep forever.”
“And he’s using family to emotionally blackmail you into helping him?’
“Like no shit. That’s the part that pisses me off the most. I’m like a goddamn slave, being forced to work for free.”
“Never fear, young apprentice. I have just the thing in mind.” He reached into a drawer, and pulled out a form. “Fill in the blanks, and have him sign.”
I looked it over, and saw that the document was a retainer agreement. I whistled. “Holy shit. If he signs this, he’s almost my slave.”
“Close, but not quite” Cecil-Rowe said, “the Latin term for this is "contractus pro venditione animae"”. It’s the ultimate retainer agreement. Once Ray signs that, you own any cause of action he has against the person suing him. You can settle the case on any terms you like, and you get to keep whatever proceeds there are.” Cecil-Rowe placed the folder back in a drawer, and from his manner you could tell that the interview was over.
“Awesome, Mr. C. I’ll call you from Commercial Court when we’re done.”
“Commercial Court?” he said.
“Yeah, Commercial Court.”
“This just keeps getting worse. Take notes, Calledinthe90s, while I school you on Commercial Court. Commercial Court is a jungle, and without preparation, you’ll get savaged.”
“That’s what happened to Ray when--”
“Take notes, young apprentice,” he said, tossing me a pad and a pen. He started to lecture, and I took notes that I have with me to this day, in a safe deposit box downstairs in the vault at Mega Bank Main Branch.
* * *
By the time Cecil-Rowe finished schooling me, it was close to ten, and the case started at two. I didn’t have much time. I ran down the hall to my office, and called Ray’s restaurant. No answer. Then I called Ray’s house. I expected to get Ray’s wife, but the man himself answered.
“You’re not at work. Why aren’t you at work?”
“Sy-Co Corp served all my employees with a cease and desist letter. They all got scared and took off. The place is shut down.”
“You gotta fax machine at home?” He did, and asked why.
“I’m taking your case, but only if you sign the paper I’m about to send and fax it back.” I sent the fax, and five minutes later it came back signed, and it was official: Ray had sold me his legal soul.
I went out to the parking lot, got into my beater and drove fast. In less than thirty minutes I reached my destination. I knocked on the door, and when it opened, my diminutive mother-in-law poked out her head. “What a pleasant surprise,” she said.
“Sorry, Mrs. M, but I’m in a super hurry. I gotta rush to get to court to help Ray. But first, I gotta speak to Dr. M.”
“He’s not here,” she said.
“Not here?”
“He’s on his way to his bridge game. He left just a few minutes ago.”
“Where’s the club?”
“He’s walking there,” she said, and pointed down the street.
“Thanks.” I got into my car and headed where Mrs. M had pointed, passing big houses and new project with an “Opening Soon” sign. And walking past it was the figure of Dr. M.
“Hey, Dr. M,” I called out the window. He stopped and looked around, startled. But he didn’t see me, not at first.
“It’s me, Dr. M. Me, Calledin90s.” He leaned forward as if to see me better. I got out of the car.
“Is something wrong with Angela? Or the baby?”
“No, no not at all, sorry to scare you, it’s nothing like that. I need your help.”
“Oh.” He started walking again, and now it was my turn to be a bit stunned, watching my father-in-law walk away from me. I caught up with him in a few quick strides.
“Listen, I really need your help.”
“And I really need to get to a bridge game.”
“This isn’t about me. It’s about Ray.” That brought him to a halt. He turned to me, angrier even than he’d been the night before.
“Did you drive all the way out here just to make fun of me? To remind me of how you won, distracting me with nonsense about Ray’s case?”
“I mean it,” I said, “I can win Ray’s case. I can prove it in a few words.”
“Prove it, then.” So I did. I spoke words, only a few words, but they were the right words to speak to Dr. M, for the words I spoke were in his language, words that he understood perfectly.
“I understand,” he said, “you’ve come to boast some more, to prove that you were right after all.”
“I want to win Ray’s case, but I don’t have any proof of what I’m saying.”
“You don’t need to prove that two plus two is four.”
“This, I gotta prove, and I need you to help me prove it. I need you to come to court with me, as my witness.”
“I can’t do that. I didn’t witness anything.”
“As my witness. My expert witness.” Unlike a normal witness, an expert witness can give an opinion. An expert is there not to advocate, I explained to Dr. M but to instruct, to teach.
“My bridge partner won’t be very happy,” he said.
“But Ray will, and so will Mrs. M and Angela and--”
“Very well. Do you have a cell phone? We can call the bridge club from my car.”
* * *
We were on the highway getting close to the downtown exit, when my wife called my cell phone. Back then cell phone service was super expensive and my wife only used it for emergencies. Or when she was really angry. I picked up the phone, wondering which it would be.
“I’m so happy that you made things up with my father,” she said.
“How did you know?”
“My mother called. She says you took him with you, that you went out together.”
“He’s with me right now,” I said.
“Where are you going?”
“To court. Going to court to win Ray’s case for him.”
“And you brought my father with you to watch?” She was so happy, I could hear in her voice that she was smiling. “That’s a great way to bond with him, Calledinthe90s. Look, I’m sorry I got so mad at you earlier, I really am. My dad’s a bit too sensitive and--”
“Sorry, Angela, your dad’s not coming to watch me.”
“Why is he with you, then?”
“He’s my witness,” I said.
“What?”
“His expert witness,” Dr. M said, loudly enough for Angela to hear.
My wife’s anger exploded into the phone. She wanted to know how I could expose her elderly, vulnerable father to the stress of a court case. I tried to tell her how I needed him, how there was literally no one else I could turn to, that her father was an expert, a true expert, and the judge was legally bound to believe him, but Angela heard none of this.
“Look,’ I said, “I promise you that--” And then I lowered the phone and pushed the red button, terminating the call. I’d learned that the best way to hang up on someone, was to do it when I was doing the talking. That way it looked like the call had dropped.
“I’m going to steal that move,” Dr. M said.
We rolled into the parking lot. I grabbed the cloth bag out of the back of my car, the bag that held my law robes and shirt and tabs, plus the other stuff I needed for court. It was one-thirty, still thirty minutes to go, not a lot of time to get robed and ready for court. It was just past one-forty five when I, with Dr. M in tow, opened the door to a courtroom on the eighth floor of an old insurance building that had been converted into a courthouse, the home of Commercial Court.
“Commercial Court is an exclusive club,” Cecil-Rowe had explained to me earlier that day, “the legal playground of the rich and powerful. They’ll know instantly that you’re not one of them.” And he was right. It was clear from the moment I walked in that I did not belong, for I was the only lawyer in robes. Everyone else was wearing a suit, and not some cheap thing off the rack like I wore.
There were a half-dozen lawyers present, and after they saw me, they exchanged knowing looks about the stranger amongst them. I ignored them, and walked up to the Registrar. I told him the case I was on, and he signed me in.
“First time in Commercial Court?” he said, eyeing my robes. “You know you don’t have to be robed in Commercial Court.” In other Superior Courts, you always had to bring your robes and get all dressed up. But Commercial Court had its own set of rules, and in the court for rich people, their lawyers did not have to wear robes.
“You’re here on the Sy-Co case?” a young woman asked. She was a junior like me, give a year or two either way. She was dressed in the finest downtown counsel fashion, some designer thing that Angela would know if she saw it.
“Just got retained,” I said.
“You know there’s no adjournments, right? We don’t do adjournments in Commercial Court. I’m just trying to be helpful, because I don’t think you've been here before. You know you don’t have to be robed, right?
“So I heard.”
“So where’s your material? You haven’t served anything, so how do you plan to argue your case?”
“I gotta witness,” I said.
She smiled. “There’s no viva voce evidence, either. Affidavit only.”
“We’ll see what the judge says.” There was a knock from the other side of the door to the judge’s chambers, and then the man himself entered.
I was amazed to see that even the judge wasn’t wearing a robe; instead, he was wearing a light coloured suit and a bright blue bow tie. He was dressed as good as the lawyers, all part of the downtown Commercial Court club, the playground of the richest and most powerful corporations in the City.
“Commercial Court’s not like other courts,” Cecil-Rowe told me earlier that day, explaining that most cases were over in fifteen minutes or less. A plaintiff showed up with some papers, and had a short consultation with the judge. The judge signed an order granting an injunction, or taking away a man’s business, or freezing his money. Commercial Court is where you went to get quick and simple court orders that eviscerated your opponent before the case even got going.
Defendants would appear sometimes in Commercial Court, Cecil-Rowe explained, but it was usually their last time up. Defendants always died a quick death in Commercial Court.
The judge took his seat, and then looked over the lawyers before him. His eyes moved along, and then stopped when they reached me, the one lawyer who was not like the others.
“You don’t need robes in Commercial Court,” the judge said to me.
“I’ll remember that for next time,” I said.
“What case are you on?”
I told him.
“He’s filed no responding materials,” my opponent said, “nothing at all.”
“I’m just vetting the list,” the judge said, “I’ll circle back to you two in a few minutes.” I listend while the judge vetted the rest of the afternoon list: a Mareva, plus a Norwich order, with counsel on those cases sent away in a matter of minutes.
Now the courtroom was almost empty, just the judge, two lawyers, the registrar and my star witness and father-in-law, Dr. M, who sat in the back of the courtroom dressed in an old business suit, put on hastily at his place two hours earlier, when I urged him to hurry it up, to not waste so much time on picking a suit.
“Back to you,” the judge said, addressing my opponent, “I thought this was an uncontested matter. That’s what your confirmation sheet said.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honour, but I didn’t know until I got here that the case was defended.”
“I got retained at the last minute,” I said, “barely three hours ago, the day after I read the papers. But I’m ready to go, ready to argue the case on the merits, so long as you grant me an indulgence, and let me call my witness, to let him testify in person instead of by affidavit, there being no time for me to draft anything.”
Opposing counsel was on her feet. “That’s not how things are done in Commercial Court,” she said, “or any court that I know of, for that matter. My friend (that’s what they make lawyers call each other in court, ‘my friend,’ even though you might hate the other guy’s guts),” the lawyer said, “my friend should have served his responding materials and filed them with the court. Instead, he’s taken us totally by surprise.”
“I’m sorry my friend is surprised by opposition,” I said, “but then consider, it’s my client’s livelihood that’s at stake. If my friend gets her injunction, Ray Telewu’s business is dead, and he loses everything. So yes, my client opposes the injunction, and yes, I’d like to call evidence.”
The judge didn’t consult the papers before him nor the books, but instead, he looked up at the big white clock on the courtroom wall. Its hands said two-fifteen.
“How long will your witness take, counsel?”
“In chief, ten minutes.” I’d practiced with Dr. M on the way in, and I was pretty sure he could do it in five, but I gave him a bit of extra time, just in case.
“We’ve got about two hours,” the judge said, “but I want to be fair to you and your client. Let’s take a fifteen minute recess so you can get instructions. Either we go ahead today with viva voce evidence, or we adjourn, and that will give Calledinthe90s time to file responding materials.”
When everyone came back, the junior’s boss was there, Senior Counsel, a heavy weight, one of those big guys downtown. Plus they brought this guy from Sy-Co Corp, the head of some bullshit division, with some bullshit title, Head of whatever, so that’s the title I’ll give him here. He was The Head. He was the man, the big cheese, the signer of the affidavit on which Sy-Co relied that day.
“What’s he doing here?” I asked Senior Counsel.
He stared at me, all lean and steel grey, looking every inch the hard hitting lawyer that commanded the biggest fees. “If you’re calling a live witness, then so can we. The Head will give evidence today, in advance of your client, so that the judge hears it from him first.” His junior smirked at me, and the two of them sat down, delighted that they’d thought of a way to one up me.
Except that they’d done it by exposing their client to cross-examination. The judge came in, allowed the Head to testify, and when he was done, I stood up.
“Just a few questions,” I said. Senior Counsel was stunned for an instant, and then he stood.
“This serves no purpose, Your Honour. The witness has confirmed the simple facts of his affidavit, and there’s no disputing it. Ray Telewu opened a restaurant less than seventy-one kilometres from Bixity City Hall, and that’s in breach of the Minutes of Settlement he signed.”
I did not bother to respond. Instead, I just stood, and I started to ask questions.
“Have a look at that map in your affidavit,” I said, and he did. I picked up my copy, and tore the map out of it. I passed it up to him.
“What do you notice about this map?”
“That it’s accurate,” the Head said, repeating his evidence in chief, amplifying it, talking about how the map contained perfect measurement.
“You will notice that the map is flat,” I said, laying it on the witness box before him.
“Of course it’s flat. That’s what maps are. Maps are flat.”
“But the earth is round,” I said, “or more properly, a sphere.” Senior Counsel was on his feet in an instant.
“What difference does that make?” he said.
“What you’ll hear from my expert witness, is that a flat map cannot accurately show Earth’s curves. A flat map distorts distances, and in this case, reduces them.”
“But that can’t be by very much.”
“In this case, by just over twenty meters,” Dr. M said from the back of the court.
“That’s my expert witness, the esteemed Dr. M.” I didn’t actually say Dr. M. Instead, I said his real name. But I’m not going to use the real names of my family here, so I’ll just keep calling him Dr. M. “Dr. M was a professor of Physics at the University of Bixity for almost thirty years. He has published numerous papers on particle physics, and is the first Canadian winner of the Wolf Prize for physics.”

* * *

It went downhill after that for Sy-Co Corp. My father-in-law testified, explaining in simple language, language that even a child could understand, that the Earth was a sphere, that the shortest distance between two points on Earth was a curve, not a straight line. He summarized his calculations in plain English, dumbing down the math, so that everyone present imagined, if only for the moment, that they shared his understanding of a difficult mathematical equation.
Senior Counsel tried to cross-examine Dr. M, but it did not go well, my father-in-law indulging him, gently chiding him, continuing his explanations until the lawyer sat down, defeated by Dr. M’s mastery of the subject,his own lack of preparation and his inability to improvise. When counsel said that he had no further questions, the judge addressed us all.
“I’m not going to reserve, and I don’t think I need to tell everyone why. I think it will take about a minute for me to write a decision saying that the Earth is not flat. I’ll give you some more time after that, but after fifteen minutes, I”ll be back to render my decision.” He rose, everyone bowed, and he disappeared behind the door to judge’s chambers.
I pulled a piece of paper out of my file, and slammed it on the desk before Senior Counsel and his junior. “Fill in the blanks, and sign,” I said.
Dr. M’s head shot up at the commotion, and he shuffled over to see what was going on.
“What’s this?” Senior Counsel said, picking up the paper I gave him..
“Minutes of Settlement. You fill in a number, a big number, for the costs you gotta pay me. Your client signs, and then we’re done.” Senior Counsel opened his mouth to bargain, but I overrode him.
“You know your client’s going to lose; the judge made that obvious. Hurry up if you want to settle; we don’t have much time.”
At the end of most Canadian court cases, the loser has to pay at least part of the winner’s legal fees. That’s the way it’s been since forever, and I think it’s a good rule. Sy-Co Corp had lost, so it had to pay a good chunk of Ray’s costs, and Ray’s costs were somewhere between whatever bullshit figure I claimed they were, and where they actually ought to be. Senior Counsel took the paper over to his client. There was a brief discussion, and then they came back, with the form signed, and a number written in the blank space.
I’ll give it to Sy-Co Corp and their lawyer. It wasn’t a bullshit number, a low ball number. They gave me a real number, a number more like something I’d actually accept, a number that made sense to pay me in costs, in light of the success I’d had, and how I got it. It was a respectful number, a common sense number, and I appreciated it an awful lot.
I tossed the paper back at them.
“Add a zero,” I said, continuing on when Senior Counsel blanched, and his junior retreated a step. “I know what’s going on here. Your client sold mine a bullshit franchise, one with a history of failing.” The franchise had opened up again under a new owner not long after Ray had lost it and then it promptly failed again. Like I said at the start of this story, it’s an old story. It’s how some franchise companies make money. “Your client makes more money selling bullshit franchises doomed to fail, then it does from the honest ones that make money. So add a zero to that number, or Ray’s gonna sue you, class action and all that, for all the people you’ve fucked.”
The Head stepped forward from the benches and spoke to me.
“We get threats like that all the time, but no one follows through. They don’t have the money to fight us, and neither does your client. So go ahead and sue.”
“It’s true that Ray doesn’t have jack shit,” I said, “not a pot to piss in, but he’s my cousin, Ray is, and even if he doesn’t have money, he’s got me. Ray’s family, and for Ray, I’ll sue you guys for free. Hell, I’ll even pay the expenses. Plus I’m gonna put a jury notice in, too, come to think of it, ‘cause juries--”
Senior Counsel cut me off, and moved his client to the back of the courtroom. There was a brief discussion, and then they came back. I watched as Senior Counsel wrote a single digit on the Minutes, a zero, written right where I wanted it.
“You’ll have to initial the change,” I said to the Head of Sy-C0, and it gave me great satisfaction to watch him sign.
“Don’t forget,” I said the moment his pen stopped moving, “for the settlement to be valid, I need to get the money today. Right now.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” the Head said.
“Not if you want the settlement to stay in place. I’ll follow you back to your office, and you can put a cheque in my hands.”

* * *

“What’s this?” my wife said when I entered the apartment later that day, after I’d driven Dr. M home, stopping first at a local pub for beers.
“It’s an absurdly expensive bunch of flowers,” I said, “although no flowers, however beautiful, however expensive, could expiate my--”
She took the flowers, and gave a kiss.
“My mom called. She told me what happened. You fixed things with my dad.”
“Yup,” I said. I had certainly done that. I’d made Dr. M a professor again, if only for a few minutes. Not only a professor, but an expert witness. The judge had declared him an expert in plain terms and Dr.M had beamed when he’d heard those words.
“And you won Ray’s case, too. But my mom didn’t know how, and I don’t know how you did it either.”
“I’ll tell you over dinner tonight,” I said.
“But we agreed no more dinners out; we have to save money, now that a baby’s coming.”
I passed her the envelope that I’d received a few hours before. She opened it, and took out a cheque, a cheque drawn up for an amount I specified, made payable to Mr. and Mrs. Calledinthe90s.
The moment I got that cheque, all I could think about was how my wife would react when I put it into her hands. I could not wait to see her eyes bulge, to hear her voice say “oh my god,” to hear her laugh.
She did none of these things. Instead, she cried.
“Does this mean we can buy a house?” The money wouldn’t be enough to buy a house, not nowadays, with prices being so crazy. But things were different back then in the 90s. Sure, the internet was barely a thing and cell phones were super expensive and a lot of things sucked, but I’ll give the nineties one thing: houses were cheap.
“I think so,” I said.

Chapter CXCIX

Trout's Landing.

"Alright, should pro'bly be productive today." Jeb said with a groan as he stretched.

A moss bed wasn't half bad, he thought as he turned to the still snoozing Ruby. He leaned over and kissed her scaled head and tucked their eggs a bit further into the fur blanket to keep warm. He got up and looked around at his new home. The space was illuminated by only his glowing eyes but it didn't make the place feel any less cozy.

"Maybe dragons had a point living in underground lairs." Jeb muttered as he began walking down the tunnel before having to stoop a little to avoid several roots and rocks that jutted from the dirt.

He entered the main gathering area of the burrows. It didn't seem like he slept for long at least if the faint light from the ventilation shafts were any indication. The area was still abuzz with activity just like it was before as well. Kobolds darted this way and that as they bartered, traded, sorted, or decorated and expanded the burrows at an increased rate than just a day or so prior.

Jeb took note of the tools they used. While they didn't have them for long, they were starting to show the wear and tear of constant use. Not only that but they were a little unwieldy in the claws of the kobolds. Everything was a tad too big and the kobolds found themselves exerting more energy than necessary.

The kobolds made up for it by forging their own tools from stone and wood, but that wasn't any better. While more easy to hold and wield, the quality wasn't the best and already a pile for broken tools was forming as they tried their best to repair them.

They needed metal tools. Some good solid sturdy ones that they could hold easily, Jeb thought with a sigh and left the cool earthen dwelling for the cold air above. He shook his head to shake away the weird feeling of the temp and air changes before making his way back towards his now former room at the admin building.

With word of him vacating the building, the kobolds were quick to seize upon the opportunity to lay claim to it as he watched several of the zippy red-scaled lizards already scavenging what wasn't nailed down, and even those that were weren't safe either. But he didn't care anymore, Jeb thought as a kobold ran around collecting discarded pieces of pamphlets. He had a new, and cozier, home.

He entered his temporary room and found what he was looking for. A bundle of burgundy silk and gilded armor. While he took everything of worth with him down into his new home, he left the bundle of silk and gaudy gold behind along with the ruined remains of his sleeping bag and bed. While the kobolds had already started taking apart the room, none had touched the silk just yet though he did note that there were a couple of pieces of gilded armor missing since last he saw it.

"Oh well." Jeb muttered with a shrug and grabbed the bundle of silk and debated taking the remaining gilded armor or not.

While he was sure the kobolds would love nothing more than to add the gaudy things to their piles of scrap, the gold alone should be enough to buy some tools from the dwarves, Jeb thought and grabbed the remaining boot and gauntlet. Bundle of silk in, mostly, good condition? Check. A third of the gilded armor? Check. This should be enough, he thought as he left the kobolds to pilfer and deconstruct the cabin to their hearts content.

"Pro'bly shouldn't just appear in their office." Jeb muttered as he thought how to best appear without alarming anyone at the trainyard.

After some thought though, he decided that simply appearing within the trainyard itself wouldn't be TOO alarming. He hoped anyway. He COULD appear outside the trainyard. But given how last time went he wasn't sure if they'll just shoot him on sight. At least appearing inside would give him a chance to talk to whoever was in charge before potentially getting shot at.

With a sigh and no small amount of trepidation, Jeb thought of being just outside of the old workers' mess where he and the others would play their games.
"Just hope I don't get shot at."

-----

Ulrin Mercantile Hub.

What a mess, Forgrim thought as he watched the last of the funerary rites be performed from a distance. He and the others in his situation remained outside of the official service. They had no right to participate in a dwarven funeral. To be there when the honored dead were laid below the stone in the cool, firm, embrace of The Stone Father while their spirits traveled down into his Halls where they rest and prepare. Their deeds and accomplishments read aloud for all to hear while they feast and make merry until the Stone Father calls on them when the Day of Sundering comes and they are given forms of stone, hand crafted by the Stone Father himself that will march upon the land and remake it anew.

Or that was how a dwarven funeral was supposed to go. The hallowed runery was still unfinished and so such sacred services couldn't be held. From here he and the others couldn't tell what was ultimately done to the bodies, but even from a distance he could tell that none were happy about the state of affairs. Even a funeral had some merriment to it as they celebrated the dead's life and feats. But with such sacred ceremonies seemingly absent it wasn't looking like there would be such celebrations.

Forgrim sighed. They were in a sorry state. Work was progressing steadily true. But the moral of the Hub was abysmal. The lack of decent iron for tools, the recent attack, and the stormy look on Ulrin's face when he and the others returned did nothing to improve it. Especially when he declared that warriors were going to be sent into the mines in increased numbers than before.

Forgrim wasn't looking forward to going underground anymore. After seeing what lurked there in this land it was looking like he wasn't the only one. Unlike him and the few others from that day on the hill though, the others merely stiffened their backs and took to their new duties with the grim determination typical of any dwarf.

Yet another thing that seemed to separate them from their kin, Forgrim thought grimly. Any dwarf would do the same. No matter what lurked in the dark a dwarf would march down to meet it as the Edicts of The Stone Father claimed. Everything made of stone was theirs by right. Anything lurking there were merely squatters that needed reminding.

But he and the others could barely look at the dark awning tunnels forming in the mountain without terror and dread gripping their hearts. They were likely to die from fear alone before any horror could claim them, Forgrim thought broodingly.

He and the others had thought to go to the rune priests after the attack in order to resolve their issues. But they were so busy with the aftermath and were even more so when the head rune priest returned barking out orders while also organizing funerary services.

It seemed their plight would linger on for a while longer, he thought as their foreman barked at them to return to work. He sighed as he picked up his pickax and trudged along with the others towards an area designated as a new opening into the mountain. He heard others receiving similar orders and turned to look around. From what he could tell it seemed a greater effort in excavation and mining was being issued. Most of the guards stationed were being moved towards the areas as well with a small force left behind to deal with any goblins or troublemakers.

Wonder why so many were being moved. Why wouldn't they keep more above after the last attack, Forgrim thought before running into someone with a huff. The person he ran into grunted and lent a hand in assisting him up as he spoke.
"Sorry 'bout that."

"No problem manlin'. I weren't watch-" Forgrim started before he stopped speaking as he gazed up and saw the face of the one he had ran into.

The face before him belonged to a seemingly normal human. But all he could picture was stark white bone, baleful eyes, and grasping vines tearing at his clothes and flesh! The others from that day could speak no more than he could. One of them could only manage a single gasping word no more than a whisper.
"Haunter."

The Haunter frowned as he gazed down at Forgrim and the other dwarves.
"I'm sorry, have we met?"

The lack of aggression was enough for them all to find their feet enough to turn tail and flee as fast as they could. None of them were proud of it. But Forgrim dared any dwarf to not feel the same after what they went through from that creature! He didn't even look back as he ran. He was sure their foreman was yelling at them but his heart hammered in his ears like battle drums and his vision had tunneled and the only thing he could think of was escape!

-----

"That was weird." Jeb muttered as he watched the dwarves run like the hounds of hell were after them.

"Oh well." He declared with a shrug and made sure he still had his stuff before turning around and heading towards the manager's office building.

He knocked before entering and looked around at the even more chaotic mess that the office was since last he saw it. Gnomes ran around every where as they scribbled and scratched away as they copied papers into some form of runic script before stuffing them into spots of their bulging packs of office supplies they hauled around everywhere they went. Some were making adjustments to the maps of the area with words in the same sort of runes that the dwarves use.

Some he saw were also flicking away on those old calculators where you slid a bead or something from one side to the other. Others were chatting away a hundred miles an hour while poking and prodding the ancient computers around the place as they seemed to be trying to figure out how they worked.

A few looked like they figured out how they worked, but were having trouble with the keys like they weren't sure what did what. He could see a couple gnomes scratching away at the keys as they tried to re-type them in the runic script as they tried to translate Latin to Dwarven Runic with seemingly frustrating progress.

"Can I help you manlin'?" A gruff voice called from the manager's office.

Jeb turned and saw the same gilded dwarf he had done business with before glaring at him from the open doorway. The dwarf rumbled and glared at him more intently.
"What do you want?"

"Well, I thought maybe ya'll might be interested in a trade?" Jeb said uncertainly as he held up the gilded armor and silk.

The dwarf glared at him for a moment before turning a discerning eye towards his offerings. He rumbled and stroked his gilded beard with his bejeweled hand for a long moment, leaving Jeb to stand there awkwardly as the dwarf seemed to debate whether or not to entertain him.

"Very well godlin'. I will hear you." He rumbled at last before gesturing for Jeb to follow him into his office.

So Jeb did. He entered the office and saw that it was as much changed as the rest of the place. Piles of coins littered the desk along with no small amount of scales and other tools he wasn't familiar with along side many gems and jewels that glittered in the light of the room. Even the rest of the small office wasn't safe from the wealth as neat piles were scattered everywhere there was room for it while a single gnome hammered away at the computer on the desk while also jumping to doing a dozen other tasks within the room.

"What's yer offer?" Ulrin rumbled as the gnome took a brief break from his multitasking and produced several pieces of paper, a quill, and an inkwell from the large pack he had and stared intently at Jeb with rapt attention as he held onto the dripping quill like it would write the words of God Himself.

"Uhm, well. I was wonderin' if you were lookin' to trade some tools. Or if you would be willin' to sell 'em with this?" Jeb asked and placed the gaudy golden armor and the burgundy silk onto a clear(ish) spot on the desk.

As the gnome scribbled away every word Jeb said, Ulrin picked up the armor with ease and sneered at the macabre designs. He snorted but produced an eye piece to inspect the details. After several long minutes of rumbling in thought, Ulrin produced several small hammers and placed his ear against the metal before lightly tapping them. He'd rumble and do the same again in a different spot before repeating the long process again with the other piece.

Whatever he was doing Jed didn't have a fucking Scooby what it was. But apparently the gnome did because he scribbled down in that same Runic after every grumble and sound. At long last, Ulrin sat aside the gilded pieces and cocked a brow questioningly at the silk. He grunted and picked up the bundle of torn burgundy silk.

Jeb almost cursed out loud when the dwarf gave a mighty yank on the silk! The dwarf's eyebrows going up a little bit in surprise made him feel better though. Though watching him do the same thing several more times was a bit irritating. With each tug and yank he was sure it would tear, especially since he tore through it with a claw pretty easily. But it held just as fast and firm as before.

Ulrin seemed more satisfied with the silk than he was with the gold armor. At least to Jeb he seemed to be.
"So? Do we have a deal?"

The dwarf hummed and rumbled as he glanced between the golden armor and the silk. He drummed his fingers in a way that reminded Jeb of pawnbrokers on TV just before they give some horseshit low ball offer. He wasn't exactly wrong.
"No."

"No?" Jeb asked a little surprised.

"Tha armor is solid gold and more than acceptable quality. And tha silk is surprisingly strong."

"But?"

"But it's not enough for dwarven craft. I can offer a fair price for 'em though." Ulrin declared.

"I don't need money, I need tools." Jeb stated.

"Then I can't help you. What tools we have are needed at tha moment."

"Can't you make more? Aren't dwarves supposed to be master craftsman?" Jeb asked.

"Aye! It's not a matter o' craft but quality!" Ulrin declared a little heatedly.

"What's the matter?"

"We're lackin' in good iron." The dwarf stated simply.

"Iron? It's everywhere! It's just as common as coal!"

"Bah! Worthless! Not fit ta be made inta a piss pot!" Ulrin declared.

"I'm not askin' for a fuckin' tank made of the stuff! Just some small tools!" Jeb countered.

Ulrin narrowed his gaze at Jeb.
"Tha lizards?"

Jeb returned his glare.
"Yeah. The kobolds."

Ulrin snorted derisively.
"I'll not hand superior dwarven craft for a pittance like this, and especially not ta yer lizards!"

Jeb growled and left gouges in the desk. But the dwarf wasn't intimidated and met his glare easily.
"I'll not be swindled twice godlin'! Come back with somethin' o' equal value or not at all!"

Jeb snarled and started to stand when a thought came to him.
"What about food?"

Ulrin cocked a questioning brow at the sudden shift.
"What about it godlin'?"

"Alot of people 'round here. Got enough to feed 'em?" Jeb asked.

"What concern is it o' yers?" Ulrin asked guardedly.

"What if I offered a supply of food along with this in exchange for tools made for the kobolds?"

"Bah! Even if we were starvin' I wouldn't trade dwarven craft ta those lizards!"

"So don't! I don't need your best work! Just somethin' small and decent enough for the kobolds!" Jeb countered as his anger roiled just under the surface.

The dwarf grunted and turned to the gnome and spoke in some sort of shared language that Jeb was more than surprised that he could actually understand!
"How are we on rations?"

"Not good Master Ulrin. Even with shipments from the humans we won't have enough for winter without hunting." The gnome replied in the same language.

"Even without this farce o' an agreement keepin' us off tha surface o' tha mountain, with tha cold comin' it wouldn't matter." Ulrin rumbled in his language and stroked his beard in thought.

Jeb looked over to the piles of gold and jewels and other finery in order to make it seem like he couldn't understand them. One trick he learned from Morty, just because you know another language doesn't mean you have to let a native speaker know you do. He said you'd be surprised what they let slip when they think you don't know what they're saying.

Something he realized was actually surprisingly good advice from Morty, Jeb thought as he spied a garnet embedded golden band. It almost looked like a ring but was a little big to be one. Maybe a bracelet, Jeb thought as Ulrin and the gnome finished speaking and turned back to Jeb.
"What do you offer?"

"Fish, game, and some produce." Jeb replied.

Ulrin stroked his beard in thought. If Jeb hadn't just heard what he and the gnome were talking about he'd be a bit more worried. But now he could tell he was obviously haggling.
"We will need ta see tha food. If it's acceptable then we'll talk."

"Great. Wait right there." Jeb said as he got up and moved his chair back a little as he did so.

"When will you ret-" Ulrin started before blinking as Jeb had vanished from the spot he was in just a moment ago!

The dwarf sighed. He hated dealing with otherworldly beings. He took the time to appraise the offerings again. The armor was of elf make. While macabre, there was enough overly fine pretty designs in it that made it obvious. The way certain things flowed or were carved could only be made by elven hands. But at the same time it was also crude. Like it wasn't entirely made by elves, he noted.

Worth a pretty sum if only to melt it down into something of actual value, he thought as he picked up the silk. The color was a unique shade. While it looked to have been roughed up a little, it still held firmly. If he could get more from the godling then he could make a nice profit from selling it. He knew that some nobles, of this world or their own, would pay a fortune for a dress or doublet made of it.

He tugged on it once again and gave an approving grunt.
"Strong stuff."

He reached for his sword as the godling reappeared from thin air with barely a sound.
"I'm back."

Jeb got the vertigo feeling he did last time he did a rapid port and he fell back into his chair with a groan.
"Oh that's not a fun feelin'."

He leaned forward and handed a small box full of what he had to offer. Ulrin took it easily enough and peered into it. He saw all sorts of strange things. Blue apples, nightmarish fish, some small rodents already dressed, blackened potatoes, as well as some sort of crystal. He picked it up and held it out to Jeb.

"What's this?"

"Candy."

"Candy?"

"Yeah. Candied sugar?" Jeb explained.

He knew of candied sweets. But he didn't ever see any in such a shade before, Ulrin thought as he stared at the dark crystal that seemed to suck in the light around it. He wasn't yet familiar with the wildlife of this world to know if what Jeb offered was altered or not. But he knew that eating this "candy" was a bad idea.

He made no secret in tossing away the candy and gestured to the rest of the food.
"How much can you offer?"

"How does a box of food for a box of tools sound?"

Ulrin grunted and drummed his dwarven fingers against the desk in thought for a moment before making a counter offer.
"A long term trade then. Eight crates o' food for five crate o' tools."

"Why not five for five or eight for eight?"

"It will take this much food just ta mine tha piss poor iron. Makin' it will require more work. If you don't care for quality then that's what you'll deal with." Ulrin declared.

"Five crates of food, bi-weekly, for five crates of tools delivered at the end of the week." Jeb countered.

Finally a good deal, Ulrin thought as he tapped away on the desk in thought. This deal was in their favor. They got a promise of food even before delivering their end of the deal. But why? He's worked with otherworldly beings enough to know that they rarely play something in your favor unless it benefited them in some way.

"What else do you want?" Ulrin asked with a questioning brow and an accusatory tone.

Jeb shifted and looked around before reaching over to the large band he spied earlier.
"How 'bout this?"

Ulrin cocked his brow in suspicion. That was it?
"That's it?"

"That's it. You get a steady shipment of food, a bundle of silk, and some gold pieces in exchange for some tools and a weddin' band." Jeb stated.

Ulrin drummed his fingers once again.
"Can you acquire more silk?"

Jeb scratched his beard.
"Not currently."

Or maybe ever, he thought as he had no intention of making a deal with Anna after everything. At least not so soon after their last dust up. Ulrin rumbled and grunted before looking between what was offered one last time. After a few minutes, he looked up at Jeb and stuck out his large hand.
"We have an accord."

Jeb shook the offered hand, and felt the same stinging feeling he felt before when he made a deal with the dwarf. Wonder what that's about, he thought. But he got what he wanted and got rid of stuff he didn't really lack either. Fish was plentiful in the river after so long of going unfished, and he could conjure the other stuff with no problems.

With a deal set and the promise of commerce, Jeb departed with his treasure. Intent on making today a very special one for a certain kobold.

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Hi all, I just researched a little bit about Princeton MPA program and saw it was fully funded, and realized it could be exactly what I’m looking for. My interest post grad school would be international development work such as working at a development finance institution. Can someone who has this sort of experience tell me if my profile is competitive, and perhaps what I should emphasize in my application? Thanks!
Grades: 3.8 in Political Science and Middle East studies from an Ivy League undergraduate (think HYP). Took quant courses such as data science and stats, micro economics, game theory
Awards: won the State Department’s Critical Language Scholarship to study Arabic in the Middle East in college, National Security Language Initiative in high school (also state department), won scholarship to go to Israel and Palestine to study the conflict during college. Recently won a Fulbright scholarship in LatAm (starts August 2024), specifically to work with a business part time and take Business school classes in the evening.
Languages: Fluent in English (native language), Arabic (Shaami, Egyptian), and Spanish
Race: URM (Black, American)
GRE: 162 V 153 Q
Work experience: ~4 years total at time of application. 1.5 years working at a bulge bracket investment banking on the project / infrastructure finance team, mostly in Latin America. 2 years (current job) working in the endowment office (same structure as a university endowment) of an ~$10bn non profit focused on the arts and humanities. Fulbright work experience for ten months (pending) in a Mexican business (investing / asset management).
So what do you think my chances are at Princeton MPA (mainly focusing on that one because it’s fully funded). But curious to know at places like Columbia SIPA, Harvard Kennedy, etc. Chances for funding? Thanks so much!

It has often been remarked that the Soldering Iron resembles a branding iron but does not remotely resemble a soldering iron. I believe I have found an explanation for why it is so called.
I happened to encounter this superman / batman interaction which made me wonder what a "cauterizing iron" would look like.
Here is a picture. source.
Here is another cauterizing iron with more information about them:

After the tail of draft horses has been cut with a docking iron, the wound is burned with a cauterizing iron.
To stop the bleeding, the heated iron is pressed against the wound with the ring-shaped end for 8-10 seconds so that it fits over the slight bulge of the tailbone. If necessary, this operation is repeated until no more blood escapes.

There is a visual similarity between these "cauterizing irons" and the "soldering irons" carried by the Irithyll jailers. It is also true that "cautering" is an archaic form of cauterizing, and "cautering iron" is an archaic form of "cauterizing iron":

Then tell me when it is necessary to use escharoticke medicines, or cautering irons? Tis when the flux of blood is caused by erosion, or some Gangreene or putrifaction. Now is it thus? In fresh bleeding wounds there is neither Gangreene nor putrifaction. Therefore, the cauteries ought not to be there applyed.
- The workes of that famous chirurgion Ambrose Parey translated out of Latine and compared with the French.

I propose that the soldering iron is intended to be a cautering iron, and it (partially) blocks estus healing by partially cauterizing the darksign.

I awoke at the crack of 3:30 pm on that fateful morning, April 27, 2020. I had been up all night, and most of the morning, training my new 20 year old Mexican housekeeper on the skills she needs to effectively perform her job. After stuffing her taco several times and serving up some hot cheese dip all over her assets, I fell asleep.
When I awoke the first thing I did was reach for my cell phone to check for any incoming messages. I had 10 missed calls and several voice mails. They were all from my old buddy, Hawg Leg. He is an associate of mine in the Bigfoot field.
It seems that old Hawg Leg went out to investigate a Sasquatch report on his own and got himself into a right messy situation. I gave the sumbitch a call and spoke to him about it. It seems that he has a neighbor, Miss Rita, who has been getting nightly visits from a creature.
It started off rather mundane, with slaps on the outside walls of the house, some howls and huffing noises, and missing chickens. Then the animal got brazenly aggressive and started peeking in her front porch windows at night. But it was when it started fiddling with the door knobs and clawing on the doors that Ms. Rita started fearing for her safety. She was afraid the creature may get into her house.
She called ole Hawg Leg to come over, telling him there had been some prowlers on her property. But when he got to her house she broke down crying and told Hawg Leg what was really going on. She had seen the creature.
One night old Rita was expecting a visitor, you see. She works two jobs, one as a waitress at the local Waffle House and the other as a rural mail carrier. But she still has a hard time making ends meet. So she kind of put out the word that she was available as “company” for men in exchange for pay.
This one night she had an old feller down the way stopping by around 10:00 pm to spend some time with her. It was good old Leroy Perkins who worked on a nearby dairy farm. Well, at about 10:30 pm that night there came a rattling on her front door, so she just assumed it was ole Leroy, late as usual and probably too drunk to find the door bell. She was annoyed because he was late, but she knew he would have the cash, so she went to the front door to let him in.
Rita unlocked her door and whipped it open, expecting to find the old farmer standing there. Instead, she found herself looking into the eyes of a hellish monster! It was standing on the edge of her porch hunched over so it could fit under the porch roof. She said it was as wide as a car, covered in jet black hair, had a ape-like build, and the face of pure evil. It’s eyes were black. She said it looked like it had no soul. It just stood there looking at her, and emitting a hoarse breathing noise. Then she noticed something else. It had an erection. It had a HUGE erection!
The monster stood no more than 4 feet from her. She screamed, slammed the door, locked it, then ran into her bedroom. She retrieved a pistol from her nightstand and stood there in terror, quiet and listening. She said she stood there in silence for what seemed an eternity, shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly there was a loud thud against her house, outside her bedroom wall, followed by a low, guttural growl she could hear outside. At that point she went into hysterics. Nothing else happened after that.
The next day, as soon as the sun came up, she packed some clothes and left. She holed up at a friend’s house. Her friend knew Hawg Leg too, from a while back when he discreetly took care of a problem for her, so she called him to come over.
According to ole Hawg Leg, Ms. Rita was super freaked out and had to be sedated. He decided to go over to her property and investigate. He found 3 well-formed footprints around Rita’s house that he estimated being 18 inches in length and 9 inches across the widest portions.
Hawg Leg decided that he needed some heavy heat to go up against this beast, so he called me. I told him I would throw my shit together and be there by sunset. Old Hawg Leg was to remain on the property until I arrived.
Now normally, I would assemble my A-Team. But I was a little short-handed at the moment. Old Big Dick was laid up in the hospital with the Corona Virus (what a pussy!). Black Shade got pinched for not paying his child support. Roscoe had disappeared. And good old Murder went and got himself killed in an armed robbery. So it was just going to be me and Hawg Leg on this Squatch Op.
I started to look for my shit, but it was not where it should be. “What the hell?!?”, I thought. I went to my gun cabinet and ... NOTHING! What the fuck was going on?!? I yelled for Maria, my illegal housekeeper and jizz receptacle, but she was gone too. I put 2 and 2 together and came to the conclusion that the bitch had ripped me off! “GODDAMNIT!”, I thought to myself, “Never fall asleep with a b##ner in your house. Son of a bitch!!”
Fortunately, the dumb bitch did not know about my secret stash. I grabbed my .45-70 lever action and my old .480 revolver and shoulder rig and headed out, cussing that bitch Maria all the way to my truck. I was going to have to deal with her treachery when I got finished dusting this Sasquatch. I ended up having to use my fly fishing vest to hold my fucking ammo and magazines because she even stole my goddamned tactical vest!
I arrived at the coordinates at 8:00 pm sharp, just before sunset. Old Hawg Leg was there standing by his truck. He greeted me with “Hey there, General. How’s it going?” I noticed immediately that he was not packing as I strolled up to him, armed to the teeth and ready to murder a Bigfoot. I asked “Where the fuck are your guns, Hawg Leg?”
Old Hawg Leg started telling me that he had been doing some reading on the inter-webs about how killing a Bigfoot is wrong because they are basically a tribe of primative man, and that killing one would be murder. So he decided he couldn’t kill one of these creatures.
After a brief pause to allow the absurdity of the situation sink in, I took the butt of my rifle stock and violently slammed it into old Hawg Leg’s face as hard as I could. He went down like a sack of potatoes, blood spraying everywhere and spitting out teeth. I said “YOU STUPID F#GGOT!! GET YOUR GODDAMN GUN AND LET’S GET SET UP!!” Hawg Leg was holding his smashed-in face in his hands, blood and tears streaming down, but he finally pulled himself together, got his rifle from behind the seat of his truck, and followed me to the wood line.
The property consisted of a small house that sat on approximately an acre of open land, surrounded on 3 sides by wood lines that led into deep woods. I told old Hawg Leg to hunker down inside one corner of the wood line behind the house while I did the same on the opposite corner. Soon thereafter the sun set and nighttime crept down on us.
Nothing much happened that evening. But there was an eerie quiet around us. There was no insect noise, nor were any nocturnal creatures stirring. Clearly, something was up, and it was entirely consistent with having a Sasquatch in the area. However, despite the tension in the air, nothing occurred.
At 5:00 am I decided to call it a night. I walked out of the tree line and signaled for Hawg Leg to meet me at my truck. Old Hawg leg felt the tension too. We strongly suspected a beast in the area and were perplexed by the lack of activity.
We were standing at the back of my truck, which was parked next to Hawg Leg’s flat-bed, just off the road in front of Ms. Rita’s house. As we were talking about what our next move would be, suddenly there came a crashing sound in the woods from where we just came. It was loud and wild. It sounded like a tank was coming through the woods, minus the mechanical noise. Shocked, we turned toward the woods. It was clearly moving in our direction!
Just before whatever was plowing recklessly through the woods hit the wood line, it let loose with a deafening, unholy roar that sounded like something straight out of the pits of Hell! Both Hawg Leg and I recoiled in horror at the sound.
Now, I have been roared at by big Sasquatch before. But this time was different. First, it was LOUD and LONG. The animal emitting such an infernal sound had to have lungs like a hot air balloon. This meant it was HUGE. Second, it was not merely a roar. To call it a simple roar would not do justice to it. It was a ferocious battle cry!
Then we saw it. It came busting through the wood line and headed straight for us. It was charging!! And it was coming FAST! In just a blink of an eye it was on top of us. I had gone to one knee to steady myself for a shot with my rifle. Old Hawg Leg broke down like a big, fat pussy, then tucked tail, and went running in the opposite direction.
That fucker moved so damn fast. It was uncanny. I was only able to squeeze off 2 shots before it reached my location. I don’t think I even hit it. If I did hit it, it showed absolutely no sign of it. Then it was over; it was right on top of my position!! I was fucked!!
The beast was massive. It was at least 12 feet tall and 5-6 feet across at the shoulders. It was covered in dark hair and moved on 2 legs. It was built like a fucking brick shit house, with bulging muscles. It’s eyes were as black as coal and it was huffing and grunting as it approached.
Right before it reached my location it dropped down on all fours, making it resemble an ape. It literally propelled itself forward with its huge, muscular arms. Then, as I knew I was about to be ripped into pieces, the damnedest thing happened.
It kept running, on all fours, and passed by me, passing just 5 feet to my left as I was still on one knee. Despite my gunfire, it was not focused on me at all. Instead, it focused in on old Hawg Leg running off. I quickly stood and looked behind me just as the monster leapt upon Hawg Leg, knocking him to the ground on the other side of the road in front of Rita’s house.
In the pale moonlight I could make out the red spray of blood emitted from Hawg Leg’s neck as the beast ripped off his head. Old Hawg Leg’s body hit the ground as the beast held his head in its right hand. The beast held up the severed head and looked at it, as if it was admiring its work. Then it slowly turned its head and body to look at me. I swear the damned thing was grinning at me.
I immediately raised my rifle and placed my sights on its head. But in the split second between putting the creature in my sights and pulling the trigger, it disappeared into the wood line across the road. Gone... just like that. It did not make a sound.
I don’t know why the beast did not maul me instead of Hawg Leg. I also did not know what it’s game was. Was it gone? Did it move away after re-entering the woods across the street from the house? Or, was it still there, watching me?
One thing was for sure: I was in a bad situation. I had no idea where the monster was. I decided that a retreat was in order, so I jumped in my truck and hauled ass away from there, keeping my eyes on the rear view mirror expecting to see that beast jump out at any moment. But it never did.
I drove to the nearest town, about a half hour away. I stopped at the local Waffle House, went inside, and sat there drinking coffee for the next hour, and trying to decide what my next move would be. At sunrise I left and returned to the scene to get rid of what was left of Hawg Leg’s body.
When I arrived I was already halfway expecting the body to be gone. Therefore, I was not at all surprised to see it gone with no trace of blood anywhere. The sneaky bastard had taken the body, either to conceal it or eat it. I made a phone call and arranged to have old Hawg Leg’s flat bed truck hauled off.
Then I left. I knew that I needed reinforcements to deal with this bastard. It was just way too dangerous to take on by myself. It would be suicide. But I had a plan, a proverbial “ace in the hole”. I had to go see a man. But he was not just any man. He is the very definition of “BAD ASS”. ——————————————————
I called my man. He was down for the gig and was going to meet me back out at Ms. Rita’s property at sundown tonight. With my bud lined up, I had no doubt that this would be the night we send that hairy fuck back to hell.
At around noon I decided to drive over to see Ms. Rita at her friend’s house. Upon knocking on the door I was greeted by a very nice looking, well-kept, 40-ish looking MILF. “Are you Ms. Rita?”, I asked. Turned out it wasn’t; it was her friend. But she ushered me inside when I told her I was Hawg Leg’s associate and that I was there to help.
She took me into the parlor where I found poor Ms. Rita, sitting alone and eyes red from crying. Her friend announced my presence, “Rita, honey, this man is here to see you. He says he knows Hawg Leg. His name is “The General.” Rita started to rise but I motioned her to stay seated. Clearly she was in a bad way.
Now, even though Rita’s emotions had been ripped apart by her terrifying encounter, I could not get past her beauty. Hawg Leg told me she had been whoring herself out to make ends meet. I could see why too. She could make a fortune with that tight little body on her! Both Rita and her friend were smoking hot. My mind began to wonder, drifting into prurient and clouded fantasies about box munching and 3-ways. Then Rita’s friend jerked me back into the moment.
“So, where are we at with the Investigation? Did you go out to Rita’s house?”, asked the friend. I told them that I had been there just hours before and that I had an up-close encounter with the monster. This news brought both women to the edge of their seats. I told them what went down. I left out the part about old Hawg Leg getting his head ripped off and blood spewing everywhere on account of the tender sensibilities in the room.
I explained that I had just this morning employed a real badass to assist me in killing this beast, and that I am certain it will be dead after tonight. Both women looked pleased and relieved. Then the friend asked about old Hawg Leg. “Will he be out there tonight too? I’d really like to thank him”, she said.
I shook my head, to which the friend’s expression took a dour turn. “What’s wrong? Is Hawg Leg Ok?”, the friend asked. Then I spilled the beans as gently as I could. “That sumbitch is dead as fuck, sweetheart. When the beast charged us, old Hawg Leg tucked tail and ran like a pussy! He got his head ripped clean off and died a most horrible, bloody, and gore-filled death imaginable”, I said.
The friend looked in horror to Rita. Then she turned to me, smiled, and said “good”. A perplexed look entered my face, which caused the friend to explain. “You see, old Hawg Leg did me a favor a while back. But then the sumbitch started blackmailing me, saying he would turn me in for the crime he committed on her behalf.” “That’s terrible”, I said, “I had no idea.”
Then, without me asking, she went on to explain further. I said “Really, honey, I don’t need to know the details”, but she continued. It seems that old Hawg Leg’s kink was something called “pegging”. I was unfamiliar with this term, so I asked her to explain. Then Rita jumped in and enthusiastically explained it in graphic detail, telling me that when she entertains johns, 9 times out of 10 they want her to strap on and peg them. “Hell, it does not even feel like whoring when I am the one wearing the strap-on”, said Rita.
Frankly, I was shocked. I had no idea that deep down all these old time farmers were a bunch of f#gs. The women saw the look of bewilderment on my face. I slowly sat down on the couch, a couple feet away from Rita. She said “Oh, come on, it does not necessarily mean they are f#gs ...”, but I motioned her to stop.
Seeing my uneasiness, Rita scooted up close to me on the couch and took my right hand in both of hers. Then the friend sat down on the other side of me, places her arm around my back and started rubbing the back of my neck. The friend said “Come on, General, it’s ok. Even if 90% of farmers ARE f#gs, what’s it to you?”. I looked over at her. The first thing I noticed were her bare legs. The skirt she was wearing had hiked way up when she sat down. Raising my head I then noticed her titties, the tops of which were bare and exposed by the plunging neckline on her shirt.
I then realized that my cock was rock hard. I felt like I could stick it through a fucking brick wall! Rita must have seen it because the next thing I know I feel her stroking my erection through my pants. I started making out with the friend as Rita stroked me. It was not long thereafter that Rita had my cock out and was eagerly going down on me. By this point, I had pulled her friend on top of me. My left hand was up her skirt, where I had pushed her panties aside and I was using my fingers to rub her clit and periodically plunge them deep inside of her to her moans of pleasure.
Suffice it to say that the 3 of us engaged in some hot and heavy, and very, very nasty fucking the rest of the afternoon. I dumped my last load up Rita’s ass just after 7:30 pm. And God help me, I think I was completely dry after that. But, the fun had to come to an end because I had to get to Rita’s property by sundown to dust that Sasquatch.
“Ok, bitches, I got to go to work. Ya’ll go ahead and finish each other off while I get ready to go”, I said. Both of them wanted to come with me, but I told them it was too dangerous. Then Rita started begging and her friend fondled my balls. Then I thought, “What the hell? I’m never going to see these two whores again, so who cares if they get their heads ripped off?” I told them they could both come, but it was getting late so they needed to hurry the fuck up and get dressed!
All 3 of us were piled into the front seat of my pickup truck. Rita blew me as I drove us out to her place while her friend ate her out from behind. The stench of sex filled the air. Then I filled Rita’s mouth with goo right as I was pulling into her driveway.
We took a moment to compose ourselves then got out of my truck. “Where’s your friend”, asked Rita. I told her he would be here at sundown. I looked at my watch, then the sky, then silently acknowledged to myself the truth of the matter: my buddy is late. The motherfucker is always late. It is the one annoying thing about him. He is never fucking on time for anything.
Then we heard something from down the road. It was quickly getting louder. We heard the bass from the woofers before we even heard his straight-piped turbo diesel engine. My buddy was finally here.
He pulled up in a jacked-up, jet black Ford F-350 turbo diesel pickup truck. The music and thumping sound coming from its sound system was deafening. You could not see inside the cab of the truck because the windows are tinted black (and because they are too high up off the ground).
Before he got to the house I’d say he was probably going over 100mph. He hit the e-brake about 1/4 mile from Rita’s house and then drifted sideways the remainder of the distance to her driveway. The controlled recklessness of such a move startled Rita and her friend, so they closed in tight to me.
The jacked-up truck stopped right in front of us. I guided the girls around to the driver’s side, with one bitch on each arm. The truck shut off, the driver’s door opened, and there he was. He just coolly and casually drifted down from the cab of the truck, even though it sat at near nosebleed height.
There he stood. 6’8”, 240 pounds of solid muscle, custom made jungle camo leather suit, alligator hide boots, and a black Stetson hat. The girls gasped at the sight of such a manly creature. Rita’s friend whispered “Who is THAT?”. I said “That is Boss. Boss N#gger”.
Now, people get the wrong idea about me all the time: They falsely accuse me of being racist all the time because I use words like “n#gger” and hold a lot of far right political views. But nothing could be further from the truth. I love everyone. Hell, old Boss N#gger insists on being called “Boss N#GGER”; he says it’s part of his name. There’s nothing racist about it at all. It’s just who he is.
After Boss N#gger got down out of his truck, he casually took off his driving gloves (everything Boss N#gger does he does casually), looked at me and the girls, then asked “What the fuck is with the bitches, Bud? I thought we were here to bump a Sasquatch.” I replied “Hell, Boss N#gger, I just been fucking these two whores all day, and they wanted to tag along. Besides, this bitch here is Rita. This is her place.” Boss N#gger nodded in understanding.
I had already briefed Boss N#gger on what went down last night on the property. We decided to do the same thing me and old Hawg Leg did: Take up positions inside the wood line, then in the early morning hours we would walk back to our trucks out in the open. If that sumbitch is still here, then maybe it will show itself again and try to run us out of its territory.
It was already dark and we were running behind since Boss N#gger adheres strictly to Colored People’s Time (CPT). I grabbed my guns and Boss N#gger grabbed his: A Barrett .50 BMG semi-auto rifle chopped down to the size of a carbine, and a sawed off, highly illegal, short-barreled, double barely 12 gauge shot gun as a sidearm. I gave Boss N#gger a walkie-talkie and then we headed out.
We told the bitches to go into Rita’s house and lock the doors. Meanwhile, we took up positions behind the house inside the wood line and waited. Like the prior night, a thick layer of tension hung heavily in the air. The woods were silent. There was no Sasquatch action.
At midnight I heard the first noise: it was a “Pop” sound followed by a “Psssst”. It came from Boss N#gger’s position. Then I heard something that sounded like wrapping paper, followed by a crunching sound. I raised my .45-70 and pulled back the hammer. Then I whispered into my walker-talkie, “Boss N#gger. Do you hear that noise? What’s going on down there?”
Boss N#gger replied “Fuck, General, they ain’t nuffin a’goin’ on down this way. Shit. I am just having me a little snack.” I paused and then asked him what he was snacking on. He replied “I gots me some leftover fried chicken and a bottle of grape soda.” I grimaced and said to myself “motherfucker!”, then I calmed myself by remembering the old adage: you can take a man out of the ghetto, but you will never take the ghetto out of a man.
At this point you may be asking yourself: how the hell did The General ever get mixed up with this here Boss N#gger character? Well, I’m going to tell you. It was back in 1993 or thereabouts and I was at an illegal cock fight doing some gambling. Old Boss N#gger ran the show. But most of the time while the cock fighting was going on he was out back in the trailers whoring bitches.
This one particular night a scuffle broke out because some good old boys thought the event was fixed. They got all rowdy, then they pulled their guns. Someone ran out back and got Boss N#gger. Old Boss came out there and whipped their asses, all of them. As he and his boys were throwing them out, the good old boys swore they would be back with some more guys and would get their revenge.
Come about 3:00 am, the cock fight was long over and the place was empty. I was just finishing up with one of the whores, a sweet little Latin chick named “Madusa”. She only had one leg, but she can suck the sheets right up your ass! Then came the ruckus.
Up pulled no less that 5 big, jacked-up pickup trucks, just hauling ass and doing donuts while some of the fellas hung out the windows shooting their guns. Now I cannot tell a lie. The General is a proud son of the South. In fact, my heart yearns for a return to the good old days of an aristocratic South, free from the meddling federal government. Back in them good old days when a bunch of rowdy rednecks came onto your property raising hell you settled things with an axe handle and several shallow graves. Lots of problems were solved in these South Georgia swamps thattaway.
Well, those good old boys stormed the place looking to settle the score with Boss N#gger. I quickly got dressed and ran into the barn to find that there were 10 men standing there, surrounding Boss N#gger. They were all carrying weapons. One man was carrying a noose. Things looked bad for Boss N#gger. Real bad.
Maybe it was the sight of this mess, a prelude to a lynching, that stirred my soul to act. Maybe it was all the cocaine I had done earlier that night. I don’t know. But I decided that I was going to intervene. Nobody was going to get lynched here tonight.
I walked into the barn and yelled, “HEY, F#GGOTS!! NOBODY IS LYNCHING ANYONE HERE TONIGHT!” The crowd turned and looked at me approaching, in stunned silence. The leader of this crew was an old redneck named Silas. He pointed in my direction and said “Hey, now look General, this does not involve you. This here is between me and Boss N#gger.”
I didn’t really know Boss N#gger except as the proprietor of this establishment. The fact is, we had barely said two words to each other. See, Boss N#gger does not like white people. So with me being a honky, he had little use for me. But his place was my kind of scene. I always paid my bill and I didn’t start any shit. So he tolerated me. He had a reputation of being a real badass and I had no urge to cross him.
I walked right up to Silas and said “I am going to give you 10 seconds to apologize to Boss N#gger for coming in here raising hell, then you are going to turn around and get your f#ggot asses out of here.”
Silas looked around at his crew to gauge their reactions. Then he started laughing. They all started laughing. I took a couple steps back, but still stood facing Silas. Then I opened my coat so he could see the two pistols I was packing. They suddenly got quiet. I said “I don’t think it’s nice...you laughing.”
The first of Silas’s crew to make a move was old Cletus. He raised his shotgun. I pulled my pistols. That son of a bitch was dead with a massive head wound before his body hit the floor. I was carrying a couple Glock 17s back then, both with high cap mags in each. As all hell broke loose I opened fire. Half of those good old boys tried to fight. I dropped them all. The last four ran for the door. “BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!”
They were all down in just an instant. All head shots except for one. I only tagged Silas in the shoulder. I walked up to Silas lying there. He looked up at me and started begging for his life. I put the heal of my boot on his shoulder wound and grinded at it, twisting my heal back and forth. Silas was screaming from the pain.
Just about then Boss N#gger walked up. I turned to him and said “I saved this bitch for you, Boss N#gger. Do with him as you will.” Boss N#gger put his huge hand on my shoulder and said “Thank ya, General. From now on you and I are tight.” I nodded at him then walked off. As I climbed up into my truck I could hear Silas screaming. I don’t know what Boss N#gger was doing to him exactly, but I know it was righteous!
Boss N#gger and I have been tight since that day I saved his black ass from those rednecks. We periodically call on one another to catch up on things, and when we need someone we can trust for a particular job. That’s why I called him for this particular bigfoot hunt.
Come 5:00 am I left my hide and walked out of the wood line. I radioed Boss N#gger that we ought to meet back at my truck. I do not know why, but the idea stuck with me that if we did the exact same thing that Hawg Leg and I did last night, the Sasquatch may show itself again.
You see, this night was identical to the last. Even though we heard and saw no Sasquatch activity, the woods were eerily silent. There were no bugs chirping and no animals stirring. It was quite bizarre. It was a textbook experience for the presence of a Sasquatch.
Back at the truck I asked Boss N#gger what he thought. He said “Well Sir, there be a haint-like spell on these here woods tonight.” Boss N#gger felt it too. Then he asked, “You want to go into the house and fuck them 2 bitches in there?”
Before I could answer we heard it. It was a blood curdling scream from the woods. It sounded like it was just inside the wood line. I told Boss N#gger “There he is! Let’s take cover behind my truck and blast the shit out of him when he steps out!”
Boss N#gger said “Fuck that shit, General! I ain’t scared of no fuckin monkey.” Then he started strutting toward the woods where the scream came from. He was also talking trash to the monster. He said “Hey, Sasquatch! Git yo bitch ass out here RIGHT NOW! I is gonna put an ass whoopin’ on your hairy ass!”
I was stunned at Boss N#gger’s directness. Was he deliberately trying to confuse the beast by approaching it? Or, was he just THIS badass? But before I could give it any thought the huge Sasquatch stepped out of the wood line and showed itself. It stared at the approaching Boss N#gger, showing it’s teeth and growling.
Boss N#gger just kept moving forward. But when that monster started growling at him Boss N#gger got pissed! He yelled at the Sasquatch “NOW I KNOW YOU AIN’T GROWLING AT ME, YOU NASTY ASS BEAST!”
Boss N#gger then CHARGED the beast! That’s right … HE charged the beast! As he ran he pulled out his .50 BMG, held it forward with one hand like it was a pistol, and dumped a mag into it!! I could see the Sasquatch twitch and jerk with each shot that hit home.
When he ran out of ammo Boss N#gger threw down the gun and seemed to accelerate toward the thing. When he was about 10 yards from the Bigfoot he leapt at it. Boss N#gger’s feet did not hit the ground again until he tackled the monster. They both went tumbling into the wood line.
Up until now I stood there in stunned silence watching this drama unfold. But when Boss N#gger tackled the beast I took off running toward them. I could hear the struggle in the brush as I ran. As I was right at the wood line, out stepped Boss N#gger!
That son of a bitch, Boss N#gger, was holding the limp body of that huge 12’ beast over his head! Then, with a guttural scream of vengeance, Boss N#gger ripped the goddamn Sasquatch into TWO PIECES!!
I could not fucking believe what I was seeing. Blood and guts went everywhere. Finally Boss N#gger tossed the pieces of the Bigfoot corpse onto the ground and said “Ain’t no fucking monkey a match fo my black ass!”
I said “Goddamn, Boss N#gger! That was some righteous shit right there!” He replied, “Damn straight it was.” He was covered in Bigfoot blood and what appeared to be intestines. It smelled like microwaved dog shit. I suggested we go to the house so he could get cleaned up and we could tell the bitches what happened.
As Boss N#gger showered in Rita’s bathroom, I relayed the story to the bitches over coffee. They were enthralled by what I had to say, as well as being filled with relief.
The sun had started rising and it was getting light outside. By then I was on my third cup of coffee. Boss N#gger came walking in wearing nothing but a towel. The bitches looked him up and down, with goo-goo eyes and big smiles on their faces.
Boss N#gger then spoke up, “Well, General, are we gonna fuck these bitches or what?” I said I had been up for two days in a row and that I had to get some sleep. He nodded and I got up to leave. I looked back as I was walking out the door and saw Boss N#gger with a bitch in each arm, walking toward Rita’s bedroom.

In front of an audience of famous politicians, celebrities, actors and singers, a man with a black executioner’s hood led a ragtag group of people in chains. All of the prisoners were dirty, wearing rags. I saw women who had cried so much that the only clean part left on their bodies were the streaks beneath their eyes, men with panicked eyes who frantically pulled at their metal chains and, watching it all with glee, the cheering, grinning faces of the rich and powerful.
“Hail Lucifer!” the man in his black executioner’s hood yelled in a deep baritone. The audience responded with rapture, some of them standing, their eyes shining, as they cried, “Hail Lucifer!” The voices of so many combined into one powerful echoing boom.
The sounds were muffled slightly during an out-of-body experience, as if I were hearing them through water. The colors and shapes also seemed to shimmer and vibrate more, giving the clear, crisp lines of everyday reality a much more fuzzy look. Even though I was only there by astral projection, I still shrunk back into the corner as much as I could, trying to hide from the madness and evil all around me. Little did I realize, I had seen nothing yet.
I thought about retreating to my body, parked in a nearby RV, and trying to call the police, the FBI, Homeland Security, anyone- then I saw the police chief and various Senators and Representatives in the audience, and gave up any hope of that idea. If I called a dispatcher, they would probably send in a hitman to kill me and make it look like a suicide, as I heard rumors they had done so many times before.
So I stayed as the ritual began, and it was the worst decision of my life. The chain-gang of prisoners were led to an inverted pentagram laying flat against a wall of stone and flickering torches. Within the pentagram, I saw shining obsidian forming the background, diamonds and opals embedded into the white gold that formed the star and circle. As they were led forward, some of the prisoners fought back, trying to pull their arms free, but they would ultimately receive a shock from a cattle prod for their efforts.
“What is wrong with you people?” the first woman in the line of prisoners cried, her eyes frantically searching the crowd for a single sane person to help her. She found nothing but coldness and insanity reflected there. The audience was deathly quiet, reminding me of old pictures I had seen of medical students surrounding a dissection. They had a kind of clinical detachment that was disturbing in its own right. Some of their eyes shone with excitement and rapture as the woman was strapped into the leather cuffs of the pentagram, forcing her legs and arms into a V shape, like the Vitruvian Man in DaVinci’s art.
The head executioner turned to the audience, bowing his head as if he were a simple entertainer.
“The ritual will begin,” he said brusquely. There was murmuring and the shuffling of random objects as the crowd stood, each pulling out a black book out with silver words embossed on the front. Floating slightly above the ground, I moved as close as possible to a beautiful woman in her early thirties in the back corner of the audience. I recognized her as a famous movie actress, countless diamonds and rubies shining on her body in an ostentatious display of wealth. The book read, “Codex Moloch.” The audience opened the books to the first page and read out in Latin as one, the screams of the woman imprisoned within the pentagram being the only sound that broke the monotony.
Returning from the back of the stage, the executioner poured gasoline over the imprisoned woman’s head. She moved her head from side to side rapidly, straining, tears pouring down her face as she pleaded and cried.
When the chanting reached a crescendo, he pulled a torch from the nearby stone wall and threw it at her feet with an almost indifferent, nonchalant motion. She went up instantly, the flash of light too bright to stare at, her screaming intensifying into something that didn’t even sound human. The smell of burning meat filled the auditorium, like pork scraps roasted to a black crisp over an open fire.
The audience responded by chanting louder and faster as her face began to melt off, small beads of fat dripping off her nose, her eyes liquefying under the intense heat. She was rapidly losing energy now, her voice turning into groans and moans that sounded like, “Uuugghhelp… uggh… gu…” I wanted to fly away, but the horror of it all kept me chained there.
Her skin turned black and split as her screams became quieter and she fell forward, straining against the chains and, thankfully, losing consciousness after what seemed like an eternity. The prisoners in the chains were shocked into silence, then they all began wailing and screaming at once. But it wasn’t for long.
Out of the charred wreckage of her body, I saw a dark shape beginning to appear. The chains snapped open with a soft clinking sound, and the blackness rose into a shape eight feet tall. It had the same charred, blackened skin as the human sacrifice, but underneath I saw bulging muscles and enormous strength as it moved forward. Its powerful legs had feet like an elephant, its hands lengthening into bone-white claws, but its face was the most disconcerting part of all. Its eyes were alive, flickering like the embers of a dying fire. Its mouth had the purest-white teeth, each one looking like a pointed dagger within its black gums.
The audience kept chanting, but it seemed to die down rapidly as the creature walked forward, and soon stopped altogether as it scanned them with its fiery eyes.
Then, it looked right at me, trying to make myself as small as possible in the back corner of the massive auditorium, and it started smiling wider. I knew, in that moment, that it had seen me.
The demonic entity turned to the chained prisoners and began ripping into them with its claws, biting their necks and sucking their blood. The first man had his heart ripped out, the creature popping the still-beating organ into its mouth and sending spurts of blood dribbling down its chin as it chewed. The rest of the prisoners tried to get away, but with them all being chained together and trying to move in different directions, they only ended up getting tangled and falling over.
I saw a few of the audience members getting up as if to run away, to get out of the auditorium, but the others in the audience shook their heads at them, saying something I couldn’t hear. No one ended up leaving, which ultimately made the death toll worse.
I didn’t stay the entire time, but I saw, once the prisoners were all dead and eaten, the beast turned to look at the audience once more.
“Hail Lucifer,” it said in a rusty, echoing croak, before jumping from the stage into the middle of the crowd, crushing a few people to death underfoot instantaneously. Without hesitation, it sent its arms out, pulling off people’s heads and drinking their blood, eating their hearts, cracking their ribs open like pistachios- and that was when I fled.
The last thing I saw on my way out was a stampede as all the famous actors, politicians and celebrities tried to leave, but how many actually survived, I will never know. I had seen enough.
Floating through the walls, out into the clear desert air, I returned to my body, parked a couple miles away in an abandoned campground in my little RV. As soon as I awoke, I ran to the bathroom, vomiting up my dinner, the dripping fat of that burning woman’s nose and the sound the hearts had made when the creature bit into them repeating in my mind like an endless loop.
***
After I had told all this to my friend Chris, he simply shook his head in wonder.
“Wow,” he said to me. “And you’re sure this wasn’t a dream?” I held up the newspaper, stating that a famous political talking head on a news channel had been found dead of an unexpected heart attack.
“I saw this guy get ripped apart,” I told Chris. “He was in the audience. He was one of the devil-worshippers.” Leaning back in his chair, Christ pretended to stroke an imaginary beard, giving me a long sideways glance. Then he jumped up.
“Well, we have to get this up on the blog,” he said. He was the technical guy for my blog, and the one who recommended I do it in the first place. We were old childhood friends, and when I told him I could astral project, he jokingly said I should use it to go into the White House or other restricted areas and put down what I saw on an internet blog. I had done so, and the blog had exploded. Hundreds of thousands of people now read it on a weekly basis.
Chris had a lot of experience with computers, so he had used encryption and VPNs to make it harder to track us- “in case this weird-ass shit is all real,” he had told me, cracking a sly smile.
I finished my beer as Chris got packed, grabbing a few things for the journey back to my house on the other side of town. Within a few minutes, we were headed out the door. As soon as I stepped foot on the driveway, I knew something was wrong.
Both of our cars had our tires slashed. There was no public transportation in our little desert town- hell, there was barely even a downtown here, mostly consisting of a gas station, a 24-hour diner and a police station. Without a car, there was simply no way to get the ten miles over to my house.
Chris was breathing fast, his face covered in a sheen of sweat as he looked at me.
“You don’t have any psycho ex-girlfriends, do you?” he asked hopefully, and then a shot rang out. Jumping up, I began to run back into Chris’ house.
“Come on!” I yelled at him. He had a blank, shell-shocked look in his eyes. Backtracking, I grabbed his arm, yanking him hard. It was just in time. Another bullet rocked past where he had just been standing, smashing his front window and sending tiny shards of glass all over the front lawn.
We were back inside within seconds. I slammed the door, turning the deadbolt before spinning back around to look at Chris. He was covered in sweat, his pupils dilated, his breathing far too fast. I thought he might pass out if he didn’t stop hyperventilating.
“It’s OK,” I said, walking up to him slowly. “We’re going to find a way out of here.”
“My gun,” Chris said suddenly. “We need it. It’s downstairs in the basement.” He spun on his heels, pushing open the basement door and barrelling down the stairs. I followed close behind. As soon as I reached the last step, I heard a tremendous bang come from the front door, followed by slow, steady footsteps as someone walked in the house.
Chris was opening the gun case, his hands still shaking. I quickly walked over, putting my finger in front of my lips in the universal sign of “Don’t say a goddamned word” while I grabbed the 30 odd 6 from the case. He looked as if he would protest for a moment, then he snapped his mouth shut again. As quietly as I could, I unloaded the magazine, saw it was full of bullets, then clicked it back into place.
It was just in time. At that moment, a huge foot kicked the basement door in. With a sound like the cracking of thunder, the door fractured into pieces. Then I heard the rapid descent of steps.
The man who had been shooting at us was just an old farmer with a straw hat, denim coveralls and a rifle. I shot him in the center of the chest as he sprinted, causing him to fall down the last six or seven steps, sending droplets of blood flying in all directions as he turned. I saw it like it was in slow motion. He fell heavily, still holding onto his rifle. My ears were ringing from the tremendous cacophony of shooting a rifle in such a confined space. I ran up, putting my foot on the farmer’s rifle and pointing the gun directly into his face.
“Why are you shooting at me?” I screamed at him. He shook his head.
“Not… you…” he said, blood bubbling from his lips as he spoke. “The other one… kidnapped my daughter…” He pointed to Chris, his movements getting weaker.
I started to turn around, but a hammer came down on the back of my head just then. Looking up, I saw Chris standing there- but now he had a black executioner’s hood on his head. The same one I had seen on the stage where the devil-worshippers gathered.
“You should have minded your own fucking business,” Chris said to me, raising the hammer again to bring it down on my face. Without thinking, I took the rifle, pointing it up at his head and pulling the trigger. The hood flew off his head as the left side of his face exploded, and he fell back.
Gurgling blood, he stared at me with his one remaining eye, a kind of intense hatred and evil there that I had never seen before.
“Lucifer saw you…” he said to me. “Your days are numbered, scum. Hail Lucifer!” That was the last thing my friend said before the awareness faded from his eye and his choked gurgling stopped.
As I crawled towards the old farmer, blood streamed down my scalp from the hammer wound. I pulled out my phone and called for help- vowing never to astral project into forbidden places again.

In front of an audience of famous politicians, celebrities, actors and singers, a man with a black executioner’s hood led a ragtag group of people in chains. All of the prisoners were dirty, wearing rags. I saw women who had cried so much that the only clean part left on their bodies were the streaks beneath their eyes, men with panicked eyes who frantically pulled at their metal chains and, watching it all with glee, the cheering, grinning faces of the rich and powerful.
“Hail Lucifer!” the man in his black executioner’s hood yelled in a deep baritone. The audience responded with rapture, some of them standing, their eyes shining, as they cried, “Hail Lucifer!” The voices of so many combined into one powerful echoing boom.
The sounds were muffled slightly during an out-of-body experience, as if I were hearing them through water. The colors and shapes also seemed to shimmer and vibrate more, giving the clear, crisp lines of everyday reality a much more fuzzy look. Even though I was only there by astral projection, I still shrunk back into the corner as much as I could, trying to hide from the madness and evil all around me. Little did I realize, I had seen nothing yet.
I thought about retreating to my body, parked in a nearby RV, and trying to call the police, the FBI, Homeland Security, anyone- then I saw the police chief and various Senators and Representatives in the audience, and gave up any hope of that idea. If I called a dispatcher, they would probably send in a hitman to kill me and make it look like a suicide, as I heard rumors they had done so many times before.
So I stayed as the ritual began, and it was the worst decision of my life. The chain-gang of prisoners were led to an inverted pentagram laying flat against a wall of stone and flickering torches. Within the pentagram, I saw shining obsidian forming the background, diamonds and opals embedded into the white gold that formed the star and circle. As they were led forward, some of the prisoners fought back, trying to pull their arms free, but they would ultimately receive a shock from a cattle prod for their efforts.
“What is wrong with you people?” the first woman in the line of prisoners cried, her eyes frantically searching the crowd for a single sane person to help her. She found nothing but coldness and insanity reflected there. The audience was deathly quiet, reminding me of old pictures I had seen of medical students surrounding a dissection. They had a kind of clinical detachment that was disturbing in its own right. Some of their eyes shone with excitement and rapture as the woman was strapped into the leather cuffs of the pentagram, forcing her legs and arms into a V shape, like the Vitruvian Man in DaVinci’s art.
The head executioner turned to the audience, bowing his head as if he were a simple entertainer.
“The ritual will begin,” he said brusquely. There was murmuring and the shuffling of random objects as the crowd stood, each pulling out a black book out with silver words embossed on the front. Floating slightly above the ground, I moved as close as possible to a beautiful woman in her early thirties in the back corner of the audience. I recognized her as a famous movie actress, countless diamonds and rubies shining on her body in an ostentatious display of wealth. The book read, “Codex Moloch.” The audience opened the books to the first page and read out in Latin as one, the screams of the woman imprisoned within the pentagram being the only sound that broke the monotony.
Returning from the back of the stage, the executioner poured gasoline over the imprisoned woman’s head. She moved her head from side to side rapidly, straining, tears pouring down her face as she pleaded and cried.
When the chanting reached a crescendo, he pulled a torch from the nearby stone wall and threw it at her feet with an almost indifferent, nonchalant motion. She went up instantly, the flash of light too bright to stare at, her screaming intensifying into something that didn’t even sound human. The smell of burning meat filled the auditorium, like pork scraps roasted to a black crisp over an open fire.
The audience responded by chanting louder and faster as her face began to melt off, small beads of fat dripping off her nose, her eyes liquefying under the intense heat. She was rapidly losing energy now, her voice turning into groans and moans that sounded like, “Uuugghhelp… uggh… gu…” I wanted to fly away, but the horror of it all kept me chained there.
Her skin turned black and split as her screams became quieter and she fell forward, straining against the chains and, thankfully, losing consciousness after what seemed like an eternity. The prisoners in the chains were shocked into silence, then they all began wailing and screaming at once. But it wasn’t for long.
Out of the charred wreckage of her body, I saw a dark shape beginning to appear. The chains snapped open with a soft clinking sound, and the blackness rose into a shape eight feet tall. It had the same charred, blackened skin as the human sacrifice, but underneath I saw bulging muscles and enormous strength as it moved forward. Its powerful legs had feet like an elephant, its hands lengthening into bone-white claws, but its face was the most disconcerting part of all. Its eyes were alive, flickering like the embers of a dying fire. Its mouth had the purest-white teeth, each one looking like a pointed dagger within its black gums.
The audience kept chanting, but it seemed to die down rapidly as the creature walked forward, and soon stopped altogether as it scanned them with its fiery eyes.
Then, it looked right at me, trying to make myself as small as possible in the back corner of the massive auditorium, and it started smiling wider. I knew, in that moment, that it had seen me.
The demonic entity turned to the chained prisoners and began ripping into them with its claws, biting their necks and sucking their blood. The first man had his heart ripped out, the creature popping the still-beating organ into its mouth and sending spurts of blood dribbling down its chin as it chewed. The rest of the prisoners tried to get away, but with them all being chained together and trying to move in different directions, they only ended up getting tangled and falling over.
I saw a few of the audience members getting up as if to run away, to get out of the auditorium, but the others in the audience shook their heads at them, saying something I couldn’t hear. No one ended up leaving, which ultimately made the death toll worse.
I didn’t stay the entire time, but I saw, once the prisoners were all dead and eaten, the beast turned to look at the audience once more.
“Hail Lucifer,” it said in a rusty, echoing croak, before jumping from the stage into the middle of the crowd, crushing a few people to death underfoot instantaneously. Without hesitation, it sent its arms out, pulling off people’s heads and drinking their blood, eating their hearts, cracking their ribs open like pistachios- and that was when I fled.
The last thing I saw on my way out was a stampede as all the famous actors, politicians and celebrities tried to leave, but how many actually survived, I will never know. I had seen enough.
Floating through the walls, out into the clear desert air, I returned to my body, parked a couple miles away in an abandoned campground in my little RV. As soon as I awoke, I ran to the bathroom, vomiting up my dinner, the dripping fat of that burning woman’s nose and the sound the hearts had made when the creature bit into them repeating in my mind like an endless loop.
***
After I had told all this to my friend Chris, he simply shook his head in wonder.
“Wow,” he said to me. “And you’re sure this wasn’t a dream?” I held up the newspaper, stating that a famous political talking head on a news channel had been found dead of an unexpected heart attack.
“I saw this guy get ripped apart,” I told Chris. “He was in the audience. He was one of the devil-worshippers.” Leaning back in his chair, Christ pretended to stroke an imaginary beard, giving me a long sideways glance. Then he jumped up.
“Well, we have to get this up on the blog,” he said. He was the technical guy for my blog, and the one who recommended I do it in the first place. We were old childhood friends, and when I told him I could astral project, he jokingly said I should use it to go into the White House or other restricted areas and put down what I saw on an internet blog. I had done so, and the blog had exploded. Hundreds of thousands of people now read it on a weekly basis.
Chris had a lot of experience with computers, so he had used encryption and VPNs to make it harder to track us- “in case this weird-ass shit is all real,” he had told me, cracking a sly smile.
I finished my beer as Chris got packed, grabbing a few things for the journey back to my house on the other side of town. Within a few minutes, we were headed out the door. As soon as I stepped foot on the driveway, I knew something was wrong.
Both of our cars had our tires slashed. There was no public transportation in our little desert town- hell, there was barely even a downtown here, mostly consisting of a gas station, a 24-hour diner and a police station. Without a car, there was simply no way to get the ten miles over to my house.
Chris was breathing fast, his face covered in a sheen of sweat as he looked at me.
“You don’t have any psycho ex-girlfriends, do you?” he asked hopefully, and then a shot rang out. Jumping up, I began to run back into Chris’ house.
“Come on!” I yelled at him. He had a blank, shell-shocked look in his eyes. Backtracking, I grabbed his arm, yanking him hard. It was just in time. Another bullet rocked past where he had just been standing, smashing his front window and sending tiny shards of glass all over the front lawn.
We were back inside within seconds. I slammed the door, turning the deadbolt before spinning back around to look at Chris. He was covered in sweat, his pupils dilated, his breathing far too fast. I thought he might pass out if he didn’t stop hyperventilating.
“It’s OK,” I said, walking up to him slowly. “We’re going to find a way out of here.”
“My gun,” Chris said suddenly. “We need it. It’s downstairs in the basement.” He spun on his heels, pushing open the basement door and barrelling down the stairs. I followed close behind. As soon as I reached the last step, I heard a tremendous bang come from the front door, followed by slow, steady footsteps as someone walked in the house.
Chris was opening the gun case, his hands still shaking. I quickly walked over, putting my finger in front of my lips in the universal sign of “Don’t say a goddamned word” while I grabbed the 30 odd 6 from the case. He looked as if he would protest for a moment, then he snapped his mouth shut again. As quietly as I could, I unloaded the magazine, saw it was full of bullets, then clicked it back into place.
It was just in time. At that moment, a huge foot kicked the basement door in. With a sound like the cracking of thunder, the door fractured into pieces. Then I heard the rapid descent of steps.
The man who had been shooting at us was just an old farmer with a straw hat, denim coveralls and a rifle. I shot him in the center of the chest as he sprinted, causing him to fall down the last six or seven steps, sending droplets of blood flying in all directions as he turned. I saw it like it was in slow motion. He fell heavily, still holding onto his rifle. My ears were ringing from the tremendous cacophony of shooting a rifle in such a confined space. I ran up, putting my foot on the farmer’s rifle and pointing the gun directly into his face.
“Why are you shooting at me?” I screamed at him. He shook his head.
“Not… you…” he said, blood bubbling from his lips as he spoke. “The other one… kidnapped my daughter…” He pointed to Chris, his movements getting weaker.
I started to turn around, but a hammer came down on the back of my head just then. Looking up, I saw Chris standing there- but now he had a black executioner’s hood on his head. The same one I had seen on the stage where the devil-worshippers gathered.
“You should have minded your own fucking business,” Chris said to me, raising the hammer again to bring it down on my face. Without thinking, I took the rifle, pointing it up at his head and pulling the trigger. The hood flew off his head as the left side of his face exploded, and he fell back.
Gurgling blood, he stared at me with his one remaining eye, a kind of intense hatred and evil there that I had never seen before.
“Lucifer saw you…” he said to me. “Your days are numbered, scum. Hail Lucifer!” That was the last thing my friend said before the awareness faded from his eye and his choked gurgling stopped.
As I crawled towards the old farmer, blood streamed down my scalp from the hammer wound. I pulled out my phone and called for help- vowing never to astral project into forbidden places again.

In front of an audience of famous politicians, celebrities, actors and singers, a man with a black executioner’s hood led a ragtag group of people in chains. All of the prisoners were dirty, wearing rags. I saw women who had cried so much that the only clean part left on their bodies were the streaks beneath their eyes, men with panicked eyes who frantically pulled at their metal chains and, watching it all with glee, the cheering, grinning faces of the rich and powerful.
“Hail Lucifer!” the man in his black executioner’s hood yelled in a deep baritone. The audience responded with rapture, some of them standing, their eyes shining, as they cried, “Hail Lucifer!” The voices of so many combined into one powerful echoing boom.
The sounds were muffled slightly during an out-of-body experience, as if I were hearing them through water. The colors and shapes also seemed to shimmer and vibrate more, giving the clear, crisp lines of everyday reality a much more fuzzy look. Even though I was only there by astral projection, I still shrunk back into the corner as much as I could, trying to hide from the madness and evil all around me. Little did I realize, I had seen nothing yet.
I thought about retreating to my body, parked in a nearby RV, and trying to call the police, the FBI, Homeland Security, anyone- then I saw the police chief and various Senators and Representatives in the audience, and gave up any hope of that idea. If I called a dispatcher, they would probably send in a hitman to kill me and make it look like a suicide, as I heard rumors they had done so many times before.
So I stayed as the ritual began, and it was the worst decision of my life. The chain-gang of prisoners were led to an inverted pentagram laying flat against a wall of stone and flickering torches. Within the pentagram, I saw shining obsidian forming the background, diamonds and opals embedded into the white gold that formed the star and circle. As they were led forward, some of the prisoners fought back, trying to pull their arms free, but they would ultimately receive a shock from a cattle prod for their efforts.
“What is wrong with you people?” the first woman in the line of prisoners cried, her eyes frantically searching the crowd for a single sane person to help her. She found nothing but coldness and insanity reflected there. The audience was deathly quiet, reminding me of old pictures I had seen of medical students surrounding a dissection. They had a kind of clinical detachment that was disturbing in its own right. Some of their eyes shone with excitement and rapture as the woman was strapped into the leather cuffs of the pentagram, forcing her legs and arms into a V shape, like the Vitruvian Man in DaVinci’s art.
The head executioner turned to the audience, bowing his head as if he were a simple entertainer.
“The ritual will begin,” he said brusquely. There was murmuring and the shuffling of random objects as the crowd stood, each pulling out a black book out with silver words embossed on the front. Floating slightly above the ground, I moved as close as possible to a beautiful woman in her early thirties in the back corner of the audience. I recognized her as a famous movie actress, countless diamonds and rubies shining on her body in an ostentatious display of wealth. The book read, “Codex Moloch.” The audience opened the books to the first page and read out in Latin as one, the screams of the woman imprisoned within the pentagram being the only sound that broke the monotony.
Returning from the back of the stage, the executioner poured gasoline over the imprisoned woman’s head. She moved her head from side to side rapidly, straining, tears pouring down her face as she pleaded and cried.
When the chanting reached a crescendo, he pulled a torch from the nearby stone wall and threw it at her feet with an almost indifferent, nonchalant motion. She went up instantly, the flash of light too bright to stare at, her screaming intensifying into something that didn’t even sound human. The smell of burning meat filled the auditorium, like pork scraps roasted to a black crisp over an open fire.
The audience responded by chanting louder and faster as her face began to melt off, small beads of fat dripping off her nose, her eyes liquefying under the intense heat. She was rapidly losing energy now, her voice turning into groans and moans that sounded like, “Uuugghhelp… uggh… gu…” I wanted to fly away, but the horror of it all kept me chained there.
Her skin turned black and split as her screams became quieter and she fell forward, straining against the chains and, thankfully, losing consciousness after what seemed like an eternity. The prisoners in the chains were shocked into silence, then they all began wailing and screaming at once. But it wasn’t for long.
Out of the charred wreckage of her body, I saw a dark shape beginning to appear. The chains snapped open with a soft clinking sound, and the blackness rose into a shape eight feet tall. It had the same charred, blackened skin as the human sacrifice, but underneath I saw bulging muscles and enormous strength as it moved forward. Its powerful legs had feet like an elephant, its hands lengthening into bone-white claws, but its face was the most disconcerting part of all. Its eyes were alive, flickering like the embers of a dying fire. Its mouth had the purest-white teeth, each one looking like a pointed dagger within its black gums.
The audience kept chanting, but it seemed to die down rapidly as the creature walked forward, and soon stopped altogether as it scanned them with its fiery eyes.
Then, it looked right at me, trying to make myself as small as possible in the back corner of the massive auditorium, and it started smiling wider. I knew, in that moment, that it had seen me.
The demonic entity turned to the chained prisoners and began ripping into them with its claws, biting their necks and sucking their blood. The first man had his heart ripped out, the creature popping the still-beating organ into its mouth and sending spurts of blood dribbling down its chin as it chewed. The rest of the prisoners tried to get away, but with them all being chained together and trying to move in different directions, they only ended up getting tangled and falling over.
I saw a few of the audience members getting up as if to run away, to get out of the auditorium, but the others in the audience shook their heads at them, saying something I couldn’t hear. No one ended up leaving, which ultimately made the death toll worse.
I didn’t stay the entire time, but I saw, once the prisoners were all dead and eaten, the beast turned to look at the audience once more.
“Hail Lucifer,” it said in a rusty, echoing croak, before jumping from the stage into the middle of the crowd, crushing a few people to death underfoot instantaneously. Without hesitation, it sent its arms out, pulling off people’s heads and drinking their blood, eating their hearts, cracking their ribs open like pistachios- and that was when I fled.
The last thing I saw on my way out was a stampede as all the famous actors, politicians and celebrities tried to leave, but how many actually survived, I will never know. I had seen enough.
Floating through the walls, out into the clear desert air, I returned to my body, parked a couple miles away in an abandoned campground in my little RV. As soon as I awoke, I ran to the bathroom, vomiting up my dinner, the dripping fat of that burning woman’s nose and the sound the hearts had made when the creature bit into them repeating in my mind like an endless loop.
***
After I had told all this to my friend Chris, he simply shook his head in wonder.
“Wow,” he said to me. “And you’re sure this wasn’t a dream?” I held up the newspaper, stating that a famous political talking head on a news channel had been found dead of an unexpected heart attack.
“I saw this guy get ripped apart,” I told Chris. “He was in the audience. He was one of the devil-worshippers.” Leaning back in his chair, Christ pretended to stroke an imaginary beard, giving me a long sideways glance. Then he jumped up.
“Well, we have to get this up on the blog,” he said. He was the technical guy for my blog, and the one who recommended I do it in the first place. We were old childhood friends, and when I told him I could astral project, he jokingly said I should use it to go into the White House or other restricted areas and put down what I saw on an internet blog. I had done so, and the blog had exploded. Hundreds of thousands of people now read it on a weekly basis.
Chris had a lot of experience with computers, so he had used encryption and VPNs to make it harder to track us- “in case this weird-ass shit is all real,” he had told me, cracking a sly smile.
I finished my beer as Chris got packed, grabbing a few things for the journey back to my house on the other side of town. Within a few minutes, we were headed out the door. As soon as I stepped foot on the driveway, I knew something was wrong.
Both of our cars had our tires slashed. There was no public transportation in our little desert town- hell, there was barely even a downtown here, mostly consisting of a gas station, a 24-hour diner and a police station. Without a car, there was simply no way to get the ten miles over to my house.
Chris was breathing fast, his face covered in a sheen of sweat as he looked at me.
“You don’t have any psycho ex-girlfriends, do you?” he asked hopefully, and then a shot rang out. Jumping up, I began to run back into Chris’ house.
“Come on!” I yelled at him. He had a blank, shell-shocked look in his eyes. Backtracking, I grabbed his arm, yanking him hard. It was just in time. Another bullet rocked past where he had just been standing, smashing his front window and sending tiny shards of glass all over the front lawn.
We were back inside within seconds. I slammed the door, turning the deadbolt before spinning back around to look at Chris. He was covered in sweat, his pupils dilated, his breathing far too fast. I thought he might pass out if he didn’t stop hyperventilating.
“It’s OK,” I said, walking up to him slowly. “We’re going to find a way out of here.”
“My gun,” Chris said suddenly. “We need it. It’s downstairs in the basement.” He spun on his heels, pushing open the basement door and barrelling down the stairs. I followed close behind. As soon as I reached the last step, I heard a tremendous bang come from the front door, followed by slow, steady footsteps as someone walked in the house.
Chris was opening the gun case, his hands still shaking. I quickly walked over, putting my finger in front of my lips in the universal sign of “Don’t say a goddamned word” while I grabbed the 30 odd 6 from the case. He looked as if he would protest for a moment, then he snapped his mouth shut again. As quietly as I could, I unloaded the magazine, saw it was full of bullets, then clicked it back into place.
It was just in time. At that moment, a huge foot kicked the basement door in. With a sound like the cracking of thunder, the door fractured into pieces. Then I heard the rapid descent of steps.
The man who had been shooting at us was just an old farmer with a straw hat, denim coveralls and a rifle. I shot him in the center of the chest as he sprinted, causing him to fall down the last six or seven steps, sending droplets of blood flying in all directions as he turned. I saw it like it was in slow motion. He fell heavily, still holding onto his rifle. My ears were ringing from the tremendous cacophony of shooting a rifle in such a confined space. I ran up, putting my foot on the farmer’s rifle and pointing the gun directly into his face.
“Why are you shooting at me?” I screamed at him. He shook his head.
“Not… you…” he said, blood bubbling from his lips as he spoke. “The other one… kidnapped my daughter…” He pointed to Chris, his movements getting weaker.
I started to turn around, but a hammer came down on the back of my head just then. Looking up, I saw Chris standing there- but now he had a black executioner’s hood on his head. The same one I had seen on the stage where the devil-worshippers gathered.
“You should have minded your own fucking business,” Chris said to me, raising the hammer again to bring it down on my face. Without thinking, I took the rifle, pointing it up at his head and pulling the trigger. The hood flew off his head as the left side of his face exploded, and he fell back.
Gurgling blood, he stared at me with his one remaining eye, a kind of intense hatred and evil there that I had never seen before.
“Lucifer saw you…” he said to me. “Your days are numbered, scum. Hail Lucifer!” That was the last thing my friend said before the awareness faded from his eye and his choked gurgling stopped.
As I crawled towards the old farmer, blood streamed down my scalp from the hammer wound. I pulled out my phone and called for help- vowing never to astral project into forbidden places again.

My parents always told me that monsters aren’t real. Obviously, I know that’s not true. But if it was, if monsters really weren’t real, why are there so many stories about them? I mean you got minotaurs and mermaids and that guy with the knives for fingers, right? All sorts of weird, scary creatures. Things that go bump in the night. To be fair, everything goes bump in the night cuz you can’t see diddly squat and there’s furniture everywhere. I go bump in the night whenever I have a soda before bed and wake up at like 2:30 in the morning needing to pee. I wonder what monsters did before furniture. They probably had a grander buffet of people to eat because they weren’t bumping into everything and waking their dinner up.
My point is humans have been around for centuries and we’ve always had stories of monsters. So why do people nowadays try to act like they’re not real? Or they say, “people are the real monsters.” Pfff! You’re not fooling me. Monsters have things like three eyes or claws that drip acid and live under your bed or in the sewer. If a normal person lived under my bed... sure, I might call that person a monster, cuz now they fit the description. More likely, I’d call them a weirdo, especially if they insisted on staying under there. I might ask them to pass me stuff that rolls under there from time to time. Marbles and pencils and what-not.
What was I getting at? Oh, right. Monsters are real. All the ones from myths, the legendary ones, the folk story ones... bridge trolls and Halloween goblins and the guy with goat legs and the lady with no face and the fox with a dozen tails... all of ‘em are real. And who just set them loose into the world? Samael.
“Again,” he corrects me. “I let them loose again.”
“We are here to stop you!” says someone from the group of angels and gray people huddled by the door to the room. It’s one of those gray-skinnies. He’s really gaunt looking, like he hasn’t had a meal in a while, and has a beard just as gray as he is. It’s super long and goes down to his knees. I hope he’s wearing something under it. “You cannot prevail, usurper!”
“It’s too late, Geras.”
Geras stomps his feet. “It’s never too late!”
Samael waves his hands dramatically in the air. “They’re all gone, you shriveled loon, all the classics! The only thing you’re going to do is put me back in my little room and lecture me on how to behave for another five thousand years or until I feel inclined to break out for another go round.”
Geras growls, making his great big, bushy mustache vibrate like a tuning fork. “We’ll just let the furies have you, I think!”
“You’ll do no such thing, Geras.” Azrael turns on his cohort. “You are here to help, not pass judgment.”
Old, gray Geras wilts. “But--”
One of the other gray-skinnies speaks. Their voice is like chalk being ground into rough pavement. I can’t make out what they look like because the group is so clustered together. “Worry not, brother... most of the dream-kind cannot remain across the threshold. There is no physical form for them in the material world. They will fade within a fortnight.”
Azrael glares daggers at Samael. “Were you not listening? He gave them flesh.”
“But how? How is that possible?!” another gray-skinny cries. The rest of the group murmurs to themselves in a language I don’t know. The gray person speaks again. “I’m just asking, I’m not thinking about doing it.”
Paschar straightens up and approaches Samael. He puts a metal-gloved hand on his arm. He squeezes it, then cocks his head and pinches him curiously.
Samael jerks his arm away and rubs the pinch spot. “Ow.”
“Flesh and blood,” Paschar says solemnly, which is a tricky word to spell because there’s a silent ‘n’ in it. “Stolen from Lily. Not bound to the Word. You always have been so very clever, Sam.” He glances over at me. His eyes burning behind his shades seem dimmer now, like someone turned the lights off inside his head. “You knew she is the only one for whom I cannot see the path.”
Paschar turns back to the rest of the angels who came to bring Samael down. They’re all just standing there like a bunch of cows chewing cud in a cow pasture. Cows have multiple stomachs, which is weird since they spend all their time just chewing and rechewing the same serving of food. Seems to me you only need one stomach for that.
My thoughts about cow stomachs are interrupted by Paschar. “He has been wearing the skin of my totem bearer to hide his actions,” he tells the crowd in a slightly louder voice, “and he thinks he’s outsmarted the whole lot of us.”
This prompts a snort laugh from Samael. “I mean, I have, haven’t I? You spent so long coordinating, thinking you were going to have to come and violently wrest control back from me that you gave me plenty of time to do what I actually wanted. Thank you for granting me the opportunity to bless my lovely creatures with the greatest gift: solid forms with which to once again wander the waking world. Flesh and blood from the one source that would allow them even greater freedom... from the Word.”
Paschar hangs his head. “You truly are insane.”
“No I’m not!” Samael grasps Paschar’s chest plate and shakes it. “I’m the only one thinking rationally anymore!”
Abaddon clears his throat loudly.
“Abaddon and I are the only ones thinking rationally anymore!” Samael lets go of Paschar and flaps his arms at the chalkboard. “Look! I laid it all out. Admittedly it was clearer before I smudged a good portion of it but-- see the lines? And my vision! I know what I saw! The Beast comes to tear down our last lines of defense!” He hurries over to his doodles and slaps the word “SOULS” written in blocky handwriting with several arrows pointing at it from different directions.
“So he’s not taking over the Veil?” asks the gray skinny with the long beard, Geras. “And he has no army? Can we still attack the two of them? I was promised a glorious battle.”
A bunch of grizzly-faced, gray-skinned ladies with long, snaggly fingers standing beside him snarl in agreement and waggle their fingers like Halloween witches. “I wanted to kill a leprechaun!” one of them screeches, which is a really bizarre thing to aspire toward, but I guess when you’re as old as dirt, you develop some weird fixations.
“Hold fast, Geras,” says Azrael. He puts an arm across Geras’s chest like the security barrier at a parking garage, even though the guy is just standing there. “He is golemized, reborn of human parentage. We must undo that first and retether him to the other side. Otherwise, we risk losing Samael forever.” He looks to the group of armed, angry followers, “Hear me! There will be no battle. We have retaken the Veil.”
The children of Nyx give a collective groan.
Samael chuckles, showing his pointy teeth. “Ha ha! Yes, good job. You reclaimed something I didn’t even want to begin with. Truly, an epic victory for you and your piddly, little army. Meanwhile, my army has gone to do their righteous work of hardening the billions of souls currently living their petty, insignificant lives.” He nods at me. “We gave them flesh, my mother Lily and I. Even the Leprechauns.”
“Damn it!” shouts the Leprechaun-obsessed, gray lady. She rakes her fingers across her face, drawing three bloody gashes in her skin. This doesn’t seem to bother her at all. She even licks her fingers like some sort of freak.
Dumah shoves past Azrael and marches across the room, stomping as loudly as a man with no flesh on his feet can stomp. He stops in front of Abaddon, who raises his hands again in his fighting stance. Abaddon doesn’t blink. Dumah doesn’t blink. He’s got no eyes, so that’s kind of a given. Snick snick snick and Dumah’s extendable scythe is in his hand. He bangs it on the floor like a judge with a gavel in a courtroom.
“How dare you be a party to this?!” he yells at Abaddon in a voice that makes the hair on the back of my neck bristle like porcupine quills. “You’ve violated one of our most sacred laws, obedience to the Word!” His teeth clack together fiercely.
Abaddon holds his ground. “I violated nothing, brother,” he replies in a sarcastic-sounding tone. “How could I? I am written as I am written. It’s impossible for me to stray. If I do it, it must be in the Word.” Abaddon puffs up his chest and jabs Dumah in the ribcage with his finger. “Besides, I had no hand in Samael’s untethering. I discovered it after the fact, when I found his offspring masquerading as him in the Pit. Even then, I tried to talk to you first. I tried to warn you! And later, when I learned of the Beast’s coming, to bring you around to join us. But you were always too busy to give me a moment of your attention! You just kept bossing me around!”
The crowd of gray people at the door start yelling. They wave their weapons around like they aren’t sure what to do with them and they’re getting too hot to hold onto. Azrael holds one hand up and they settle back down again. They really seem to be chomping at the bit to kill something and I find myself wishing they’d just leave already.
Dumah bangs his scythe on the floor again. The stone he hits cracks. “How many?” he snarls.
Abaddon cringes slightly. “How many what?”
“For your mad plan, how many innocent lives must be spent?”
“All of them!” Abaddon suddenly roars. “That’s what we made them for!” He digs at the air and the ground around him erupts into a wall of stone that pushes Dumah back a foot. “They’re nothing but bricks and mortar! Slivers of ourselves, packaged in meat and born to suffer! To harden from the experience of a life in that miserable reality so that they can imprison the Beast there for all time!”
“The beast isn’t coming.”
Paschar’s words are just a whisper, but they silence the entire room. Abaddon’s fists unclench ever so slightly. The ground rumbles flat. Samael’s smile twitches. They all look at Paschar. Paschar takes his dark glasses off. His eyes are no longer burning with light. They’re like two solid gold orbs in his sockets. Leaky orbs. He’s crying. His tears are golden too and leave glittery trails down his cheeks.
“It’s already here, among us.”
Everybody looks at each other. Dirt Lily lifts her head off the floor for a moment. She’s got a big egg lump on her forehead that’s turning purple and black. She looks around too, then carefully lays her head back down on the floor and puts her hands over it.
Paschar squeezes Samael’s arm. Samael clenches his jaw. “Look at us,” Paschar tells him, “Look at what we’ve become. Its rage, its hatred, its paranoia... we’ve been infected by it. You’re right, Sam... the darkness isn’t at the edge of the Universe, it’s inside us.”
He grabs his brother by the other arm, causing him to drop Durga’s trident. He twists both arms behind Samael’s back. Samael hisses through his fang teeth. Paschar’s eyes flash bright white like two beacons for a second, then he proclaims in an otherworldly voice, “Samael... Deceiver, seducer, accuser. You have corrupted the Veil Project beyond repair. Your actions will result in immeasurable suffering to the very beings we are sworn to protect. For your crimes, I, Paschar, watcher of Arabath, steward of Cassiel, and executor of the Seven Potestates, sentence you to Caina, where you will atone for your treachery until it is decided otherwise by our creator.”
“Caina?” The confident, smug look Samael always seems to have on his face suddenly vanishes. “That’s--”
“A prison for mortal souls, yes,” Paschar’s voice returns to normal. He squeezes his brother’s arms together. This makes Samael’s knees buckle for a moment and his face scrunches up in pain. “You’re mortal now, after all. And until we can fix what you’ve done, you will remain so, and be punished as one.”
Paschar then turns toward Abaddon. His eyes flash bright white again. The weird voice returns. “Abaddon, destroyer, marshal of the pit. For showing a significant lapse in judgment and participating in deception that allowed the deceiver to commit these heinous acts, you are to be stripped of all faculty and rehabilitated in the oubliette.” He casts a dismissive glance at Azrael, who seems equally surprised by his words. “This is the judgment of the Seven Potestates and as such, it will be done.”
Azrael gives a long, slow breath out of his nose and then nods silently.
Suddenly, a grating, grinding sound fills the room. It sounds like it’s coming from everywhere. Everyone else seems puzzled by it as well, then all our attention turns to my left as one of the walls starts to open. A large, square section of it slides like it’s on a hinge. I realize the wall section is one of those hidden doors made to look like it’s just stones and stone paste. The secret door swings open slowly, scraping against the floor just to add to the drama of the moment.
The group at the other door panics and spreads out. Some who had put their weapons away pull them back out. One angel wearing bluish metal armor is holding these cool, little fist blades that stick out between his fingers like Wolverine from comic books. He clenches and unclenches them and grits his teeth.
“The Beast!” someone yells.
“The Beast is without form, you twit,” Azrael sighs. Still, he squeezes his sword like a little kid desperately trying to hang on to a lollipop they found under the couch cushions once their mother sees them licking it right before dinner.
Something inside me --not like my organs and blood, but like a gut feeling-- makes me lift my right hand up over my head. When I do, the trident of Durga lifts up off the floor and spirals through the air, slapping into my open hand. It makes me feel bad ass. It also stings. I use the trident to get to my feet and then grip its handle with both fists, ready to fight.
Out of the pitch-black lumbers a body in dirty, blood-stained clothes, its head missing from its neck. I take a moment to process the missing head, then realize it’s holding the missing head in its hands. There’s a shaggy mop of orange hair and a frown on its pasty white face. It’s Mr. Gin, the carnival worker, or at least his body. Inside is Meredith’s ghost, walking the decapitated corpse around like a toy soldier. Directly behind him stands a wisp of a girl dressed in rags. She’s got a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth and two hands covered in blood. Ohno.
“She ripped my head off!” shouts Meredith. He holds it up for everyone to see. Blood runs out from the bottom of his neck. Dirt Lily looks up from the ground, then squeaks and tries to bury her head in her arms.
“It’s a Dullahan!” yells someone in the mob of gray-skinned people. Another shiny spear is chucked. This one actually has some strength behind it though and manages to reach Meredith and Ohno. It hits Mr. Gin’s corpse in the chest with a heavy-sounding chunk, just barely missing the talking head he’s holding in front of him.
Meredith staggers back and looks up at the spear sticking out of him. “What the bleep?” I didn’t censor that, by the way, he actually says, “bleep”. He sets his head on his neck stump with a sticky plop sound. It looks like it might slide right off. He holds it in place with one hand, while with his other hand he grabs the handle of the spear and tugs at it. The spear seems to be pretty solidly buried in him though. It wiggles but doesn’t move. “Who threw this?” He uses his hand to twist his head around on the stump and stinkeye everyone in the room.
“Hold fast!” shouts Azrael. “That’s no Dullahan.”
Ohno glares at the room of angels and Nyxians. “Release my father!” she screeches.
In response, Paschar grips Samael’s wrists tighter. Samael groans and his knees buckle underneath him. This makes his arms twist up behind his back even worse, but Paschar doesn’t let go. “You’re making a grave miscalculation, child,” he tells Ohno.
Samael the great Accuser meets his crazy daughter’s glare. “I told you to go!” he says through clenched fangs. “I knew where this story would end, girl. Stopping the Beast is all that matters. Go! Be my harbinger. You must anneal those billions of souls until they shine like diamonds.” I’m just quoting him. I have no idea what any of it means.
Ohno doesn’t leave. She pulls a pointy kitchen knife out of her rags and jabs Meredith in the back with it. Meredith responds with a meep sound like Beaker from Muppet Babies.
“Release my father or I’ll carve this one up!” the Boogeygirl snarls.
“I’ve already got a freakin’ spear in me,” Meredith points out, “and you ripped my head off!”
Nobody else seems particularly impressed by this threat either. Some of the angry mob of gray-skinnies shuffle toward the two of them. Azrael doesn’t try to stop them this time. Instead, he just smirks, content to watch what happens next.
“You have nothing they want,” Samael says in a taunting voice, “except a chance to whet their blades in your blood. You should have gone, like I ordered you to! But of course, you can’t even follow that simple command.” He cranes his neck around to look at Paschar above and behind him, “Honestly, I think your ward slayed the wrong one. Lamia was always the better of the two.”
Paschar squeezes Samael’s arms behind his back. “Be quiet, Sam,” he says sternly.
Ohno’s pasty features twist ever so slightly as the bloodthirsty mob moves toward her. Her eyes are black and empty, but I feel them as they turn toward me. The knuckles on her hand holding the knife turn even whiter. I remember how fast she is. She was a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye that day when Samael invaded my brain. She may even be as fast as Paschar when he dodged Abaddon’s attacks. Me, I’m not fast. I’m not even remotely athletic. Hell, I can’t even hit the birdie while playing badminton.
Paschar is also aware of who her attention has become fixed on. “Don’t do it, Onokole,” he warns her.
But Ohno does. She shoves Meredith aside and moves threateningly toward me. She’s like an afterimage of someone running in a blurry photograph. And in the same instant that Ohno turns into a blur moving at ludicrous speed, Paschar lets go of Samael’s wrists and becomes one himself. Both blurs whistle through the air toward me. I squeal and pull my arms and one leg up, trying to curl into a ball before I get diced up by Ohno’s kitchen knife.
But the attack never comes. Instead, I feel Paschar’s arms and wings surround me like a giant eggshell. He holds me to his chest, pressing my cheek right up against his cold, metal armor. At the same time, a loud, collective gasp fills the room. Something’s off. Something doesn’t feel right. Durga’s trident! I was holding it when Paschar grabbed me. I try to squirm out of his hug.
“Paschar!” I yell at him, “Let me go! My trident!”
Paschar gazes down at me with his leaky, golden orb-eyes. Together, we look between us, where Durga’s trident now sticks out of his armor. The handle is slammed down into the stone floor and all three pointy tines have pierced his metal chest plate. Shiny fluid runs out of the holes and down the prongs.
Paschar lets go of me and staggers back.
“What have you done?!” shouts Azrael.
“I didn’t mean to!”
“Not you!” he snaps.
Across the room, Ohno stands over her father Samael. She seems to be lifting his chin up to look her in her black, empty eyes. His mouth hangs open slightly. Then I notice that her hand under his chin is actually gripping the handle of the kitchen knife, and the rest of it is missing because it’s been thrust up into Samael’s head from the soft part of his jaw. The blade glints between his teeth, deep inside his mouth. There’s a river of dark blood covering Ohno’s pale hand and running down the front of Samael’s chest.
Samael makes a gurgling sound, but he can’t say anything because I think the kitchen knife must be poking up into his brain. Ohno pulls the knife out with a sickening slush sound. Blood gushes out of Samael’s head and he pitches to the side.
Paschar looks over at his brother’s body, but he seems more confused than concerned. His head teeters around on his neck like one of those bobble-head figures people put on the dashboard of their cars. My parents never put a bobble-head on the dashboard. Mom always said that if we got in an accident, stuff like that would turn into projectiles and kill you. Imagine a springy piece of plastic flying at you at a hundred miles per hour. Coroner’s report would declare it was death by bobble-head.
I reach out to Paschar to try to help him, to maybe pull the trident out, but he holds a hand up at me and takes another step back, feeling around with his free hand to find something to balance on. When it comes back empty-handed, he stumbles in that direction instead. My heart stumbles in my chest with him.
Azrael doesn’t seem concerned about Paschar at all. He storms across the room toward Ohno with murder in his eyes. “He was untethered!” he says in a booming voice, “his light-- his... his light.” his voice gets weaker with each repetition of the words.
Out of Samael’s crumpled body floats what looks like a tiny spark. A small, glowing piece of charcoal, like when you stuff newspaper in a fireplace and bits of the burning paper float away, except in this case there’s nobody shouting at you that you’re gonna burn the house down and stop putting the Sunday newspaper in the fireplace before everyone gets a chance to read it.
Azrael tries to take the spark in his hand, but it flickers and vanishes.
“Samael,” he whispers. He stands there, staring at the place where the spark had last been. A darkness seems to fall over his face. In the center of his face shadow, his eyes become two boiling, blood-filled mason jars. Maybe a mason jar isn’t the best analogy for what his eyes look like, but I’m running out of things to compare everybody’s rage faces to. He’s enraged, okay? He looks like Hulk Hogan had a rage baby with the Incredible Hulk. A double-Hulk rage-baby. That’s not a very flattering description of him. Azrael would probably tear my arms off if he heard my thoughts.
Oh, he’s grabbing Ohno by her neck. I snap out of my double-Hulk rage-baby imagery as Azrael lifts Ohno up off the floor. I’m surprised he was able to get a hand on her, considering how fast and slippery she is. She screeches and stabs him several times with her kitchen knife, but each stab just clangs off his metal armor. The last one makes the blade slip back in her hand and she drops it. The knife clatters to the floor with a spatter of dark blood.
Without a word, Azrael walks the still flailing Ohno over to the lady angel and the angel in blue armor with the cool Wolverine finger weapons. He holds her out in front of him with one hand like she weighs less than a paper cup or a really good stick you find in the woods and pretend is a sword. The other two angels grab her clawing arms and pull her back, away from Azrael. He starts fumbling with his armored chest plate, like he’s looking for a zipper or something.
“Lily.” Paschar calls my name. I start to go to him but then I see that he’s propped against the wall beside Meredith. Dirt Lily is tugging futilely at the trident sticking out of his chest. “I’ll be fine,” he tells her, “I just need a moment. This is a demon-slaying trishula. I’m not actually--” and then Paschar slides down the wall and goes still. Other me squeaks and starts trying to shake him back awake.
My head is spinning. I want to run to him too but my feet won’t work. I open my mouth to scream his name and nothing comes out. Or does it? I hear his name, “Paschar!” inside my head, but not in my ears. My ears are filled with a shrill ringing like standing too close to the wall of televisions at an electronics store.
Across the room, Ohno is also screaming. She’s using all sorts of bad words and cursing the angels. They don’t seem to care in the least. Azrael has undone his armor and pulls what looks like a roll of paper towels out from underneath. That’s weird. No, okay, he’s unrolling it and it’s one of those scrolls people used to write on. He stands in front of Ohno and says something I can’t make out. Knowing these guys, it’s probably Latin or some other dead language.
Finally, he says words I understand. Most of them anyway. “Onokole, Empusa, daughter of Hekate and Samael, I erase your name from the scroll of life.” Then he makes some dramatic flourish with his hand across the paper of the scroll.
Ohno’s face is all twisted up in hatred. Dirty, black hair covers most of it but you can see one of her eyes and her mouth and that’s enough to know her thoughts. Her arms twist in the two angels’ grips and then there’s a nasty snapping sound and they bend in an impossible way. She’s trying to shapeshift, but it doesn’t seem to be going right. Instead, her limbs start sagging like they’re full of sand. She gnashes her teeth. The one eye you can see rolls around in its socket. She makes a weird, upsetting gurgling sound that seems to come up from her belly and tumble out her mouth. Then she goes completely limp.
The two angels unceremoniously toss her lifeless body to the ground.
“What just happened?” asks Meredith. He looks around the room at the three different collapsed figures. “Are they dead?”
Nobody else answers him, so I do. “Angels can’t die,” I tell him.
Azrael stares at Ohno’s body and tucks his paper towel scroll thing back under his breastplate. “Samael was golemized. He untethered himself from our realm to wear the form of flesh and blood like one of you. But unlike you, whose fragments of light are linked to the Veil, his was unbound.” He turns his fiery gaze at me. “We cannot die, it’s true, but without a link back to our realm, his light is lost between worlds. He may as well be dead now.”
Dumah floats over to Paschar and kneels in front of him. He wraps a bony hand around the trident’s handle and tugs on it sharply. The tongs pop out of Paschar’s armor easily and more of that glittery fluid spurts out briefly before oozing down his front.
“He’ll recover,” he says to the other me, “this isn’t the worst injury he’s suffered, believe me. Why, one time--”
“Enough!” Azrael says sternly. “Kushta, take Paschar, get him patched up. Munkar, Nakir... escort the children of Nyx back. I’ll deal with Abaddon.”
The gray skinnies all start shouting and waving their arms angrily. “We were promised access to the waking world!” Several of the creepy ladies with the long, pointy claws start clawing at their own faces.
“You were promised an audience!” Azrael snaps at them. “And you’ll get it, but right now we’ve got other things to take care of. We will fetch you when things are less... complicated.” he looks at the lady angel. “Nakir, lead them. Then return to Barzakh. Samael’s minions on the other side are likely already beginning to unleash his dreadful plan on the mortal realm.”
I feel a cold hand on my shoulder. “Follow me, Lily. It’s going to be alright; I promise.” Dumah hands me the trident, still drippy with Paschar’s silvery blood. He spins me so I’m facing away from the crowd of ranting gray people as several angels start trying to herd them out the door like a bunch of angry cats. “Let’s get you home.”
How could everything have gone to shit in just a matter of seconds? Or minutes? I was just talking to Samael literally moments ago as he went on about his weird master plan and drew chalk arrows and now he’s dead? Like for good? I’ll never see his creepy face again? And Ohno too? Just like that! And I’m being sent to bed like it’s a regular school night.
“What do you care?” I pull my shoulder away from Dumah’s hand, “We’re just bricks to you. Or whatever a brick is before it becomes a brick.”
“Clay,” says dirt Lily.
“Right! We’re just lumps of clay!”
Dirt Lily frowns.
“Did I call you a brick?” Dumah asks gently, trying to sound like Paschar.
I’m not interested in gentle talk though and he sounds nothing like Paschar. “Abaddon did! And you didn’t tell him he was wrong!”
The room clears pretty quickly. A bronze-armored angel with dark skin and yellow eyes picks up Paschar and carries him out the door. I wish I could go with them. Samael’s body is gone too. Azrael is talking to another one of the armored angels. They’re speaking softly so I can’t hear what they’re saying. Every now and then, the other angel glances at Ohno’s corpse like he’s watching to make sure she doesn’t get back up. I don’t blame him. She’s faked being dead before.
Abaddon stands by Samael’s overturned chalkboard. He stares at it silently, looking like a four-armed statue.
“Well Abaddon is wrong,” Dumah says loudly. Abaddon doesn’t give any indication that he hears him but I’m sure he does. “You are not bricks. You are us and we are you. This Veil may separate us on a metaphysical level but we are linked like a forest of trees. Under your suits of skin are the same beings of pure light you’ll find on our side, made stronger by perseverance.”
“What?” I’m sure this is supposed to be deep and emotional or something but it doesn’t help that I only understand half of what he’s saying.
Dirt Lily is equally confused. “I can’t go back to the orphanage looking like this.”
“Like what?” Meredith asks her.
“Like there’s two of me.”
Meredith snorts. “I can’t go anywhere the way I am.” He lifts his head off its stump to show what he means.
Dumah’s teeth start to grind against each other. Black smoke puffs out from under his robes. “Everybody shut up.”
I try to object but find my voice is gone. Other me is also mouthing words and getting nothing out. Meredith looks at both of us, then starts to laugh but no laugh leaves her face. She realizes this and immediately stops. Her eyes bulge in panic.
“I’m taking you back to the fairgrounds,” Dumah tells us, “We have unfinished business there.”

3/18/24 I will be having the Discseel procedure performed by Dr. Kevin Pauza in the morning. I have read several postings on here about it, with only one really sharing their experience. I plan to spend the next year giving my account of this process and what it will do for my pain.
To start off, I have had severe pain lately on the L4-L5-S1 to the point that I have spent the last 13 days lying in my bed and in severe pain whenever I have to get up and walk. (Bathroom and 3 med appointments to get X-Ray & CT scan and then and MRI). Was referred to a neurosurgeon by my PCP (Primary Care Physician) and was actually supposed to go see him this morning but instead drove to Dallas for a consult with Dr. Pauza.
Here is the text of an email from his staff, explaining the process and what they saw going on before I ever saw him.
START OF EMAIL
Dr. Pauza feels he can help you. He believes your symptoms are due to chemical radiculopathy. Leaky Disc Syndrome. Meaning you have tears in your discs which cause the disc's inner jelly (nucleus pulposus) to leak out onto nerves causing chemical inflammation.
All that being said, an annulogram would be performed to confirm exactly which discs are in fact torn and the identified discs would be treated with the fibrin by injection. The fibrin will seal the annulus of the disc creating a barrier for the jelly to stop the leaking onto the nerves. The fibrin has also been proven to regenerate healthy disc tissue which is intended to stop and reverse the degeneration process of the discs.
It’s important to note that it is not a herniation or compression that is causing symptoms but rather a disc actively leaking onto the spinal nerve root, or “leaky disc syndrome” . You can not have a disc herniate or degenerate or desiccate, without having an annular tear first.
There are two kinds of symptoms, radicular and somatic, and there are two sources, chemical or mechanical. Fibrin helps to eliminate both. Helps mechanical bulge or herniation by retracting the disc tissue inwards.
Although fibrin immediately seals all torn discs treated, more importantly, fibrin facilitates growth of new disc tissue. This is optimal because it minimizes future breakdown of all discs.
Fortunately, but unfortunately although disc heal naturally after injuries or discectomy, they adhere with a weak tissue called "granulation tissue". In comparison, fibrin causes the growth of normal disc tissue, and therefore it doesn't continuously re-tear over a person's lifetime because it stronger. It forms Normal matrix configurations/tissue compared to the natural healing process which provides temporary healing with the weaker configuration tissue.
Think of when you cut your skin on your arm and it begins to heal because of fibrin in your own blood.... it forms a more delicate weaker skin tissue under the scab. It's able to do so because of the blood flow, Vascular flow to that area. The discs don't have vascular flow so they take a long time to heal and therefore, once granulation tissue has formed in the disc where it tears, it's weaker , because it didn't form with blood flow but instead through osmosis. That's why only 80% of people's disc repair on their own within six months , and then are prone to tearing it again because of the granulation tissue.
Although we call it “Fibrin” and it is Fibrin, the Discseel Procedure doesn’t inject Fibrin, but instead, it injects 4 components. Fibrinogen Thrombin Calcium Aprotinin
“Fibrinogen” is injected...and when this Fibrinogen is exposed to our “Thrombin,” this Thrombin acts like an axman, cleaving the Fibrinogen. It cleaves Fibrinogen polymer into Fibrinogen monomers. Those monomers come together again as the organized matrix called “Fibrin.” When this occurs in the presence of injured Annulus tissue, the tissue’s exposed amino acid chains cause one end of the monomer to connect to the injured tissue, and the other end of that same monomer to connect to another monomer making Fibrin.
Any exposed ends of monomers adhere to other exposed monomers, or another piece of injured tissue (Annulus tissue), thus, it’s a tissue adhesive.
This only occurs in the presence of Calcium. Think of Calcium as being moonlight.... so therefore....”The Thrombin Ax-man can only chop-up Fibrinogen victims under the Full moon. (of Calcium)
And to make it all last longer, we added a molecule called “Aprotinin.”
This is why our product is a strong tissue adhesive (which also stimulates normal tissue growth) In comparison, injecting Fibrin derived by filtering it out of a person’s blood, can’t be a tissue adhesive, but actually does the opposite.... filtered autologous Fibrin that’s injected into Annulus disrupts annular layers, increasing disc annular fissures and voids, as expected when remembering “Archimedes Principle of Fluid Displacement.” “
Regarding the Exosomes :
While not required for Discseel to do its job, Exosomes are something that we are able to offer to our patients in addition to their Discseel treatment, to take the treatment a step further for the patient.
Exosomes (Latin “exit cell”) are the signaling packages, the “brains” of stem cells, that exit cells to signal the body to heal damaged and inflamed tissue.
Exosomes circulate through blood, incorporating themselves into damaged cells, through a process called “invagination,” causing cells to repair, by incorporating younger, healthy chromosomal messages that replace older, damaged chromosomal messages of damaged cells.
Exosomes are the strongest anti-inflammatory know, because they repair damaged tissue, the cause of inflammation. Even with their potent anti-inflammatory benefits, they’re without the detrimental side effects of all other anti-inflammatories.
Exosomes surpass abilities of stem cells because they’re the “pure messenger,” without the “extra baggage” of stem cells. This is why Exosomes are replacing stem cell treatments.
Because Exosomes are the pure messenger and can target damaged tissue, the FDA classifies them as a drug, and not just a biologic. This benefits patients by allowing patients to know which Exosomes are registered in an FDA Master-file and others not registered. Dr.Pauza’s work utilizes Exosomes registered in the FDA Master-file and procured at LSU laboratories through grants from DynaCord.
Exosomes weren’t possible a few years ago because “Nano-technology” didn’t exist then. Nano-technology is necessary to obtain small Exosomes from stem cells. Using nanotechnology, the laboratory procures billions of Exosomes that occupy only a few drops, allowing treatments that stem cells can never provide.
Dr. Kevin Pauza’s team patented the method which seals damaged spinal discs by using Fibrin, an FDA Approved drug, and introduces Exosomes into those sealed discs, to successfully treat low back pain and neck pain (sciatica “radiculopathy” and degenerative disc disease.)
Exosomes are procured from donated umbilical cords after a child is born, and not from aborted placenta, the source of many stem cells. Because Exosomes are pure chromosomal messengers, and not just a biologic, Exosomes can’t be rejected by the body, allowing them to work equally well in all.
We are able to add them to the Discseel treatment in the disc, isolate joints, or do an IV flush to target more overall for brain tissues organs etc.
I hope this helps you if I can help further or provide you with dates please let me know.
END OF EMAIL
One thing you need to know is that this process is not currently covered by insurance. You should also know that he has trained a few doctors to do this, so he is no longer the only person you have to see to get this done. I am not sure, but I would imagine his office would provide a dr near you if you can't come see him. I live only 2 hours from his Dallas clinic, so he was close enough to go to.
Prior to making this decision, I spent a full week researching Dr. Pauza and the technique. I found out about this process from my wife, who was told about it by her boss. He knew about it because the wife of another employee had the treatment done 18 months ago. We were told it did not work for her so we reached out and made contact and were able to talk to her. We had heard wrong. She said it was the best decision she had ever made for her back and health. Her issues which led her to try it were the same as I am currently having. L4-L5-S1. The conversation with her is the main reason that my wife and I felt more comfortable going down this path.
I have always heard that only 5% of back surgeries work to address the problem and remove all symptoms. So I have always said that I would not consider surgery until the pain got so bad that it was my last resort. I am there, but this process could mean I can still avoid surgery and may mean I won't ever need it. The online literature said that with this process there is an 83 or 86% success rate. I like that number way more than 5%.
One thing to know is that this process is out of pocket and not covered by insurance (yet). If you are a veteran, look at a link from another person who has posted a lot about his experience with discseel on Reddit (search Discseel) and he has a link to a story where the VA has signed a contract with Dr. Pauza to have him train all of the VA spine dr's on this process.
After sitting down with Dr. Fauza, I found him to be personable, VERY smart (and he will call you among his smarter patients if you talk about all you learned researching him and his process) and very easy to understand.
I am electing to also have the Exosomes which adds to the cost. I am not going to mention the cost because his staff will do a one-on-one analysis and you can submit a one page financial sheet and they will then determine the cost for you based on your financial situation. Some might not like that, but 1) it might make someone choose not to consider the procedure and not really research it, and 2) what I am paying is based on my financial picture and I am not going to open the can of worms that could come from "why didn't I get the same deal as that guy" or "that guy got screwed, my cost was way lower". There are other users who have listed what they paid on Reddit if you really want an idea and are too lazy to simply call them. (866-929-5913 or www.discseel.com).
I also know that it seems like I am already on the Discseel bandwagon with all the info I am providing. Well, I think you kind of have to be to even get the procedure.
But I am also providing all the details that I have PRIOR to getting the procedure.
If it does not work, you will also see me report on that as well. But I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY hope and pray that it works. I am physically exhausted from this pain that hydrocodone will not even touch.
I hope to post on how I feel on Wednesday, 3/20/24. And then weekly for about 6-8 weeks and then monthly. The reason for this is that the process is supposed to provide some relief pretty quick, but there is also a component where the discs need time to heal and this takes just that: time. Over all about a year. In some instances Dr. Pauza told me that symptoms may get worse at first before they get better. However in my situation, by stopping the chemical interaction between my spinal nerve and the disc fluid, I should get a lot of relief beginning tomorrow. And I hope this Reddit discussion, if this process works, will help someone else avoid surgery and get pain free (if this all works).
Time for me to go to bed. Good night from PapaBear.

“Fuck,” I said as I drove to work in the old beater that only started on the fourth try because it could tell that I was pissed off. Ray’s case started at two o’clock, and I was heading to the office to get ready. “Fuck fuck fuckity fucking fuck.” I’d wanted to tell Angela about Ray’s case, and how I was sorry that I hadn’t wanted to help him, but now I would, I would help him, and I would win, but then I’d gotten her all riled up on something else, something totally different, something way more serious.
My wife had given me a triple ultimatum: fix things up with her father, save idiot Ray from Sy-Co Corp., and somehow find a downpayment for the place she wanted to buy, in the little townhouse infill project in Bixity. It was like demanding I do a double bank shot, and then run over to the baseball diamond and hit a home run after first pointing to where it would land, Babe Ruth style.
Angela was mad at me, seriously mad. She’d slipped out that morning before I was even awake, sliding quietly past me on the couch. I didn’t realize she was gone until I heard the faint click of the front door closing. I jumped up, tripped over a blanket, and by the time I got up and my robe on, the elevator down the hall dinged, and Angela was gone before I opened the apartment door.
I swore at myself some more and pounded the steering wheel, “I fucked up,” I said, several times as I hit the wheel over and over again, until I accidentally honked it, and then looked all sheepish when the guy in front of me gave me the finger. I reached my office without further incident, but instead of walking in the front door, I went further down the hall, and into the office of Mark Cecil-Rowe, Barrister, LL.D, the man with the finest speaking voice I ever heard. When I entered his office I forgot for a minute about Angela and her father and sleeping on the couch the night before. I forget about everything, except the reason that I had come to Cecil-Rowe’s office: to stump him with a legal problem that I had solved, but which I was pretty sure he could not. In other words, I had come to preen and to brag and to boast. No one likes a showoff, and I had come to show off. I put my hand on the door and turned the knob. After a brief pause, I flung open the door.
“I’m a goddamn genius,” I said as I strolled into the older man’s office.
I noticed the echo of a hastily closed desk drawer hanging in the air. In Aaron’s office, where I rented space, a sudden act of concealment implied cocaine, but with Cecil-Rowe, the item in question was probably a mickey of vodka. I had the sense that he’d been drinking a bit before I arrived, but his powers of observation were unimpaired, and when he looked into my face, his expression showed sympathy, and actual pain.
“What have you done now?” he said, as set the papers before him to one side, and readied himself to hear my latest tale of legal brilliance.
“I’m a genius,” I said.
“Oh dear. Have a seat.”
“No really, I am. I’m a genius. I got this case that everyone says you can’t win, but I’m gonna win it, and when I do, I’m gonna look like a genius.” Cecil-Rowe gave me a sad indulgent smile.
“Whenever you tell me you’re a genius, I am always concerned about what is to follow. When you get wrapped up in what you call your genius, you tend to ignore the more mundane things we lawyers have to do to win a case. You think you’re going to win by genius alone.”
“Let me tell you why I’m a goddamn genius.” With effort I wiped the smug, self-satisfied expression that was on my face.
“Tell me why you’re a genius,” Cecil-Rowe said, “while I pour us a coffee.” He heaved his bulky body up from his chair and shuffled over to a counter. He picked up a carafe of hot coffee sitting on a hot plate, and poured two cups. “Speak,” he said, handing me one. I took a sip of the coffee, and told Cecil-Rowe the tale of Cousin Ray: his purchase of a franchise from Sy-Co Corp, its swift demise, the crash and burn in Commercial Court, the Minutes of Settlement, the seventy-one kilometer limit, and lastly, Sy-Co’s motion scheduled for two p.m. that very day, seeking an interim injunction shutting down Ray’s place.
Cecil-Rowe absorbed all this without the need to take notes. Instead, he sat back while he eyed me, taking the occasional sip of coffee, and smiling at the extravagant flourishes and details that brought out Ray’s story to full effect.
“Obviously Ray is dead on arrival,” he said, “but I guess this is the part where you tell me how you’re going to win.”
So I told him how I was going to win, but it didn’t have the desired effect. “I told ya I’m a genius, Mr. C,” cueing him to applaud, to admit what a brilliant lawyer I was. But there was no applause from Mark Cecil-Rowe. He looked at me without so much as a smile.
“You can cling to that genius notion as a consolation prize, after you get whipped this afternoon in court.”
“No way,” I said, “not a chance. I got this thing won hands down. I’m gonna kick ass in court today and--”
“And how exactly do you plan to do that, if you don’t have evidence?”
“What?”
“Evidence, Calledinthe9os. It’s what lawyers like me use to beat geniuses like you.”
“But I’m gonna win without proof. I don’t need proof. The argument I’m gonna make, relies on simple facts that are totally obvious, so the judge is gonna--” Cecil-Rowe stuck up his hand.
“Stop right there. I know what’s coming. You’re going to ask the judge to take *judicial notice.”
And he was right. That was exactly what I was going to do.
There are some things so obvious that you didn’t have to prove them, things that everyone knew. You didn’t have to prove that water froze at zero degrees and boiled at a hundred, or that Bixity was between West Bay and East Bay.
“You got it,” I said, “judicial notice all the way.”
“You’re going to tell the judge that the centerpiece of your argument, the lynchpin of your case is a fact known to pretty well everyone, and so you don’t need proof.”
“Exactly,” I said. Cecil-Rowe took another sip of his coffee, and left me hanging in the silence for a while before he spoke.
“If that’s true, then why does coming up with that argument make you a genius?”
“Oh, I said,”I didn’t think of that.”
“It is acceptable to rely on judicial notice for minor, ancillary points. But you never should walk into court thinking that the court will take judicial notice of your entire defence. It’s just too risky.”
“But how am I going to rustle up a witness in time for this afternoon?”
“Worry about that after you leave my office. I can’t help you with that. What I want to know, is why you’re doing this at the last minute.”
“What makes you think I’m doing this at the last minute?”
“Because you never would have resorted to judicial notice if you were properly prepared. If you’d opened this case a bit earlier, you’ve have everything lined up. But you got to work on it late, and so you want to rely on judicial notice. You’ve messed up, Calledinthe90s, and you know what my rule is when you mess up.” Cecil-Rowe didn’t extend aid to me, until I admitted the error of my ways. It was infuriating, but he was inflexible. So I fessed up.
“My idiot cousin Ray’s been trying to retain me for almost two weeks, but I was putting him off because I was mad at him. So now my wife’s mad at me, and if I don’t win this case, I’m dead. Plus her dad’s mad at me too and --” My brain roared into overdrive, a mess of family and law and fear, and at the centre of it, thoughts of Angela’s anger and her father. My mind took off, and then came to an instant halt at a helpful destination.
“Yes?” Cecil-Rowe said.
“Sorry. I just realized how to solve the evidence problem. Look, can I ask you about the thing I actually came here to ask you about?”
“You have a problem that’s worse than having no evidence? What could be worse than -- oh. You don’t have a retainer. Your client doesn't have any money.”
“Exactly. How do I get paid? That’s the problem.” I explained that Ray had no money, as in none, and that if he did have money, he wouldn’t spend it on me. Instead, he’d go back downtown and throw his cash at some big firm, who would take on his case, and proceed to lose it in a calm, careful, sober manner, ending in a reporting letter to Ray telling him that he’d lost.
“Now that’s a problem I can solve,” Cecil-Rowe said.
“Really? ‘Cause I can’t see a way around it. I think I’m gonna have to do this for free, and that really pisses me off.” Cecil-Rowe shook his head.
“You may or may not get paid, but you can set things up so that if you win, you’ll win pretty good.”
“How? Ray’s a deadbeat. Tapped out.”
“But is he desperate?”
“Totally. The first time he failed, he lost his own money, but if he goes under this time, he’s taking family money with him, and he’ll be the black sheep forever.”
“And he’s using family to emotionally blackmail you into helping him?’
“Like no shit. That’s the part that pisses me off the most. I’m like a goddamn slave, being forced to work for free.”
“Never fear, young apprentice. I have just the thing in mind.” He reached into a drawer, and pulled out a form. “Fill in the blanks, and have him sign.”
I looked it over, and saw that the document was a retainer agreement. I whistled. “Holy shit. If he signs this, he’s almost my slave.”
“Close, but not quite” Cecil-Rowe said, “the Latin term for this is "contractus pro venditione animae"”. It’s the ultimate retainer agreement. Once Ray signs that, you own any cause of action he has against the person suing him. You can settle the case on any terms you like, and you get to keep whatever proceeds there are.” Cecil-Rowe placed the folder back in a drawer, and from his manner you could tell that the interview was over.
“Awesome, Mr. C. I’ll call you from Commercial Court when we’re done.”
“Commercial Court?” he said.
“Yeah, Commercial Court.”
“This just keeps getting worse. Take notes, Calledinthe90s, while I school you on Commercial Court. Commercial Court is a jungle, and without preparation, you’ll get savaged.”
“That’s what happened to Ray when--”
“Take notes, young apprentice,” he said, tossing me a pad and a pen. He started to lecture, and I took notes that I have with me to this day, in a safe deposit box downstairs in the vault at Mega Bank Main Branch.
* * *
By the time Cecil-Rowe finished schooling me, it was close to ten, and the case started at two. I didn’t have much time. I ran down the hall to my office, and called Ray’s restaurant. No answer. Then I called Ray’s house. I expected to get Ray’s wife, but the man himself answered.
“You’re not at work. Why aren’t you at work?”
“Sy-Co Corp served all my employees with a cease and desist letter. They all got scared and took off. The place is shut down.”
“You gotta fax machine at home?” He did, and asked why.
“I’m taking your case, but only if you sign the paper I’m about to send and fax it back.” I sent the fax, and five minutes later it came back signed, and it was official: Ray had sold me his legal soul.
I went out to the parking lot, got into my beater and drove fast. In less than thirty minutes I reached my destination. I knocked on the door, and when it opened, my diminutive mother-in-law poked out her head. “What a pleasant surprise,” she said.
“Sorry, Mrs. M, but I’m in a super hurry. I gotta rush to get to court to help Ray. But first, I gotta speak to Dr. M.”
“He’s not here,” she said.
“Not here?”
“He’s on his way to his bridge game. He left just a few minutes ago.”
“Where’s the club?”
“He’s walking there,” she said, and pointed down the street.
“Thanks.” I got into my car and headed where Mrs. M had pointed, passing big houses and new project with an “Opening Soon” sign. And walking past it was the figure of Dr. M.
“Hey, Dr. M,” I called out the window. He stopped and looked around, startled. But he didn’t see me, not at first.
“It’s me, Dr. M. Me, Calledin90s.” He leaned forward as if to see me better. I got out of the car.
“Is something wrong with Angela? Or the baby?”
“No, no not at all, sorry to scare you, it’s nothing like that. I need your help.”
“Oh.” He started walking again, and now it was my turn to be a bit stunned, watching my father-in-law walk away from me. I caught up with him in a few quick strides.
“Listen, I really need your help.”
“And I really need to get to a bridge game.”
“This isn’t about me. It’s about Ray.” That brought him to a halt. He turned to me, angrier even than he’d been the night before.
“Did you drive all the way out here just to make fun of me? To remind me of how you won, distracting me with nonsense about Ray’s case?”
“I mean it,” I said, “I can win Ray’s case. I can prove it in a few words.”
“Prove it, then.” So I did. I spoke words, only a few words, but they were the right words to speak to Dr. M, for the words I spoke were in his language, words that he understood perfectly.
“I understand,” he said, “you’ve come to boast some more, to prove that you were right after all.”
“I want to win Ray’s case, but I don’t have any proof of what I’m saying.”
“You don’t need to prove that two plus two is four.”
“This, I gotta prove, and I need you to help me prove it. I need you to come to court with me, as my witness.”
“I can’t do that. I didn’t witness anything.”
“As my witness. My expert witness.” Unlike a normal witness, an expert witness can give an opinion. An expert is there not to advocate, I explained to Dr. M but to instruct, to teach.
“My bridge partner won’t be very happy,” he said.
“But Ray will, and so will Mrs. M and Angela and--”
“Very well. Do you have a cell phone? We can call the bridge club from my car.”
* * *
We were on the highway getting close to the downtown exit, when my wife called my cell phone. Back then cell phone service was super expensive and my wife only used it for emergencies. Or when she was really angry. I picked up the phone, wondering which it would be.
“I’m so happy that you made things up with my father,” she said.
“How did you know?”
“My mother called. She says you took him with you, that you went out together.”
“He’s with me right now,” I said.
“Where are you going?”
“To court. Going to court to win Ray’s case for him.”
“And you brought my father with you to watch?” She was so happy, I could hear in her voice that she was smiling. “That’s a great way to bond with him, Calledinthe90s. Look, I’m sorry I got so mad at you earlier, I really am. My dad’s a bit too sensitive and--”
“Sorry, Angela, your dad’s not coming to watch me.”
“Why is he with you, then?”
“He’s my witness,” I said.
“What?”
“His expert witness,” Dr. M said, loudly enough for Angela to hear.
My wife’s anger exploded into the phone. She wanted to know how I could expose her elderly, vulnerable father to the stress of a court case. I tried to tell her how I needed him, how there was literally no one else I could turn to, that her father was an expert, a true expert, and the judge was legally bound to believe him, but Angela heard none of this.
“Look,’ I said, “I promise you that--” And then I lowered the phone and pushed the red button, terminating the call. I’d learned that the best way to hang up on someone, was to do it when I was doing the talking. That way it looked like the call had dropped.
“I’m going to steal that move,” Dr. M said.
We rolled into the parking lot. I grabbed the cloth bag out of the back of my car, the bag that held my law robes and shirt and tabs, plus the other stuff I needed for court. It was one-thirty, still thirty minutes to go, not a lot of time to get robed and ready for court. It was just past one-forty five when I, with Dr. M in tow, opened the door to a courtroom on the eighth floor of an old insurance building that had been converted into a courthouse, the home of Commercial Court.
“Commercial Court is an exclusive club,” Cecil-Rowe had explained to me earlier that day, “the legal playground of the rich and powerful. They’ll know instantly that you’re not one of them.” And he was right. It was clear from the moment I walked in that I did not belong, for I was the only lawyer in robes. Everyone else was wearing a suit, and not some cheap thing off the rack like I wore.
There were a half-dozen lawyers present, and after they saw me, they exchanged knowing looks about the stranger amongst them. I ignored them, and walked up to the Registrar. I told him the case I was on, and he signed me in.
“First time in Commercial Court?” he said, eyeing my robes. “You know you don’t have to be robed in Commercial Court.” In other Superior Courts, you always had to bring your robes and get all dressed up. But Commercial Court had its own set of rules, and in the court for rich people, their lawyers did not have to wear robes.
“You’re here on the Sy-Co case?” a young woman asked. She was a junior like me, give a year or two either way. She was dressed in the finest downtown counsel fashion, some designer thing that Angela would know if she saw it.
“Just got retained,” I said.
“You know there’s no adjournments, right? We don’t do adjournments in Commercial Court. I’m just trying to be helpful, because I don’t think you've been here before. You know you don’t have to be robed, right?
“So I heard.”
“So where’s your material? You haven’t served anything, so how do you plan to argue your case?”
“I gotta witness,” I said.
She smiled. “There’s no viva voce evidence, either. Affidavit only.”
“We’ll see what the judge says.” There was a knock from the other side of the door to the judge’s chambers, and then the man himself entered.
I was amazed to see that even the judge wasn’t wearing a robe; instead, he was wearing a light coloured suit and a bright blue bow tie. He was dressed as good as the lawyers, all part of the downtown Commercial Court club, the playground of the richest and most powerful corporations in the City.
“Commercial Court’s not like other courts,” Cecil-Rowe told me earlier that day, explaining that most cases were over in fifteen minutes or less. A plaintiff showed up with some papers, and had a short consultation with the judge. The judge signed an order granting an injunction, or taking away a man’s business, or freezing his money. Commercial Court is where you went to get quick and simple court orders that eviscerated your opponent before the case even got going.
Defendants would appear sometimes in Commercial Court, Cecil-Rowe explained, but it was usually their last time up. Defendants always died a quick death in Commercial Court.
The judge took his seat, and then looked over the lawyers before him. His eyes moved along, and then stopped when they reached me, the one lawyer who was not like the others.
“You don’t need robes in Commercial Court,” the judge said to me.
“I’ll remember that for next time,” I said.
“What case are you on?”
I told him.
“He’s filed no responding materials,” my opponent said, “nothing at all.”
“I’m just vetting the list,” the judge said, “I’ll circle back to you two in a few minutes.” I listend while the judge vetted the rest of the afternoon list: a Mareva, plus a Norwich order, with counsel on those cases sent away in a matter of minutes.
Now the courtroom was almost empty, just the judge, two lawyers, the registrar and my star witness and father-in-law, Dr. M, who sat in the back of the courtroom dressed in an old business suit, put on hastily at his place two hours earlier, when I urged him to hurry it up, to not waste so much time on picking a suit.
“Back to you,” the judge said, addressing my opponent, “I thought this was an uncontested matter. That’s what your confirmation sheet said.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honour, but I didn’t know until I got here that the case was defended.”
“I got retained at the last minute,” I said, “barely three hours ago, the day after I read the papers. But I’m ready to go, ready to argue the case on the merits, so long as you grant me an indulgence, and let me call my witness, to let him testify in person instead of by affidavit, there being no time for me to draft anything.”
Opposing counsel was on her feet. “That’s not how things are done in Commercial Court,” she said, “or any court that I know of, for that matter. My friend (that’s what they make lawyers call each other in court, ‘my friend,’ even though you might hate the other guy’s guts),” the lawyer said, “my friend should have served his responding materials and filed them with the court. Instead, he’s taken us totally by surprise.”
“I’m sorry my friend is surprised by opposition,” I said, “but then consider, it’s my client’s livelihood that’s at stake. If my friend gets her injunction, Ray Telewu’s business is dead, and he loses everything. So yes, my client opposes the injunction, and yes, I’d like to call evidence.”
The judge didn’t consult the papers before him nor the books, but instead, he looked up at the big white clock on the courtroom wall. Its hands said two-fifteen.
“How long will your witness take, counsel?”
“In chief, ten minutes.” I’d practiced with Dr. M on the way in, and I was pretty sure he could do it in five, but I gave him a bit of extra time, just in case.
“We’ve got about two hours,” the judge said, “but I want to be fair to you and your client. Let’s take a fifteen minute recess so you can get instructions. Either we go ahead today with viva voce evidence, or we adjourn, and that will give Calledinthe90s time to file responding materials.”
When everyone came back, the junior’s boss was there, Senior Counsel, a heavy weight, one of those big guys downtown. Plus they brought this guy from Sy-Co Corp, the head of some bullshit division, with some bullshit title, Head of whatever, so that’s the title I’ll give him here. He was The Head. He was the man, the big cheese, the signer of the affidavit on which Sy-Co relied that day.
“What’s he doing here?” I asked Senior Counsel.
He stared at me, all lean and steel grey, looking every inch the hard hitting lawyer that commanded the biggest fees. “If you’re calling a live witness, then so can we. The Head will give evidence today, in advance of your client, so that the judge hears it from him first.” His junior smirked at me, and the two of them sat down, delighted that they’d thought of a way to one up me.
Except that they’d done it by exposing their client to cross-examination. The judge came in, allowed the Head to testify, and when he was done, I stood up.
“Just a few questions,” I said. Senior Counsel was stunned for an instant, and then he stood.
“This serves no purpose, Your Honour. The witness has confirmed the simple facts of his affidavit, and there’s no disputing it. Ray Telewu opened a restaurant less than seventy-one kilometres from Bixity City Hall, and that’s in breach of the Minutes of Settlement he signed.”
I did not bother to respond. Instead, I just stood, and I started to ask questions.
“Have a look at that map in your affidavit,” I said, and he did. I picked up my copy, and tore the map out of it. I passed it up to him.
“What do you notice about this map?”
“That it’s accurate,” the Head said, repeating his evidence in chief, amplifying it, talking about how the map contained perfect measurement.
“You will notice that the map is flat,” I said, laying it on the witness box before him.
“Of course it’s flat. That’s what maps are. Maps are flat.”
“But the earth is round,” I said, “or more properly, a sphere.” Senior Counsel was on his feet in an instant.
“What difference does that make?” he said.
“What you’ll hear from my expert witness, is that a flat map cannot accurately show Earth’s curves. A flat map distorts distances, and in this case, reduces them.”
“But that can’t be by very much.”
“In this case, by just over twenty meters,” Dr. M said from the back of the court.
“That’s my expert witness, the esteemed Dr. M.” I didn’t actually say Dr. M. Instead, I said his real name. But I’m not going to use the real names of my family here, so I’ll just keep calling him Dr. M. “Dr. M was a professor of Physics at the University of Bixity for almost thirty years. He has published numerous papers on particle physics, and is the first Canadian winner of the Wolf Prize for physics.”

* * *

It went downhill after that for Sy-Co Corp. My father-in-law testified, explaining in simple language, language that even a child could understand, that the Earth was a sphere, that the shortest distance between two points on Earth was a curve, not a straight line. He summarized his calculations in plain English, dumbing down the math, so that everyone present imagined, if only for the moment, that they shared his understanding of a difficult mathematical equation.
Senior Counsel tried to cross-examine Dr. M, but it did not go well, my father-in-law indulging him, gently chiding him, continuing his explanations until the lawyer sat down, defeated by Dr. M’s mastery of the subject,his own lack of preparation and his inability to improvise. When counsel said that he had no further questions, the judge addressed us all.
“I’m not going to reserve, and I don’t think I need to tell everyone why. I think it will take about a minute for me to write a decision saying that the Earth is not flat. I’ll give you some more time after that, but after fifteen minutes, I”ll be back to render my decision.” He rose, everyone bowed, and he disappeared behind the door to judge’s chambers.
I pulled a piece of paper out of my file, and slammed it on the desk before Senior Counsel and his junior. “Fill in the blanks, and sign,” I said.
Dr. M’s head shot up at the commotion, and he shuffled over to see what was going on.
“What’s this?” Senior Counsel said, picking up the paper I gave him..
“Minutes of Settlement. You fill in a number, a big number, for the costs you gotta pay me. Your client signs, and then we’re done.” Senior Counsel opened his mouth to bargain, but I overrode him.
“You know your client’s going to lose; the judge made that obvious. Hurry up if you want to settle; we don’t have much time.”
At the end of most Canadian court cases, the loser has to pay at least part of the winner’s legal fees. That’s the way it’s been since forever, and I think it’s a good rule. Sy-Co Corp had lost, so it had to pay a good chunk of Ray’s costs, and Ray’s costs were somewhere between whatever bullshit figure I claimed they were, and where they actually ought to be. Senior Counsel took the paper over to his client. There was a brief discussion, and then they came back, with the form signed, and a number written in the blank space.
I’ll give it to Sy-Co Corp and their lawyer. It wasn’t a bullshit number, a low ball number. They gave me a real number, a number more like something I’d actually accept, a number that made sense to pay me in costs, in light of the success I’d had, and how I got it. It was a respectful number, a common sense number, and I appreciated it an awful lot.
I tossed the paper back at them.
“Add a zero,” I said, continuing on when Senior Counsel blanched, and his junior retreated a step. “I know what’s going on here. Your client sold mine a bullshit franchise, one with a history of failing.” The franchise had opened up again under a new owner not long after Ray had lost it and then it promptly failed again. Like I said at the start of this story, it’s an old story. It’s how some franchise companies make money. “Your client makes more money selling bullshit franchises doomed to fail, then it does from the honest ones that make money. So add a zero to that number, or Ray’s gonna sue you, class action and all that, for all the people you’ve fucked.”
The Head stepped forward from the benches and spoke to me.
“We get threats like that all the time, but no one follows through. They don’t have the money to fight us, and neither does your client. So go ahead and sue.”
“It’s true that Ray doesn’t have jack shit,” I said, “not a pot to piss in, but he’s my cousin, Ray is, and even if he doesn’t have money, he’s got me. Ray’s family, and for Ray, I’ll sue you guys for free. Hell, I’ll even pay the expenses. Plus I’m gonna put a jury notice in, too, come to think of it, ‘cause juries--”
Senior Counsel cut me off, and moved his client to the back of the courtroom. There was a brief discussion, and then they came back. I watched as Senior Counsel wrote a single digit on the Minutes, a zero, written right where I wanted it.
“You’ll have to initial the change,” I said to the Head of Sy-C0, and it gave me great satisfaction to watch him sign.
“Don’t forget,” I said the moment his pen stopped moving, “for the settlement to be valid, I need to get the money today. Right now.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” the Head said.
“Not if you want the settlement to stay in place. I’ll follow you back to your office, and you can put a cheque in my hands.”

* * *

“What’s this?” my wife said when I entered the apartment later that day, after I’d driven Dr. M home, stopping first at a local pub for beers.
“It’s an absurdly expensive bunch of flowers,” I said, “although no flowers, however beautiful, however expensive, could expiate my--”
She took the flowers, and gave a kiss.
“My mom called. She told me what happened. You fixed things with my dad.”
“Yup,” I said. I had certainly done that. I’d made Dr. M a professor again, if only for a few minutes. Not only a professor, but an expert witness. The judge had declared him an expert in plain terms and Dr.M had beamed when he’d heard those words.
“And you won Ray’s case, too. But my mom didn’t know how, and I don’t know how you did it either.”
“I’ll tell you over dinner tonight,” I said.
“But we agreed no more dinners out; we have to save money, now that a baby’s coming.”
I passed her the envelope that I’d received a few hours before. She opened it, and took out a cheque, a cheque drawn up for an amount I specified, made payable to Mr. and Mrs. Calledinthe90s.
The moment I got that cheque, all I could think about was how my wife would react when I put it into her hands. I could not wait to see her eyes bulge, to hear her voice say “oh my god,” to hear her laugh.
She did none of these things. Instead, she cried.
“Does this mean we can buy a house?” The money wouldn’t be enough to buy a house, not nowadays, with prices being so crazy. But things were different back then in the 90s. Sure, the internet was barely a thing and cell phones were super expensive and a lot of things sucked, but I’ll give the nineties one thing: houses were cheap.
“I think so,” I said.

Ethan trudged home, his steps heavy with the weight of another failed interview. This latest rejection marked his twentieth attempt. “Another milestone, I guess”, he muttered bitterly to himself. These were the numbers only for the interviews. He could not bear to even think on the staggering number of applications he had submitted, knowing it was nearing the four-digit mark. His mind drifted back to the interview, where the panel of suits had showered him with praise before dealing the killing blow: the position had already been filled internally. They finished off with hollow words of encouragement, assuring him that success was just around the corner as long as he kept pushing, but his thoughts had already switched to plans of not being sober tonight.
The sun shining on his face brought him no joy as he walked down the silent neighborhood street, gazing at houses completely out of his reach. He worked hard all his life, and was always told how those who worked hard got the rewards. They failed to mention the timeline of rewards though, and that often the only reward for hard work was more hard work.
He didn’t know which neighborhood he was in, but he avoided checking his phone. Today, he longed for wandering and getting lost, hoping that the longer he stayed out, the less harshly reality would hit the moment he returned home. It might also prevent him from using the stash he had stored for moments like these. Even though he craved escape, the future he envisioned for himself required him to face challenges head-on, no matter how painful. Also, he wanted to make sure he was in his right mind in case the girl he liked replied to the text message he had sent a few days ago.
The houses in this area were nice, many of them modern-looking and glass-heavy, which made him curious about a spot nestled between two of these houses. The spot was completely overgrown, with looming trees casting heavy shadows between the houses, creating a corridor of darkness. It seemed to lead to a park, and since he enjoyed getting lost in thought while walking in parks, he thought it might be a worthwhile detour.
It didn’t lead to any park, but it led to some sort of stone monument. If he were in Japan, it would have definitely been a shrine, but he knew that kind of stuff wasn’t popular here. He realized how quiet it was, like a blanket had been placed over the area, muting the sounds of cars, construction, and even birds. If he paid attention, he wouldn’t even hear the sounds of insects. He thought the rock that the monument stood on was a perfect place to sit for a while and contemplate his next moves. He noticed there were strange-looking figurines along the way. The monument stood about half his height, and it didn’t resemble a gravestone, or at least he didn’t think it did. An inscription, covered in dust, adorned its surface. The words he managed to make out seemed like Latin or something similarly obscure. He speculated it might be the resting place of someone rich, which motivated him to linger longer, hoping to absorb some of that old money energy. Although, he did try his best to not disturb the place. He didn’t want to leave evidence of his presence. That’s the sensation you feel when you enter a place seemingly untouched by humans for a long time; it feels somehow spiritual. He went and sat on the stone, and the stress leading up to the failed interview caught up with him, sending him into a nap on the cold rock, his back leaning against the monument.
When he woke up, he was surprised to feel how refreshed he was. He must not have realized how much of the stress had built up in him, as that seemed to be his normal operating mode these days. Just when he was about to get up and continue his way home, he noticed that leaning his back against the monument must have cleared away the dust. He also must’ve been way more tired than he thought because he realized the inscription was actually in English.
The inscription read:
Beneath this silent stone, a slumbering deity lies,
With ancient whispers and unseen eyes.
Turn back now, lest your soul be lost,
To the void where sanity is the cost.
Only an idiot would not heed something this ominous, but he noticed there was more, although he almost missed it because the rest was still covered in a thick layer of dust. Wiping it away, he could read the rest, although he had to tilt his head to read it since it was slightly crooked, and it broke the uniformity of the rest of the inscription, making it seem like it wasn’t originally part of the rest of it. Whoever messed this one up probably got executed, thinking it came from that time period when people faced execution for mishaps like this. He chuckled to himself before reading the last bit.
Yet to the brave who dare to kneel and pray,
Conduct the ritual, desires shall obey.
Of course I’m brave, he thought. He was a part of a generation with no wars, only self-created issues, so his bravery was measured by the number of failed job applications he could stomach. He thought perhaps it was time to use unconventional methods since whatever he was doing clearly wasn’t working. He laughed aloud, fell to his knees, and mockingly exclaimed his worship. “Please give me a job, any job. I swear I’m not picky! Also, I hope you can make Cathy see how great a guy I am, since I will never give up no matter how many rejections I get! Twenty interviews today, over seven hundred applications, I think, and the numbers will keep getting bigger, baby! Also, please make the numbers in my bank account grow bigger too. I hope you used to be one of these house owners, so you can give me some of your luck!” He remained kneeling for a while, running out of things to say, the embarrassment building up quickly, prompting him to hurry back into the street before anyone he thought might have heard him could see him. He didn’t care at first, but now his reputation was at stake, and he decided to just hurry home. He touched the slight bulge in his pant pocket, smiling just a little at his courageous act of swiping one of those weird figurines he found hiding in the overgrown grass. He would just mix it in with the rest of his toy display collection, something he still had not grown out of. This act of courageousness gave him a rush he hadn’t felt in years, making him feel like a rebel. He actually felt confident and kept this feeling all the way home.
And he still had that feeling when he woke up. Good things started happening after that day. He chalked it up to his newfound confidence and felt, for the first time, that he could actually be in control of the direction of his life. He looked proudly at the figurine he snatched. What was he initially so afraid of? He was in a generation devoid of true peril, where fear was superficially manufactured, like his fear of disturbing a sacred place.
People he met seemed to treat him better. Probably because of the way I walk and the way I dress. See what putting a little effort into my hair and clothes does?
Women were smiling at him, even men, though he ignored those. It was probably because he was no longer only looking down, but now he was also looking up. People who know where they’re going look up, and I’m one to know where I’m going. At first, he thought he was only faking the confidence, but now… People seemed to listen to him intently; he didn’t have to keep repeating himself like before. He felt more commanding. Even when he went to restaurants, it seemed like they actively wanted to give freebies. Is this how confident people live?
He had been to this restaurant down the street from where he lived so many times, but this was the first time the owner seemed to engage with him. The owner wanted him to try a new dish he was planning to put on the menu next week. He explained that he wanted to give Ethan a sneak peak as a token of appreciation for being such a dedicated patron. Ethan hadn’t even realized the owner noticed him coming in so often, as he barely looked up at him most of the time. The owner smiled as he waited for Ethan to try it. It was delicious. “Is this chicken?” he asked, but the owner had to rush back to the kitchen.
He didn’t even realize he stopped waiting for Cathy’s reply, and he was surprised when she called instead of sending a message. A call these days met something serious, and he had no idea how he had managed to skip all the usual preliminary moves to get to this point. They had already set a date for this week. When things start working out, they really start working out! All those sayings he read in self-improvement books were actually coming true.
Even his neighbors in his apartment treated him better. That unspoken rule of not talking to others in the elevator didn’t seem to apply to him anymore, and his rides to the 20th floor were actually quite pleasant as residents seemed delighted to share their day with him. Even when one resident mentioned a missing person in the area, it didn’t hinder this pleasantness. On one occasion, a neighbor stopped by to chat and was ecstatic to share that she had finished renovating her place. She mentioned using a color that all the cool celebrities use these days and had extra paint left. “It would be a shame to waste”, she said, so she offered to paint a room for him. Even though he didn’t think he needed to spice up his place, the great feeling he got when people offered to do things for him made him agree. “I only have enough paint for one room. How about your bedroom? I’ll even spruce up your decoration, free of charge. I’m an interior designer you know!” she laughed, and he laughed along because he knew she was a telemarketer. She assured him it would only take a few hours, so he decided to go to the gym.
He flexed his muscles and ran his fingers through his slicked back hair in front of the gym mirrors. He noticed people staring, and he liked it. The fruits of his dedicated labor at the gym could finally be tasted.
When he returned to his place, his neighbor was waiting outside his door with a big smile on her face, eager for him to see the changes she had made.
He entered his bedroom and immediately found the color peculiar, like a shade he recognized but couldn’t quite name. It was also darker than he preferred, but seeing her so pleased, he put on a show of happiness. Noticing the figurine he had taken was on his bed, he returned it to the shelf with his other toys. She watched him, likely realizing she had forgotten to place it. Before leaving, she handed him a tinfoil-wrapped plate. “Since I had some spare time, I prepared a specialty from my hometown. I had some extra, so here you go!”, she happily exclaimed. He remembered she told him she was from the same area as him, which was here, but he didn’t recall any specialty like this. He tasted it and it reminded him of the dish from the restaurant. Too lazy to go over to ask what type of meat it was, he made a mental note to ask her next time they met.
The day he had eagerly awaited arrived: his date with Cathy. He arrived early at their meeting spot, a cozy local coffee shop, and sent her a message to let her know he was there. She replied with “?”, and before he could respond, someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Cathy. They had a splendid date, eventually finding themselves at a bar. Everything seemed to flow effortlessly, leading him to believe that such a smooth date was a sign of destiny. He ended up drinking more than usual as he was enjoying himself, and he couldn’t quite remember how he made it back to his place, but he didn’t care since Cathy was with him. It was the most blissful night of his life.
Cathy was sound asleep beside him, her back facing him. He reached out to touch her shoulder, just to reassure himself that he wasn’t dreaming, and couldn’t help but smile to himself. He was too excited to fall asleep. A ping rang out on his phone, signaling a new email. He blindly reached for it somewhere around his pillow, but instead, his hand brushed against the figurine. He didn’t remember putting it here, so he got up and returned it to its place on display next to his other toys. He found his phone, and glancing at his email, he was surprised to see a message from the company he had recently interviewed with. They must be working around the clock, he thought, noting the time was past midnight. He could hardly believe his eyes when he read the email. It turned out that the person they had hired had ended up turning down their offer, and now they wanted to extend the offer to him. Overwhelmed with joy, he fell to his knees and shouted. Thank you thank you thank you. He tried to wake Cathy up, but she was sleeping like a rock. He stayed on his knees, letting tears stream down his face, before finally getting up and standing silently before the figurine.
The next day, Cathy brought something up that had been on his mind as well.
“Ethan, I want to be with you forever.”
“Me too, Cathy.” he replied, unable to contain his smile.
They stood on the rooftop of his apartment building, under an overcast sky. It was one of those days where the sun was briefly obscured behind the clouds, its rays fighting desperately to penetrate the grey cover, casting only a fraction of the light they were meant to.
“Here, take this!” she exclaimed excitedly, handing him something with which he was already deeply familiar with. He happily took it, running his fingers over the strange, protruding shapes, marveling at how beautiful it felt. “I want you to have a piece of me wherever you go, even if it’s far, far away.” He nodded, understanding completely.
She hugged him tight. “Make sure you hold on to it tightly the whole way down. Come. Let’s go together.”
They held hands and walked to the ledge. He looked up to the grey sky and muttered strange words that he himself had never heard before.
Then he jumped, smiling as he pressed the figurine tightly against his heart.
Tracy walked with her head held low, barely looking at where she was going. She knew she wanted to get out of the terrible relationship she was in but was procrastinating the inevitable. A constant feeling of dread consumed her, as if time was running out, compounded by pressure from her family to get married and have kids. On her way back home from another stressful day at a job she hated, she decided to take a route she didn’t usually take, just to wander for a bit and calm down before dealing with her crappy roommates. It was a hot, sunny day. She noticed a spot of shade between two very tall apartment buildings. Remembering hearing about someone jumping off a building somewhere around here recently, she couldn’t shake the feeling that such incidents were happening more frequently these days, perhaps due to the economy, she thought. She had forgotten to put on sunscreen, so she decided to walk towards the area that she thought looked out of place, where a few looming trees created some much-needed shade.
She entered the darkness under the trees and noticed some strange figurines in the overgrown grass, leading up to a stone monument.

"Penny for your thoughts, young man?"
I glanced down at the old man as he sat in the snow, his jeans getting crusty from the ice.
He held a grubby coin in his threadbare glove and his eyes looked up, imploring me to take it.
Homeless people weren't exactly rare in the city, and I was honestly tired of being asked for change today. I had been asked for change as I went to work that morning several times. I had been asked when I stepped out to have a smoke around ten that morning. I had been asked again as I went to lunch, and twice more as I returned. I had been asked for handouts throughout the day, but this was the first one who had offered to give me anything.
I reached down hesitantly, and when he moved it out of the way, I figured he would make his pitch now.
The coin would be rare.
The coin would be special.
He would want something for it and then I would be asked to give.
"Your thoughts first, son. An even trade, I'm sure."
I drew in a nose full of cold air, thinking about making something up before finally settling on the truth.
"Okay, you want to know what I was thinking about? I'll tell you. I pass people like you every day, people on the streets with nothing better to do than beg. Why not try to better yourself with all that time you have? Why not drag yourself out of your situation rather than sit and huddle in it? You have the ability to get out of your current quagmire, you choose not to, and that makes me angry."
I had expected the old man to get mad, I had expected him to get quiet and take his coin back, but he surprised me when he laughed.
"Is that what you think? That we're all just lazy bums out on the road with nothing better to do? I imagine you might change your mind if you had to do it yourself."
I scoffed, "Please. Living off the generosity of others? This is a city of thousands. Even if only one percent showed you charity, that's still likely more than I make in a week." The old man smiled knowingly, and that should have been my first indication that something was amiss. Even then, I sensed that something didn't feel right here. This wasn't the usual kind of banter one had with a person, even someone like this guy, and it was starting to prickle the hair on the back of my neck. Why had I stopped to talk to this fellow at all?
This whole thing just felt odd.
"Wanna make a wager on that?" the old beggar asked
He still had the coin out, and when I got a good look at it, I could tell it wasn't what I thought it was.
It was filthy, but it had the underlying gleam of gold, unevenly milled, and thick on the edge he had showed me.
"Live for a week as I live, if you can. After seven days, if you're still alive, I'll grant you any wish your heart desires."
I shook my head, thinking the old man had to be crazy. What was he, some kind of genie? My mind flashed to the Beauty and the Beast story too, however. Hadn't the fairy come to him on a snowy night and made requests? If I declined his offer, what would the consequences be?
I shook my head, I was a grown man out here weighing fairy stories, what was wrong with me?
"Sure, old-timer. It's a deal. What do I need to do? Prick my finger? Promise you my firstborn?"
"Just take the coin," he said, holding it out, "but make sure you hang on to it. If you go the full week but lose your coin...well, I can't promise it will end well for you."
I rolled my eyes, reaching for it without thinking. I wasn't really afraid that it might magic. It was more likely to be coated in something like fentanyl or acid. I had gloves on, and I didn't expect that whatever he had coated it in could soak through my leather wraps. I lifted the coin to my eyes, looking at it in the dim light of the lamp post, and saw that it was bigger than I had thought it would be.
It was the size of a half dollar, one side picturing a proud king while the other had a grinning skeleton. The words percussum est dela were printed on the front with vivere vel damnari ab eo emblazoned on the back. I knew they were Latin words, but that was all I knew. The coin was old, some ancient edifice of commerce, and as I looked at it in the street lamp, it flashed in my eye with a sudden stab of pain.
The last thing I heard was the old man laughing and then I fell into darkness for some undeterminable time.
I was awoken not by my alarm, but by the less-than-kind tap of a stick on my foot.
"Hey, HEY, I've already told you that you can't sleep here. Pack it up before I call the cops."
I came groggily awake, aware of being cold and slightly damp before anything else. I put a hand up to my eyes, wondering what had been on that coin the old man had given me, and as my vision came into view, I saw a large man in an apron standing over me with a broom. He held it with the blunt end raised, prepared to swing if I made a sudden move. I put a hand out and told him there was some kind of mistake, but when I raised my hands I saw they were wrapped in the threadbare gloves that had been holding the coin. What's more, my clothes felt scratchy, like bugs had been crawling on me, and as I got up, the man with the broom tensed like he might take a swing.
"I'm serious. Get out of here before I call the cops."
I told him I was going and as I stumbled out of the alley I saw that it was early morning. There was still ice on the ground, steam coming up through the sewer vents, and people were milling up the sidewalk on their way to work or wherever. I must have looked a mess because they walked past me without a second glance. The man with the broom was watching me from the mouth of the alley I had been sleeping in, and made it pretty clear that if I didn't start moving again he was going to make good on his threats to call the police.
As I made my way down the street, I was already reaching for my cell phone. I'd call an Uber and get back to my apartment. I was unsurprised to find it was missing, as were my wallet and my house keys. No problem, they had no idea which apartment I lived in so the keys wouldn't do them any good. A car was something I never saw the need to own, so I had no vehicle to steal. The old man had gotten away with about eighty dollars from my wallet at the end of the day, and anything he took from my bank account would soon be returned.
I would go to my apartment and tell them I had been mugged and they would help me get into my place.
I hoped the old man had a good laugh about drugging and stripping me, leaving me in an alley dressed as a vag as he took my stuff. "Live a week like us" indeed. I'd be back in my apartment in a matter of minutes and then the police could show him what it was like to live as an inmate.
I was full of indignant rage as I passed in front of the big shop window not far from my house and caught sight of myself in the reflection. At first, I thought the old man was taunting me, following me to see what I would do once I woke up, but when I rounded on him to give him a piece of my mind, I realized I was looking at my own reflection. I was the old man, his leathery skin and short gray hair, and I just stood there touching my face with my hands as I tried to make sense of it.
"Live as we live for a week if you can."
I suddenly understood that there would be no going back to my apartment. There would be no talking to my banks or getting my phone replaced. I felt something heavy against my left butt cheek and reached into the back of my threadbare jeans to find the coin nestled there. I looked at both sides, the Emporer and the skull, and suddenly discovered I could read the words there.
"Thus the deal is struck," said the Emporer.
"Live or be damned by it," said the skull.
I wanted to fling it into the street, but I remembered what he had said and slipped it back into my pocket.
I had noticed something else that both sides had shared, the minting date was a week from now and that mirrored what the old man had said too.
"Live for a week as I live, if you can."
I nodded, how hard could it be?
That first day was probably my highest point. I was full of resolve as I walked around the city. I didn't have any luck with breakfast, but that was okay. I didn't see any need to beg, I would find money if I needed it. Besides, begging would just prove that he was right. I was going to do something with my week, start a new job, or find an honest way to make money.
So, I set out to find work.
One look at myself was enough to tell me I would be turned away from most upscale jobs. I needed a shave and a haircut badly, my clothes were old and stained, and I needed a bath worse than I needed a meal. All of these things were outside my grasp without money, but I knew where I might get some of them. I had heard of the Mission Shelters, everyone had seen their billboards or heard their commercials, and I knew they had clothes I could use and maybe facilities I could use to shower. If I could get myself back to rights, then I could secure employment and not have to beg. I would likely have to spend a night or two in the Mission, but I would have a job and money and I could get back on my feet before the week was out.
I came to the Mission around nine and was met at the door by a man with a clipboard.
"Good morning, sir. Are you checking in?"
"I was hoping to get some clothes for an interview, maybe a shower and some,"
"Terrific," the man said, cutting me off, "are you part of our employment program? You don't look familiar."
"Well, no, but I want to use the clothes to gain employment so I can,"
"Unfortunately, sir, those clothes are only for people in the employment program, and there is a sizable waiting list for that program. I can get you on that waiting list, but it's likely to be some time before we can,"
I started getting a little indignant, "I mean, the clothes are donated. As a taxpayer, those are my taxes at work. I'll bring them back, I just want to look good for an interview."
The man's well-crafted smile was beginning to slip, "Do you have an interview lined up, then?"
I realized my mistake and admitted I didn't.
"Well then, you have no reason to need these clothes. Now, if you would like to get on our program list, we can do that, but, again, that takes time."
I was a little put out, the process seeming a little daunting, and told him I would like a meal and a shower if I could.
"And I want you to have those things, but if this is your first time here then we need you to fill out some paperwork so we can get you in the system. If you'll step over here we can,"
"Do I need to register for a bowl of soup and a hot shower?" I asked.
I didn't mean to become belligerent, I was just put out by the rigamoro.
"Sir," the man said, "Have you been drinking? I believe I detect alcohol on your breath, and you're becoming quite upset. We can't allow you in if you're inebriated, and you have to be twenty-four hours sober before you can enter the Mission. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."
I said some things then, things I regret now, and I didn't even see the young bruiser who stepped between us as I got in the clipboard man's face.
When he tossed me onto the sidewalk, the man with the clipboard saying I wasn't welcome at the Mission again, I got creakily to my feet and checked to see if I was all there.
Other than some bruises, I was none the worse for wear.
I was still hopeful that I could make my way without them, and so I set off to find employment.
By the end of the first day, I was shivering on a bench in a park I had never been to before. The park was less for joggers and bird watchers and more for drunks and needlers. A pair of them were sharing a syringe near an old oak tree not far away as I tried to get warm under some newspapers I had scavenged. I tried to ignore my empty belly too as I lay with the cold wood beneath me. I hadn't eaten much today, just a part of a sandwich I had found in a garbage can, and I was feeling empty as I tried to sleep.
I told myself tomorrow would be better, and I fell asleep praying it would be so.
Just six more days to go.
The next day I woke up ravenous, my head spinning and my mouth dry.
It was early, first light, and I knew that if I wanted to eat today I needed to get some money.
As luck would have it, I found something not far from the park.
There was a warehouse nearby, and I heard men unloading a truck as they prepared to load up another. I offered to help, most of the workers looked like scabs, and the guy with the magazine and the cigar told me that he'd beat whatever I broke out of me and to get to work. I spent a few hours moving boxes from one truck to the other, and when the guy came out and told us we were done, he put a ten-dollar bill in my hand and told me thanks.
"Come back tomorrow if you want another one," he said.
I wanted to be happy as I looked at the crumpled bill, but I realized this wouldn't take me very far if I wasn't careful. I tried to make it last, buying coffee from a gas station along with some simple breakfast foods, but by noon it was spent. I had been walking the streets, trying to luck into more grunt work. I found another warehouse offering under-the-table work, but as the sun went down and we all came to the office to get paid, it seemed the boss had left and we were left with no other options but to disperse or answer to the police.
I went back to the same park again that night, but the cold after the sun went down was too much to bear in the open.
I walked around trying to find somewhere to sleep out of the elements, and around two, I found a doorway that lacked the little rounded spikes they usually put down to dissuade the homeless from sleeping there.
As I shivered in the doorway, I told myself it would only be another five days.
As I slipped into thin sleep, I hoped I would be alive to see the end of those five days.
The next day, the third day, I finally gave in and began begging. The job I had found the day before wasn't open, the gates barred and the snow deep enough to keep the trucks off the road. I was hungry, I was cold, and I didn't dare go back to the Mission. So, I found the warmest spot I could find and began panhandling. The crowd that morning was small, the snow closing a lot of businesses, and they weren't overly generous. By the time noon rolled around, I had a few dollars and some change in the can I had managed to scoop out of a dumpster. It got me some junk that wasn't very filling, and I walked around looking for work as the snow began to melt. I was a little more weary about taking odd jobs, lest I get taken like the day before, and as night began to settle and people made their way home, I once again set up to beg.
I was dozing against a wall, feeling weak and tired from the cold, when someone cleared their throat loudly.
I opened my eyes to find two cops standing over me, both looking cold and grumpy.
"Move along, sir. You know you can't do that here."
He poked my can with his foot, sending it tipping over as the small amount of change rattled out.
"I'm not hurting anyone," I breathed out, "I'm just hungry."
"Doesn't matter. Hungry or not, you can't do that here. Get moving before we move you."
I wanted to get indignant, but I simply didn't have the energy. I scooped up the coins and started trudging through the snow again. I didn't know where I was going, but I remembered the old man's words and knew I would lose that precious coin if I got arrested. I wasn't even halfway through the week and I already felt like I might not make it to reap the rewards.
The next two days were a blur. I remember trying to donate plasma and being turned away for various reasons. I looked for work, but the snow had ground a lot of businesses to a halt. I found warm places that would feed me, churches and soup kitchens, but they weren't equipped to let people stay. I ended up sleeping rough both nights, shivering on stoops or under the slight cover of alleys, my blanket soaking up the snow as it melted beneath me.
It was the most miserable I had ever been, and it made me wonder where I had ever gotten the idea that the homeless in my city were lazy. Looking back on my words to the vagrant, words spoken out of ignorance, I felt a deep sense of shame as I remembered that night. He was just trying to survive, just trying to get a meal or somewhere that wasn't a chilly bench for the night, and all I had seen was a leech trying to get fat off the hard work of others.
As I lay beside a dumpster Friday night, watching people drink in the warm lights of a familiar bar, I knew I'd never make that mistake again.
Saturday dawned cold and stark, the snow melt making the ice thick on the sidewalk as the world came awake again.
I had some luck after helping the owner of the store I was sleeping beside clear the ice from in front of his shop. He patted my shoulder, giving me a plastic bag of sandwiches he was about to throw away. I marveled at them, counting about twelve of the plastic-wrapped squares, and he even threw in a large cup of coffee to go along with it. I tried to tell him it was too much, but he waved his hand and laughed.
"You're doing me a favor, really. Those sandwiches were going into the garbage before I almost busted my ass on the slick sidewalk. If you can get some use out of them, more power to ya. Take them with my thanks."
By ten I had eaten about five of them, the coffee was long gone, and I felt full for the first time in quite a while. It was something I had taken for granted, that feeling of being nearly too full, but as I sat in the park, my blanket keeping the worst of the snow from soaking into me, it felt good to be here again. I had refilled the coffee cup from a nearby fountain, and as I drank water and soaked up the sunshine, I felt pretty good about the direction I was going.
"Hey, friend," came an unfamiliar voice, and my eyes snapped open as I started to bolt.
It was a man in similar dress, his face a scraggle of many days of beard growth, and he was smiling through his remaining teeth at me. I could smell him between the ten feet that separated us, but it wasn't an altogether unpleasant smell. He simply smelled earthy as opposed to bad, stale in a way that made me think he was taking care of his clothes when he could, and the jackets he wore bulged tumerously, making me think he wore at least two.
"Whoa there, didn't mean to scare you. I was just wondering if I could trade you for one of those samitches? I've got some of the vitamin C packs from the free clinic. You could mix them with that water and get something nice to drink to go along with your full belly."
He was holding out a crumpled silver packet with the words Emergen C on the front and I nodded as I held out a ham and cheese for him. He smiled again, asking if he could sit as he tore into the sandwich with gusto. He had clearly not been eating well, and I realized that must have been the way I had torn into the one I'd eaten earlier.
"Names Carter, good to meet you, friend. Haven't seen you around, are you new to town?"
I told him I was since it wasn't technically a lie. He laughed and told me I had picked a heck of a time to come to town. It was the worst snowstorm they had seen in a long time, and the homeless guys were having a hell of a time keeping warm.
"Between the missions and their paperwork, the cops and their endless rage for guys just trying to get by, and the shopkeepers not wanting us in their alleys or stoops, it's getting hard to find a place to lay your head most nights."
A few others had wandered over to see who Carter was talking to, and they traded some food for sandwiches as well. I ended up giving away a few of them, and as the afternoon stretched on, they all decided to migrate somewhere to find warmth for the night.
I told them goodnight, meaning to find my own place to sleep, but Carter called my name before they left the park and asked if I was coming.
"There's always room for one more around the fire," he said
I spent that night sitting in an alley that in the middle of a four-way intersection of buildings. It cut the wind nightly, and someone had secured a tarp to keep the snow off us. The barrels here had coals burning in them, and the people who stayed here had created a kind of oasis in the swirling snow.
"It's not much," Carter said, "but it's better than nothing."
I spent the evening in the company of the other cast-offs, laughing and sharing food around as we warmed ourselves by the fires that glowed through the night. Someone had a guitar, others told stories, and I fell asleep against a wall in the best shape I had been in for the last five days. I wished I had known these people from the start, and wished I had found this place from the first day, but I was introspective enough to know that I would have insulted them when this strange journey began. This was a place I had to come to naturally, a state of mind I had to reach on my own, and as I slipped into blissful slumber, I hoped it wouldn't simply disappear when I woke up like some kind of dream.
I wish it had now.
The alternative was a lot worse.
I woke up to the sounds of people yelling and running. One of the barrels had been turned over, the coals making smoke as they tried to catch a sleeping bag on fire. People were screaming, scooping up what they could as people moved in the dancing shadows with purpose. I shivered beneath my blankets, certain we were getting attacked by demons, but as the shapes got closer, I saw they were police officers.
They had discovered our camp, and now they were taking away our one refuge from the cold.
I sat as still as I could, trying to be still and unseen, and when they moved away, I made a break for the nearest alley. I saw flashing lights and heard someone yell at me, but I just kept kicking up snow as I ran for my life. The sun was turning the horizon into a hopeful pink, but I just kept moving. When people got in my way, I went around them. When bus stops or stoops rose up to block me, I moved around them too. I didn't dare stop until the sun beat down on my neck, and only then it was because I just couldn't go anymore.
My legs were tired, my head spinning from over-excursion, and when I flopped down onto a bench in a bus shell, I was out of breath.
I kept trying to make sense of what had happened, but it just wouldn't mesh in my brain. Why had they come after us? We weren't hurting anyone, we were just looking for a warm place to gather. They had come in like we were terrorists, and I hoped that Carter and some of my other friends had made it away.
I don't know how long I sat there, but as my stomach started to growl, I knew I would need food. I thought I might put my hat out and try to get some money. The longer I just sat there with my eyes closed, the more I wondered what the point was? The oasis now felt like a dirty trick. They had allowed me a moment of happiness so they could pull the rug out just as I thought I might have found something better. I almost preferred the uncertainty of not knowing what to expect, I thought, and as the day passed and I continued to sit on the cold metal bench. What was the point, after all? If everything could change in a second, if all safety was just an illusion, then why do anything?
"Enjoying your new life of leisure?"
I jumped, realizing someone had sat down beside me.
I opened my eyes and realized it was me. I looked exactly the same as I always did in the mirror, but I realized it had to be the old man pretending to be me. As I sat here, day had become night and, just like that, we had passed seven days. I had done it, I had weathered the storm, and I liked to hope I was a better person for it.
"Just basking in my newfound sense of understanding," I answered, realizing it was true.
I took the grubby coin from my pocket and held it in my hand, feeling a strange warmth coming from it as we sat in the chill.
"Well, you made it, and a deal is a deal. What will you wish for now that you have all this knowledge?"
I put the coin in his hand, feeling the warmth transfer between us.
"I want the means to make sure no one else has to live like this. I want to help people, even if it's just in this town. Is that too vague?"
He closed his hand around the coin, and I felt that warmth radiate through my stomach.
"I can work with that."
I opened my eyes and suddenly I was me again.
I was sitting there as if waiting for a bus, and when I got up, I knew what I had to do.
It was hard starting out, but the backers came and the money came and slowly I fed them.
Slowly, I brought them off the street and gave them a place to stay.
A decade ago, I took a coin from a beggar.
Today, I own one of the largest shelters in the city. There are no confusing forms, no prerequisites, and no red tape. We feed those who are hungry, we house those in need, and when I see the hope in their eyes, I know my wish has come true.

"Penny for your thoughts, young man?"
I glanced down at the old man as he sat in the snow, his jeans getting crusty from the ice.
He held a grubby coin in his threadbare glove and his eyes looked up, imploring me to take it.
Homeless people weren't exactly rare in the city, and I was honestly tired of being asked for change today. I had been asked for change as I went to work that morning several times. I had been asked when I stepped out to have a smoke around ten that morning. I had been asked again as I went to lunch, and twice more as I returned. I had been asked for handouts throughout the day, but this was the first one who had offered to give me anything.
I reached down hesitantly, and when he moved it out of the way, I figured he would make his pitch now.
The coin would be rare.
The coin would be special.
He would want something for it and then I would be asked to give.
"Your thoughts first, son. An even trade, I'm sure."
I drew in a nose full of cold air, thinking about making something up before finally settling on the truth.
"Okay, you want to know what I was thinking about? I'll tell you. I pass people like you every day, people on the streets with nothing better to do than beg. Why not try to better yourself with all that time you have? Why not drag yourself out of your situation rather than sit and huddle in it? You have the ability to get out of your current quagmire, you choose not to, and that makes me angry."
I had expected the old man to get mad, I had expected him to get quiet and take his coin back, but he surprised me when he laughed.
"Is that what you think? That we're all just lazy bums out on the road with nothing better to do? I imagine you might change your mind if you had to do it yourself."
I scoffed, "Please. Living off the generosity of others? This is a city of thousands. Even if only one percent showed you charity, that's still likely more than I make in a week." The old man smiled knowingly, and that should have been my first indication that something was amiss. Even then, I sensed that something didn't feel right here. This wasn't the usual kind of banter one had with a person, even someone like this guy, and it was starting to prickle the hair on the back of my neck. Why had I stopped to talk to this fellow at all?
This whole thing just felt odd.
"Wanna make a wager on that?" the old beggar asked
He still had the coin out, and when I got a good look at it, I could tell it wasn't what I thought it was.
It was filthy, but it had the underlying gleam of gold, unevenly milled, and thick on the edge he had showed me.
"Live for a week as I live, if you can. After seven days, if you're still alive, I'll grant you any wish your heart desires."
I shook my head, thinking the old man had to be crazy. What was he, some kind of genie? My mind flashed to the Beauty and the Beast story too, however. Hadn't the fairy come to him on a snowy night and made requests? If I declined his offer, what would the consequences be?
I shook my head, I was a grown man out here weighing fairy stories, what was wrong with me?
"Sure, old-timer. It's a deal. What do I need to do? Prick my finger? Promise you my firstborn?"
"Just take the coin," he said, holding it out, "but make sure you hang on to it. If you go the full week but lose your coin...well, I can't promise it will end well for you."
I rolled my eyes, reaching for it without thinking. I wasn't really afraid that it might magic. It was more likely to be coated in something like fentanyl or acid. I had gloves on, and I didn't expect that whatever he had coated it in could soak through my leather wraps. I lifted the coin to my eyes, looking at it in the dim light of the lamp post, and saw that it was bigger than I had thought it would be.
It was the size of a half dollar, one side picturing a proud king while the other had a grinning skeleton. The words percussum est dela were printed on the front with vivere vel damnari ab eo emblazoned on the back. I knew they were Latin words, but that was all I knew. The coin was old, some ancient edifice of commerce, and as I looked at it in the street lamp, it flashed in my eye with a sudden stab of pain.
The last thing I heard was the old man laughing and then I fell into darkness for some undeterminable time.
I was awoken not by my alarm, but by the less-than-kind tap of a stick on my foot.
"Hey, HEY, I've already told you that you can't sleep here. Pack it up before I call the cops."
I came groggily awake, aware of being cold and slightly damp before anything else. I put a hand up to my eyes, wondering what had been on that coin the old man had given me, and as my vision came into view, I saw a large man in an apron standing over me with a broom. He held it with the blunt end raised, prepared to swing if I made a sudden move. I put a hand out and told him there was some kind of mistake, but when I raised my hands I saw they were wrapped in the threadbare gloves that had been holding the coin. What's more, my clothes felt scratchy, like bugs had been crawling on me, and as I got up, the man with the broom tensed like he might take a swing.
"I'm serious. Get out of here before I call the cops."
I told him I was going and as I stumbled out of the alley I saw that it was early morning. There was still ice on the ground, steam coming up through the sewer vents, and people were milling up the sidewalk on their way to work or wherever. I must have looked a mess because they walked past me without a second glance. The man with the broom was watching me from the mouth of the alley I had been sleeping in, and made it pretty clear that if I didn't start moving again he was going to make good on his threats to call the police.
As I made my way down the street, I was already reaching for my cell phone. I'd call an Uber and get back to my apartment. I was unsurprised to find it was missing, as were my wallet and my house keys. No problem, they had no idea which apartment I lived in so the keys wouldn't do them any good. A car was something I never saw the need to own, so I had no vehicle to steal. The old man had gotten away with about eighty dollars from my wallet at the end of the day, and anything he took from my bank account would soon be returned.
I would go to my apartment and tell them I had been mugged and they would help me get into my place.
I hoped the old man had a good laugh about drugging and stripping me, leaving me in an alley dressed as a vag as he took my stuff. "Live a week like us" indeed. I'd be back in my apartment in a matter of minutes and then the police could show him what it was like to live as an inmate.
I was full of indignant rage as I passed in front of the big shop window not far from my house and caught sight of myself in the reflection. At first, I thought the old man was taunting me, following me to see what I would do once I woke up, but when I rounded on him to give him a piece of my mind, I realized I was looking at my own reflection. I was the old man, his leathery skin and short gray hair, and I just stood there touching my face with my hands as I tried to make sense of it.
"Live as we live for a week if you can."
I suddenly understood that there would be no going back to my apartment. There would be no talking to my banks or getting my phone replaced. I felt something heavy against my left butt cheek and reached into the back of my threadbare jeans to find the coin nestled there. I looked at both sides, the Emporer and the skull, and suddenly discovered I could read the words there.
"Thus the deal is struck," said the Emporer.
"Live or be damned by it," said the skull.
I wanted to fling it into the street, but I remembered what he had said and slipped it back into my pocket.
I had noticed something else that both sides had shared, the minting date was a week from now and that mirrored what the old man had said too.
"Live for a week as I live, if you can."
I nodded, how hard could it be?
That first day was probably my highest point. I was full of resolve as I walked around the city. I didn't have any luck with breakfast, but that was okay. I didn't see any need to beg, I would find money if I needed it. Besides, begging would just prove that he was right. I was going to do something with my week, start a new job, or find an honest way to make money.
So, I set out to find work.
One look at myself was enough to tell me I would be turned away from most upscale jobs. I needed a shave and a haircut badly, my clothes were old and stained, and I needed a bath worse than I needed a meal. All of these things were outside my grasp without money, but I knew where I might get some of them. I had heard of the Mission Shelters, everyone had seen their billboards or heard their commercials, and I knew they had clothes I could use and maybe facilities I could use to shower. If I could get myself back to rights, then I could secure employment and not have to beg. I would likely have to spend a night or two in the Mission, but I would have a job and money and I could get back on my feet before the week was out.
I came to the Mission around nine and was met at the door by a man with a clipboard.
"Good morning, sir. Are you checking in?"
"I was hoping to get some clothes for an interview, maybe a shower and some,"
"Terrific," the man said, cutting me off, "are you part of our employment program? You don't look familiar."
"Well, no, but I want to use the clothes to gain employment so I can,"
"Unfortunately, sir, those clothes are only for people in the employment program, and there is a sizable waiting list for that program. I can get you on that waiting list, but it's likely to be some time before we can,"
I started getting a little indignant, "I mean, the clothes are donated. As a taxpayer, those are my taxes at work. I'll bring them back, I just want to look good for an interview."
The man's well-crafted smile was beginning to slip, "Do you have an interview lined up, then?"
I realized my mistake and admitted I didn't.
"Well then, you have no reason to need these clothes. Now, if you would like to get on our program list, we can do that, but, again, that takes time."
I was a little put out, the process seeming a little daunting, and told him I would like a meal and a shower if I could.
"And I want you to have those things, but if this is your first time here then we need you to fill out some paperwork so we can get you in the system. If you'll step over here we can,"
"Do I need to register for a bowl of soup and a hot shower?" I asked.
I didn't mean to become belligerent, I was just put out by the rigamoro.
"Sir," the man said, "Have you been drinking? I believe I detect alcohol on your breath, and you're becoming quite upset. We can't allow you in if you're inebriated, and you have to be twenty-four hours sober before you can enter the Mission. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."
I said some things then, things I regret now, and I didn't even see the young bruiser who stepped between us as I got in the clipboard man's face.
When he tossed me onto the sidewalk, the man with the clipboard saying I wasn't welcome at the Mission again, I got creakily to my feet and checked to see if I was all there.
Other than some bruises, I was none the worse for wear.
I was still hopeful that I could make my way without them, and so I set off to find employment.
By the end of the first day, I was shivering on a bench in a park I had never been to before. The park was less for joggers and bird watchers and more for drunks and needlers. A pair of them were sharing a syringe near an old oak tree not far away as I tried to get warm under some newspapers I had scavenged. I tried to ignore my empty belly too as I lay with the cold wood beneath me. I hadn't eaten much today, just a part of a sandwich I had found in a garbage can, and I was feeling empty as I tried to sleep.
I told myself tomorrow would be better, and I fell asleep praying it would be so.
Just six more days to go.
The next day I woke up ravenous, my head spinning and my mouth dry.
It was early, first light, and I knew that if I wanted to eat today I needed to get some money.
As luck would have it, I found something not far from the park.
There was a warehouse nearby, and I heard men unloading a truck as they prepared to load up another. I offered to help, most of the workers looked like scabs, and the guy with the magazine and the cigar told me that he'd beat whatever I broke out of me and to get to work. I spent a few hours moving boxes from one truck to the other, and when the guy came out and told us we were done, he put a ten-dollar bill in my hand and told me thanks.
"Come back tomorrow if you want another one," he said.
I wanted to be happy as I looked at the crumpled bill, but I realized this wouldn't take me very far if I wasn't careful. I tried to make it last, buying coffee from a gas station along with some simple breakfast foods, but by noon it was spent. I had been walking the streets, trying to luck into more grunt work. I found another warehouse offering under-the-table work, but as the sun went down and we all came to the office to get paid, it seemed the boss had left and we were left with no other options but to disperse or answer to the police.
I went back to the same park again that night, but the cold after the sun went down was too much to bear in the open.
I walked around trying to find somewhere to sleep out of the elements, and around two, I found a doorway that lacked the little rounded spikes they usually put down to dissuade the homeless from sleeping there.
As I shivered in the doorway, I told myself it would only be another five days.
As I slipped into thin sleep, I hoped I would be alive to see the end of those five days.
The next day, the third day, I finally gave in and began begging. The job I had found the day before wasn't open, the gates barred and the snow deep enough to keep the trucks off the road. I was hungry, I was cold, and I didn't dare go back to the Mission. So, I found the warmest spot I could find and began panhandling. The crowd that morning was small, the snow closing a lot of businesses, and they weren't overly generous. By the time noon rolled around, I had a few dollars and some change in the can I had managed to scoop out of a dumpster. It got me some junk that wasn't very filling, and I walked around looking for work as the snow began to melt. I was a little more weary about taking odd jobs, lest I get taken like the day before, and as night began to settle and people made their way home, I once again set up to beg.
I was dozing against a wall, feeling weak and tired from the cold, when someone cleared their throat loudly.
I opened my eyes to find two cops standing over me, both looking cold and grumpy.
"Move along, sir. You know you can't do that here."
He poked my can with his foot, sending it tipping over as the small amount of change rattled out.
"I'm not hurting anyone," I breathed out, "I'm just hungry."
"Doesn't matter. Hungry or not, you can't do that here. Get moving before we move you."
I wanted to get indignant, but I simply didn't have the energy. I scooped up the coins and started trudging through the snow again. I didn't know where I was going, but I remembered the old man's words and knew I would lose that precious coin if I got arrested. I wasn't even halfway through the week and I already felt like I might not make it to reap the rewards.
The next two days were a blur. I remember trying to donate plasma and being turned away for various reasons. I looked for work, but the snow had ground a lot of businesses to a halt. I found warm places that would feed me, churches and soup kitchens, but they weren't equipped to let people stay. I ended up sleeping rough both nights, shivering on stoops or under the slight cover of alleys, my blanket soaking up the snow as it melted beneath me.
It was the most miserable I had ever been, and it made me wonder where I had ever gotten the idea that the homeless in my city were lazy. Looking back on my words to the vagrant, words spoken out of ignorance, I felt a deep sense of shame as I remembered that night. He was just trying to survive, just trying to get a meal or somewhere that wasn't a chilly bench for the night, and all I had seen was a leech trying to get fat off the hard work of others.
As I lay beside a dumpster Friday night, watching people drink in the warm lights of a familiar bar, I knew I'd never make that mistake again.
Saturday dawned cold and stark, the snow melt making the ice thick on the sidewalk as the world came awake again.
I had some luck after helping the owner of the store I was sleeping beside clear the ice from in front of his shop. He patted my shoulder, giving me a plastic bag of sandwiches he was about to throw away. I marveled at them, counting about twelve of the plastic-wrapped squares, and he even threw in a large cup of coffee to go along with it. I tried to tell him it was too much, but he waved his hand and laughed.
"You're doing me a favor, really. Those sandwiches were going into the garbage before I almost busted my ass on the slick sidewalk. If you can get some use out of them, more power to ya. Take them with my thanks."
By ten I had eaten about five of them, the coffee was long gone, and I felt full for the first time in quite a while. It was something I had taken for granted, that feeling of being nearly too full, but as I sat in the park, my blanket keeping the worst of the snow from soaking into me, it felt good to be here again. I had refilled the coffee cup from a nearby fountain, and as I drank water and soaked up the sunshine, I felt pretty good about the direction I was going.
"Hey, friend," came an unfamiliar voice, and my eyes snapped open as I started to bolt.
It was a man in similar dress, his face a scraggle of many days of beard growth, and he was smiling through his remaining teeth at me. I could smell him between the ten feet that separated us, but it wasn't an altogether unpleasant smell. He simply smelled earthy as opposed to bad, stale in a way that made me think he was taking care of his clothes when he could, and the jackets he wore bulged tumerously, making me think he wore at least two.
"Whoa there, didn't mean to scare you. I was just wondering if I could trade you for one of those samitches? I've got some of the vitamin C packs from the free clinic. You could mix them with that water and get something nice to drink to go along with your full belly."
He was holding out a crumpled silver packet with the words Emergen C on the front and I nodded as I held out a ham and cheese for him. He smiled again, asking if he could sit as he tore into the sandwich with gusto. He had clearly not been eating well, and I realized that must have been the way I had torn into the one I'd eaten earlier.
"Names Carter, good to meet you, friend. Haven't seen you around, are you new to town?"
I told him I was since it wasn't technically a lie. He laughed and told me I had picked a heck of a time to come to town. It was the worst snowstorm they had seen in a long time, and the homeless guys were having a hell of a time keeping warm.
"Between the missions and their paperwork, the cops and their endless rage for guys just trying to get by, and the shopkeepers not wanting us in their alleys or stoops, it's getting hard to find a place to lay your head most nights."
A few others had wandered over to see who Carter was talking to, and they traded some food for sandwiches as well. I ended up giving away a few of them, and as the afternoon stretched on, they all decided to migrate somewhere to find warmth for the night.
I told them goodnight, meaning to find my own place to sleep, but Carter called my name before they left the park and asked if I was coming.
"There's always room for one more around the fire," he said
I spent that night sitting in an alley that in the middle of a four-way intersection of buildings. It cut the wind nightly, and someone had secured a tarp to keep the snow off us. The barrels here had coals burning in them, and the people who stayed here had created a kind of oasis in the swirling snow.
"It's not much," Carter said, "but it's better than nothing."
I spent the evening in the company of the other cast-offs, laughing and sharing food around as we warmed ourselves by the fires that glowed through the night. Someone had a guitar, others told stories, and I fell asleep against a wall in the best shape I had been in for the last five days. I wished I had known these people from the start, and wished I had found this place from the first day, but I was introspective enough to know that I would have insulted them when this strange journey began. This was a place I had to come to naturally, a state of mind I had to reach on my own, and as I slipped into blissful slumber, I hoped it wouldn't simply disappear when I woke up like some kind of dream.
I wish it had now.
The alternative was a lot worse.
I woke up to the sounds of people yelling and running. One of the barrels had been turned over, the coals making smoke as they tried to catch a sleeping bag on fire. People were screaming, scooping up what they could as people moved in the dancing shadows with purpose. I shivered beneath my blankets, certain we were getting attacked by demons, but as the shapes got closer, I saw they were police officers.
They had discovered our camp, and now they were taking away our one refuge from the cold.
I sat as still as I could, trying to be still and unseen, and when they moved away, I made a break for the nearest alley. I saw flashing lights and heard someone yell at me, but I just kept kicking up snow as I ran for my life. The sun was turning the horizon into a hopeful pink, but I just kept moving. When people got in my way, I went around them. When bus stops or stoops rose up to block me, I moved around them too. I didn't dare stop until the sun beat down on my neck, and only then it was because I just couldn't go anymore.
My legs were tired, my head spinning from over-excursion, and when I flopped down onto a bench in a bus shell, I was out of breath.
I kept trying to make sense of what had happened, but it just wouldn't mesh in my brain. Why had they come after us? We weren't hurting anyone, we were just looking for a warm place to gather. They had come in like we were terrorists, and I hoped that Carter and some of my other friends had made it away.
I don't know how long I sat there, but as my stomach started to growl, I knew I would need food. I thought I might put my hat out and try to get some money. The longer I just sat there with my eyes closed, the more I wondered what the point was? The oasis now felt like a dirty trick. They had allowed me a moment of happiness so they could pull the rug out just as I thought I might have found something better. I almost preferred the uncertainty of not knowing what to expect, I thought, and as the day passed and I continued to sit on the cold metal bench. What was the point, after all? If everything could change in a second, if all safety was just an illusion, then why do anything?
"Enjoying your new life of leisure?"
I jumped, realizing someone had sat down beside me.
I opened my eyes and realized it was me. I looked exactly the same as I always did in the mirror, but I realized it had to be the old man pretending to be me. As I sat here, day had become night and, just like that, we had passed seven days. I had done it, I had weathered the storm, and I liked to hope I was a better person for it.
"Just basking in my newfound sense of understanding," I answered, realizing it was true.
I took the grubby coin from my pocket and held it in my hand, feeling a strange warmth coming from it as we sat in the chill.
"Well, you made it, and a deal is a deal. What will you wish for now that you have all this knowledge?"
I put the coinin his hand, feeling the warmth transfer between us.
"I want the means to make sure no one else has to live like this. I want to help people, even if it's just in this town. Is that too vague?"
He closed his hand around the coin, and I felt that warmth radiate through my stomach.
"I can work with that."
I opened my eyes and suddenly I was me again.
I was sitting there as if waiting for a bus, and when I got up, I knew what I had to do.
It was hard starting out, but the backers came and the money came and slowly I fed them.
Slowly, I brought them off the street and gave them a place to stay.
A decade ago, I took a coin from a beggar.
Today, I own one of the largest shelters in the city. There are no confusing forms, no prerequisites, and no red tape. We feed those who are hungry, we house those in need, and when I see the hope in their eyes, I know my wish has come true.