Final War - Coliseum

This place was once crowded with tourists from around the world. The kingdom of concrete and steel enveloped the landscape with a sense of awe and man-made miracles. The civil engineering would be historic but there is no one to write that history down. Not anymore. The day the world went away was the day all of that no longer mattered. It was the day that would run deep in what was left of our morality. The scars that would not heal, the blood that was never spilled, the chaos that caused the silence, the day everything just stopped.

This coliseum was once filled with thousands of screaming fans roaring for violence. Armored men dashed back and forth on this playing field, smashing into one another to score what the game called touch-downs. The iron goal posts no longer stand high. Along with most of the construction, the iron became twisted like left-over spaghetti, all dried, gnarled, and hard. There was no longer the smell of freshly cut grass in the field, the emerald green replaced with black ash, crusted mud and the stains of blood. The carcass of a giraffe lounged half eaten by crows near the 40 yard-line, the aroma of melting flesh in the noon high sun drifted downwind for a touch-down.

A lifetime ago I was one of those men. My number was 37, I was a linebacker. I used to live well, rolling high at the casinos and drinking heavily at the clubs. I had women flocking around me. I was a king, the city was my village, and the fans were my followers. Now everyone I knew are scattered in the wind and sea. Ashes are all that remain of them. Everything was so quiet now. I’m a stranger to those that survived. My title, the game I played, the popularity, the money, the power. It was all gone. I became a victim like everyone else. As if this were a reset to things that went terribly wrong.

For all that we could have done and all that could have been, this is where it ends. I should be thankful I was alive but I’m not. Why could I not have died along with the rest of humanity? What plans are meant for me? I’m not a spiritual man but this has had me thinking. What does God have in store for me? Was I simply forgotten?

“Jeremiah!” Nate said out loud as he walked into the stadium from a dark tunnel filled with garbage.

I turned around to look at the unshaven man. He wore a white button up shirt, what used to be a name brand now resembled a rag rather than some stylish fashion trend. His hair was unwashed and dripping with oil. The split ends of his bangs tucked neatly behind his ears.

“I found the trail. We have to continue moving north. A local farmer pointed to the pilgrims heading to Washington. He told me the pilgrims heard a recording over the radio. Bolling Air Force Base I think,” Nate announced to me before he dropped to his knees and began to cough.

I rushed to his side after he puked what looked to be chunks of blood and food, “So we keep going north?” I asked him. I didn’t know why we were following these pilgrims anyway.

We had lost their trail sometime ago and after wandering the jungle of overgrown weeds and relics of ruined houses from a time before this. Nate was certain that there was a reason for this entire insane plot and that these pilgrims were a key to finding out the answers. He never told me where he found out about them.

I didn’t have any reason not to follow him. After all, what was there more to do? Society had crumbled and it’s hard to find people that weren’t out to protect themselves. Nate wasn’t one of those men and I think he needed me as much as I needed him right now.

I kneeled by his side and placed my hand on his shoulder, “Nate! Bro, are you alright?” I asked him sincerely as he shook his head. He wiped his mouth clean of the warm blood. He looked at me with blackened eyes sunken deep in his skull. Food was scarce in this new world and the radiation poisoning took its toll on all of us. We had no choice but to keep moving. There was nothing else to do now.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” He gurgled before spitting up more phlegm, “Lets pack our shit and keep moving. It’s still a distance from D.C.”

I helped him up and wrapped his arm around my neck and shoulder. I carried him partially. His body was weak and powerless. I feared he wouldn’t make the trip on foot in this wasteland. Washington was still days away, that was walking at a good steady pace. Motorized vehicles no longer function, fuel was scarce to come by. Horses and other cattle were all taken by vagabonds and sold at a price we couldn’t afford. Clean food and antibiotics sold the highest in this new black market.

“C’mon Nate, let’s pack camp.” I said with as much reassurance as I could muster. It seemed to me that Nate truly felt a connection with these pilgrims. He said they were “The Forgotten” whatever that means. Sounded more like a cult in this faithless new realm.

Convict

There is too much confusion here, so many things and so many people. The walls are closing in on me and the world has made itself a little larger without me. I am trapped in this shackle, this shell of a man; behind these bars I watch new fashions replace old trends. I see the world turning and the sun rising and the moon falling.

Each night is like the last, each tomorrow is like today. The things I thought once were important I have now lost interest in. The things I thought were less than important have now become the things that inspire me most.

I once thought that the world revolved around me and that I was the light shining down on a cruel harsh reality. I was parting the dark clouds over the horizon or the hand of God himself giving back to those less fortunate than myself. I was here to serve the will of mankind. I was here to serve a greater purpose.

I was wrong for thinking this way and only after I lost everything was I able to understand that I was nothing important to anyone or anything. The world still moved on while I stared out from behind iron bars. The birds continued to sing their melody and the clouds still parted to let sunlight through without my assistance. Miracles were still being performed and I had no part in any of it.

Quietly I loathed at this and it took me time to consider my faults, my fallacies, and my misguided intentions to judge and be judged. Sitting here in my concrete castle of barbed wire and steel I stood vigilant. I watched as the primates around me ran the asylum, those in control did so only because the inmates allowed them to.

I got into a routine, I kept to myself and I received a reputation of being some zealous mad man. I quickly found a group of men that were also of my same kin. Without them, I would have been torn asunder like a rag doll. Like Jesus himself walking down the alleys of Jerusalem during his last days, so was I walking this fateful line.

I considered the fact that I was not Jesus, I wasn’t even a man. I was treated as an animal. Some nameless face, my name replaced with a number. I was inmate 164325. I even considered my number, the sum of each couple was a seven. Ironic, I thought to myself. It confused me at first but it had to have been coincidental.

Somewhere in this perfect tragedy there was a sense of purpose. I could not save anyone outside the walls of my castle, but I could manage to bring my ideas to the convicts within it. These men would become my disciples. It was only after I succeeded in inspiring these men that I realized that I was not the man I thought I was. There was something more, there was something much darker. I was somewhere between Earth and Hell. A liaison to the devil himself…

Change - ch. 7

The interior of the space station was flaring with red flashing lights and the sound of boots pounding on the catwalks hanging dangerously over open wires and circuit boards. The crew was mustering to their positions preparing for the worst, not knowing what to do next, awaiting their orders from their commander.

“Colonel, we’ve lost contact with Mariner Bravo!” Wallace roared over his shoulder.

Baker looks to the technical sergeant and points his finger to him in frustration and yells over the emergency sirens, “Well, God damn it! Get them back!”

With his other hand, Baker grabs the microphone and presses the intercom button. A robotic click is heard followed by a horn to give his announcement. The sirens became quiet as his voice, like god, blasted over the entire station and to his subordinates.

“We have lost contact with Mariner Bravo. Weather conditions on the planet have made communications impossible. Scramble Mariner Charlie for immediate departure. Extraction and evaluation of Mariner Bravo’s condition is critical. Make it happen! Out!”

The crew was wary and tired. Susan Langley heard the order and turned her attention to another crewman. Susan was a military civilian working in coordination with the Department of Defense on this mission. Her job was to evaluate and assist the crew in asserting possible extraterrestrial or otherwise peculiar abnormalities during the mission. This constituted an anomaly from her perspective.

Sarah looks over to crew member beside her and asks him in cynicism, “You’ve got to be kidding me! We can’t dispatch a second vehicle with what crew is left!”

The crewmember didn’t reply. He was given his order.

“This is bullshit!” She threw down a pencil that was in her hand for no reason. She storms out of the cramped work station and down the maze of corridors to get answers from the Commander’s station.

Wallace was sweating, pressing buttons and flicking switches attempting to change frequencies on the off chance the Mariner Bravo scout party’s radio shifted their channels. He was welcomed by static and feedback loops from space.

“It’s no use sir, all channels are down!”

The colonel looks over to the radio frequencies and notices the same. He looks to a video monitor where the robot camera feed was coming through. The dust and wind on the planet had made it impossible to see anything but flying grey specks.

“Move the camera and see if the vehicle is still in the area.” He demanded.

Wallace did what he could but there was nothing to be seen from the Mar’s canyon. Another fruitless effort it seemed.

“Damn it!” Baker yelled.

A door slams closed and Sarah marches towards the Colonel not at all pleased by the order he had given, “Tell me what exactly you’re thinking sir! We can’t send down another crew on the surface now, who the hell would man the station?”

“Ma’am, the station is automated and I have men on the surface that require immediate extraction. I leave no man behind.”

“Even if that means your extraction may compromise the integrity of the station’s mission Colonel?”

“The station will be fine, this is a simple extraction mission at base camp on the surface.”

“Sir, you realize that the situation on the surface? Hurricane winds and debris may hinder your operation!”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, this is my call. Feel free to write your report as you deem necessary. We’re millions of miles from any beurorat right now. Stay in your lane Sarah and let me do mine!”

Wallace tried not to be part of this argument, still trying to shift channels and frequencies.

“Sergeant, escort her off my bridge!” Baker orders to Wallace.

He stands up and leaves his post and puts himself between her and his commander, “Ma’am, please leave the bridge immediately.”

She hesitated and tried to look over Wallace’s shoulders to the commander and like a reporter, she would not leave easily. Being pushed out she continued to ask and demand questions and responsibility for the station. Her face flustered red with anger.


On the surface of Mars the weather picked up a violent surge. The wind howled like a hungry wolf and debris slammed against the haul of the rover as it tried to escape the raging torrent of a Mariner sand storm.

The vehicle slams into a deep trench, Its nose digs into the soft soil. A boulder hits the rear of the armored tank and slams the exposed under carriage of the vehicle and jolts the crew inside.

A crewman inside flies from his seat and instantly crashes on the roof of the interior of the vehicle as the boulder collided with the bottom of the tank. Chapel braces for the impact and slams face first on a monitor that was hanging on from a stand on the side of the computer module. A third member is flung about like a rag doll, still buckled in his seat that was torn from bolts on the ground near the impact area. Him, the chair, all the items not bolted down bounced inside the small cavity like a pinball in racking points for the highest score.

Chapel shakes his head as he tries to gain his senses. Blood pouring down the side of his head he holds his arm in sheer pain. He groans to his crewmembers, “Jamison! Sampson!”

Chapel’s only response was the ominous howling wind and the creaking of metal as the boulders continued to pound on the outside by the hurricane.

Sampson releases an agonizing moan. He was still buckled in the chair which now hung like an ornament on a Christmas tree. A long metal rod stuck out from his chest. He spat blood and released a weak yell to his Lieutenant.

Chapel hears the pain and crawls over to him the best he could in the awkward walk way of what was left of his craft.

“Sampson!” Chapels made his way near him and saw that his soldier was hanging from the wall or was it the floor, it was hard to say in his state of mind.

“Stay with me Sampson, we’ll make it through this.”

Chapel touched Sampson’s face his skin cold and clammy. His sweat was ice cold and when he spoke blood dribbled down his chin. With his eyes trying not to roll into the back of his skull he replies, “Sir…” To the end, he was a trooper.

Sampson looks to Chapel and whispers a final request. He knew he was dying and they were so far from home, “Tell my fiance’ that I love her…”

“Don’t waste your strength. We’ll be back aboard the ship soon. Colonel Baker is sending help.” Fool’s words for a moment of desperation, but it was all the Lieutenant could do for him now.

A buzzer begins to go off and a mechanical female voice announces to the beaten crew that there was a breech in the haul and that life support was failing. Chapel could hear the whistle of his oxygen escaping from his tank.

Change - ch. 6

“Scavenger Alpha has descended. Making its way towards the target…” The frequency cuts out into gibberish and static. “Is that a good copy, over?”

The surface of Mars is a desolate terrain of cracked mud rocks and powdered rust. Within the red walls of the cavern there lay inside that strange metallic object. Certainly it wasn’t from this world or any world known to man. The Mariner Rover kept distance as the captain ordered and watched in silence as the little box was shot from space.

The box burned brilliantly in what little atmosphere the planet had before smashing into the surface. Even as the parachutes fell on top of the metallic box, labeled with the property of the United States, the enormous cube was quite the sight. The box took quite the beating as it rolled and smashed onto the surface before the impact balloons expanded and rolled the object up right.

The parachutes draped and twisted around the top of the crate and remained as silent as a metallic box could in the growing winds and debris slashing at its walls. It remained unmoving and still for what could have minutes before one side of the box opened up and dropped down like a ramp for loading cars on to the back of a big rig truck. The dimensions of the box were the normal military issued ‘quad con.’ Measuring the side of a small room in a cheap apartment, the box held within it a billion dollar piece of machinery.

The machine rolled out of the crate like some mechanical contraption from any 1960s science fiction. It rolled on a modulated tri-wheel track capable of flipping over even the harshest terrain and it wielded two powerful two-fingered claws that were able to pick up the finest and most delicate material available on Earth. The body of the robot was thin with bulking wires wrapping around what most would consider a spine. Its head was a square block with two massive red glowing eyes for sight followed by two additional cameras that constantly moved about. All of these visuals could be seen from the space station casually drifting above the scout party.
“Scavenger Bravo, that’s a good copy. Atmosphere radiation is interrupting signal. Expect delay in response time. Current time is thirteen fifty-six Zulu, package arrived at thirteen fifty-one Zulu. Do you confirm delivery, over?” Colonel Baker was lounging in his chair and leaned over to look through the small port hole and overviewed the roundness of the red planet below him.

The radio responded minutes after Baker’s response and he heard Lieutenant Chapel’s screaming clear enough to recognize the voice in the speaker. The winds picked up in the response made it difficult to understand his word and the Colonel could hear the small over shaking sounds of rock violently hitting the rover from the massive winds coming their direction.

“This is Scavenger Bravo, we confirm drop and it proceeds to target. Heavy winds in the area will make for difficult movement back to base, over.”

The robot was controlled by Sergeant Wallace near the Captain’s chair. His seat was far from completed. It was a make-shift gnarled wire frame with a torn pillow for the base. It creaked and rattled every time the station made an orbital adjustment. He hadn't grown used to it over the month of his time here, after all he had been working down in the cargo hold for most of his time. Wallace looks over to his commander and shakes his head with disagreement. He wasn’t pleased at all.

The robot on the surface attempted to move to the target inspected by the scout party before it, but it moved in slow periodic movements. It crept several feet forward and stopped. It moved several more feet forward and stopped. This was what the scout party noticed as a large chunk of something crashed against the side of their rover rattling the crew within.

“We can’t stay here much longer Sir, winds are picking up, danger imminent.”

Sergeant Wallace turns his attention to his commander and speaks bluntly, “Sir, this robot isn’t responding to controls. Something on the surface is interrupting the transmission. I suspect it’s the Mariner winds.”

The commander looks to Wallace and frowns. He nods his head and grabs the microphone from his desk and presses the button down, “Understood Scavenger, make your way back to base as soon as possible. Mission scrubbed, over.”

Lieutenant Chapel yelled at the top of his lungs from the cabin of the rover to his crew barely heard over the shattering torrents of wind outside, “I’ve been ordered to scrub the mission, prepare for immediate evacuation from the site!”

The two crew members were far from hesitant to react to the order and immediately began to move the rover around to move out of the chasm that they were in. The robot was left ignored and they all expected it was controlled by the experienced professional on the station in the heavens.

One of the crew members in the rover yelled back, “Moving out now!”

The rover was a massive machine the size of a small tank. It was armored to resist the impact of a nuclear explosion. The design was Russian and even though the armor was expensive it was insisted by several other governments in NATO. The tank moved slowly through the treacherous debris and was struck several times by boulders the size of small cars. The crew inside shook around like marionette dolls, but they held their resolve. Their only focus was to survive this growing storm they had found themselves in.

The robot moved inches and finally stopped at near the haul of the abandoned wreckage. The cameras had already been destroyed by the flying debris and Wallace was driving the machine blindly. There was a single camera left from the impact of the storm, a fail-safe system demanded by the Chinese. The camera recorded only in black and white and the resolution was terrible but at least the machine was still operational.

The grey and black images were spattered with speckles of grey and white flying by at incredible speeds when Wallace reviewed the footage nearly a minute after what the robot had seen. He looks to the Colonel and says, “I can’t see shit in this storm Sir… I don’t think this robot will survive this weather!”

Frustrated and blind, Wallace tries to drive the billion dollar machine out of harms way. This was his opportunity to show his captain what he was capable of doing. The brightest and most well equipped in the world. This was why Wallace was selected for the mission. This was more than just a simple operation to the sergeant, it was a test of mettle.

Colonel Baker looks back to Wallace, “Try and salvage what you can!” He looks over his shoulder and notices the rest of the crew wasn’t there. He turns on the intercom within the station and demands all hands on deck.

Wallace maneuvers the robot near the side of the wall and the lee side of the unknown object. Here the robot had the best chances of survival. Wallace continues to review the dark mass of spatter on his screen and can’t tell where the ship was or what the debris from the wind. The movement was erratic and from time to time the images from the camera jolted as the robot was struck or moved by the wind.

“All hands on deck! This is not a drill!” Baker spoke and his voice echoed heavily and loudly throughout the station, “All hands on deck!”

Suburbia - ch. 6-7

Ch. 6

Thieves sneaking around in broad daylight and trying to hide behind shrubs near the sides of someone's house should be an indicator that something going to happen. A neighbor was outside watering his yard wearing a stained white t-shirt and boxers along with knee high black socks and slippers. He was tall and too slender for his height while his head marked a perfect beacon to airplanes when the sun reflected off his scalp.

He swings the hose around, rainbow colors of water drops misting out around his lush flamingo garden, he notices the thieves at Jimmy's parents' house. Steward was the flamingo care-taker's name but the rest of the neighborhood called him stupid. He was adept at watering and caring for his lawn which had won the annual neighborhood beautification award for the past three years. He hung the medals on the window overlooking the road.

He waves over to the boys sneaking about, "Howdy there!"

A distant sound bellows to the thieves' direction like some exotic avian mating call. One boy had unplugged the bottom of the basketball goal, water draining down the driveway and into the street very conspicuously as the mating tune rung in his ears.

"Dude someone spotted us Roger!" Don whispered loudly to himself as he looks over either shoulder. His accomplice was no where to be seen. Maybe he was attempting to break in through the back door. Maybe he was a chicken-shit that ran before the job was done.

A twig of a man, pale as the moon and as hairy as a beast was waving gingerly at Don. Of course this suburban little paradise would never experience any break-in or other criminal mischief.

This was Brownwood after all!

When you go to a public area and bump into someone that looks up at you then smiles and begins to start conversation, often it is polite to return the conversation until a decisive moment to escape. Sometimes two complete strangers meet and someone says that they knew them from high school or at some other convention. Sometimes the recipient of the comment lies and nods his head saying that yes perhaps they had met. This is often also called being polite.
This was exactly what Don had done. He stood up in the drive way and waved back to Steward with a ginger smile. A loud pound followed by a crack erupts the awkward moment and the criminal goes to check on Roger who by now was either halfway to his car or extending his criminal record.

"Those are some nice boys they have!" Steward says to himself and smiles, shaking his head and returning to watering his garden of grass.

He leaped and bounded over bushes and slammed his boots into a thick puddle of mud. He dashed past the corner of the brick home in the green alley between the house and the fence. Don couldn't help but remind himself of Rambo while charging into the dangerous unknown of Jimmy's backyard and Roger's criminal mischief.

Glass sparkled brightly on the concrete patio in the backyard and the screen was torn asunder with manic glee. Don's eyes bulge from his face and his mouth gapes open like a snake trying to swallow a rodent three times its size. He tried so hard to emit words from his throat but they merely came out as audible chirps and whistles of partial syllables.

Standing there staring at the living room was as traumatizing as the first glance at what the police like to consider 'breaking and entering.' Shards of thick glass laid on the red carpet along with wiry shreds of what used to keep the bugs and vermin out of the house of windy days. The wire didn't withstand rats the size of Roger. The screen wasn't insured for that sort of treatment.
Roger pops out from no where and cracks a huge shard of glass with his tennis shoe, "His parents are freaks!" He laughed out loud. The curiosity had sunk in for Roger and he was far too excited to realize how loud the breaking glass must have been to the rest of the world.

"We need to get the hell out of here man!" Don demanded that Roger stop playing around.

"It'll be okay, bro. No one knows we're here!"

"I think you missed the part where you shattered a door made of glass you fucking moron!"

"Was it loud?"

"Yes!"

"How loud?"

"Very loud!"

"That loud?"

"YES!"

Roger looks over his shoulder and grabs something that looked important. A purple elephant with a crystal held high by the statue's trunk. In reality, this didn't cost more than a dollar at the thrift store.

"I guess we should probably go then?" Roger said while tucking the elephant in his shirt."
"YES!" Don didn't know what else to say. His face was as red as a baker's furnace and his clenched fists were ready to pummel someone like a champion ultimate fighter.

"Get your panties out of a wad…" Roger replies after seeing the fury in his accomplice's eyes, "We still have to load up that basketball goal."

Flamingos seemed to stare at the two boys as they snuck around the side of the house from the backyard. After performing something that is immoral or down right wrong there is often a feeling of dread or paranoia. No one ever raises their hand saying they did it. Even some prisoners serving double life sentences for triple homicide say they didn't do anything. They were framed. They were innocent.

Rome is known for the fine architecture of ancient Greek statues and the astonishing waterfalls and aqua-ducts. Steward may very well be made from granite and marble as the boys exposed themselves to the front yard on their way to the drive way and the truck. The lanky white gardener held the green hose at his hip and the gush of water spewing out from his nozzle looked more excited to be held than not. The dull canvas Mona Lisa staring expression on Steward's face should be a Kodak moment. He watched the boys for a long hard minute trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Don was an idiot. Last season he had single handedly saved his team from an embarrassing defeat when he scored a touch down in the last quarter followed by an interception and an additional touch down in the final minutes to win his season. The all-star player didn't even know what the score was throughout the game. He was ordered to run. That was all Don did. That's all

Don was good at. Don no care cuz don dad rich.

He waves at Steward with a cheerful disposition. Not only does he reveal his face but exposes other attributes so often asked by the police. He is a six feet and two inches tall with blue eyes, and black hair. The stranger was roughly two hundred pounds. Mostly muscle. This was Don and he drove a vintage truck, white. That is what Steward would tell the cops if they came over asking, that was if anyone called the police on the kids. No one had reason to steal in Brownwood after all. The Beaver would envy this little commune of good faith.

Steward quirks his lip into a faint and dubious grin and waves back to the kids. His long green hose flapping mindlessly about as a breeze picks up. A rainbow shimmers from the water mist uplifted by the wind. The green grass beats happily as the water pellets tickle their blades eager for more of what the gardener had to offer. Suburbia could not be more gay and full of Zen.

Ch. 7

"Help me with this damned thing!" Roger whispers in a roar to Don.

Don was already attempting to open his truck and preparing for their escape while Roger struggled with the heavy load. Sweat beading off his brow he looks over his shoulder to the driver of the truck sitting there turning the engine.

The basketball goal was more cumbersome than it was heavy. It stood eight feet tall and weighed a hundred or so pounds at the base. The plexi-glass board behind the rim had a white silhouette of Michael Jordon slamming a dunk. The goal seemed brand new. Of course it would, Jimmy wasn't the sporty type. Besides, his mother hated the idea of allowing her child to participate in sports. Jimmy's health was far too important to her and to bear the thought of injury. Her little Jimmy would never do something so barbaric.

Instead, the boy became a mock of ridicule and dislike. He was weak and lacked any self-esteem because of his sheltered life. His father wasn't much of a father when it came to teaching him how to be a man and to stand up for what he believed in. His mother was just a paranoid lawyer. They both worked long hours most of the time and Jimmy's best friend was the television. This was the life of little Jimmy, his escape was channel 13 between commercials between the hours of five and six.

He could have gone outside and played with his basketball goal if only his mother allowed him to have a basketball. Mom would not hear any of it and refused to allow him the opportunity. Even as society began to stress the importance of living active lives, Jimmy was not allowed to be part of this cast. Jimmy was destined to sit and vegetate.

"Why do we even keep that out there?" She asked Jimmy's father.

He was sipping coffee and reading the daily newspaper that was thrown exactly at seven each morning. He puts the steaming mug down and then looks to her as she slips a plastic wrapped sandwich in a paper bag.

"Maybe one day you'll let him actually be a boy dear." He was so subservient to her, they both knew who wore the pants in the house. They both knew who paid the bills and kept food on their plates. It certainly wasn't him.

"I want you to get rid of it." She demanded as she rolled the top of the paper bag down crunching a bag of chips within.

"Honey, it was a gift to Jimmy. You know how much he cares about it." He says while turning a page. He continues, "You should really let him use it. It's sentimental for him. You know how important it is for the boy."

She huffs like an ogre hungry for mortal blood and turns around to another room.

Jimmy comes downstairs as he does every morning. His feet stomp on each flank as loud as the last and dad reminds him that grandmother is in the other room sleeping. Jimmy's breakfast was already on the table for him. This was just another morning. This was just the same routine as before. This was their life.

Suburbia - ch. 4-5

Ch. 4

The plan was simple. It consisted of Don's vintage Ford pickup truck and senior skip day. They would find something to cover the bed of the truck as to not scratch the silver paint job. Then they would have to drive to their victim's residence where they would steal the basketball goal in the drive way while everyone else was at work.

Roger and Don would meet up at a busy parking lot about three miles from the house. This is where Roger would leave his mustang and ride with Don to the scene of the crime. From there they would back the truck up into the parking lot and steal the goal.

Don didn't think that was enough and he decided to add a paper bag filled with his dog's shit on the steps of the front door of the house, lighting it on fire as they speed away victoriously. This plan would work like a charm.

Roger was always a misfit. It all started the day of his conception when his mother and father made him out of wedlock. The pregnancy was a nightmare for the couple as well and his mother had thought more than once to abort the baby. Sometimes she thinks it should have been the right thing to do. Unfortunately, for Brownwood, it didn't happen.

He was born prematurely which became a quick burden on his mother. The baby was expensive from the very start. The parents were not ready for this responsibility and his early years were filled with confused messages and lack of attention. He began to slack at school at an early age and was picked on because of his size.

All of this changed in junior high school when he had a growth spurt and instantly became the brawny muscle he is today. For all the times he had been teased and picked on, it was now time for him to share that love with his fellow classmates. Soon everyone at the school would remember his name, Roger Fernandez.

This was another problem he had growing up. He was Caucasian with a Spanish name. This often confused his teachers as well as his peers. "Whitey Chico" was his name growing up and if anyone were to call him that now there would be missing teeth. The ironic thing about punching out someone's teeth for saying that name is that without front teeth the name sounds like "Why Chico?"

Roger and Don were close friends but still had a rivalry over women. Secretly they both wanted the other's girlfriend. They never said it to one another. It was one of those things you just don't tell your friend. They both played on the football team but Roger had quit for his senior year. He said it was a waste of time.

The fact is, the coach kicked him from the star role because he wasn't a team player. Roger couldn't bare the thought and he left outraged telling everyone that the game was stupid, the team was pathetic, and the coaches were mindless freaks. Don knew better and stayed. His team was definitely good enough for state this year.

"Dude, where you at?" Don said into his cell phone after Roger picked up.

"I'm on my way, bro. I'm about five minutes away. I got stuck behind this soccer ball mom!" Roger seemed furious over the wire.

"Yeah what ever, just meet me in the parking lot. I'm in Aisle F near Wal-mart."

"See you in a sec."

The red mustang rolls down the aisle like a dream. The V-8 turbo charged engine was growing heavy under the pounding bass vibrating in the trunk. There is something about white urban boys trying to act cool with their thumping rap music and their hat flipped backwards. For this occasion Roger was wearing a giant gold cross. It was a cheap rip off from a music video he saw once.

A hand pokes out of the vintage truck and waves the mustang over. The red beast rolls into a spot near the truck and the hood of the car extracts from its hidden frame. It could rain, always the possibility in Brownwood.

Roger locks the canvas and removes his bling and slips it into the glove department. He slips out of the car and closes the door and pushes a button locking it with a single beep.

"Yo man, never thought I'd make it!" Roger chuckles while walking with a limp, holding the front of his pants as if they were about to fall to his ankles. Don could see his reflection in the black shades Roger was wearing as he leans on the window frame of the truck.

"Get off the truck Roger! What the fuck are you thinking?" Don was always paranoid about the truck. It was vintage after all and it wouldn't be easily replaced.

The two exchanged insults and Roger enters the passenger seat, "Let's get going."

Don shouts a howl and turns the engine of the truck. There was another roaring growl as his truck creeps from its space and into the mess of traffic. Within a few minutes the two of them would be well on their way to criminal mischief.

"Did you get the shit?" Roger asks.

"Yeah dude, it's in the back of the truck."

Roger shakes his head, "Man that's dope."

Trends and fads come and go, dope once meant idiocy and then transformed into a generic title for drugs and apparently now it means that something is outstanding.

The music in the truck blared loudly as they accessed the highway. They ignored the rest of the world as they passed by the "Welcome to ignorance, America!" sign.

Ch. 5

Lockers at the high school were small compartments to conserve space for optimal capacity. This was the blue print that was proposed by the architects and sold to the state under the assumption that the building process would be cheaper and more efficient. Three lockers per column extending as far as the eyes could see. This was Brownwood High School's answer to space saving.

The school board bought the idea and the students suffered convenience in return. It's not as if the state politicians cared about it much. Each student had a price tag and each head would bring lucrative profits into their pockets. This process is similar to breeding and herding cattle in Texas. The only difference between the two tasks is that driving an entire arm into the cow's anus to check for pregnancy was not required for students.

One of the lockers slammed repeatedly as Jimmy fought to conserve the space in his backpack. Jimmy's locker was . Shreds of crumbled paper and notebooks flapped about like a white out blizzard in winter inside the confined space of the locker as he pounded the door closed. The latch only mocked Jimmy with each attempt and tossed the door back out like a used whore.

Rejection was a word Jimmy knew quite well.

Cursing and screaming obnoxiously at inanimate objects never resolves a problem but it certainly makes the frustration a little more tolerable. Jimmy continued on his epic quest to close his locker, his black backpack swinging to and fro on his back was liable to hit an innocent spectator waltzing down the congested hallway between Jimmy's class periods. He had just finished English literature where he received another bloody document with a very low number and he was about to sit in on a government class where he watched the teacher from behind his eyelids. This was the way things went on 'T days.' Wake up, go to school, fight the locker, sleep through class, head to lunch, and go home.

Jimmy stops and looks over his shoulder as an annoying prodding finger pressed into his neck. The nerds would name this the Vulcan choke hold. Rachel called it fun. The frustrated kid spins around and was prepared to curse at this new-found animate object but to his disbelief it wasn't one of the boys. He was taken off guard and began to stutter. Jimmy wasn't much of a public speaker. He rarely spoke at school except to tell people to leave him alone. Besides, she was a goddess to him, Italian beauty, he imagines her profile pinned up on his wall. He imagines her groping herself and her tongue drawn out of her mouth like a hungry tiger. Maybe Jimmy should stop day dreaming so much.

Rachel blinks as Jimmy spins around as though prepared to destroy the world in rage. Half expecting him to speak German and flail his head around spitting she takes a step back and tries to smile but it turns out awkward, "Hey Jimmy…"

Her voice was a chorus of perfect harmony to the anxious and angry boy. His vicious angry face turned into a gentle courteous appreciation. Those manic eyes turn somber and he smiles something just as awkward, "Hello Rachel." He tries to hide the swinging metal door of his locker but fails miserably.

He looks over her shoulder half expecting a prank. He didn't see the boys around and Jimmy stayed on guard as he asks her, "What's up?"

Rachel replies, "Yeah. I just wanted to tell you that I don't appreciate how the others treat you."
Why was she saying this to him? He would question the madness of the world around him, has everything gone to the dogs? Had he missed the nuclear sirens or perhaps he was already dead?

What in the world was going on?

"Well, you can't stop them Rachel," He said back defensively. He was curious and he ask her,

"Why are you talking to me now?"

Rachel quirks her lip and replies, "I just wanted you to know that I don't appreciate it was all."

Yeah, he got that already. He wasn't hard of hearing.

"Okay…" Jimmy said. He didn't know what to say next.

Rachel nods, "Okay, well, I have to go back to class."

That was simple, Jimmy thought to himself. It was strange, he would add. This isn't going to be a normal day is it? He asked himself.

Jimmy turns around and begins to walk to class thinking about what had just happened. He didn't pay attention to his locker door still opened and slams right into it. He falls to the ground and hits his head on the painted concrete and rolls his eyes closed. He drools on himself a little before blacking out completely.

The locker door was just as dazed. Slamming backwards on closed lockers and bouncing off latching closed with a powerful noise which echoed the corridor. Unfortunately Jimmy was unconscious and didn't see the secret of closing it.

The sound of nothing followed by the sound of more nothing becomes an echo inside of little Jimmy's head. This is similar to floating underwater in a pool at the park and there's dozens of people swimming about inside with you. Even though you know they are there and you can hear the faint nothing in their splash or while they laugh above the water, the sound just isn't the same. It's quiet under here. Some would like to stay under in this watery paradise forever but
now and again there's that problem with breathing.

Jimmy was stuck in something similar. The words spoke to him were meaningless and distant. His mind was dark and clouded with thoughts of black and void of wonder. Here Jimmy was with himself and at peace, Zen. Floating pointlessly under water in the deep ocean blue he was sinking. The boy touches his face and feels the soft texture of his own skin. The subtle beating of his heart pulsing blood through his veins became like a melody. Everything was perfect in this pointless world until Jimmy tried to breathe.

Forty-thousand watts of electricity running through every vein in the body and nerve ending should be painful. It should leave a mark; those wretched veins bulge blue from flesh. Nerve endings trigger and synapses fire jolts of electricity from line to line often leaving terrible electrical burns. Stick a metal fork into a toaster that's currently cooking a slice of bread. All of this pain and suffering was something that doesn't seem to bother little dying Jimmy. This shock is like a massage really, the coursing fingers running up and down his body like frantic ballet dancers on stage fluttering their toes in the air and spinning gracefully around on his skin. This was Jimmy's escape from everything.

Burnt flesh has a distinct aroma that is difficult to explain. The smell is somewhere in a rating between sewer garbage and unkempt crotch. Janice was having problems with her self image today and smelled only slightly better on the burnt flesh meter. Janice and her self image, deep down inside she was a Cinderella bought in slavery by a white trash warlord. She simply felt dirty today.

A door opens slowly and in comes a super model dazzled in sparkling jewelry and a silver shimmering evening gown made from the silk in some far off distant unpronounceable country. Her daunting eyes staring out to the end of the catwalk, her hip on her shoulder and her black hair bounding off her shoulders gave a perfect image. Janice was losing it again.

She blinked and shook off Rachel's appearance. She wasn't even wearing a dress, she hated dresses. Rachel hated Janice's taste in clothing. Rachel could explain Janice's taste in a single word, 'skank.'

She throws her backpack around from over her should and on the top of the black slab tabletop of the wooden desk before scooting herself into the seat next to her ever friendly wicked Cinderella.

An even more potent smell creeps high on the burnt flesh scale, a distinct odor that can be defined by the color shit-green. The science lab smelled of formaldehyde today in preparation for the mass butcher of amphibians. Janice was quiet as Rachel sat beside her stuck in her own trance as if she were sitting in Tienemen Square. God himself wouldn't be able to budge her in this trance. Paralyzed with fear and wretched crotch, she ignored the world.

"Jan? Are you feeling alright?" Rachel waves her hand in front of Janice's face.

Janice sees nothing.

Rachel blows in Janice's ear and prods at her head, "Wake up!"

Janice hears nothing.

"What got into you today?" Rachel asks her, now feeling concerned.

Janice says nothing.

Suburbia - ch. 3

Rachel clenches her fingers tightly around the edges of her blankets. Her head glistens with sweat as her face is buried into her thick white pillow. Squirming and thrusting her hips eagerly towards the ceiling of her room she begs for more. She moans quiet enough to not wake her parents. She bites her lips when she felt her moaning would wake the dead. Rachel began to bite her lip more often than making noise at this point. Her eyes close tightly as she feels unimaginable needs between her legs and the sweat from her sex tickled down the interior of her thighs.

She gasps deeply and holds her breath before squealing abruptly. Her hips buckle and she jerks back and forth muttering about her orgasm flooding her emotional and physical body all at once. Each climax of bliss was better than the last in the short moments that to her would be eternity.
Her body flails and lays there unmoving and she grins broad and wicked. Her heart was still beating quickly when she opens her eyes and giggles. She snuggles her body around another pillow and she playful purrs.

"Wow Jan… I never knew…" She panted before falling into another light giggle.

Janice pulls her blonde hair from her face and wipes her lips with the back of her index finger. She smiles back and nods to her, crawling up from between Rachel's legs and rolling to her side next to her. She nods, "Yeah, it's kind of fun sometimes. Besides, Roger is being such a jerk tonight."

Rachel shifts and turns her head to look at Janice, "Yeah well, this is much more fun than waiting on those two meatballs!" She tried to cheer up her friend, it was the least she could try and do for Janice's performance she thought.

Janice jumps a little as a loud buzzing rattles the nightstand next to Rachel's bed. Rachel looks over to the stand and eyes it with a little curious thought. The two girls look to each other as if thinking of the same thing and they both laugh a little.

"Shush, not so loud! You'll wake my parents!" Rachel chuckles to Janice and playfully gropes at her breast.

Janice grabs the cell phone that was dancing on the table like a frantic bee. She flips it open, "Hello?"

"Hey Jan! What's up?"

"What do you want Roger?"

"I left my jacket at your place. Are you at the house?"

Janice was quiet for a minute and spat acid through the phone, "No. I'm at a friend's house. You can get your jacket tomorrow!"

"What are you doing at a friend's house at two o'clock?!" Roger was livid with jealousy.
Little did Roger know that Janice was never at her house. She often lied to him about where she was. After all, her home life was far from perfect. It was a secret she was unwilling to share with anyone. Even her friend Rachel was unaware.

Roger's jealous was more in his head. He had imagined Don as a man-whore that couldn't be trusted. The two of them have been meeting quite frequently during lunch at school and Roger even caught the pair of them sitting under a tree studying for a biology exam. They had class together, they were probably studying anatomy. Roger could only guess which organs were discussed during their session.

Rachel could hear Roger's voice blaring from the other end of the telephone as Janice pulled the headpiece a good arm's distance from her head. Janice looks towards Rachel and lip-syncs obscenities about him. He was probably drunk and just wanted to fight. It's what he does on Thursday nights. He always thought he was something special, hanging out with those college frat houses. Janice was growing to hate him a little more each day.

Rachel frowns and crosses her arms over her bare chest concealing her tantalizing once excited body parts. She rolls her eyes and leans over and whispers to Janice that this was a great way to end the evening. She followed her sarcasm with a snort and a lengthy frustrated sigh. It's not that Rachel was a lesbian it was just friendly fun to escape reality for a moment. Besides, it was better than drugs was what she always said.

If you bred two pure blooded Italians with strict Roman Catholic zealots you would produce Rachel. She was as pretty as she was unfaithful. Her parents were ignorant to Rachel's skeletons but they always had eyes on their daughter, a blind eye Rachel would say. She was never allowed to go anywhere and her curfew was well before nine o'clock each evening. She was a sheltered child and had never had the time to be pressured by her peers to perform such sinister and evil things such as smoking, chewing, or injecting drugs into her body. Her body was a temple. This was what Rachel grew up learning and training for. She was prude, at least that's what her parents think. Every teenager needs an escape and hers was by means of the flesh.
Janice hangs up the whiney voice yapping under static like Charlie Brown's mother scolding him mindlessly. She felt weaker after the spat and she buries her body into the mattress and under the thick covers, "I just want to sleep for a little while."

Sometimes escaping from home is healthy for children their age, but Janice never knew where home was. Janice lived a perfect life at school, the latest season of name brand clothing, a perfect white smile and her hair was always combed and shimmering. Her eyes were radiant blue diamonds and she had a body all the girls at school envied. By the time she met friends it was time to pack up and move to the next city.

Besides her perfect little social life she didn't have much. Going home was a nightmare of
drunken fist fights and flying silverware and glasses. A television with foil wired rabbit ears and a floor that constantly smelled like cat urine. The air conditioning unit was leaking something blue and supposedly it's considered unhealthy. The floor of the trailer was rotten and there was a hole in her bathroom beside her toilet. To fix that problem her step-father placed a small oriental rug he had purchased at the dollar store. That seemed to fix everything. The ceiling was always patched with duct tape.

Her mother was a work of art as well. She bounced around man to man like she was working the stock market. Once upon a time she found a decent man with a decent job and a thick wallet. He didn't last long once Janice's mother sunk her fangs into the man's neck and leeched a chunk of his savings to spend on her secondary boyfriend. He wasn't too bad either if you liked the druggy long-haired biker type with a record that spans the distance of the Nile River.

If there was a wreck tonight on the way home from Rachel's place, she was certain that her parents wouldn't find out or care for a week. That's about the time it takes for the house to clutter with dirty clothes and dried chunky dinner plates in the sink. That's when she would be missed. Janice was a modern day Cinderella. Too bad glass slippers were no longer in style.
Statistically, Janice fit the numbers for a fourteen year old drug abuser that should be three months pregnant with her first child. Of course daddy would often be several years older and he wouldn't stay around. Starting a franchise in every city was his goal. Reaping was not part of his plan.

Fortunately Janice was no statistic and she lived a decent life when she could forget her home life. Her friends' parents adored her and with enough friends she could play off that she was spending the night and that her parents had let her. With enough friends she could cycle through the pattern. Janice's parents would never find out, there was no telephone at home to confirm the truth. With her award winning act and perfect pop-star smile, Janice could pull off the innocence of Whitney Houston. There was no doubt in her mind she had won the hearts of all parents. This was why Janice was over at Rachel's house tonight, eating carpet and playing phone tag with her supposed boyfriend.

Rachel was combing through her black hair and was wondering why Roger called at such a strange hour, it wasn't like him, well, that's what Janice said. She was perplexed and instantly reminded about the plan the boys had chalked out earlier. Rachel didn't like Jimmy but she didn't dislike him either. Live and let live she always said.

"Seriously Janice, you don't think they plan on hurting Jimmy do you?" Rachel asks with a small shake in her voice. She was dreaming of situations if Don got caught. What if things went terribly wrong, what if she some how managed to get involved? What would her parents think if they had to bail her out of Juvenile hall? Would this be the end of her at Brownwood High?

Janice shrugs as she shrugged in the Mustang earlier today, "If I know Roger, they'll find him outside or lure him out and then tease him a bit. They'll probably beat on him a little and call him names. Maybe take his lunch money and steal his bike. It's fine."

Everything wasn't fine though. Rachel felt there were going to be problems if they harassed that poor freshman. Janice might be use to Roger beating on kids and playing a bully and maybe Rachel was new to this game, something told her that it was much darker than that. Something in her stomach twisted and told her to get out. Get out while she had the chance. Something wasn't right, she thought. Maybe it's nothing, she consoles herself, but she wanted Janice to help.