Eighteen

crying out, "For the love of God! If you run any slower, you're a dead man!"

Joshua couldn't run any faster. He was an emaciated 57 year old Jew with the remains of his left lung and a kidney ready to shut down should anyone of authority give the word. His heart threatened to rupture, even at this shambling pace, sweat as he had not seen in 30 years drenched his forehead, and spots of light kept flashing in and out of his field of vision. He was a dead man.

Dash pulled to a stop once he saw his boss ready to keel over. Rolling his eyes, hands on his hips, he hurried back to save his life. Grabbing Joshua, he hoisted him up into a fireman's carry, and trotted off through the field.

Coming upon an enormous chestnut tree, Dash grabbed the lowest branch and nimbly gamboled up to the higher ones, Joshua no more bother than a winter scarf. He finally came to light on a wide horizontal branch, barely winded. He looked quite proud of himself, and his face showed his glee.

"Well," he beamed, "At least bears don't climb trees!"

Seventeen

Frederick M. Spalding...why now, of all the times, would that name choose to enter my head? At the top of the Empire State Building in mid-January, no shoes, an appreciable bulge in my left jean jacket pocket (it's so freakin' cold up here!) and a bright yellow umbrella bearing a rather large burn hole near the edge? I feel I've led a good life; I've looked after my friends, been kind to animals, and never killed a soul. That should earn me a little...I don't know...leeway? Maybe...I was never very eloquent in our Mother Tongue. Tongue. Now there's a weird word. Jesus! I think I've lost the feeling in my pinkie toe.

I'm outta here.

But no, I had promised. Me and my stinkin' promises! I wish I could be like the people I'd hidden away from for all those decades. People like...Frederick M. Spalding. Frederick M. Spalding. He is not smiling. His face is smooth behind the oversize glasses. Can you hear me, Frederick? Can you hear me in your dreams forty years ago? Can you hear me whispering in your ear?



GodDAMN, it's cold.

Sixteen

How did I know what she wanted? How could I possibly understand the forces that had driven her to such despair? How could I…? How could I…?

The body of Santo lay at her feet, his face in peaceful repose. His arms were crossed over his chest, his one heel tight against the other. I wasn’t sure what had killed him, but I was sure it wasn’t Leela. She was incapable. Her mind simply would not be able to wrap itself around the very concept of killing. So who?

As it turns out, I never did find out. Leela raised her warm brown eyes and stared deep into my own. I felt the pull of her tormented soul, grasping for life as a drowning man clutches the arm from inside the lifeboat. Why wouldn’t my mind send words to my mouth? Why was I frozen in impotent wonder? I wanted…no, needed…to run to her, to clutch her in his saving arms, to make good all that was torqued inside her.

Then she killed me.

Not with any tangible weapon, but with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Just once, but enough to feel her spirit release its grip and slip into the icy cold waters. As she turned and left I knew she had committed herself to the depths, and I could not follow her. I could not…

Fifteen

As I look upon what used to be Soupy Sales Fountain and was now a hideous metallic sculpture, I find myself musing about my time in the mediocre town of Huntington, WV, and those items that so affected my brief time here; my iPod, my Roomba, and, of course, my Wii.

The technology severed my connections with the real world, and when I at last returned to that world, I found it profoundly changed. 10 years makes a big difference. When we are away from a place for so long we tend to cement it in our memories; we freeze it in Kodachrome. How ego-centered we are that we believe the world, devoid of our influence, does not change.

When I killed that man just for snoring, I guess in a way I knew it was wrong. But he had it coming. The Law wouldn’t find me, not here. I looked too different, my identity was carefully crafted, and let’s face it: people in West Virginia weren’t the sharpest bulbs in the box. I moved among them like the proverbial fox in the hen house. My only problem was getting used to the goddam accent. It curdled my stomach.

I would lay low, planning my next move as carefully as an architect designing a cathedral. My next kill would be a work of art. Not one of these cow-faced nobodies. They would never appreciate the beauty of what I do. No, it would have to be someone special.

But who?

Fourteen

I was finally in a land of unicorns; a land of yellow horizons. Angels lovely as one could imagine at last looked down upon me and smiled, while dragons thorny and crusted as old barbed wire drew angry circles in the sky, waiting for tacit permission to swoop and burn.

Gone were the cubicles, the blue fluorescent bulbs humming their torturous 60-cycle tune, the insipid Nothing on the other end of the tumorous Blackberry, the smell of mold and chemicals blotting all else out. I may be nothing more than a meat packet, an organic support system for a brain now infected with lesions of wire and crystalline circuitry, but I was free. I was free.

Adelynn may never know what became of me. I hope she doesn’t.

Thirteen

The light in the room was crisp, clean and white. As I lie upon the wide round bed, linen sheets as clean and white as the light strewn casual about, I look down at the woman sleeping in my arms and I am content. We had been through so much to get to this point, and it is all worthwhile in the end.

She is breathing deeply and regularly, her naked flesh spooning with mine, our lovemaking over, for the time being. I stroke her hair gently and she coos softly, then snuggles even closer, our bodies melding into one. Looking up at the wall of windows I see the bright blue sky over the Mediterranean filled with clouds scudding leisurely across the horizon. The air smells of summer, sea and salt.

In a few days it will be time to return to our home in the forest, our European tour completed with this final stop in our villa. We had once dreamt of a time like this, when money was plentiful and time was ours to use. Now it is here, I am thoroughly enjoying it. A lot of pain led me up to this point; knowing what I know now, I would have welcomed the pain.

The afternoon is ours; there is an interview we have to attend later this evening, but looking out at the jewel-like water I think we’ll do some scuba diving first. Of course, knowing us, once we get our energy back we may never even make it out of the bed.

Twelve

I will probably never understand my Master’s family; they cavort and cajole in ways which baffle me. They play games of a sort with which I am unfamiliar, and for which I have not the manual dexterity. Had I a grasp of the mechanics of their jocular diversions I would, perhaps, endeavor to join them, but they do not even feel the need to include me in their frivolous activities.

They eat food which to me often appears grossly unpalatable, or at the very least overcooked. Am I ever offered a sampling of their repast? Well, in the interests of utmost honesty, I must answer yes, they do indeed. But all too often the food proffered is not what I would consider as my first choice. Perhaps if they would set aside a small sampling uncooked, or at the very least undercooked? Is that truly too much to ask of people with whom I have spent the vast majority of my existence?

Their home annoys me to no end, and their eclectic choice of furniture sets my teeth on edge. It would appear they have little taste in the art of decorating, and they have the feng shui abilities of a lactating Canadian moose. If I could move the couch three feet to the left, I would. And don’t even get me started on the recliner. Is that lamp entirely necessary? Phah.

The carpeting is, by far and away, the last straw. A shag affair the color of a slightly moldy mustard seed, this carpet has not only stood the test of time, it is from the beginning of it. It was old when Larry King was conceived. And don’t even THINK of urinating on it! Want to get into hot water faster than a Maine lobster? Squat on their precious rug and see what happens. Maybe if they cleaned the goddam litter box once in a while! I mean, really. How is one to maintain a respectable level of personal hygiene when one’s toilet facilities are attracting more flies than a white trash buffet?

I cannot take much more of this. Some night, very soon, I shall secrete myself in their bedroom before “lights out,” as they so charmingly call out before retiring, and come out once they are asleep. I shall then lie upon their gaping maws, closing off the supply of oxygen with my ample (yet well-conditioned) body. Once they have smothered, I shall feast on their eyes! AH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Oh dear, I have overlooked two important considerations: who shall feed me, and who’s going to clean out my frigging litter box? Damn. Life sucks.