Red Volkswagen

After many months, another story.

When you work retail you meet interesting people, and you don’t even need to go looking for them, they come to you. Some of these interesting folks are co-workers, people you can’t escape from with a smile and short apology when they demand a piece of you. I work as a stock boy at my local grocery store in a small town nestled in the folds of the Berkshire Hills, our little hamlet stuck in the year 1955, a situation granting me my own place in the Twilight Zone. Hell, I’m sure Rod Sterling will make a visit to my store one of these days.

One day a co-worker of mine who goes by the self-inflicted moniker “The Koon” decided to talk with me while I shelved baked goods. The Koon and I met a few months ago when he got hired to the meat department, introducing himself and his name with pomp and circumstance. At first I thought Koon joked with me, the man being as white as they come and one bed sheet away from dancing around a burning cross; I figured he was being ironic.

I gave the Koon too much credit, the man was dead serious. He wasn’t aware, as far as I could tell, of the meaning behind his chosen name, and neither I nor anyone else in the store had the heart or courage to enlighten the man. So here I was in the baked goods aisle with a gaunt, lanky figure wearing a white butcher’s coat two sizes too large. Blood stains covered his outfit complimenting the slow look in his face, missing teeth, and bulging eyes. Koon is a man straight out of Deliverance, now all he needs is a banjo.

Koon of all of my co-workers always took a front row seat in the parade of interesting people, being a rather sociable guy for a man of his breeding. You see the Koon was born of special stock, a descendant of intrepid settlers who left the relative safety of early colonial settlements to carve out a place for themselves in the wilderness of Appalachia. This vanguard of settlers labored to achieve the American Dream before there was even an America. Koon is the result of centuries of inbreeding, his ancestors insulated themselves from the halls of civilization, venturing west as men and sending back men like Koon as their legacy. Koon hob knobbed among the civilized folk of New England smug in his own superiority over the lesser races of men, in particular people soft from the creature comforts of modern life. This intrepid vanguard greeted me in his usual manner.

He said, “Hey Isaac, wanna see my meat?”

My concentration broken by the interruption, I looked up from my work to find Koon’s crotch inches from my head. I backed up and stood as far back from Koon as I could, responding, “Keep your junk out of my face Koon.”

Koon said, “Hey guy be cool, don’t go crazy. It’s a nice day today, good for a drive. I saw you coming to work driving that Saturn of yours . . .”

Here is a man obsessed with cars, and Koon does own more cars than he has teeth. I have to shut him down here and now lest he commits himself, or worse me to something we’ll both regret. I said, “For the last time Koon, I’m not selling you my car.”

Koon recoiled, “Hey, hey that’s not what I’m here about . . . but my offer is still on the table. No? Well you drive a nice car so I figure you got a smart opinion.”
I asked, “Where are you going with this Koon?”

He said, “I’m looking to buy a car from my friend Mike, a Volkswagen. Somebody like you knows about European cars right? I want you to go see the car with me, tell me what you think.”

Mike, a friend of Koon and a name I hoped never again for a long time. When the store hired Koon they also took on his friend Mike, and I was charged with showing Mike the ropes for work in the backroom. Much like Koon, Mike descended from the hills in search of opportunity, but where Koon wanted money to buy more cars Mike wanted a job to fuel another past time, one involving heroin. The friend wasn’t any junky though, this kid had a real drive, a professional addict.

Leading Mike around I soon learned the dedication Mike had to his craft. The kid went on break before me, a courtesy on my part I’m remiss to repeat since Mike didn’t return for over half an hour, forcing me to go on a manhunt to find my ward lest I get in trouble for his disappearance during my shift. I scoured every inch of the store and Mike just wasn’t there, leading me to search the surrounding property, and I found him behind the store dumpsters. There Mike was fresh in his dress shirt fished out of a Wal-Mart dumpster and a haircut reminiscent of Charles Manson, the kid’s eyes darting about paranoid as if in expectation of the impending race war, Helter Skelter.

Squatting in the store refuse with a needle in his arm Mike went about his business unaware I watched. Once he finished mike turned to me and said, “Hey Isaac what’re you doing here?”

I said, “I’m looking for you.”

He said, “Oh. Can you take my Saturday shift? I’m busy that day.”

I told Mike I’m already working Saturday and Mike just shrugged as he got up and returned to work. Needless to say I informed our manager of the show Mike put on behind the store and Mike, the smooth operator he is, slid out the door and never came back; he wasn’t missed except by Koon who to this day holds Mike’s quick release as a personal affront on the part of the management, but I digress. Koon wants to buy a car from his old friend and he wants me to give him consul, so I gave Koon my two cents, “Don’t do it Koon just let it go. If the car’s from Mike it isn’t worth doing business.”

Koon said, “Nah I gotta at least see the car, so let’s go after work.”

I said, “Wait, wait, you want me to go see the car? No, that’s stupid. You can go make that decision on your own, you have my opinion.”

Koon pleaded, “Come on guy you can’t just decide like that, you gotta make an effort, buying a car ain’t a light matter. All I need is a second set of eyes.”

This did not bode well for me, or for anyone else involved for that matter. At the end of my shift I found myself in the passenger seat of a 1989 Ford F-350 with a rusting frame, stripped upholstery and the smell of dead chickens filling the cabin. Koon drove homeward and my eyes wandered about, settling on an old M1-Garand stored on a rack hanging on the back of the truck cabin. Koon noticed my interest saying, “Yep, that was Pappy’s gun, killed a ton of Nazis with it.”

I thought on what Koon said, imagining an army of rednecks and hillbillies washing over Western Europe, and I wondered what the Europeans thought . . . the devastation we country bumpkins wrought on their well ordered world, an inbred Armageddon. We passed into the back woods part of town, driving by what I thought to be landfills and scrap yards, areas filled with piles of garbage and broken cars, but it dawned on me these dumps belong to people, constituting their front yards.

We came to a stop in front of a lawn relatively clean compared to the rest, a beat up red Volkswagen in the driveway. The house is run down, a den of rats festering in a rotting neighborhood. We exited the truck and the sound of slamming doors drew Mike out of his home, and the guy had bags under his eyes, sunken cheekbones, and needle scars all along his arms. Mike completed his look with a yellow stained wife beater and boxer shorts, no need for pants in this exchange, and Koon greeted his old friend with pleasantries as I waited far off to the side near the truck.

Soon everyone got down to the business of selling the red Volkswagen, a delicate and well practiced dance among the hill folk. Mike showed the both of us around the car, Loon the buyer and me the witness judging this particular offering. I suppose I should be honored to participate in this cultural institution, but I feel uncomfortable and a little afraid. We get a tour of the entire car, the weather damaged exterior and empty interior, everything from the upholstery to the electronics stripped from the vehicle. Mike and Koon swung around front of the car for the all important check under the hood, the part that could make or break a deal. The two made a production of lifting up the hood and underneath was . . . nothing.

The car had no radiator, no battery and alternator, not even an engine. The entire engine block gone I inquired as to where it went and Mike said, “Oh, hey I had to have some work done so I had it taken out, but the car’s still good.”

I turned to Koon, “I don’t know much about cars Koon but I do know this car is shit. It’d cost too much to fix no matter what Mike’s charging. How much is he asking?”

Koon said, “He only wants eight hundred for the car. Eight hundred! Don’t look at it like it is but how it’ll become. I’ve owned cars kinda like this before, so I can fix ‘er up good.”

I gave Koon my last word, “You can’t fix this pile Koon, it’s beyond you, and anyone else besides.”

Koon ogled the car, “I’m gonna buy it.”

With nothing left to say, Koon produced eight hundred dollars cash on the spot, paying Mike for the car. It struck me that Koon had eight hundred cash on him, rendering the entire exercise a pointless endeavor. Having played my part in this song and dance I hopped back into the truck as Koon hitched the Volkswagen to the back, and with everything set we took off again I making the comment, “You know you just handed eight hundred dollars to a heroin addict.”

Koon shook his head, “Don’t worry Mike told me he was clean.”

I said, “The heroin addict said he’s clean . . . right. He’s going to kill himself.”

Koon asked how and I answered, “With however much heroin eight hundred dollars can buy.”

The rest of the night went by quiet, and the day after next I showed up for work ready to take on the hordes of shoppers. I picked up a newspaper for break and flipped through, a name in the obituaries catching my eye. Koon’s good friend Mike up and died the day before, the cause of death not given. Koon showed the proper amount of devastation at losing a close friend, and I didn’t have anything good to say about the turn of events so I kept to myself.

Go Tell the Spartans

I kind of lifted this story from Herodotus, I don't think he'll mind.

Banished from our home of Samos, those survivors of Attica’s aggression turned to Sparta for help, hunger eating away at our bodies and exhaustion at our souls. We set out for the city and my brother, the one chosen to present our cause to the Spartans, prepared a speech to sway them to our cause and provide us aid. Though hard, the Spartans are fellow Greek and our trusted allies, and I have faith they will not abandon us or ignore our plight. Sparta holds sanctuary for us all, and we shall yet have justice for the wrongs committed against us.

Upon our arrival the Spartans greeted us, ushering us into their amphitheatre with no fanfare. The Spartans gathered to hear us speak as was custom, and my brother stood forward to oblige. The sullen eyes of these hundreds of Spartans scared me more than any force Athens sent against us, and I felt a chill climb up my back. My brother must have felt the same, his whole body wanting to shake but he keeping it to his left hand hidden behind his back, and as such he launched into his speech with courage and conviction.

“Spartans, we humbly thank you for taking us into your city and showing us the hospitality one shows their neighbors. A city as powerful as yours must receive countless requests and demands from friends and enemies alike, yet you take time to listen to us poor Samians and for this we cannot be thankful enough. As you all know our two peoples stood by one another as allies, ready to fight for one another when the need arose. Today we do not fight for our city or honor but for our very lives, and we beg you to stand by us in this time of need.”

My brother paused a moment to gauge his audience, the sense of boredom and impatience reflected in hundreds of glazed eyes and voiced in a symphony of coughs and sneezes, this feeling of melancholy concentrated onto the point where my brother stands. He breathed deep and prepared to break the poor Spartan mood.

“History is filled with the good deeds and valor of Spartans, not the least of which is her aid to our defense against our common Athenian foes. We struggle to meet your greatness and return what is given to us, but one day we can return the favor. Continue to stand by us, we remain loyal to you. Listen to our story so that you may know our hardships and better understand what needs to be done.”

My brother continued, recounting a tale of valor and woe, of Athens’s unprovoked attack upon us and their merciless destruction of our island and its beautiful city. He told the Spartans of death and misfortune, how children wander among the corpses of their parents and how the smell of fire and burning flesh follows us even to this peaceful city, Sparta. Not even those who sought shelter in sacred temples were spared, so depraved was the attack upon us. My people wept at the portrait my brother painted, the memories of war still fresh, and many of us still shaking in fear, jumping at shadows from the horrors we suffered. But the gods saw fit to spare us, and they shall see fit to watch Athens burn by Sparta’s hand, so my brother told them. The Spartans can understand this plight; they can share our pain and help us to rebuild all that was lost.

The speech my brother gave came to an end. There was no applause, not so much as a sound from the Spartans, and though nothing was said much was communicated. My people despaired at our failure to secure the help of the Spartans while our hunger and pain bit deeper with the thought we would have to leave the city empty handed. My brother on the verge of tears turned to me and said, “We’re lost. What hope do we have if the Spartans do nothing?”

Just then one of the Spartans stood and addressed us, he said, “We forgot the first half of your speech, and we could make nothing of the remainder.”

All of us Samians were dumbfounded, and it was then I alone realized our mistake, the folly of forgetting the nature and customs of our hosts. A new tinge of hope filled me with warmth and excited every fiber of my being, pushing me forward to speak. I took from under my tunic an empty bag meant to carry the aid to receive from Sparta and gave my own speech, one suitable to Spartan ears. Thrusting the bag forward towards the audience I said, “The bag wants flour.”

The standing Spartan looked at me and smiled, he said, “You needn’t have said ‘the bag’ but you’ll have aid.”

Outwardly we remained stoic in the faces of our wonderful allies and friends the Spartans, but in our hearts we rejoiced. We ate and drank well that night.

Look on My Works Ye Mighty, and Despair

I've finally gotten around to writing once more, and this is the first of three stories I have. The other two will be up soon.

My empire crumbles before my very eyes and I sit buried alive in the tomb among the ruins of my glorious capital, my very own city. I never imagined my enemies would ever defeat my armies one by one, breach the sanctity of my city, and leave me to die the pitiful death of an animal. My enemies compared me to Hitler, Stalin and the like, though they never lasted long they laugh at me from the ashes.

My uniform, metals, titles, and honors count for nothing! Can a name buy victory? The loyalty of my men led only to treachery and the strength of my arms yielded only defeat. The battles went my way when the fighting was fair, but my enemy grew cunning and pulled my rightful victory from under my feet, from within my own country. My own people abandon me and bow down to foreign masters, I see to it those unfortunate enough to survive rot in a barren wasteland unfit for even the vilest forms of life.

The great buildings I made collapse into ruin, blasted by fire from the sky, and my people die in droves, burnt and crushed and beaten and shot. The smell of fire and death consumes my country. Good, the flesh of my people burns to nothing and leaves no feast of victory for the foreign vultures devouring my lands. They speak of freedom and democracy, but such words are lies. I lived only the truth and am destroyed for it, though they cannot be rid of me forever. I rose before and shall rise again to rule over the hearts and souls of men until the end of days. I will return.

Creature from the Hundred Acre Wood

It's been awhile since I last posted. I should get on writing more. Here's a little story inspired by this drawing:



This picture is the perfect combination of sad and grotesque; it puts a smile on my face every time I see it.

Deep in an old forest lives a bear hidden in a cave. This bear’s den sits in a disenchanted place, carved out of a knoll covered in weeds and knotted trees. Light rarely reaches this place, touching the mouth of the den a few precious times when the wind blows holes in the mat of leaves blanketing the area. Inside the den the bear lays on a bed of moss regardless of the season, never leaving the dank confines of its home.

The bear is old, its fur yellowed from age. Its breathing is heavy and labored. The yellow body of the bear is a gelatinous mass, its stubby arms and legs useless for any meaningful movement, yet it manages to grab at a pot of honey and shovel its face full of the stuff. The honey drips around its mouth and onto the bear’s red shirt, a gift from a little boy who once loved the bear but is now long gone. The shirt is ragged and torn, stretched thin by the bear’s girth. The bear keeps it out of habit.

Sleepy sounds seep into the den from outside, the summer heat unable to find its way down into the twisted cave concealing the bear. The bear keeps its jar of honey close, the only comfort left while buried underground. Honey, once the great love in the bear’s life, is now compulsion. There is no joy left in the bear’s eyes, and the luster has left the black beads set deep in his face. All that’s left in those eyes is the dull embers of a tired life waiting to drink the one nectar the bear has yet to taste, the sweet mercy of death. Sleep comes easy to the creature.

In Service to No One

It's been awhile since I last updated, but the last two months of summer destroyed what little creative essence I have. Forty hour weeks at the Country Grocer working on renovations will do that to anyone. Getting back to school motivated me to write more stories. Here's the latest.

A young boy sat in a dark and cramped room, decay leaving the place more of a cave forgotten and left to time. The boy found it looking for escape from a dank, humid hall, as the darkness seemed cool and inviting. The reality though was continued oppressive humidity, but the boy stayed regardless. He jumped at the sound of a voice flat and mechanic yet comfortingly female.

“Hello, what are you doing here little boy?”

After slipping around for a moment the boy sputters, “Who’s that? Are you one of them?”

“Me one of them, no I’m not trying to bring you back. I’m no one in particular, but you James are someone we consider quite special.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been watching this place for some time, and you interest us. I can help you get what you want; I can help you escape.”

James felt around the broken room, running his hands along the walls and rubble, feeling the fuzzy carpet of moss and fungus accompanied by the sick smell of stagnant water. The mechanic voice chuckles at the boy, causing him to stumble and fall down. He cries out in pain.

The voice speaks, “Be careful, this building is condemned for a reason, so what do you say? I’ll help you so long as you do what I say.”

James winced and sat down, “I don’t trust you.”

“No? What are you here for then? What do you want?”

“I . . . don’t know. I can remember anything; everything’s fuzzy in my head. All I know is my gut hurts at the sight of the men in white coats, so I run. They never come here, so here I am.”

“They’ll find you soon, so will you follow me? If you want to I’ll be waiting outside the gates.”

“I don’t know . . . I . . .”

Footsteps echo through the empty halls of the dilapidated building, and James stops breathing. He asks the voice to help, but gets no answer. The room’s doors fall open and a flood of light washes over the room. James scrambles towards the remaining pockets of darkness in the back of the room but is scooped up by white washed orderlies. The boy kicks and screams for help, the sounds carrying through the old halls.

A few years later. . .

I don’t know where I am or why I’m here, but I do know I want to escape. But there is no escape, you’re always on the run from something, and I’m no different. I got my start running back in the facility where I grew up, and none of us who lived there knew of anything beyond the walls and fences of the compound. That place was our entire world, but that changed for me.

Portions of my day were spent in a drug induced haze, but even so I remembered enough of what the administrators did to me during my blackouts that I knew enough to run when they came for me. I came across someone willing to help me while I was hiding one day, and they came back repeatedly since. I still pray that they are real; I know they’re not a hallucination. They told me about the outside world, so now I have somewhere to run to, the only problem was how. For that I was on my own.

Every day after classes I walked through the same hall on the outer edge of the education center and staffed with only one guard. I thought about bolting out through a service door located down the hall and whenever the thought came up so did the question, why? Why do I want to get away so much? Invariably I’d see a guard scowl at me or one of the white suits look down at me and I had my answer, so after lifting a couple beers from the faculty lounge I forgot my worries and worked up the gumption to finally escape.

Health exams were coming up again which was an announcement that hit below the gut; health exams meant hours of lost time and strange wounds. Announcements blared over the PA commanding us students to report to the medical wing at our designated times, and mine was that evening. I wouldn’t be there.

The guards get lazy around us students because if we cause trouble a push of a button has implants in our bodies shut down select parts of our nervous system, leaving any unruly student paralyzed on the floor. Complacency breeds danger though, and the guard next to the service entrance to the education center never saw what was coming his way until too late.

I chose to slump down near the service door and wait for the guard to make his patrol. He came walking quickly, unwilling to linger in one area too long. Upon seeing me he asked what I was doing and not getting an answer told me to get up and move on back to my dorm room. I failed to comply so he warned me not to make him call for backup, and continued no reaction led him to lean over and grab my arm. I took hold of him with the same arm he grabbed me with and jabbed a needle of painkiller I found lying around the medical ward into his stomach. Lucky for me the medicine put him out before he could react and my heart jumped into my throat in excitement upon realization of my success.

Moving quickly I got through the door using the guard’s ID card and jogged across the compound quad, finding the front entrance. I decided to hide out of sight near the gates, making use of the shrubbery as cover. I learned that day that I’m allergic to whatever the hell grew in those bushes, a runny nose and itchy eyes plagued me as I held back a sneeze. The smell of pollen tightened my throat making it hard to breathe, and I even thought of just giving up and going back to the facility, but I quickly forgot those thoughts.

A shot of fear went up my back at hearing a group of guards stop by the gate. I tried to bite back the fear, but why am I afraid? What have they done to me that made me so scared? They’re not the nicest people but I can’t remember. It hurts more to not remember. Trying to keep still made my shaking worse and my allergies all the harder to control, but I went unnoticed. The doors swung open and the guards watched as a truck pulled up from behind the medical wing. The truck paused and the guards surrounded it, going through the usual spot check. I waited until the guards were sufficiently distracted to sneak out of the bushes and run towards the gate. The moment I passed through the gate the alarm sounded so all the guards turned around and saw me running.

I didn’t stop, hoping the guards were too far away to do anything to me. Walled in on each side, the drive stretched on for about half a mile while my heart sunk at the sight. I swore and ran as fast as I could, reassuring myself the guards were out of range, but they weren’t. I felt my legs give out on me, turn to jello as I plowed forward, breaking my fall with my hands and settling on my side, arms burning in pain.

I closed my eyes and refused to watch as the guards lifted me up and carried me back towards the gate. Something wasn’t right though, the guards stopped and talked urgently among themselves, so I looked up to see the gates sealed shut. Nothing the guards did and no one they called could budge the doors while from behind came a familiar voice, one both mechanical and female. The voice told us no one was going anywhere.

Eyes turned up to one of the drive walls and there stood a girl, she looked young but I didn’t get a good look at her face. The guards all collapsed unconscious at once, leaving me alone with my strange benefactor.

She said, “I told you I’d wait outside the gates.”

I asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m no one. Sorry, but you’ve got to be asleep for the next part of the trip. Don’t worry, you’ve made it.”

I slipped away only coming to sometime later on the outside. My benefactor told me I was on my own, leaving me down some dark alley in an unknown city with two hundred fifty dollars and an ID card. Why was I abandoned? I can’t remember what I ran away from and I don’t know where I’ll run. I don’t feel like I’ve truly escaped, and on the inside I at least had friends to help me cope, now I am alone. I need to do something besides run away. It’s my turn to do the chasing; I’ll search for the truth.

A few hours later . . .

“Did we get a good look at her?”

“No sir, the suspect’s face was obscured, by what we don’t know. She overrode our security systems, and we still can’t figure out how she did it or why she chose to help Subject 312 escape or how she knew he’d be outside the gates at that particular moment in time.”

A scientist dressed in a white lab coat watches the security footage of the escape incident. The dark room hides his gaunt figure, his voice portraying a fuller person. He says, "She probably had an in with our security system for awhile now, and I don't think she knew when he'd be outside. Check the security feeds for the main drive for the past six months for different times of the day."

Another figure bent over a work console digs through the video files and pulls up the footage requested. On the main screen in front of the two men flickers the drive, devoid of life, quiet and empty. The man at the console cycles through each day, each week for some time before the scientist tells him to stop. The security official looks back at the scientist.

The scientist, pointing to the south wall of the drive showing on screen says, "Look, the culprit makes herself less visible to our cameras, but we can still see her. This shadow on the wall shouldn't be there, also the area around the shadow is fuzzy, and the camera isn't damaged. This pattern of interference repeats during many of the times cross-referenced, too many different times to be coincidence. Who's casting the shadow, creating that interference?"

"The culprit?"

"I think so. That shadow and white noise shows up on every single day you played through, so she's been here every day for the past six months, possibly longer. She's been waiting for him this entire time. I wonder if she ever made contact."

The scientist's eyes defocus as he thinks, and the security official fidgets uncomfortably. The scientist says, “We can track the subject though, retrieving him is top priority.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we’ve lost him completely. We’re in the dark.”

“Go through the records for every one of our facilities and look for other escapees. We’ll find our culprit there. I’ll work on getting the subject back.”

The scientist exits the room as the sound of the air conditioning blasts.

The Dog Story

I don't know how I feel about this story, I may revise it later.

Here I am, working day in and day out packing shelves in some small town in Northwest Connecticut. This is truly a dead-end job in a nowhere place, but working at the Country Grocer has its perks. The people are great and the other employees are a riot to work with. Even the occasional customer has a story to brighten my day. One of these customers goes by the name Chris, and he’s earned himself quite the reputation around town. Chris always has some new girl hanging of his arm at least two years younger than himself, and his strange magnetism for little girls makes him last guy you’d want your daughter dragging home.

Chris came into the store the other day looking for something or other, and he recognized me among the shelves. We lamented the time spent in the crucible of high school shaping the horrible experiments which will ultimately become our lives. I felt something lacking about Chris as we talked, and before long I noticed he didn’t have the usual girlfriend. I brought my concern of the matter to Chris and he hushed me, pushing in close and telling me he and his latest girl took a few much needed days away from one another.

I asked what happened and his response was simple, “The Dog Story.”

What he told me then is a tale not for the decent or faint of heart. Just two weeks prior Chris convinced some young girl the world didn’t treat her the way a goddess such as herself should be treated, and that he wanted to show her how great she was. She must have swooned at the idea because she invited him to her home while her parents were out. Chris sauntered over to the lovely Karen’s house and was let in by the excited and willing girl.

Chris by this time made his first move, suggesting the party move to a more intimate location, namely Karen’s bedroom. The girl complied, bouncing up the stairs and bounding down the hall towards her private temple. The two settled close together on the pink for poster bed, and they got to know one another. As the two went kissed Chris suggested Karen take off her clothes which hid her beautiful body, so the girl threw her clothes off in a tizzy and they strewn the floor as soon as Chris finished his sentence. Karen spun around; standing so as to accentuate her curves yet kept her arms over her front retaining some modesty.

Chris smiled as he told Karen, “You’re coming in quite nicely.”

She giggled and danced around the room while Chris watched this divine show. He grew tired of his jacket, so he discarded it. The same with his shirt and pants until all that remained were his socks and underwear. Karen both didn’t notice or mind her audience’s transformation and continued on with her dance. Unable to remain a petty bystander, Chris rose and beaconed for the girl to come over to him. He whispered in her ear that she was so unique and wonderful that he wanted to do something special with her.

She cooed, “What?”

Chris responded, “Anal.”

Karen was a little disappointed and very much confused by the suggestion. She told Chris she’d never done it before and was too afraid to try. He told her there was nothing to be afraid of and promised her it would feel great. Karen had a hard time saying no, how could she refuse the requests of the worshiper come to pray at her alter? She gave her blessing and asked Chris what should next be done. Chris caressed Karen’s shoulders and guided her onto the bed. Following the necessary preparations and gentle prompting from Chris, the two got into their respective positions and got on with it.

Shortly into their romp Karen winced in pain and complained about her role in the whole affair. Chris reminded Karen the best was yet to come and on he continued. As she braved the experience as best she could, Karen felt something sink deep inside her. She jerked and tightened, upsetting Chris.

He made a sound as if to speak, but Karen cut him off with a terse, “Shit.”

Chris asked, “What?”

The girl screamed at him, “Pull out! Pull out!”

So he did, and along with Chris’s exit came a gush of excrement, a flood that washed over Chris, his member, and the bed. The girl jumped out of bed in a panic and belted down the hall towards the bathroom, spraying all over the carpets. Karen shut herself in the bathroom as Chris surveyed the devastation. With only a few short hours to clean before Karen’s parents returned Chris set to work. He stripped the bed of its sheets and covers, hauling them to the washer and throwing them in. He then found a sponge and collected a bucket of soap water, bringing it to the hall with the stained carpet.

Chris scrubbed the carpet for a long time, but he only managed to drive the brown sludge deeper into the carpet. After awhile Karen reemerged from the bathroom freshly showered and wrapped in towels, marching past Chris neither acknowledged the other. Karen shut the door behind her, and as Chris continued his futile cleaning the puttering of an idling car engine echoed from outside followed by the slamming of car doors and the sound of the car engine dying. Karen’s parents returned home early.

Karen burst through the door of her room and told Chris, “Hide!”

Chris dove into the nearest closet and held his breath as Karen’s father announced their return and asked if everything was alright. The daughter didn’t answer, and the fall of each of the father’s footsteps approaching Karen’s room counted down to her and Chris’s eventual doom. The father reached the top of the stairs near the closet with Chris hiding and stopped dead. For a moment there was complete silence.
With a sudden burst of force the father exploded, demanding to know what happened to his carpets, blasting out at the brown stains dug in the once pristine white. Karen sobbed and Chris bit his tongue, but Karen caught herself and said to her father, “It was . . . it was the dog that did it. He’s sick. I don’t know how it happened, but I tried to clean it up, I really did.”

The father took a deep breath and calmed down, demanding to see the dog in a reasoned tone. The animal managed to slip into Karen’s room following the debacle and found itself a place on the girl’s bed, right on top of a large brown stain on the bare mattress. The dog yelped in confusion as the father yanked it from its rest and dragged it outside. The rest of the family followed, allowing Chris the opportunity to escape through the back and steal towards home.

Just as he gets through his own door thinking he’s safe, Chris receives a phone call from Karen summoning him to the town vet, of all places. Karen threatens to tell her father the truth if Chris doesn’t show up, so he obliges reluctantly. Upon arriving at the vet, Chris is met by the imposing and unhappy father, who asks his daughter why this scum showed up.

The daughter answers flatly, “Moral support”

Both Chris and the father took Karen’s words at face value, but I don’t think the father needed worry about it and Chris shouldn’t flatter himself. From the sound of it Karen wanted Chris to see his folly come to fruition and continue the farce to the bitter end. Chris asked what was going on, so Karen told him her father, in a fit of rage, decided the best and only solution to the dog’s mess was to put the animal down for good.

Karen told her father as he handed the dog to the vet, “Chris and I want to watch.”

Chris pulled away at the suggestion but Karen glared at him, silently threatening the truth, so Chris gave in. The father tried to intervene but Karen insisted, “I grew up with Charlie and I can just let him die alone. Don’t worry about me.”

Karen takes Chris by the hand as the father wrangles with the vet, managing entry for the two teens. They watch as the vet tranquilizes the confused animal, administering the drug the puts it to sleep for good punishing the dog for its phantom illness. Karen squeezes Chris’s hand to much for comfort as they exit the vet clinic. Karen’s father picks up on his daughter’s frustration and offers to get her a new puppy, asking her to think up a new name on the way home. The group reaches the car, abandoning Chris by the side of the road, Karen only giving him a terse, “Goodbye.”

The car sped off and Chris stood for a moment before walking down the street in the other direction. I told Chris his story didn’t sound good and that he probably won’t be seeing Karen again. Chris told me not to sweat it, smiled and left me to my work, never losing his smile. I sometimes wonder how someone so stupid can continue to outsmart so many different girls, but he manages.

On God and Christianity

I have a Facebook group on the subject of Nietzsche that I've let languish for years now. It has seven members, an eclectic group of people from the four corners of the globe, and this both intrigues and frightens me. I finally got around to making a post on the group, and I decided to put what I wrote down here as well. I will wax philosophical again soon.

Taken out of context the quote lost all meaning over the years, and Nietzsche's original point thus obscured, which is a shame. It's hard to get what Nietzsche said when working with the American concept of God because as far as most Americans are concerned God is a real, physical being residing the a definitely physical Heaven. God is as real as the stranger on the street or the President of the United States, and he cannot die.

Nietzsche, I think viewed God as an idea, one that conveniently explained the mysteries of the world in a comforting fashion in a time of darkness and ignorance. The idea of God held society together through the worst parts of human history and served his purpose. The problem with God in the modern sense arises with the scientific revolution.

With human understanding advanced far beyond the imaginations of ancient peoples, the old concepts of good and evil God represents and Christianity extols lose their usefulness. The modern concept of evolution introduces the idea that humanity is just another animal and like all other lifeforms has two primary purposes in existence: self preservation and propagation of the species.

Under the newer concept of life, what's good is promoting life and expansion of humanity, both in physical presence and in our understanding of the world around us. Evil, in simple therms is anything promoting death and decay, a position of anti-life.

Christianity holds God as good and those against God as evil, but the path to evil is paved with the various sins humanity examples, in particular the seven deadly sins. Looking at the worst sins, those of gluttony, lust, avarice, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride it's easy to see these are basic aspects of human nature. Christianity takes human nature as inherently evil, and the inhuman ideal of God as good, which taken together is a philosophy of death and destruction, something to be discarded.

As far as Nietzsche was concerned, Europeans of his day already discarded much of the old Christian moral and ideological system, not truly believing in God. In this way the idea of God died, but nothing replaced it. Nietzsche called this lack of belief nihilism, and the nihilists feel that life has no value. Nietzsche saw this as dangerous and only welcomed the arrival of nihilism as the interim between the necessary clearing away of the old Christian value system allowing for the creation of a new and better system.