Brothers Part I:Last Shadow to the Left

It was a night for surprises. More properly, it was a morning for surprises, since it was nearly four AM. The bus station was almost completely empty. That wasn't much of a surprise. A few people, rumpled and unwashed, slept in scattered groups of twos and threes among the benches. Also, not unexpected at that ungodly hour. Offhand, I couldn't tell if they were homeless, waiting out a layover, or something else entirely. If the rumors held even a grain of truth, they probably were to be filed under that nebulous "Something Else" category. Watch dogs or guardians of some sort unless I missed my guess. I refrained from using any of the means at my disposal to discover the truth. I'd run the very real and very dangerous risk of being discovered if I did. I'd say it was as good a place as any to have someone die in your arms, if I were prone to cynical observations of that sort. So yes, it was as good a place as any...You get the point.

The closer the hands of the clock came to four, that fateful witching hour, the more nervous I became. It wasn't the sweaty palmed nervousness of meeting a girlfriend's father for the first time. It was more of a bed wetting night terror thinly guised as nervousness. It was a dark and sickening feeling, knowing that something horrendous is about to take place. Doubly so, if you know there is nothing you can do about it.

Why wasn't Jake here? He should have arrived by now. I went to the other side of the terminal to sleazy something to eat from the vending machines. It only took three tries and a pair of swift kicks to gain custody of my snacks and soda. I really wanted a bee, but there was none to be had for ten miles in any direction. I gorged myself on plundered cupcakes with my back to a cinderblock wall. It was painted a pale sickly green. It was as god a way as any to wait, and my wait turned out to be a short one. Exactly at the stroke of four, I felt a gentle tapping on my shoulder and heard my name whispered in my ear. Startled, I whirled to face whomever had snuck up on me, but came face to face only with that nauseatingly green architecture.

"Ryan, over here." The voice said again, more distant this time, and coming from the direction I had originally been facing.

I turned more slowly this time, aiming to maintain at least a shred or two of my dignity. I was rewarded with a pockmarked and unshaven face inches from my own. The lips were twisted into a painful looking grimace that usually passed for his smile. My contact and one time brother, Jacob Anscomb, had appeared. I wondered idly what it would take to make that Halloween mask of a face vanish again.

"Jake!" I exclaimed, handing him a smile we both knew I didn't mean, "What took you so long? I was beginning to worry."

"I told you to meet me here at for. I can't help it that you got here early." He retorted.

"Well, we're both here now. What was so damned important that you had to drag me out to this god forsaken place to tell me?"

"Not tell you," He replied, grimacing ambiguously,"Give you."

He fumbled under his jacket and drew out a slim package bound in plain brown paper and twine.

"Here. Catch." He said, and threw it to me. "Courtesy of the Old Man."

"The Old Man?" I snorted."He's been missing for years now. So why now,after all this time, do you have some mysterious bequest from him?"

"Look," he said, clearly exasperated."It's something you need. Something the others were afraid for you to have. The stuff in that package used to belong to the Renegade. Soon, very soon, you're going to need it."

He left me then. I waited until he turned to exit the station before unceremoniously tearing the package open. It's contents included a slim leather bound journal. It's cover tooled in tantalizingly familiar designs. Also inside the package was a plain felt covered jewelry case. The kind that a pendant and chain might find a home in. After flipping through the puzzling foreign script and eye wrenching diagrams of the fournal, I opened the case. I wasn't mistaken. Within lay a pendant. A smooth black oval of obsidian that seemed to shimmer with a universe of stars, it was caged in an elaborate setting of gold wire and connected to about two feet o fgold chain, fat linked and glinting dully in the flickering fluorescent light. A power almost palpable lay coiled within it, beating a counterpoint to my now racing pulse.

As if on cue, I heard Jake curse, "Oh shit Ryan! What did you do?"

I forced myself to look away from the pendant and saw Jake near the exit, surrounded by the homeless people I noticed sleeping on the benches when I arrived. I counted ten of the bastards, some ranged before him while others turned their heads toward me. A sense of something Other swirled around them and clung like a heavy fog. On instinct, I switched my senses to that mystical sight where the Other holds sway. I immediately wished I hadn't. Gone was their human flesh, the illusion stripped away and replaced by their true forms. They were things reptilian, think scaled and black taloned. Their eyes burned with hate, hunger, and green witchfire. Not guardians after all, but demons. I recognized the species. One of the lesser ones, pack oriented, good for muscle work, but not a whole lot going for them upstairs. One on one, they'd be tricky, but not much more dangerous than your average Rottweiler. Not nearly as cute, either. Unfortunately, ten of them could make pretty quick work of both of us.

I saw silvery ripples of power envelop Jake as he made ready to defend himself. I would have done likewise, but my talents and training lie elsewhere. I couldn't let him have all the fun though, even if he was the Old Man's prize student. I slid journal and case both into the deep recesses of my coat's inner pocket, drawing the slim 9mm. automatic I always carry while I was at it. I doubted it would do anything other than piss them off, but a few hollowpoints in the chest might slow one down. I fired off a handful of rounds into the closest, two to the chest and one to the head, just as I'd been taught, willing them to hit as I did so. No one taught me that, I can manage a few things on my own. Whether it worked or not, I don't know, but the force of the impact sent it sprawling, the black ichor that passed for the thing's blood flying in a spray and talons carving furrows in the linoleum tiles as it tried to right itself.

Jake, for his part, was doing everything you'd expect from a centuries old archmage. Blasts of power seared into the demons. Things whizzed, thundered,flashed,and did other things beyond description. He'd taken two down and I emptied the automatic into the chest of another, playing for time. All the demons were now surrounding Jake, considering him to be the greater threat. He was, but don't rub it in, OK? From somewhere, he'd drawn or conjured a pair of blades, long and short, and was acquitting himself admirable, slashing and stabbing when they got too close, then unleashing pure hellfire when that drove them back. I took the break I was given and tried to ready a spell or two of my own. I never got very far in my training before the Old Man went AWOL, so I was pretty limited in what I could do.

From the deepest reserve I could find, I dredged up the power. It was nothing, my candle to Jake's bonfire. I considered my small repertoire of magical muscle carefully. I'd only get one shot. However, nothing I knew would take out even one of these scaled beasties in a single swipe. The only trick I knew that would hit a good number of them was...was....A stroke of mad brilliance, if I had some help. What the hell I thought. It beat doing nothing. I dusted off one of the tricks I knew as I drew it from the back corner of my mind. It was quite possibly the least battle oriented spell of all the ones I knew. Right behind it I prepared another, simpler spell.

I unleashed my first assault, targeting a group of four that were close enough to be caught up in the swirling net of emerald lightning that arced from my palm. The lightning hit them all, one at a time, arcing from one to the next, linking them. They stopped, suddenly confused to be sharing all of their senses with each other. They were pack creatures though. If they got used to it, they could be twice as dangerous. I didn't give them that time. My second spell was a simple affair. It shot like a neon arrow and hit the one closest to Jake. It did nothing more than light him up with a pale green glow, a glow that slowly spread to each of the others in the link.

"NOW!!" I cried, trusting Jake would understand what I'd done.

He didn't disappoint. A lance of molten moonlight bore through the demon I'd turned into an impromptu Christmas tree. The scaled monstrosity roared in pain for a second, then slumped to the ground, it's head a smoldering ruin. The other three in the link dropped twitching to the ground as well, the feedback from the blast pulping what passed for their brains as their packmate burned to death. I wanted to throw a silent cheer, but it was cut short when one of the remaining pair of demons plunged past it's still writhing brethren. Jake raised both blades to parry the onslaught, but he wasn't fast enough. The demon batted his weapons away. The blades clattering on the tile to either side of him, then buried it's claws in his midsection.The thing jerked free, a wet tearing noise accompanying the action. Jake screamed once, then dropped to the floor. That blast of his had probably taken more than he had to give and then he couldn't defend against their follow up. It didn't matter now though. They were still two against only me. Unarmed, defenseless me. I thought about giving up just then and letting it end quickly, but I won't go out that way. When I go, I'll be screaming and cursing all the way.

I saw the glint of Jake's dagger where it had fallen. It was a short dash and then I was armed again, albeit with less than a foot of steel in my hand. I'd no idea what sort of magic Jake might have imbued the thing with, so I was forced to use it the good old fashioned way. I ran to the farthest corner of the bus station that I could, overturning benches and tables as I went, hoping to slow them down and stay alive for a few minutes longer. I unleashed a few bolts of force as I was able, but mine couldn't hit much harder than a baseball bat. They bounded and dodged, none of my efforts slowing them in the slightest, and then the first was upon me. Claws lashed and teeth snapped and somehow through it all, I managed to come out with only a few scratches. I dropped my weight and pivoted, hurling that first one headlong into the ugly green walls. I rolled away as fast as I could, but it wasn't fast enough. The one I'd thrown was already coming to its feet and I'd put myself right at the feet of his buddy. The demon let loose with a feral growl, saliva dripped from its muzzle. This was it.

You're not giving up that easily are you?

"wha.."

Shut up and listen. Here's what you do, just follow my lead....

I took the dagger's point across my palm, muttering words I didn't know just moments ago. The blood welled from the wound and the spell blossomed with it. The words kept pouring out of my mouth unbidden. The demon in front of me swayed, mesmerized by the words and the blood. It gently lowered it's head to my hand and lapped up a bit of the blood, a dog taking a treat from its master. To complete the pact, I daubed that red fluid of life on its face, between its eyes and on the sides of its muzzle. I scratched it behind what passed for an ear, a solid plate like you might find on a frog. Fido, as I now thought of him, made a rumbling purring noise.

"Good boy," I said, rising as I did.

I stood firm and looked Fido in the eyes. Abruptly, I pointed at his former packmate and gave my command.

"Sic'em!"

Fido was as good as my word. He dug his taloned feet into the tile for added traction then pounced the other. From my point of view, it looked like two kittens playing. I didn't waste time though, I rushed to where Jake lay bleeding. I hoped it wasn't as serious as I feared. It wasn't, it was worse. I took him in my arms, checking for a pulse. It was thready, but it was still there. His eyes opened.

"Are we still alive?", He asked.

"Yeah, I replied, but you're not going to be for long unless we can get the hell out of here."

He laughed, then abruptly stopped when the laughs turned into choking coughs. There was something dark on his mouth, he wiped it away so that I couldn't get a good look at it.

"Door." He said, barely able to form the words this time. "Last shadow on the left."

He pointed to the left hand side of the terminal, where a row of columns blocked my view. I took the hint, not quite knowing what he meant, but trusting he had more of a plan than I did. I willed strength into my limbs. I'd pay for it later, using my arts to fuel my failing body, but Jake was heavy and in no position to help himself. I proceeded to drag him to the corner he'd indicated, leaving a trail of smeared blood as wide as his body. Not a good sign. When I made it to the corner, his breathing was shallow and something bubbled every time he inhaled. I wondered if this was what the doctors call a "sucking chest wound."

He barely roused from his torpor this time. He'd lost a lot of blood.

"Door." He said again, weakly this time, gesturing into the shadows."Gate. Key."

This time he pointed to the obsidian pendant around my neck. When had that gotten there?

Don't worry kid, just get us out of here came that voice again.

The pendant pulsed once with black flame and the shadows deepened. Something flickered in the depths and a doorway carved out of darkness shimmered into being. Taking it for a sign or something, I moved to go. I shook Jake, but he didn't respond. I no longer heard even a breath or a heartbeat. My brother, centuries old and steeped in godlike power, was dead. I'd be damned if I left him for the demons, who were still duking it out at the other end of the terminal. I used the last of my purloined strength, shouldered the corpse of my eldest brother, and stepped through the shimmering doorway.

Things un imaginable flashed before my eyes. Cthonic nightmares come true writhed in the depths and I writhed along with them. I was a lizard, slithering my way across the desert for a few paces, then a transmission of waves bounced from one satellite to another. All the while, shadows danced in my vision. One translation to another to another. I don't know how many forms I took before the darkness dumped me carelessly into the sand.

Nausea flipped and flopped its way up my throat and then I found myself making impromptu Rorschach tests on the ground with the contents of my stomach. A butterfly, I think.

Gastro-psychoanalysis complete, I got to my feet, shaking the sand and scorpions out of my pants, wondering where I'd wound up with the body of my brother. A desert. This didn't look good. I turned around and saw a road, better, but not great. I rifled through Jakes pockets, but found nothing of real value other than a wad of loose bills. I pocketed them and headed for the road. Getting there took more energy that it should have. The price of using magic to fuel my flesh. I got to the road and saw a sign. It wasn't God or anyone sending a revelation. It was a sign, green painted metal on the side of the road.

It read: "Welcome to Las Vegas" Fucking Great.

Tommy Bedlam Part IV: Fiends and Family

I assumed a stance of bland innocence and just stared Gina in the eye as she railed and ranted in my general direction. The chances of me getting a word in at that point were about as statistically improbable as my chances were for spontaneously expelling cocktail shrimp from my nose. She ran herself down after a few minutes more, so I wasn't forced to learn nasal crustacean ballistics. I contemplated telling her that she was starting to repeat herself, but realized that it would only cause the whole thing to cascade again. I held up my hands in a gesture of mock surrender. It halted her tirade, but I could still see both the rage and the guilt blazing behind her eyes.

"A thief," I said, my voice like ice, "believes everyone is out to steal from him. Likewise a liar suspects deceit behind every word another speaks." Suspicion dawned bright in her eyes, burning away the fog of rage. She was right where I wanted her: Vulnerable. I continued.

"But the whore, " I said, gesturing as I did to emphasize my words, "The whore just projects her guilt over her infidelity onto those who once loved her."

"Gina," I continued, sadly, softly,"I stopped by Jim's place earlier, while you were...Ahem...Entertaining Spider with your oral presentation."

"But," She started, "I saw you with..." She trailed off, gesticulating wildly in the direction of Karen's seat, now vacant. "Where'd she go?"

"Beats me," I said, genuinely puzzled. Where had she gone? "Besides, that was Officer Karen Daniels, my current probation officer."

"Officer?" She blurted, "That was a cop? Oh, you bastard. You've been planning on narcing us out, haven't you?" Her eyes darted around wildly. Looking for a trap to spring at any moment.

"Gina, calm down. If I'd planned to NRC anyone out, don't you think I would have done it by now. Why would I wait six fucking months when they had my by the short and curlies in the hospital?"

"Now if you'll excuse me," I continued, standing as I spoke,"I don't really want to speak to you right now, for obvious reasons."

With that, I left the table, letting my walking stick make up its own music for a change. This time a jaunty, mocking rhythm against the concrete floor. Good stick. The band had a table set up with the usual assortment of disks and logo emblazoned shirts. I picked up one of the disks and while I was paying, struck up a conversation with the vocalist. She was a slender and freckled redhead with only the slightest of Irish accents. She introduced herself as Sherryl. I could hear the lie of a stage name on her lips, but I let it pass. We chatted amiably, talking shop for a bit in that language musicians use amongst ourselves. It bears only a passing resemblance to normal speech, peppered as it is with equal parts slang and technical terminology. I did it mostly to keep my mind off of things, but I'd be less than honest if I denied doing it to twist the knife in Gina's guts a little more. Petty,I know. Sometimes I'm like that.

Gina, for her part, sat there at the table I'd vacated, returning my emotional dagger thrust with a look that could cut glass. I basically ignored her, bought the album and left the Shop behind me. A quick, and for a change, almost lighthearted walk carried me to my doorstep and beyond. It was late, well past midnight. I almost hit the bed immediately, but decided to take a shower first. After everything that happened today, a shower was mandatory. Somewhat refreshed from my steaming hot baptism, I wandered the apartment for a bit, making sure windows were closed and the front door was bolted behind me. You can't be too careful these days. I hit the sheets and punched all the way through to dreamland without even coming to a stop first. I'd just settled into a comfortable dream involving avocados and supermodels when I heard the phone ring. I figured it was Gina, so I let the answering machine do it's appointed duty. I drifted back to dreamland without waiting for the phone to stop ringing. There were supermodels and produce out there somewhere. I intended to find them before the night was out. I don't remember if I succeeded or not.

The morning dawned bright and sunny. Birds sang their songs of love and all was right with the world. Cheerful crap like that. I threw a pillow at the window, hoping it would get them to stop.. I heard the dull thump of fabric against glass, a familiar morning sound. That annoyingly joyous chirping continued unabated. With a failed attempt at assassinating the songbird population of the neighborhood behind me, I wandered into the bathroom to do strange things with bits of twine, a brush and oddly minty tasting chemicals. A little later I realized I had brushed and flossed. Names escape me sometimes. My morning devotions to de gods of hygiene proceeded apace and slowly, ever so slowly, I returned to full consciousness.

Awake, aware, and minty fresh, I was ready to face the dangers of small town life. While I was about, I finally checked the answering machine. I was slightly surprised to discover that it wasn't the wild call of the Yeti I'd been dreading. It was Rich, my brother.

"What's up Baby Bro'? Just callin' ta tell ya I'll be slidin' inta town for the weekend. Keep the couch open for me. Later."

Sometimes I suspect he affects the "Surfer Dude" speech just to get on my nerves. I'm pretty damned sure he's never even seen the ocean, much less ridden a wave. Family is family, though. My couch would be there for him, just like he asked.

Saturday's choice of finery is always the same: Sweat pants, running shoes, and a spectacularly faded concert tee. Since my return from beyond the grave, Saturday mornings have been dedicated to whipping yours truly, the Drooling Zombie, back into shape. They call it physical therapy. I'm more inclined to think of it as Hell's Corporate calisthenics Program. Choose your own name for it, if you like. It feels the same to me no matter what it's called. I just think its
highly ironic that I have to walk half a mile to get to the bus stop first.

Public transportation in a small town can be decidedly...Odd. Take, for an example off the top of my head, Pineview. Sometime in the late eighties the Mayor and the town council decided that a public transit system would bring people to what was then a burgeoning center for textiles and furniture production. A fleet of four decomissioned schoolbuses and three minivans later, the Pineview Public Transit System was up and running, except on Sundays. What can I say? Welcome to the Bible Belt.

Those of us who actually risk our lives on the PPTS buses call them the Blue Terrors. One of them came barreling around the bend at a screaming thirty miles an hour, pouring out a trail of greasy black smoke that smelled vaguely like a burning mixture of lighter fluid and used condoms. It took thirty minutes of sweaty vinyl seats and carcinogenic fumes to get me to my stop. I disembarked, coughed out a lung full of something gooey, and hobbled my way into the county hospital.

The hospital's resident physical therapist, Greta Shwartz, came over to the States with the fall of the Berlin Wall. Proving as she did, that , yes, freedom does come with a price. Greta was a six foot-something wall of muscle sporting a face full of eyebrows and surmounted by a roman nose that cut her profile like the hood ornament of a Rolls-Royce. The first time I was introduced, I thought something along the lines of: Men, even Europeans, shouldn't wear capris. It was only much later that I realized Greta, much as the name should suggest, was a woman. Let me continue gracefully to the point though. Greta The Hun made me do things for about two hours involving ropes, rubber balls, and swimming pools. I'm pretty sure the Vatican had forbidden at least half of her regimen following the dissolution of the Inquisition. I guess no one had the nerve to tell Greta that, though. I left the hospital limping and sore, but not significantly worse for wear. Apparently my body was beginning to relearn some of the skills it had lost. I guess the therapy sessions are worth something after all.

The return trip on the Blue Terror kept me occupied and out of trouble until well past noon. I made myself lunch once I got back. It was filling but uninspired: Condensed chicken noodle soup and nearly half of a sleeve of saltines. I didn't have a whole lot of time to spare, so back into the shower I went to hose off the grime of public transportation and intense exercise. It steamed and splashed like a good shower should. It was hot enough to burn my sins away, tough I might be lucky if it singed the edges of one or two of the big ones. I stepped out looking like a thoroughly cooked lobster. I felt like a new man after exiting the sauna-like confines of the bathroom. Beet red, but new...Freshly minted, if you will. I laid out my work clothes and quickly changed into them. It was a pair of khakis and a blue polo, just in case you're wondering. I don't really care though, I just pump the gas. I debated waiting for the Terror again, but opted against it. I only take the bus to the hospital and back for my therapy sessions. Greta thinks it screws with my recovery to walk that far before I submit myself to her kind ministrations. I make it a habit not to argue with the Great Beast of the Fatherland. One only makes that mistake once.

I arrived at the gas station, my erstwhile place of employment, with nearly an hour to spare. I took a seat in the stock room and settled down with one of the battle scarred and dogeared paperbacks I've managed to smuggle in. As long as I do my job, the boss lady really doesn't care that I have the contents of a small library branch shelved neatly in a corner beside the stacked cases of soda. It's not like we don't have the space in the stock room. The place is built to nationwide corporate specifications, which include room for alcohol. I guess they never bothered to check the local laws first, either that, or they just didn't want to waste money redesigning the blueprints for a smaller location. The problem is that Pineview and the surrounding county of Hersh are dry. I'm not talking about anything dealing with annual rainfall. I'm talking about the Blue Laws in this county that forbid the sale of alcohol by either the bottle or the glass. Blue Laws, you've got to love them. Outdated codes of personal morals regulated by a bunch of gossiping old church ladies that should have been in the ground decades ago. I think sticking their noses in other people's lives is the only thing that keeps them breathing. With liquor only sold through state run establishments, and local governments given the right to ban their sale outright, law enforcement agencies still wonder why there is such a booming narcotics trade here in Pineview and in a dozen other towns just like it across the state. Simply put, there's nothing better to do. And to think this all started with a comment about bookshelves. You really shouldn't let me wander off like that. I hope you can do better next time, else I'll never get this story told.

I regretfully put down my book when it was time to punch in. I always had a thing for Huxley and his vision of a brave new world. Work went by smoothly, an oddity for second shift. Early evening on the weekends generally brings a mixed batch of assholes and mutant soccer moms out from under whatever rock they'd been hiding, dragging screaming children in their wake and generally being unpleasant to anyone they can get away with being rude to: Namely, me.

Things took a turn for the weird after I locked up for a few minutes to take care of some personal time on the throne. The reason for my little break swirled down the plumbing with a rush of water, and I got up to fix those things that always need fixing afterward. As I turned to leave the restroom, out of the corner of my eye I saw streaks of red smeared across the mirror, looking distinctly like blood. I whirled around for a better look, but the vision was gone as if it had never been. I wanted to tell myself it was a trick of the light on an otherwise unstable mind. It didn't work the first time I said it, months before, just hours after leaving the ICU. It didn't work this time either. Too many strange coincidences happen when I start seeing crazy shit like this, too many to chalk up to delusions, hallucinations and the like.

I washed up again, splashing water on my face to clear my head. I risked a quick glance at the mirror, but no visions or portents appeared in its depths. I sighed in relief and went back to work. I still had about two hours left of my shift and there was paperwork to get done. It really isn't a lot, but my hands still shake so much that writing anything by hand is a time consuming chore. I was deep in though, my pen scratching happily away at one of half a dozen tracking forms I have to fill out, when the electric chime sounded. Someone had come in. I wedged the pen under the clasp of the clipboard and looked up. Something hard cracked sharply against my temple and I went down in a heap. Robbery sounded like an alarm in my cranium, but that could have easily been my head ringing.

"Get the fuck up and pop the register!" Someone growled from above me.

I did as he said, hoping he wouldn't notice my shaky hand edging toward the alarm button as I gripped the counter to leverage myself up. The butt of a revolver came smashing down on the back of my hand. No such luck, I suppose.

"Try something like that again and I'll put you down. Now, open the fucking register."

I rose to my feet without the aid of the counter, as hard as it was to even see straight. I did as he said and opened the drawer of the register. There were two of them. One short and stocky the other tall and lanky. Both wore baggy clothes and black ski masks. I felt like I should know them from somewhere. As calmly as I could pretend to be, I removed the bills from the register and put them into a plastic bag. As I handed it over, Shorty grabbed my arm and pulled me over the counter, pistol whipping me across the jaw for good measure as he did. I heard the distinct click of the pistols hammer being pulled back. There was a moment of silence while I made a prayer to whomever would listen. Apparently someone in the great beyond was looking out for me.

"No, man. Not here! He ain't worth the trouble." Lanky said in a familiar voice, rusty with abuse. Jim. It had to be Jim. Shorty must be Spider. At least he was smart enough to try to disguise his voice.

"Narc like him has it comin'! He'll fuckin' talk if I don't." Spider almost yelled, and it was Spider. I was sure of it by then.

"Let's just get the hell outta here." Jim pleaded, "We don't have time to fool around here."

"Looks like you lucked out, Narc. We'll be seeing you."

I heard something whistle through the air behind me. Black stars erupted from an even blacker place somewhere in the back of my head. Blessed blackness, cool and welcoming...I went to join it. A part of me did so eagerly.

Tommy Bedlam Part III: Coffee, It'll cure what ails you.

The walk to the Shop was agonizingly uneventful. I wanted to lash out at something, anything. I wanted to beat someone with my cane until it was merely a collection of bloodied splinters and lacquer, but I couldn't decide who. Gina, for being such a slut? Spider for being, well, Spider? Myself, for being so blind? No. No.....Maybe. The streets of Pine Lake were devoid of traffic, both the wheeled and bipedal varieties, so my darker urges remained unsated. I did run across a stray mongrel, looking half Chow and half Rastafarian. It's coat hung in matted dreadlocks with twigs, burrs and bits of God only knows what clinging to them like sailors amid wreckage.

I guess you're hoping I'll tell you a lurid tale of how I took out my aggressions and frustrations on that poor mutt, pummeling it with my walking stick and kicking it in the head and ribs when I was done. Sorry to disappoint you. I could never bring myself to hit a dog. Besides, that particular specimen of urban decay looked a lot more badass than I felt just then. I left that bastard love child of Simba the Lion and Bob Marley to its business of rooting through trashcans, and continued on to the Shop without further hindrance.

The Shop. What can I say about the place that will really do it justice? It's a late night refuge for freaks of all stripes trying to escape the monotony of small town life, if only for an hour or so. Behind its unassuming brick facade lay a monster waiting for the unwary to enter. A sprawling thing of stainless steel and expanded metal, it's roar is an eclectic mix of music collected by its resident staff of eccentrics. As far as I'm concerned, it's the only real civilization to be found within fifty miles.

The Dead Kennedys Blared over the speakers in greeting to me as I entered. The girl behind the counter, barely sixteen if I didn't miss my guess, smiled and handed me my usual caffeinated brew without having to say a word. I handed her a wad of bills without even really looking at them. After she handed me my change, I stuffed the remaining bills back in my pocket with their brothers and let the change slide of its own volition into the tip jar, producing that lovely musical chaos of glass on metal. After preparing my drink with the usual cream, sugar, and other exotic substances needed to keep the beverage from actually tasting like coffee, I found a dark corner in the back suitable for a good sulk. I'm not sure how long I sat there. I must have been spaced out for a while, though. I think it was the music that spurred my awareness on to claw its way up the steep ascent to the summit of that mountain called Consciousness. Maybe it was because I noticed that I had been drinking tepid nasty coffee for probably half an hour. I'll never know.

Whatever the cause, I roused myself from deepest, darkest reverie and was greeted by the uniquely familiar sounds of a band setting up. Friday! I'd almost forgotten, or tried to forget. It all depends on how one judges these things. The Shop has been the only place for local acts to get gigs since the doors first opened over three years ago. There was always someone playing live every Friday and Saturday night. I'd been avoiding the place like it carried the plague every weekend since coming home from the hospital.

I fled the first twinge of bitterness as I watched their guitarist tune up. My fingers ached to dance across the strings just one more time, damn all else. It seems there are some addictions greater than drugs. I debated getting up and leaving, right then and there. I stood my ground though. Given a choice between which personal devil to face this evening, I chose this one. At least it didn't require me to walk anywhere. I settled back into my seat, realizing as I did that I'd been standing up in preparation to bolt. One can only run away so much or so far before on has to turn and fight. I sat back down preparing myself as I did for a distinctly unpleasant evening. The gods rarely feel the need to disappoint.

A familiar face turned the corner, features framed in blonde barbed wire. It seemed oddly appropriate in a place decorated with the leavings of an ironworks. I thought for a moment that Officer Karen Daniels had tracked me here for some reason. The moment fled, however, and I saw that dazed, deadeyed stare in her eyes. I'd become intimately familiar with it while staring out from the inside of my face over the last few hours. She past me by, unheeding of anything except putting her right foot in front of her left. She settled into an attitude similar my own, but in the opposite corner of the establishment. Instead of nursing her coffee as I had done, she downed it in a gulp. I hoped that drink was iced and cringed sympathetically, just in case it wasn't

The band began their first set, so I pushed everything else out of mind and just tried to enjoy the music. It turned out to be a three piece folk act, and damned good despite that fact. It was easy for me to slip into that place of healing music opened for me. I wondered why I'd been avoiding this. By the time they'd finished their first song I felt somewhat renewed of spirit. Something intangible given and something taken away. I'd like to think I'm a better man for experiencing that moment. I'm too cynical to really believe it, though. Whatever, I think the music was just what I needed.

Their set wound down and I felt a shiver fun hurdles down my vertebrae. The image of eyes crept into the back of my head and crouched, catlike, waiting to spring. I forced myself to turn with slow deliberation and doing so, locked eyes with my watcher, Karen. So she finally had noticed me after all. While I spent crucial seconds deciding what tack to take, she took any decision I might have made out of my hands by coming over and sitting down across from me.

Karen stared at me for a moment, seeming to gather courage before trying to speak. Whatever was bothering her must be big. She came to me, one of her cases in the Department, to vent about it. I chose to wait her out. She'd tell me eventually.

"So Tommy, " She said innocently enough, "Don't you play in a band too?"

I winced as if struck. I'm sure she must have noticed.

"No." I said blankly, "not any more."

This was definitely not a subject I wanted to dwell upon.

"Oh. I'm sorry," she started to apologize. I cut her off with a motion of my hand.

"No," I began, "You don't know what sorry is."

"Sorry is looking at the wall where your father's guitar hands, gathering dust, knowing that you'll never be able to play it again."

"Sorry is waking up in a hospital bed with doctors telling you that your brain was so damaged by oxygen deprivation that you'll be lucky to learn how to walk again.

"Sorry is seeing your dreams collapse right in front of you, and knowing, without any shadow of a doubt that it was all your fault. Before you ever tell me your sorry again, you'd better damned well know what sorry is."

Wow. I didn't know I had that in me. Karen just sat stunned, unable even, to stammer a reply. Eventually I heard something come out of her mouth. Even then, it was a dead whisper.

"I never knew" She said, repeating herself a couple of times. "I never knew."

"Tommy," Karen began again, a new resolve in her voice, "I have a question to ask."

So this was it, her true reason for being here tonight. I let my bitterness slide back to its dark little nest and said a single word in reply.

"Shoot."

This time it was her turn to wince, and mine to notice and wonder.

"I just want to know...What....What would you do if you caught your girlfriend cheating on you?"

Click. Click. Click. The pieces all fell into place. What the hell, Let's see where this goes.

"Well, " I started, a wry grin upon my face, "I ran across town like a maniac, with no real idea where I was going. Once I realized there was only one place I could go, I hobbled here and got a cup of coffee, stopping along the way to molest the ugliest dog I've ever laid eyes on. What's your story?"

"Are you serious?" She asked.
"Yes, " I said, "Well, I make up the part about the dog. He was pretty mean looking. I didn't really want to mess with him."

She leaned across the table and hugged me, kissing my cheek as she broke the embrace.

"I'm sorry Tommy. And this time I do know what it means."

"I can tell, " came my reply, " So, out with it. What happened."

She didn't get a chance to tell me though.

"Tommy! You worthless piece of shit! I knew I'd find you here. And who's this bitch you're with? Goddamit, I just knew you'd been sleeping around on me."

It was Gina, her voice set somewhere between "Yeti" and "Fingernails on a Blackboard." She was here. She was pissed. She had murder in her eyes. This would not end well.