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Document 1. "R.O.R. Everything Chen."

Document 2. "Star producing factory.."

Document 3. "Lady from Long Beach"

The story is the gamble, the pulsing veins, heavy head, jump of the heart, the shakes, the little rattle inside, the starving or overfilled writer’s mysteries, and mind aching praying to get out, to cry, to nestle and twitch, just to be heard; the words setting sail, berthing somewhere, out there, between the notches on the clock, the lonely man around the block, long bearded white poet and his circling flock, in a mindful minute, a half second, between the tock, a beat between the pulse, and the intent to live arrives and the masses, once asleep, a hoax, now truth, in the patter of day, more dead than alive or, waking, more alive than dead, to a state of brightness, now awakened, in anyway, or place, desert to inn, his tongue prints a message, and a hand motions, come in: eyes lift, to gaze over a papered book, a representation from a chosen time, an imagined world, a narrow slot in the Great Wall, chipped out, tapered, carved, soothed, oiled and polished, for the people, a name or perhaps a certain person never known, never seen, a group wondering, a family gathering and a life; to live, unseen, in these words, He Speaks, as one, with an immortal spirit and endless inspirations, as one; they speak to us, as one, and we listen and then, we speak.

-8-01-03

This are my documents for the world to open.

Story one: R.O.R.

Everything Chen.

The haunting tale of New York Central Park’s most secretive underground restaurant.

And the story of Jennifer Stories’s little black book.

Preface

R.O.R. is a place to seek revenge. The restaurant serves all types of foods. It prepares and decorates every dish to suit and appease every land, ethnicity, oversea island, tropical and, or foreign alike. The head chef is nick named Chen. His origin is unknown. Everything made in the kitchen is checked, overlooked, tasted and blessed by Chen. Everything’s Chen. Nothing new nor old escapes the chef’s tradition at R.O.R’s cuisine. It is considered one of the finest delicatessens of high class dinning in the Central Park area of New York City. The delicacy is not for the taste buds of the poor, but rather a place designed in spice and icing for the Kings of Kings. And in the whereabouts and the secrecy and power of the food, the common man does not see it. The restaurant has been known and searched out by the most selective, high society aristocrats, circle of rich writers, societal artistic outcasts, overly paid business men, starving, famous and infamous of all; actors, dancers, vain or blessed, wired or clear headed architects, mad artist, wine connoisseurs, ashamed or prideful political figures and the slobbering, born rich of the cream of the crop. The Best of society, or the genetic blessed of this world give orders, question the specials, and intensely study the appetizer’s ingredients, and any new or added editions presented on the chalk board before the lobby doors or tagged at the end of the constantly revised, eloquent leather bounded menus; stocked away behind the host’s podium, or at the leather bound and fur laced booths, in the waiting area, on the other side of the front lobby. The lobby, constructed underground, and the entire restaurant, built vertically about three hundred yards under the top soil of Central Parks main baseball field, and, is very much concealed from the common park walker, or passerby that may be looking for a mid evening snack, or a bite to eat for the night. No one see’s the inside of ROR, but the infamous, wealthy and well known of the city. Rumor has it the most common guest during the golden days were Al Capone, Leonard Bernstein, John F. Kennedy, Marylyn Monroe, and Arthur Miller. Comedians like Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor and Bill Cosby have dined there on occasion, after invite of course. Musicians like John Lennon, Barbara Streisand, and the entire symphony of the Lion King, were known for the desert and ice cream orders. The Restaurant loved to watch celebrity eat and the celebrity loved to watch the restaurant serve; and cater. And recently they had an underground luncheon that housed and treated the one and only, Donald Trump, Tom Cruz, Madonna and her most recent husband, and The Entire Band of the Smashing Pumpkins, before the broke up in 2001. But famous people were not the only clients and critics. Everyone that had anything to do with the Devinci Code, and the book was invited, and every type of cult and religious leader, good or evil, was welcome. Even the Pope was invited, but rumor says never shoed, at least not in his robe and hat. The restaurant loved black magic, Catholics and all those who were outsiders of the Puritan movement.

The restaurant did not cater to the Protestant, or devout protestant and anyone how detested Catholics and Catholicism.

But any person, thing or subject that did not follow American’s purist ways, was invited, or fell upon its soil infested walls.

The people that showed was unreal to any common gofer, or anyone that never graced inside the Hard Rock Café.

Who were the most die hard eaters of ROR. Witches.

The Witches of ROR were unreal. The Chef, and the short order cooks, spent days, months and sometimes even years, hunting down, rare frogs, raven eggs, snails, and odd sea creatures, that no longer exists, like Leviathans, mountain goats, and African wildebeest and the hearts, livers and galls of various fresh and salt waters fish. ( Bat fish, butter fish, Shark, lung, coelacanth, sturgeons, paddle, herrings, minnow, characins, cat, Salmon, sun, and various other fish Peprilu triacanthus or Sciaenops ocellatus, for it did not matter the taste, but rather the witchery remedy and it’s magical side effects.

These were the real witches, charmed and every which way diabolical.

Oh, and not to mention the most privately practicing witches from all corners of the land take refuge and are the number one client to reserve a seat in one of the back booths, or private dinning rooms.

The Windows were the most charming aspect of the interior design. Each window inside ROR, high or low, revealed the outside stuffy view revealing mazes of roots, black dirty, dusty soiled veins, almost human in their green tint, everywhere you looked; musty red dirt clods, a rainbow of water marks, various geometric shapes, hyacinths, blue and green crystals, and earthy brown colors of rocks, fossils and a countless amount of lively underground critters, like snails, ants, beetles, spiders, moles, squirrels, rabbits, and every type of underground creature imaginable, which exists beneath the top soil.

Mostly Americana dishes. The restaurant cannot be seen from the park. Most have not been told of it’s whereabouts. It is a precious hidden, secrete from the average citizen. R.O.R. is for the above average, to be curt and honest: the eccentric, the evil, the wicked, and people that despise the ugly and mediocre. For this very reason, is why the restaurant has been nearly planted twenty feet under the topsoil somewhere under the heart of the park. Most merely walk over with out stopping or noticing it’s lively service.

You must pay for a meal but the head chef does not take money. He doesn’t take American Dollars, Yen or even Euro-coins: Not even a credit card will do. There is only one way to pay and it is simple. One must pay with the wages your or other’s sin. Ultimately, one must pay with a piece of theirs’, or others’, souls. See, any single meal at ROR, any meal at all, or meals or even deserts or beverages, are not designed to cease hunger but to sooth the fiery pain of an afflicted and abandoned soul. It is food, with irresistible taste and crafted by hands of the most craftiest and experienced cooks, mostly charmed by the devil himself, most traded a piece of their own souls to cook without mistake: Every meal is perfectly crafted: the most charming chefs in the underground eateries, café’s and white-collar restaurants of New York City have been bought and sold to the devil for their orgasmic tasty food.

The goal of the food is not to fill the stomach but rather:

For those who lack in acceptance, have been hurt and cry for revenge. This place is this place to go to revenge your or another’s honor. It is for revenge and not one’s health. ROR is designed to enrich the taste buds of the envy, mad and those who seek revenge, and not just a square meal. Here is the rub: A single meal at ROR has the power to disturb another’s fate and has the power to bring about supernatural charms; once consumed a number of times. Every revenge, mattering the weight depicts the number of plates one must take down and clean from their forks. The size of the wrong done to them and the desire of the revenge must compensate and balance the anger caused by the revenge. At times, people over eight and at times, due to trite and petty vengeance, they under eat. That is the key at this fine dinning event, to get revenge in using black magic. The rub, the goal, the catch, the key of this diner at this particular mystical, dark, and magical restaurant is not for mere pleasure, or a sip of tea, but it is for the sake of preventing a chosen hated foe from achieving their simple dreams. It is a place to cast a spell, a charm, a wish lets say, that will steal another’s dream. It may in it’s own character and design, if the wish is honest enough, severe enough and honored with all the wisher’s heart, than, the customer eating will do the evil deed, and the plate of witchery, and vengeful spell inflicting evilly charm, will succeed over the enemy and before the cost of it’s meal is consumed, it shall overtake, burry the past success and curse, fade and emaciate from existence, the chosen foe and hated enemy. Either against another or for the eater at the diner, no matter, the spell is cast after the fork slides from the lips of the spell caster. The food is built, decorated and spiced with the intention to destroy a selected enemy’s dream. That is the intent of any dish served at ROR. To destroy dreams. To smother the fire of another’s desire. Once the chosen meal is consumed, for the betrayer and hated foe, and a wish is made against this chosen enemy, than the spell caster, the diner, the enemy of the customer, his or her dreams, will slowly fade into oblivious blue somber wash and revenge will be done and the dreams of the dreamer will fade and forever cease from existence.

In laymen’s terms, it is a place to rob other’s from fulfilling their dreams on earth.

For example:

A customer walks in ROR. Firs he or she is offered an order slip. Here is an example of the order slip given at ROR.

Order slip for ROR:

Your enemy’s dream

Your enemy’s name

A piece of hair from your enemy’s head(Length of hair, color and the amount in grams)-

Entrée (Look on menu for your type of meal).

Your relation to the dreamer.

Directions to dinning at ROR: You must consume two entrées and close your eyes and quietly say aloud your enemy’s name. You must say his or her name, the enemies title, three times in succession. Then your enemy, or enemies dream will slowly fade and he or she, and the spell caster will freeze in a blue despair of emptiness and lost hopes. The spell caster, or the customer, will only experience the feeling of emptiness for a short while. It takes time for the spell to affect their chosen enemy. After, the spell takes of the enemy than sadness is lifted from the caster’s spirit and they are giving a feeling of well being.. You must come back and eat the same entrée and it’s worth, three times over in a period of one month. After three full moons, the spell has done it’s dark deed and the chosen enemy will be fallen, thick or thin, his or her hopes will disengage from their lives and their dreams will burn away.

There is a guarantee made by the host and the owner of ROR. If after three full moons, your enemy’s dream has not been shattered and their chosen foe has not slipped into a blue season of sadness, then they will be given a series of fortunate happenings and a year long worth of serendipity. There is a possibility that the spell will fall and if so, than fortune will be granted to the client, customer, eater, or diner and the spell caster are granted permission to return to ROR after twelve full moons have passed an attempt the spell once more.

Chapter one.

The story.

Jennifer Stories walked into ROR. She heard rumors from other naïve witches and spell casters that the ROR stood for the Restaurant of Revenge. Modern days and the initial instinct to abbreviate in our times have left the restaurant with the simple letters of ROR. Supposedly, this underground eatery, or diner, whichever your prefer, is a place to cast the worst kind of spells, charms and revengeful acts known to all practicing witches and other’s in their medium. The spell of sadness and blue somber is the most popular known spell in ROR. One of the most deadly spells in modern witchcraft is found in the desert section near the French Entrees and delicatessens. This type of charm holds the power to empty out the soul of any believer and cast them into the never ending pit all mankind fears. And its most harmful virtue is that it not only clears the believers belief but his belief in believing. This spell is rarely used and it required the most precious and feared ingredients ever. The most popular is the blue somber spell, which is used by many to shatter other’s futures. It is known on the menu as The Anti-Hope spell. It holds the power to smother all hope from any that believes in hope and practices hopes, ambitions, successes or ostentatious aspects of life. For every witch knows that life is for living and not for showing. This is the number one instigations and reason for witches and other like them, that practice the art of revenge. Some believe there are two types of witches. The dark witches, which dwell in the evil side of nature and the white witch, the healer and enforcer of hope. A white witch would not be caught dead at ROR, not even dead in another form. There was rumor a white witch once worked there, in the kitchen. But she was caught interfering with a blue somber spell and had tossed out a subjects scalp (she claimed that only the hairs were needed and not the scalp of the unlucky, who every unlucky it was)

The dark witches are experts in casting anti hope spells. Witches, good and evil, have been using such spells since the Irish have had burning sacrificial straw men (scarecrow type of men made of hay and straw stuffed with sacrificial objects, food and charms). An anti hope spell is very costly and hard to perform. (And once hope is lost and everything dissolves and life becomes hopeless, heavy and exhausting.)

She heard about the hopeless-spell from a novel witch and her peer Shelby Aspen. Shelby Aspen is a private practicing witch, head of the cheerleader squad of Dell High and a has currently sent her internship letter for a syndicated television series. Some show about a teenage witch and her black cat.) She lives in the small unknown town of Euless, Texas, not far from the DFW International airport. Is a good place for a practicing witch due to the tourist, Europeans and the conveniences of traveling abroad to France, England and Ireland. Normandy once housed a coven of witches near Saint Michel and England has had the problem since biscuits and tea and we know about the Irish and their Celtic history. She was accused of drowning a member of the Youngboy family near Grapevine lake. Supposedly, she cast a sadness spell on their youngest from a new black magic book. At least that is the rumor. But most don’t believe in black magic near Grapevine, so it did not hold water. The young innocent boy, Tommy Youngboy, was out swimming on a early July afternoon. The boy’s name was not giving to the public due to the black magic charges against Shelby. No one came up with proof that she drowned the boy, neither did they come up with any solid evidence that Shelby was in fact a witch. The little boy that was drowned, or murdered, whatever proof provides, was the younger brother to one of Shelby’s ex boyfriends. Tommy is what everyone calls him. The older brother of sixteen, Chet, cheated on her with Shelby’s little sister and this caused her to lose her mind and her faith in God. Thus, she turned to black magic for the sake of revenge and what she would believe would become peace of mind. She could not think of a more wicked way to get back at her ex, Chet Youngboy, than by taking his younger brother’s life. She cast the spell on the little boy on a Saturday early July afternoon, when the family was having a Barbeque cook out. The spell was a unity spell and required more than one person to take effect. Unity spells are afflicted, usually on a group of people, or a family. They are popular with white witches, due to their healing effect, but black witches can use them to weaken a family, just as a white witch can do the opposite. The spell required one hair from the young boys head and two liters of alcohol. The hair would have to be consumed by the boy’s father in order to take effect, and with only a taste, drop or two of beer, wine or other alcoholic beverage. There was a verse to be memorized for the charm to take hold and it would have to be repeated over and over under a passing new moon, before the noon of the next day could shallow out the effects of that prior eve . Shelby baby sited occasionally for the Connors and she had plenty of chances to yank a single hair from the little boy’s head when the boys, or men, were out dinning in Dallas. Shelby took the boy’s hair the week before the drowning, memorized the spell and repeated the verse six hundred and sixty six times until the moon passed the shadow of the earth. The final aspect of the spell required the boy’s father to become drunk, and less weary of the boys whereabouts. The spell could not take charge until the boy’s father touched his tongue to liquor and under the sight of God’s day, and the boy would have to be saturated in fresh water. The spell could only be cast in broad daylight. That is when the father could be judged and when weakness fell upon the boy, under the light of day. Once the boy’s father became drunk the spell went into effect and the boy would grow very weak. So weak he would no longer be able to swim. The boy would become embarrassed of his body, of his life, of his mind and thoughts and would refuse to come up from the stillness of the lake. He would become scrambled and the water would fell as heavy and painful as melted lead. The drunker the father became the more the boy sunk to the bottom, in agony, despair and a hellish weight baring confusion. The power of the spell comes from the father sinful behavior. It is linked to the boy’s fate. “The son pays for the sins of his father.” And this vein of power travels from his gluttony to the boy’s innocence. The boy must pay double fold for his father’s sin, and the more he drinks, dines and plays, the darker the moon becomes, and the darker the boy’s fate.

Shelby read about this unity spell in the BBM book and used it to cause agonizing grief upon her second lover, Shane Connors and her boyfriends family and their youngest boys, Shane. It is called a unity spell because it breaks apart or reunites a union (family or tight group of people, like a clan or tribe). Such as a family or a couple, or a brother and sister and so on.

That night before the Saturday, Shelby went into a deep sleep and did not wake until Sunday morning, after the boy’s death. Sleeping is a significant part of the spell. The spell caster must get at least six hours of sleep a night while the innocent suffer in the wide awake sad somber. She repeated the charm until she passed out on the bed and her life fell into a deep sleep. The more sleep she gets the more the boy dream of being a man fade.

Saturday afternoon arrived. Two weeks after the first full moon. The boy’s father tossed a match on the charcoal and began laying out the greasy, doughy meatballs that soon would become patties for the burgers and cook out. “Where’s the Coors honey. You got a case didn’t ya.” He said as he flipped the greasy ball over onto it’s soggy side. He cracked upon the first beer of the day and lit up a fresh cigarette. “Where’s the boys.” “They went jet skiing.” Mrs. Connors said as she skimmed through her Vanity Fair magazine.

Jay Connors was not too far from the shore when his eyes began to fog over and his brow began to feel hard and cold presence of the spell. “My eyes feel funny.” He told me that before he went under. Shane said to the reporter. Jay’s older brother’s hand was shaking as he wiped the sweat from his chin and handed the bottle of Ozarka back to the head paramedic. “as he jumped on the jet ski and his eye lids sank. Than he just fell. Just fell.” It was as if a two giant anchors hung around his ankles. “He just fell under the water and that was the last I saw him.” Shane said to the reporters of Channel Eleven news.

Jay’s eye lids began to close and he didn’t even have the strength of life in him. It was as if someone blew his candles out. It felt as if mud had been caked over them and when Jay did open his eyes he saw nothing but a green watery world with long rays of silver white lightning and undulating arms of green seaweed and pointy limbs from the skeleton of dead soaked trees. A slimy piece of bark slid up the boy’s pants and he tried to let out a scream. He became wedged between to tree limbs. The boy looked up and saw his brother’s jet ski fish tail overhead. Then, the motor whispered off and the Honda’s jet engine quieted. His brother dove after his little brother. “He just vanished. Just like that.” Into the water and a fleet of dancing bubbles arose and sparkled off his strong frame as he paddled deeper to the edge of the dead musk trees that lie underneath the top of the water and level with the gasping Jay. It was too late. Water had saturated Jay’s lungs and the youngest Conner had turned a faint azure. All was lost. Despair arose as a small smile formed from the lips of the sleeping Shelby.

The spell rapped it’s dark watery hands around the boy’s body and drug him to the bottom where the deep, muddy soil enveloped him to his knees, water filled his lungs as he screamed to the heavens to let him up for air, but it was too late. Nothing could stop the silky skin of the soil to eat him up. To the bottom of the lake he fell, and the dreamy unknown seduction of a drowned death tucked him to blissful sleep. Supposedly, according to cheerleader squad at Dell High School in 2000, Shelby was as deadly as sin and as knowledge filled in witchery as the devil himself. She began practicing witchcraft at the age of six year old and hasn’t stop to this day. She was known as a practiced witch and an expert in modern witchcraft and charms in her neighborhood of Witches, Stone Hollow. Shelby had found out about ROR from a modern black Book of Black Magic bought from a contemporary witch’s book shop under the three layers of soil in Central Park. To get there you had to find the trap door. Some say it is behind a giant man made rock perfectly designed to mimic God’s hand and a natural landscape. That is where the book was found, under a rock, beneath a trap door and in small underground oak wood, book store beneath the soil of Central Park. The shape of the building Pullman in size and colored with deep wood texture and a weathering sealant, with a masonite protective cover, between the soil and roof. Many don’t believe it exists, but there is no way to find it with out the coven’s map and the secrete worlds of the coven. One must no the spell to enter and the pass word to write, enter or receive the whereabouts. Later, a photo copy of BBM was shipped to a black magic book shop in East Texas and a full copy with binding was shipped to the a rare book store in Dallas. East Texas is rumored to be a home of witches, vampires and warlocks, but no proof has to come to day yet. Not far from the home of Sissy Spacek, was shelved a copy of a blue somber spell, a thin spell and a spell for Romance, but each have not been uncovered. Only the young kids in the area dabbling in black magic, have searched it out. Supposedly, the black magic store, is disguised as an old antique shop. He was later found on the embankment along a creek bed, flies buzzing over the mess, a heart rested on his opened chest, a perfectly shaped bloody pentagram surrounding his other remains and parts. The first time, Shelby laid hands on the BBM book was in the winter of 1999. It was cold, gray. Simple. Sun exploding a dull light dim, passing the curves of a bubbly, cotton form, floating about lightly above the lake. Just before the millennium and the first new moon of that year has passed over, Shelby found small antique store, that had few old bookshelves, “With the books still in em.” The old man said downing his homemade carrot juice. She plumaged through his collection of old Faulker, Dosteyvski, Russian greats and short stories by Poe. Then, it came to her fingers, like iron to magnet. The BBM. “Oh, that’s new one. Some lady, with bleach white hair dropped it buy. Said she wanted to keep in that old wickor shelf. Don’t know why. Cant see why she’d do something so stupid. Leave her book. Persistent she was. Town says she’s got that OCD problem. Where they do them repetitive movements. And she reads like a mad poet and collects herbs, and herb medicines and so on.” The old man that owned the The East Texas Antique Store, feared she was a practice witch. “Say they found candles in her fire place, but no log holder.” She began studying it like a master scholar and never put it down until every charm and spell was memorized to the T. Her favorite was the cat pee spell witch caused men to fall in love with whatever she rubbed it on, animated or still. The spell required her to rub cat urine on her hands and a man in his full maturity would fall head over heels for her hands. Whereever she placed the urine, men would desire. They flocked to her hands, men from all over, just to see, a lady’s hands. Just to see her hands. “Mai little hands, sooo pretty.” She said petted her black kitty, and closing the BBM. Later, she hid it in the old man’s store East of Greenville.

In the index, Shelby turned to the single word; Revenge. It revealed two chapters on the topic. Pages 334: Revenge Charms. And pages 339 for Revenge Spells. Then, in indention it listed ROR on page 337. The ROR can not be found in the Library of Congress, or on any disk, or web site. It is unknown to the most scholarly scholars. In the BBM, first edition, which has only two prints left in the world, there, was listed two chapters on revenge, two chapters on love, and the three chapters on weight loss, beauty and lust. Shelby’s most desired and well studied. Every word to verbatim. There is only one copy of BBM in the world: one copy lies in a great wall of books in Manhattan’s finest Rare Book, called The Rare Book store, stored in Upper East Side, and of coarse there is a duplicate, not even the finest rare book appraiser can tell it apart from the original and it was sent to the second coven storage, stored at The Rare Book Store in Dallas Texas near the Quandrangle and Theatre Three. Supposedly, there is a fine copy of Edora Welty’s Robber Bride Groom running for thousand or so. Rumor has it it is signed, by Edora’s hand. The BBM is behind a secret panel on the second floor. The main coven has sent it there for protection and security. The price of the book was 500,559.99 . It had to be hidden from bank safes and other places. The best place to hid a needle is in a mess of needles, not a hay stack. The best place to hid a book is in the stack of . . . Shelby bought on a fluke. She could spare the money being that her father was the vice president to Mobil oil. She was up at a writer’s camp in Gambier, Ohio when she heard there was a copy in Dallas going for around five hundred grand. “Five hundred grand. Imagine that in your hands.” Shelby had three hundred thousand in her college fund back in early nineties and she was willing to spend every drop on the BBM. Hell, it was worth it, the spells it held. And every white, or black witch, believed with dedication and blistering intelligence that it held true power and stormy unnatural effects on nature. She withdrew the money from the account and put it in stocks in bonds for Home Depot and Pepsicoe. Her three hundred thousand, now, is up to four million and she didn’t even have to cast a fortune spell.

What makes the new and modern BBM so powerful is that it has the power to conquer love. The charm of love. And supposedly, according to literature and wise sayings, LOVE conquers all. But not according to the Book of Black Magic. According to the BBM, what makes it so worthy, mysteries and darkly magical, is love can be controlled manipulated, used and abused. It has the power to beat love. The most new and approved composed book that can conquer the most good and pure thing ever created. The finest modern witches, of science and witchcraft are all after the black skinned and leathered bindings. It is the greatest book of spells ever known to earth. The book and it’s spells and charms can sometimes, if the spell is cast by the most dark and evil witch can make love go sour and can make the lover turn to disbelieving in the worth of love and even happiness. Supposedly the book can withstand a blue flame of fire from the hottest refinery ovens. It is near impossible to rip the pages from the spine or open without the proper book key. Supposedly it looks as a skeleton key.

Hanging out with the Amish and buying lard pies was not Shelby’s favorite things to do at the writing camp of Gambier, Ohio. She wanted to purchase the book to play a joke on her overly religious mother and to cast a few spells while she was at it. Just to see if they’d work. Supposedly, all the spells where modern day and not many novel witches had possessed them long enough to conquer. The book was passed along and shipped to so many different location, for protection, that it never rested in one witches hands long enough to be mastered. Shelby gave the book away to Stories a year ago for a mere fifty dollars. She felt the book was too draining. There was something about the book that she could not handle. If you had the book for too long it became a curse and the only way to rid the curse was to pass the book on.

Jennifer turned the calendar to June. It was June First 2003. She circled the number one on the calendar box and began to plan her trip to ROR. ROR was not located on ground. Meaning it was not a restaurant above ground. It was underground. Thus, it was hard to find. The devil was currently franchising the restaurant and thinking of starting a café called Café of Colds. The manager of the Northern ROR was named Shekrweed. Mr. Shekrweed is what most called him. It was pronounced Shek- rah- weed. Shekrweed didn’t let anyone attend a dinning. First of all you had to be a virgin. Jennifer was. Second you had to doubt God existence. Jennifer did at times. She fell out of faith like Thomas-thus she was allowed admittance. Thirdly, she had to carry a lock of her enemies head in a silk blacken purse. The purse could be purchased at a BBM store. Also, Jennifer had to be ten pounds under her natural body weight.

Part two

Jennifer’s body. Jennifer was not extremely obese. She weight around 117 pounds and was about five nine. This was normal for a girl in high school, in her district. The loss of ten pounds would be a bitch. She decided to lose it by taking cardio Kick boxing on Saturday morning and take up jogging Monday, Wednesday and Fridays. She would only eat fish, tropic fruits and Maza Crackers (Light weight crackers. 5 carbs for RDA. 10 calories per serving. Ten crackers a serving.) It was a very light weight diet cracker. Special made by BBM. Jen would eat the crackers for lunch. The fruit for breakfast and fish at night. Mostly Salmon and Mahi Mahi. After four weeks she lost over six pounds. The diet worked. And she ate the same thing every day. After a month and a half she was ready to write Shrekrweed a formal leader. He, or it, would return an invitation to dine—if the revenge was valid and her heart was full of hate toward her chosen, single enemy. Jennifer was mad at her ex boyfriend. Samson Waterston. Sam Waterston was six feet, one hundred and fifty pounds and pure muscle. He was the star of Dell High School’s Gymnastic team. He cheated on her with Shelby’s little sister Ashly. Ashly was just entering her Freshman year at Dell. Sam was approaching graduation along with Shelby and her best friend, Jennifer C. Stories.

“How much did the Black Magic book cost you Shel?” Jennifer asked as she sucked on the tip of the Bluebell fudge pop. “Sixty dollars, but don’t worry about it. I don’t want it back.” “I want to buy it from you.” Jen insisted. “No. No. No. Don’t worry about it. Keep it, Ok. Just keep it. I only bought it to trip up my Mom. I was playing a joke on her. I kept it under my bed and dressed in black for two months. Finally she found it. She confronted me about it and now I have to go to First Baptist Church camp this summer. She doesn’t believe I’m saved yet. Your saved right Jen?” Shel asked. There was a long lull on the phone. “Saved. Oh, Saved? No. I’m Catholic. We go to confession.” Shel laughed. “What does confession have to be with being saved?” Being saved.” Jen asked. “Look. Lets forget the bible sermon. Just meet me at my locker Monday Morning, before the first bell. Be the five minutes before the first bell. I’ll have the sixty dollars. Cold cash. Every buck will be there.” “Ok.” Shel continued, “But you don’t have to buy it.” Shel retorted. The other side of the phone line went dead. “Jen. Hey. Jennifer. You there? Hello.” No one was on the other end. The pone speaker made a clicking sound. Then, the constant annoying chimed screamed reh, reh, reh, rhe. . . over and over again. She was disconnected from Jen’s private teen line. The phone kept “rehing.” You now that noise when your disconnected and the phone line is no longer attached to the other party. The type that it makes when the phone has been unconnected on a line for too long. Jen had hung up and moved on with her plan to make it to ROR. She was going to get revenge on Sam Waterston if it cost her her life. She meant business this time. She wanted to buy the book for the full sale price. She felt it would not of worked if she didn’t pay for it. That Monday morning arrived. Jen was there. 7:55 am. Five minutes before the first bell.”

Jens Diary. That night.

Sam is going to hell. There is no doubt about it. There are. Here is a list of things he has done to me:

made me jack him off—four times in one night.

had sex with me 10 tens in one night.

used k y jelly because I was going raw.

sam sam sam. Sex sex sex. Only thing on his mind.

he’s mean.

he used a vibrator on my clit. The back mucle massage kind. Energizer brand.

he was mean to my gerbil

he didn’t kiss me goodby when he went to gymnastic camp in ohio.

he hasn’t said he loves me in over two months and he told me, “I love you forever.”

Revenge will be sweet. Sweet as American pie.

That night Jen wrote a poem on her memo pad. It was the following:

And we all end. And today was the day I was born and died.

And forever is only under and above every pillow.

As fake as the Easter Bunny and as mythical as the Resurrection.

May Water and suns burn to oblivion. May Waterston understand

My vengeance.

She had a dream that night. She had arrived in the Mountain regions of Ohio with a small suitcase and a women’s business suite. Gambier was near a large, famous river. According to ancient myths the river could tell your future and your past, and it flowed over one of the most powerful den of one third of the fallen ones. Gambier’s best College was Kenyon. Supposedly above one of the gates of hell. Kenyon was Paul Newman’s alumni and Ala Mater and a place where he studied his craft as a young man. Rumor had it, around campus, the Star, back in his day, could freestyle up to seventy laps in the Olympic sized pool dug near the Gym, and after a fresh breath, raise his head above water, swim to the side and raise to his underwater toes and quote a line or two from the classic Bard, literally birthed during the Renaissance era, and while barely out of wind. The Kenyon site was beautiful indeed. It had rolling grassy hills, wooded walking trails, shrubbery drenched cottages, evergreens planted along the rusty brick buildings, and a small old town, with health food grocery store, café and bookstore, that looked like something from a ginger man cartoon book. The surrounding scenery basically held true and belonged in the movie A River Run’s Through It. The dorms, small two level cottages, that shared four rooms, den, and kitchenette, where located in a wooded alcove surrounded by evergreen and tall oaks. There were two summer camps held for artist and artiste alike. The camps had been going on since forever. The first was made as a writer’s camp. The second camp was designed for mimes, clowns and pantomimes, but welcomed any type of performer. Each camp was held at Kenyon and both where adjacent to one another. Among all the festivities there remained a healthy and thriving Amish community. Near the camp, the community sold lard desert pies, lard muffins, Amish style brownies, bibles, apple soap, candlesticks, broomsticks, wicker furniture, wood works and other Amish crafts. The Amish children where not allowed to wear buttons or anything shiny. This was disrespectful to their God and so was looking at yourself in a mirror. Thus, they always turned their backs if a glass door fell shut before them. Their clothing was worn dull and the men had long brown beards and swelling bellies. Some of the women seemed slim in figure but most of their bodies were covered in long, thick dresses that reached ankle in length. The women styled their pretty golden hair in ponytails or braids and most of the time pinned up in funny cloth hats. Ohio, Gambier did not seem like a place of witchery. Nor did the small community surrounded Kenyon. But, nevertheless, it was invested with crafty works. The mime camp was the most popular. It mostly trained clowns, but a few actors, gymnast, dancers and writers participated in order to help them see, or experience, how a story unfolds and how the body expresses creativity in action. The actors learned more about the body and how it functions in movement. The Gymnast learn how to break down sections of the torso, and lower body. This helps them tumble more efficiently and it helps their floor work. The clowns learn how to better communicate their thoughts with their bodies and the essence of comedy. The writers learn the process of how a story is told with merely the body and not just the tongue. Most writers, playwrights and screenwriters learn only how to tell a tale with words. They only taught themselves with words. The great writers learn how to tell tales with every aspect of earth, body, mind and soul. They learn with experience not with mere spelling and gramertek. Great writers start with the toes and work the way to the tongue. And finally ending their training with a purging of the sole or soul. Jen was thinking about taking on the word. But she wanted to visit Kenyon and the mime camp, initially, before beginning her first novel. Educated or rogue style it did not matter. Literature or from the hip, she still wanted to explore every aspect of the body. That must be her reason for her fascination with Waterston and his gymnastics. She wanted to study the mimes and their movements and most importantly to experience the life of a pantomime and actor. Many actors went to the camp to improve the understandings of semantics. I wonder if Waterston is interesting in the craft. She thought as the plane passed into a thick white cloud of swirling into gray.

Jennifer Stories awoke at three thirty three AM. She went to her black magic Book. She rubbed her index finger over initial’s BBM. “on the cover.” She thought about her dreams and her desire the always remain pretty and young. The witch book was entitled BBM. “so no one would know what the book was about.” She enrolled at Ting’s Cardio Kick Boxing school a few weeks before the flight to Ohio. It took her two weeks to drop the ten pounds after joining class. Once she got the weight off she became obsessed. She put three pounds back on by hogging down Hagan Daas Rocky Road and chocolate covered nutty M & M Sunday ice cream bars from Brahms. She was at one hundred and seven. “Beautiful.” Jen said as she pulled her hair back and admired her firm breast in the vanity mirror. She wiped a tad of chocolate from her upper lip and washed her face with Witch Hazel and Oatmeal cream. She sent Ting a Thank You card three days before lift off. She slept with him after dining at a Thai’s Room. It was nice petite restaurant on the rich side of Arlington. She only got tipsy from the Sakie and Ting paid for the motel’s cost. They got a single room on ground level near the baby aqua pool and game room. She fucked him with a sheepskin and sucked him off twice. “For payment sir.” Jen said on her knees as he rained his sperm on her hollow cheeks and screamed, “Bonziiiiii.” A few nights later she got back on the scale. One hundred and three. . .weeeee.

I now weight one hundred and three pounds. Tomorrow I take a flight from DFW to Ohio and a bus to Gambier and a private limo to Kenyon. There I will cast the spell and open the fifth gate.

That evening, after this particular journal entry, Jen hopped an Airporter Shuttle and took flight with American Airlines. She was sat alone in E11 business class. “There better than first class Shel. And they serve free cocktails. I’m already tipsy on my second screwdriver. Oj and vodka. Do you understand this shit?” “I know what a screw driver is. What the hell are you doing on an Airplane.” Shelby asked skimming through the leather bound King James version, her mother bought her on her twelfth birthday on a hot summer eve at Barnes and Nobles near the mall after taking her to view their seventh Harrison Ford feature. It was the third sequel to The Fugitive. “Well, I’m going to get Waterston back. That dick weed.” “What?” Shelby turned to Chronicles 6 Descendants of Levi. She had to read it and turn in a one page paper about the verse, to her bible study teacher. “Look. I have to go. Its too late for me to talk and I can’t afford to get grounded. Dad will even make me quit the cell stand at the mall and I’m saving for a new car. Look Jen. I’m worried about you. People said you’ve lost too much weight, and you don’t go to mass anymore, and the squad is saying that you’re acting funny. Don’t do this for Wasterson. His a jock dick. Your smarter than he is. . .you better in many aspects, come on, you scored what like a thousand points higher on the SAT’s. Don’t let him do this to you.” Jen sipped on the OJ and vodka mix and peered out the tiny, round like window. It looks like an amoeba. She thought. She sighed and whispered, “These screwdriver are making me dizzy.” Then, Jen retorted, “Look. Wasterson needs revenge. Do you know who he last had suck his dick?” “Who?” Shelby asked closing the good book. “Suzy.” “Suzy Felp. NO WAY.” “Nope.” Shelby removed her book mark from the black leather covered book, took a long patient breath, and read the top of the colorful book marker which was entitled with the letter KEYS. “Susan Keys.” She dropped her family made book marker on top of the gold letters that read BIBLE. “But that’s my sis. . .ter.” Shelby wiped the slobber from her lip and fell backwards off her bed. She had zoned out completely and utterly. “Your telling me that your ex boyfriend cheated on you with my little sister. SHE’S ONLY A FRESHMAN. THAT DICK HEAD. I’LL HAVE HIM KILLED.” Jen’s cell line began to break up and fizzle out. “Your sketching on me Felps. Listen don’t worry about that. I got to go. Tell Suzy I’m sorry for telling on her. And Wasterson, is going to meet his match. That boy ain’t messing around no more. By girl.” Flight 347 landed at around eleven am central time. “Columbus, Ohio.” Jen whispered as she changed her battery pack to her Cingular cellular. It wasn’t long, of coarse, after napping on the Grey Hound, sipping on beer in the private limo. “Did you know Limos are cheaper than Taxi, from the Grey Hound station.” She informed the driver. “Yes. I knew that.” He said adjusted his pearl earring. “What do you do in the mean time.” “I’m studding mime at Kenyon.” “OOOOHH. MY GOD. I love mimes. Do you guys really, write, sing, dance and do it all like actors.” “Were better than those Jacks.” The driver said straightening up to erect stature in the car, as he rolled back the sun roof. “Oh yes we ear.” “Whats your name?” “Dean is what they call me. I use to work on shipping docs and load stuff. Now, I mime and drive limos. What’s your name?” Dead asked Jen. “I can’t give that to you. I don’t know you.” It wasn’t long until he pulled off the road and jumped in the back. He finished her beer for her, unzipped her 501 levis and penetrated. He was over seven inches long. She came and lurched her tongue toward the night sky. “YES.” Dean said as he finished. She barely grunted as she came and wiggled her way into her pants. He dropped her off at the dorms at Kenyon at around six Am. “I’m going to join a writer’s camp for the summer Dean. That’s why I came here.” She was lying. Really she was going to cast the spell and warp to ROR and eat her vengeful meal for the intention of destroying Wasterson current success. “He’ll never roll again.” She said as she walked away from the limo and watched the red break lights appear and disappear. The limo made it’s way onto a winding road and vanished behind a row of cedars. She didn’t see one Amish man and she never saw a mime. Supposedly they only come around near the fourth of July. Rumor around town had it they participated in a fourth of July parade. The name of the group was the Invisible People. No one ever saw them unless. . .She forgot the myth, but the Invisible People were very difficult to find. They where private artiste and mimes supported by private business and rich foundations. Night had come. She would make it to the ancient bridge near the railroad. Supposedly, the bridge was initially built by Native’s but torn down in the late 1890’s. The new Railroad was built and the bridge, which was titled in BMB (The modern book of Black Magic) as the rustic crossing. She didn’t view much of Kenyon, but she did stop off at the café and picked up a few cashews, and orange blossom muffin with almonds and protein powder mix. It was rarity. Most likely for the mimes. She also had a low carb bar and some carob nut crunchies. She went on a early morning jog, beginning at dusk and ending at around ten am. “I’ll make Wasterson kneel to me.” She said grunted over a log. She had finished nine miles through the wooded trail. It took her ninety minutes. Then she walked for an hour and ran another hour and half. Walked for one more set and then finished up out of wind. She was overworked. Very thin. Very fragile. Hardly any fat. The book said the spell are cast more easily with no excess cellulite on the bone. Muscle only, or bone. Or bone and muscle. Tissue too. But mostly bones, muscle and so on. Fat was looked down upon among witches. Like anyone else. She reached the bridge before nightfall. She empted out her specially made leather bag full of incense, candles and small poetry books. Then she unlaced the Black Book. She rubbed her fingers across the red initials and pricked the tip of her finger. “Alkjudaehfao” She whispered the first verse of the spell. She thumbed to page 339. It was the middle section of the chapter on Revenge. “Alk-judefao Shrekraweeeeeeeeeed.” The wind begin to blow horribly. Lightning stabbed the ground. Thunder sprayed through the air, vibrating her every bone. She began to fall week. Her breast wore sore along with her vagina and rectum. ‘I’M THE VIRGIN AND THE ONE THAT HAS HATE IN HIS HEART TOWARD A MAN.” Then, the wind cried back at her. ‘TO MEN.” It whispered. “To men.” She said. “Showers of fire from the biggest liar and show me the spires pointing every which way.” She cried. The sky forked a lightning bolt across the black sky. The bolts converged together making the shape of crooked bicycle spoke. “REVENGE TAKE ME TO THE UNDERGROUND. HATE BRING ME TO YOU. REVENGE MAKE ITS SOUND.” Thunder roared louder, shaking the ground. The rustic bridge began to sway. The water below began to rush. Jen grabbed on the baluster and a cable. The tracks, once used for an underground railroad, began to crack. “Then I looked and there was the lamb. And the smoke of their torment.” The bridge fell into the water and Jen tumbled on top. It began to rush and sink and rise again like a iron boat along with the current. She hung on with all her might to an iron rail as it sunk to the sandy silty bottom. “AHHHHHHHH..” She gurgled underwater and then in a flash she was sitting at a cushioned waiting bench at front of the restaurant near the host’s station. There was a single window to her side. She stood up and stared out. The ground of Central Park was exposed through the window. She squinted her eyes at the roots that reached toward the top layer of the soil. She admired the pods, the seeds and slowly forming veins of nature. “I’m halfway underground” She murmured. “Is this ROR.” “Yes.” The ghostly host said. He was a semi tall man, as thin as a Calvin Klein model and with sunken in eyes. He seemed to be a boy, but had to at least be in his twenties. “One minute please.” He said and walked into the candle invested hallway. “I wonder where I am” Jen quarreled with herself. “Welcome to The Revenge Restaurant.” The host said parting his jet black hair. “Your our only customer tonight. Here is the menu. More will becoming soon. I had a phone call for an order of eight Wallsteeters.” She flicked through the six page menue. “What do you suggest?” She asked the Host. “What is your revenge?” “My boy friend cheated on me. I want to make him a loser.” Just then Beck’s music popped on the speaker. “I’M A LOSTER BABY WHY DON’T YOU KILL ME.” Beck sang as she turned to page six. “I would try page three. It is most evil.” The host said holding his index finger to the top soil. “Let me find you the proper section for Revenge in our establishment. Most likely we will seat you near the Panther’s in the sunken dinning room.” The host inquired as he fastened his white glove and adjusted his white collar and black boy tie.” “Yes. That would be fine.” Jennifer replied. “AAAAH. I JUST FORGOT. The forms.” He said calming his excitement. “You must fill out the forms.” Jen responded with a quick yank up of her head. “FORMS.” She nearly guffawed. “What forms?” The host went to his podium, snaked over and back up, and handed her a few white sheets stapled. “Here you are. Enjoy your revenge.” He walked off. Jen looked down and saw the following:

Order slip:

Your enemy’s dream

Your enemy’s name

A piece of hair from your enemy’s head-

Entrée (Look on menu for your type of meal).

For her enemy’s dream she wrote AN OLYMPIC ATHLETE.

For her enemy’s name she wrote: Sam Wasterson.

Then she removed the comb, plucked a piece of Sam’s hair from the comb’s teeth and rubbed it between her thumb and index finger. It was as if she was making the American sign language motion for the need of money. Next, she chose the proper Entrée.

“I wouldn’t do that quite yet.” Jen looked up and saw the most beautiful man ever.

“What do you think of my underground restaurant.” Shrekweed said as he flicked his head back as if to say I am the greatest. Shrekweed was six feet two. Black hair. Dark green eyes with a pale reflection. He wore a tuxedo, long cape and a bell hops hat. “Sorry just got off of work. This is not my only job. I have many. I’m also a part time actor on Broadway. I work at the Worthington off of Park and Central. Its new. So how are you Jennifer?” “Fine.” She said in awe. She had seen such a man with bulging muscles, bright greens and long black hair. “You have beautiful hair.” She said to him as her breath fell. He reached his hand out to her and she took it. “Where to.” He asked. “Uh. Well. I chose my entrée. . .” “no, no, no, no.” He insisted. “No. I must do that for you. What is your wish. Or may I say what is your anti wish for the other.” “Revenge.” “yes, yes, yes, yes. We all want revenge dear. Yes. I understand you want him dead. And his name was water, water. . ..water what?” “Waterston.” She said. “Sam Waterston. I want him a loser. Not dead. Dead would be. . .” “Too easy. No one wants death anymore. Why. Why can’t I have a winner here or there. Death is so easy. So simple dear. And now you want a simple loser. Ok. No problem. You will eat either from the blacken fish from the stream of Archon, or uh, what is the other darling?” he asked the hollow cheek host. “Oh. For revenge. Male or female.” “Right.” Wasterson’s voice escaped Shrekweed lips. “How did you do that?” Jen asked. “I’m hollow. Anything may enter me or leave me. Its up to them. Wasterson is at a weak moment right now my dear. He doesn’t have you. Your hear and he is there. Man is down with out his women.” “But he fucked my best friends little sister. He can’t have me now.” “Of coarse he can’t honey. Now what is the one for young female wanted to turn her ex boy into a solid loser.” The host began to flap the pages across the air. “Yes. Yes. Yes. This one is it Sir.” He stopped on page three, Chinese. “Uncle Chens. His recipe will do her just fine.” “Now I have a questioned.” Jen asked. “Do I have to eat three now, or one meal now or what are the rules.” “Ha ha. There are no rules. But it works best if you eat worth his will.” “Eat worth his will.” “Yes, you must eat his will away. Wasterson you say. Host. Give me the book of W’s.” The host raced to the podium and retrieved a telephoned sized book with a W on the front. “W’s as you wish.” “Look up Wasterson, Sam. Age. . .uh” The devil touched Jen’s forehead. Steam arose. “Sorry honey.” Jen jumped back fell to the ground and began masturbating. One hand in her jeans and one hand on her right nipple. “He was born in 1974. July. Late. Huhi. Hena. Hena Juhdooi. Seeyaq. Yes. Its coming to me now. 1974. OH. That Wasterson. Texas. Yes. DFW area. Ah. Thank you Dell. Gymnastics. An honorable student indeed. Jen you are a bad girl. We will get to him.” He handed her the menu as she finished and wiped her hand on a tablecloth. “Thank goodness no customers are around.” Just then, a party of three men, stout, husky, brown hair, tan skin and amber eyes. They seem to be triplets. They all had unique mustaches and wore different types of suites. The lead one, more muscles and a larger frame sported an Armani jacket. The back one, following the Armani jacket, wore a blue overcoat and Doc Martin slip-ons. He was cute and seemed to have an actors stance. The third was all dancer, ballet trained. He wore baggy brown slacks and a floppy wool sweater with a textured, brown wool scarf. “Hmm.” She said shaking off her orgasm. They took the order slips and headed up a flight of circular oak stairs with a wicker guard rail. Shekweed took Jen to the sunken area. “Yes. Yes.” He said finding Sam’s name in the book of Wills. “Yes. Wasterson. Hmmh. Yes. Wasterson. Big will indeed. Something about those Gymnist. You must eat seven. He’s good. Real good. His wish will die and his dream will fade if you eat seven dishes of Shrimp and Snow peas with four pints of fried rice. It must be seven dishes or the spell will not work on your ex lover. So. That’s a total of seventy pieces of shrimp and twenty eight pints of rice. And you must do it here. You must eat every bite in front of me.” A smile formed across Shrekweed’s cut and masculine face. Jen went serious. “It will hurt, but you are in hell at the present moment. . .and, well, you will survive in doing this, and you can’t burn here now, not yet, but when you return home, you will always crave this dish. That’s the hell of it all. The craving will stay with you. The only true happiness is freedom from the hearts desire. So, you will crave it like you crave sex. Sex with you ex will no longer please you but the snow pea and shrimp dish will. That will be your repentance to me and well you know who.” Shrekweed glanced down at the table and continued with, “I hate mentioning names.” Jennifer was a nymphomaniac and thus, this made her swallow a few times. “Do I get to drink anything.” “Ah any beverage you like.” “Wine.” I want to have it with wine.” “Sorry no wine here. Another.” “Do you have screwdrivers.” “No but we do have wormwood. Its my specialty. Others call it Absinth.” “Absinth, hmmm. How much.” “On glass will do you here. You can handle in the underground. Above ground, never. But I will mix it with a special fruit juice and this will ease the potency and charm the spell.” The dish came in a few seconds flat. It was steaming hot. Three waiter dressed in red tuxedo suits with horns and forked tails, barring flexing bar muscled chest, brought seven dishes on three trays. “alla for you.” The head waiter said stroking his goatee. “Here you are.” He said laying out six large bowls of rice and seven plates of shrimp with snow peas.” “Enjoy your revenge.” The back waiter said turning and spinning off following the tail of the head waiter. “I must leave you hear. A lady your size will have to take her time with this delicacy. Enjoy. I must attend the others.” He got up and headed toward the front room which housed the staircase with the wicker baluster. “Funny funny. Funny life this is.” She dug her chopsticks in and began to shuffle loads of spicy soaked brown rice and steamy hot shrimp into her mouth. Her jawed clenched down on the shell of the shrimp and she pictured Sam falling as he tumbled his mat routine. She pictured him snorting a white powder. She pictured him smoking cigarettes, which Sam would never touch. She pictured him getting kicked off the team. As she pigged out she pictured Matt falling from grace. Her cellular rang. She answered. “Does it taste good.” It was Shrekweed. “You sure did check on me soon. Yeah. It’s the best dish I’ve ever had.” She said in the cellular. “Good.” Shrekweed returned in the voice of Sam.” “You sounded like him.” The line was dead, the devil was gone and her belly became full. She finished the first entrée, burped, opened a fortune cookie and read, “Is age acruired by wisdom or experience or experienced wisdom.” Then the paper formed into a lizard and danced away. “Agh.” Jen hollered and yanked her hand away. “I’ve never had a fortune that asked a question” She mumbled and continued to chow down. “Is wisdom acquired by experience or by age?” Hmm. Jen thought. “I guess experience.” She whispered. “A new bowl of rice was scooted toward here. The lizard had taken the shape of a hand and it pushed the bowl before her. The cushioned booth was very soft and the room was well lit for a underground restaurant. There where eighty paper lanterns, Jen gingerly counted, strung along the ceiling, under and over and intertwined between miniature pagodas and Japanese bridges, and a few dozen patiently twirling bamboo ceiling fans sparked off a slight breezy pressing pre tropical storm wind. The type of wind caused by some butterfly thousands of miles, escaping the net of insect collector on some French/Spanish virgin island. The effect was irresistibly charming and sexy. The light pinks mixed with the jet blacks and whispering yellows and the Asian portraits of tigers, dragons and ancient Buddhist temples painted in watercolor and thick oil brush. Jen kept eyeing the lettering composed, not written, by the Japanese artist. They have such detail. Such careful hands. She thought. In the center of the sunken den lay a rock garden surrounded by petite waterfalls, tiny Japanese trees, tinier pagodas and Oriental shrubbery. Hanging over the waterfall lightly swung two ceramic Asian dragons, spitting a red fiery papery tongue toward the bubbling water stream below. A small rock layered Japanese decorated river snaked through the middle of the restaurant. “Wow. I wish I could of taken Samson here. Wasterson would of dug it.” She began to work down her third entrée of Shrimp an Snow peas as she gazed at the hypnotic glow of the paper covered ceiling fan lights. There are absolutely no windows around. She thought. I wonder why?

After the second and third and final meal she grew tired from the monosodium glutamate and drifted to sleep near the coat room, on a overly pillowed waiting room sofa. After the snooze. After the flight home. After it all ended, she arose back from hell, from ROR, to earth and began to question life’s strange vicissitudes. She arrived home at midnight of Friday night. She opened her bedroom door, lightly kissed the lead singer to Smash Mouth, Jay Hawks and lipstick kissed signature glossy poster of Jane’s Addiction’s Ritual De Lo Habitual, grunted to her caged Guinea pig, and dove onto her soft and feathery peir -one bought, (purchased by her father the TCU professor of physics who dotes and buys and buys for the love of her heart, scaned with credit card for her little daughter, two years ago when she got on her feather bed kick, he seems to dote on her, and spoils her far, far too much) mattress. She had missed three days of summer school. It was holiday. Some knew holiday, huh. A holiday that involved a full moon, an empty stomach, a full stomach and a mind and heart full of hate. It was all worthwhile. Soon Wasterson would go down. Ha, ha, ha. She silently whispered. Somewhere, out there, Wasterson could hear every Ha, ha, ha. He could hear it as he made a mistake, or as he fowled up a routine on the parallel bars. Anyways, she laid on her bed and contemplated on whether or not to call Sam Wasterson to see how he was. She did. She rang him. Sam’s mother answered. “Sam there?” She questioned. “No. Sam moved out.” “Where to?” She asked. “We, well, me and William went to Church with him. Sam has been acting funny lately. Eating a lot. Smoking and running around God no where. He has lost a bunch of weight. We are afraid for him. He was living with some of his new friends. He got hooked on drugs and we tried to admit him to a rehab. He stayed a few nights in a mental ward and then he escaped. He ended up living with some women in Euless. He got kicked off the team and is thinking about leaving school. We are going to pray for him at the next Church service. Would you like to attend.” Jennifer hung the phone up. Tears rolled from her eyes. She jumped off the bed and headed to the garage. She was going to Euless. The town that sounded like Useless. If you switched the E around with the U and added an S what do you get? Useless, Texas. Euless is a brother town to the not so small city of the neighboring DFW International airport. Jennifer had to find him before it was too late. “What have I done?” She asked herself. “It worked. The dream. He no longer has his dream. I’ve taken it from him. The restaurant worked. That stupefied, stymied worked. He is nothing now. Nothing. I got to call Shelby about his. Woohoo.”

I have not found Sam Wasterson yet. I’ll get my Revenge. I heard he has been kicked off the gymnastic team. Yes. My spell worked. Thank you know who for Shrekweed’s lovely dinner. I can’t believe it was under central park. Whats up with that? I haven’t called Shelby, but I have gained the weight back. I’m back at 120. shit. It sucks that I’m 120 pounds, and it sucks that I have to order take out from chen’s Chinese. I get the snow pea with shrimp like every time. I think I’m gained even more since I got back from the underground. Ror was interesting. Chinese lanterns, wood floor, and ceramic dragons. It basically looks like the inside of a karate dojo. It even had a small rock garden surrounded by miniture waterrfallls. Over and out journal. I’ll keep in touch.

Jennifer pulled her black Honda Accord into the Phillip 66 station. It was a hot afternoon. Days after the visitation of ROR. “New York was cool. But I only visited Central Park.” Shelby sat up in her brother’s bunk bed and fell open her diary. “I thought you went to Kenyon College in Ohio. That’s what you told me from the hotel. Where the hell did you go Jen?” “Both places. You’ll never believe what I did. Do you remember the BBM book. The black magic one. Well, there was a spell. Hang on. I got a page. Some one’s beeping.” She smiled her happy grinned. The beeper screen read the call was coming from the Phillip 66 station she had just exited. “Shelby. I got a call from a payphone. At the 66 station. Can you hang on? Look. I’ll call you back.” She wrote the number down on her memo pad fastened near the rearview mirror. “214-337-9893.” Hm. Jen dialed the phone. Next to the 214 area code was a small poem. It must have been written by the owner of ROR, or possibly one of his servers. It seemed to identify with Jen’s problem and ordeal. She read it quietly to herself and dialed. . .

The table was not shaky,

and the room surely was

full of politeness.

The whispers where seldom

but there.

As I leaned over to make my

dramatic but truthful point,

he’s strength stopped me and with

a whisper, "Be a slave,

be a slave."

Servants speak

well to servants, I thought.

She noticed that the poem was in Wasterson’s handwriting. Why would this devil have a poem written by her ex. Nevertheless, why would Wasterson write anything down. He was a jock. Athletes don’t write poetry. It was working. Jen had a filling Wasterson was changing. One thing in this world that is definite is Change. Jen calculated.

It began to ring on the other side. The little black, rectangular box vibrated, clicked and spit and tingled. Some one was calling from out there. “Hello?” It was Samson. “Jen. Is that you? I just paged you. Didn’t I?” “Yes. It’s me. How are you?” “Not good. Look. I’m hurting real bad. I’m not in school anymore. I’m stuck in Euless. Living with this whore bitch. She eats all the time and yells a lot. Look. I need your help. I’m hooked.” “On drugs.” Jen said with a half grin. “Yes. The team. One of the players was doing GHB. I started taken it to gain muscle, keep up with the others and everything. And it got addictive. Waaay addictive. It made me lose everything. Also, I started taken Ma-Huang. Lots of it. All of it became far too much for me to handle. I lost a lot of weight. Intuitively I knew what I was doing. This little voice inside told me to come to you. To seek you out. Like you said, ‘if you love something set it free and it will come back to you. And I didn’t find you in time. Its too late. I look like some scaly drug addict. It’s horrible. It happened so fast. In a wink of the eye. Couch sent me to MHMR to get help but all they gave me was litho tabs and some valium. It didn’t work. The litho tabs made me vomit. I ran out of money and I’m stuck at this gas station. Phillip sixty six, off the highway by the school. Can you help me get home? Mom won’t pick me up. I have this tape player, head phone thingy with me. I keep playing Cold Play over and over and over and . . .” “Sure Sam. I’ll help you out this time.” Jen headed off an exit ramp and u-turned back to the Phillip 66 station. As she approached the exit ramp to the station she fell into overwhelming state of awe. “What the hell.” The station was no longer there. It was Chen’s Chinese. She pulled in the front driver to the restaurant and rolled down her electric window. “Is there a Phillips station around here.” A oriental man with a goatee, umbrella, and Asian Tux turned to her. He scooted his glasses of the bridge of his nose. “No. Do you like Chens.” Jen decided to leave and head back on the highway. “Forget Sam.” She whispered as she snapped the stick shift into OD. She decided to go by Dell High to meet Shelby for catch up practice. She had been gone for awhile. As she pulled up to the old spot where Dell use to be located there was nothing. “Jesus of God.” Jen said. It was a Chen’s Chinese Restaurant. “This is wrong.” She got on the phone and called Shelby. “Heroe.” A man half said on the other line. “Is Shelby there?” “Chen’s Chinezzz can we help you?” “What the hell?” Jen backed the car out of Chen’s Chinese Restaurant. Her stomach was aching for a taste of snow peas and Shrimp. She had to have more. More, more, more and more. A voice cried in her head. She dialed Shelby again. Same thing as before. Chen’s Chinese. She went by Shelby’s house. Her eyes widened as she turned on Shelby’s street. It was no longer Jane street like it was a few weeks ago. Now it was called Chen’s Chinese. “The street is Chen’s Chinese. This is a prank. God for saken prank. Right. I can’t be dreaming can I?” She pulled up to 56700 Chen street, which was supposed to be 567000 Jan St. “My God what has happened.” Every house beyond Shelby’s house was no longer a house at all. Now it was a Chinese restaurant titled Chen’s Chinese. She rolled down her window. The man in the black Tux, and goatee appeared. “Won’t you come inside.” She yelled and stepped on the gas. She got back on the highway. That is when she notice every gas station was no longer a gas station. Every apartment complex was no longer a apartment complex. Everything had become Chen’s Chinese. Everything. She decided to head back home. Her entire neighborhood was Chen’s Chinese Restaurant. She no longer had a home. It was now Chen’s. She decided to go inside. “Where is my home?” She yelled. Shekrweed was in the back of the restaurant puffing on a cigar, hands spread out like an eagle, leaning back and talking with a group of stout blond men. That is when she noticed Sam was next to him. He looked healthy. He was wearing his letter jack and eating a Asian pare. “Jen.” Samson said as he got up. Shelby was with him. They walked by her and sneered. “Shrekrweed. You lied to me.” Sam walked out with Shelby and exited the Chenes. “And why is everything a Chen’s Restaurant. Why is everything Chen?” “Because.” “Because doesn’t cut it. I want Waterston a loser. I want my home back. I want my friend Shelby.” She began to cry. Tears flowed off her cheeks and landed on the wood floor. “Your dish was concerning Revenge eh.” Shrekrweed said. “Yes. It was wasn’t it Jen. You wanted Revenge. Well. Revenge is hell.” Just then, her stomach bubbled inside like the tiny river of orange and red fish, which flapped there tails toward the slow flowing ceiling fans. “Revenge is hell. My stomach is killing me. I’m soooo hungry. I’ve never been this hungry. But I can’t eat. If I gain anymore weight I’ll make a fool of myself.” She hogged down another chopstick full of inky colored rice, and hardened crusted shrimp skins, and meaty pork and Kung Pao, and a combo plate of Cashew Nut, and Hunan Chicken, Garlick Chicken, Pu Pu Platter for two, San Shein, curry combonation, mixed veggies, broccoli shrimp, chow Mein beef, orange chicken, happy family number one, happy family for two, szechaun beef, bell peppers, and General Chen’s fried egg rolls jammed in her mouth like ammunition rounds in a fifty millimeter cannon, crab Rangoon and fried wonton, curry scented crab meat, sizzling rice soup slurped down her hatch like gasoline filling a desert storm tank, and she grinded her mouth like a screaming siren, or mad baboon, and then she fanged opened and chewed the package off a small fortune cookie. She read, “Every master is a beginner.” She smiled and a tear dropped from her blotted cheek. She could not tell if the tear was sincere or from the spice from the Twice cooked Thailand Pork sauce. “I’m just a beginner.” Jen said as she plopped down at another booth like a zen monk. “I won’t forget you Jen. You are a brave soul. But your wish was tainted and now you must face the consequences. Now you must. . . .” “Bon appetite.” An Asian man with a black tux, long goatee, dark masterful eyes and slick back hair served Jen a dish of snow peas and fried shrimp. “Its fried this time?” She asked. “Yes. It will get fattier as the day goes by.” Shrekrweed said as Jen picked up a set of Chen’s plastic learner chopsticks. It read with compliments of Cahtay pacific on the side in green small roman font. “I can’t eat this but I’m sooo, soo hungry. Please make the hunger end sir.” Jen begged as the steam rose over her face. “It looks so good. Please don’t make me. Where did Shelby go.” “You can’t find them now. Now is a time to eat. Your revenge has turned on you.” Shrekrweed headed back in the kitchen. The smell of cooked almonds and sizzling brown fried rice filled the room. All she could think of was food. She was so hungry. “I’ve never been this hungry in my life.” She scooped a handful of rice in her hand and stuffed it in her mouth. She polished of the rice in three scooping loads. Then she pigged on the shrimp. She tried to use the chopsticks but she was too hungry. After she finished the dish a new one was served to her. This time larger and with more sides. Some times a dished arrived with hot and sour, sometimes egg drop soup. Other times she munched on a egg roll. A fortune cookie fell on her lap as she stuffed a fried piece of pork into her cheek and crunched down. She reached down and noticed her stomach had grown larger. It looked as if she was beginning her pregnancy. “God I look pregnant.” She cried. Tears swelled and rolled. She cracked open the fortune cookie and tossed a few pieces in her mouth. She read as she slurped from a tall glass of ice tea, “Sam is going to hell. There is no doubt about it.” She bowed her head and began to pry, but the all she could her was, “Sam is going to hell. There is no doubt about it. Sam is going to hell there is no doubt about it Sam is going to hell, there is no doubt it.” Then the voice changed. It was her voice repeating, “I’M GOING TO HELL THERE IS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT. I’M GOING TO HELL THERE IS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT I’M GOING TO HELL THERE IS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT.” “Welcome to Chen’. I’m your server. Our specials are Fried jumbo shrimp and snow peas. Are you hungry for some more.” It was same. He was still cute. Still tall. Still blond. Still muscled. He was wearing a Chen’s waiter’s outfit. “I’m sorry I have to do this. But you wished for it.” Samson dumped a whole dish of Shrimp and Snow peas over her head and walked off. Jen sat there in her mess, leaned over her flabby stomach and pouted. Her life was now over.

II

Story two: The other side.

The star producing factory.

“Name?” The latent middle aged man with thick horn ribbed glasses, permanent marker eyebrows and sad, gloomy browns, said as he scratched his bushy upper lip and flattened out the white mess of paper on the standard brown office desk. The paper, the middle aged man held in his cramped hand, contained the new applicant’s W20 form printed in Bookman bold font. “Name, Sir?” He asked once again, in a cold, wet tongue. “Les.” Les replied lifting his mighty barrel chest, pulling in a few gallons of cool air and refastening the tie to a tighter Windsor. “Full name Les?” The sad eyed man returned, barely lifting his chin to a proper attitude. “Les what?” The man retorted to Les’s blank moment of nullity. “Les Genes.” “Les Genes. That’s your name, Sir?” Sad brown eyes replied curtly. “Ok. Mr. Genes. Here is your paper work. Legibly print your name, and don’t forget to be legible. . .no cursive, social security card goes here and a photo I.D. Got it?” The sad brown eyed man fingered the paper. His stiffened index seemed to ache from all the pointing he had to do from paper to line, to dotted line, to the next applicant back to the paper back to the applicant. Crooked, straight, pointy and loose—back and fort hooked finger to strict hand. It has causing him corporal syndrome. Les scooped up the bunch of white copy, gave the brown eyed, with the hooked finger, a half jokingly salute, and here, here, and headed back to the waiting room with a jolly hop. Brown eyed didn’t respond to his cheery happy go lucky behavior and kept his head buried in the next applicants material. Les was trying to be punk rock. He had his Doc Martins on, but little did he know those particular originals were actual designed for factory type of word, so the assistant so him as cheery on not punked out. Les seemed to really need the job as dedicated as he was and plus he came two minutes early. He forced his amiable grin as far as he could take such a gesture and plopped down on the plastic cushioned waiting chair. Judiciously, Les Gene filled out the W20 form first and with out taking notice of the twenty or so walk ins, he continued on the next page. It seemed an entire party had arrived to fill out applications. “All of a sudden, Grand Central Station.” Les hummed under his scratching pen. He new the form well. Answer to number one was always single. Answer two; a slash. Answer three, four, five and so on; slashes or x’s whatever he wanted to bother them with. He knew mixing slashes and x’s on the W2 from was not very urbane. The last, Total amount, H: a single number 1. Everything else, ones. Single, single, and single some more. No wife, no child, no other dependents. Just Les and his shadow. No allowance collected and no tax right offs either. Full on lone star Les from Euless. Just straight pay check and that’s all. After finishing the form Les studied the top of the crispy white application. It was entitled Lone Star Factory in bold Times New Roman. He put in all the proper info below the large bold print of the factorize factory title. His full name which he more like drew clearly rather than write in his normal personalized, unique and selective penmanship was kindly legible. Next, his lover’s address, which he told them he lived alone, and his work history which he completely and utterly fibbed. To aid his fib, on education, he put down he had a doctorate in English literature. The job position available at the factory was a strange one. “What does Soul handling men?” Les whispered. He thought about returning to brown eyes but he figured that would cause him to lose his job so he checked on the box as go on the soul handling. He figured it was fancy for something simple like packaging or shipping, or doc work. He returned the application fully filled out and singed in all the proper places. And when he dropped it off to the assistant he shot a huge smile and flung his head back in arrogant manner. “Its all filled out legibly. Sir.” He said trying to sound a tad academic. Les returned to the waiting room. The next step was to attend an interview from the main hiring manager and talk over the job position of soul handler. “What does soul handler mean?” Sept asked the hiring manager. He was a tall man with dark shaggy hair, beady blue eyes and a fancy Italian suite. “Well. Hm. Good question. Let me turn it back to you in order to make it more clear. In a three dimensional way?” “Ok. Go ahead.” Les said half grinning and half lying through his teeth. Les didn’t care he needed to pay rent and that was all. He didn’t care about the soul or the handler of the soul. “Well. The soul is what we can not touch. It’s the spirit within us.” Les said with a chin up. The sun seemed to glow through the ceiling to floor window that boxed out behind the tall man in the comfy leather air and foam cushy office chair. “Good guess. But listen to this definition for the soul. The soul is the animated and vital principle in humans often conceived as an immaterial entity that survives death.” “Hm. That survives death. The soul survives death?” Les asked with complete fixed wonder. “Well yeah. Sure.” “But I thought the only way to be survived is to have children and they kind of become you?” Sept said. “Lets not get too far off the track.” The tall man replied. “My name is Dawn. Dawn Witherspool. I know you. You don’t know this but I taught you how to drive in summer school Remember me.” “No. I was drunk in most of those classes. I can’t recall your face.” “I’ve had work done since then. I also was on a few soap opera. Have you heard of Living.” “No. But I have heard of One Life to. . .” “Look. I don’t mean to cut you off. I have thirty more interviews today. WE are trying to find a special someone for the job and quick. We need to fulfill a new position. I think you are my man. But let me enlighten you on the requirements. If you sound like you are interested in the position then I’ll hire you today?” “Ok. Shoot.” Les said as tingled sprouted on his head. “You’ll have to be able to learn. Also, you will have to let go of this reality when you go to work and open your mind. We use more of our mind in this type of work.” “How?” Sept asked with widened eyes. He seemed to be more interested in the job. “We have drug you take. It helps you see the spirit world?” “The spirit world?” Sept asked. “What is that?”

“Good question. Most of us don’t know. But we do. We specialize in handling the human soul.” “You what?” Les said. “It says on your application that you are a Dr. in English Literature.” “Yes. I initially went to school for Theatre Arts but I fell into writing novels so I went back to school to receive a doctorate.” “So you got your undergrad work in Theatre. Great. This is a very theatrical work environment.” So what about this drug and this spirit world.” “We take a drug called Caseinate mixed with a new drug non yet exposed to the outside world.” “Is it harmful?” “The caseinate isn’t. Its in many processed foods. The other drug is. Well let me be brief and upfront.” Les thought that sounded odd and out of place. Brief and upfront. The tall man continued, “Every time you take it, it will cost a day in hell.” Les’s head twisted to the side like a new pup staring down at an electric blow dryer. “A day in hell. That means if I work here one year. . .then. . .” Les went blank. “Three hundred and sixty five days in one year. You will only work four days a week. Tuesdays through Thursdays. Four times four gives you one month. Sixteen days a month. Twelve times sixteen gives you the amount of days a year, 192 days in a year. So, you get three days off a week, which equal to three times four equal twelve. So twelve days off a month. . .” The tall man calculated the number of days off in a year while Les cleaned off his fingernails with his incisor. “What is the drug do. And what is it called?” “It helps you see other peoples souls. After they have left. Or passed away. And we call it . . .” There was a pause in the room. As if all time had stood still. Then, something released, a breath was taken and the tall man continued in motion. Crestfallen the next day arrived. Les was staying in a set of nearby condos. The airport was not far away. Les would be awakened in the early morn by the booming of a passing 747. He arrived to his first day on time, as a scheduled he work a eight our shift. “Slave labor.” Les mumbled as he sported into his orange protective work suite. It was something that looked like lined the interior of a NASA space suite. “It looks like foil clothing.” Les said to the small petite man in the orange breaker, that was helping him zip up. Les noticed the man had one brown eye and one blue eye, sort of like David Bowie. “You need to put on these special goggles, and don’t forget about this.” He handed Les a sporty digitized wristwatch. Next, he screwed a helmet on top of his foil colored suite and placed a pair of steel colored boots at his ankles. Les stepped in the heavy boots, laced them up, (it seemed to be wire laces) and latched the bottom edge of the helmet to the top edge of the collar of his new jump suit. “When you arrive through this door, hit this large yellow button on the side. Follow me.” “What does that do?” Les asked. “Well, it gages how long you’ve been on the other side.” “The other side?” Les questioned. “What do you mean by that? You talk like I’m about to cross over to another dimension or something.” “You are?” “I am. What is on the other side of this door, Sir.” Les stared at the thick iron door and it’s wide quarter shaped bolts. He became very cold and serious. “Its locked pretty good. Air tight I suppose.” “Nope. More than that. Its world tight. The world can’t even get in here once I fiddle with the knobs behind this ol counter.” The man with mixed eyes pointed back at the control booth as if he was a lost Elizabethan captain of a ship pointing to an unexplored island in the middle of the sea. “Watch your step.” The petite man said as he slipped a pair of shades over his mixed colored eyes and stepped down into a sunken area before the iron door. “Enjoy your first day. I have to leave this tank. I’ll buzz you through as soon as a seal the room.” The petite man vanished behind a thicker double plated steel door. With out notice, the room turned red. Les’s first day on the other side was just about to begin.

First day on the other side.

The room turned red. As the door opened an incredulous red vapor washed in and over Les Genes steady frame. Les was overtaking by the disbelieving sight but had not loss his grip of himself, not yet. “What the hell?” He whispered at the wistful puffy cotton ball shape cloud of smoke that fell, snaked and twisted before him in small gyros and figure eights. The wispy white mist crawled and snaked up his legs, around his torso and slowly engulfed his shoulders, neck and head. Les felt weak all over, as if he had not eaten in three days. His stomach cried in it’s emptiness. Les’s eye lids grew heavy as his back stiffened and his knees wobbled, tinged and jingled like cymbals on a jazz drum set. The world began to change before his eyes. Then, everything did more than change. Everything vanished. The entire world, just before him dissolved. In the lull between heartbeats everything ceased in existence. Bam. Just like that. Nothing. The opposite of the world had arrived. Les tried to walk but he realized he was vanishing with this new strange arrival of null. Then, in a bat of an eyelash, a silver room appeared before him. It was the other side. The room was shaped like a large foil colored basketball court, with out the lines, the bleachers and basket ball hoops. This was the very place the petite man with the mixed colored eyes mentioned during suit up. Nothing occupied the room but a silver coated walls and a small black hole at the center top directly above. Les was standing in the center of the silver room, alone, scared and half out of his wit. The petite man told him he would feel weak and hungry as he stood in the other side. The room was massive. It must of stretched a football field in length and it had no doors. Not a single way in or out. “What are you doing here?” The voice sort of resonated from the black spot above him. He had no idea who, or what it was. “Who are you?” Les questioned the black circular opening. It did not answer back. Before he could take his next breath, an itch began to beckon an itch on his left upper section of his ear. His fingers where covered in a pair of two orange insulated work gloves. He remembered the petite man told him, during suit up, that they were fire proof. Fire proof. He thought. I wonder why the gloves are fire proof, what type of job is this. Les gave the room another look over. It had tall ceilings, they must have been over seventy or eighty yards high. The side walls climbed meeting the walls, just as they do in a gymnasium. This place does not look fun. Les whispered. He wasn’t afraid anymore. Too much time had passed for the fear to linger. Nothing was happened. Absolutely nothing. “What’s going on?” No one answered. His whisper seemed to echo and bounce in the corners of the corners of the room. This was not the place to hang out for too long. There is nothing here. No food. No water. No people. No conversation. He did not attempt to remove the astronaut style helmet that rested so uncomfortably on his light head. He must of looked like the firs man that landed on the moon. What was his name? Les began to go through the index of names in his head. Neil, something. Neil. Neil Armstr. . . “Les can you hear me?” It was the man with mixed colored eyes, the one that helped him get her. His assistant. “This is the other side.” “The other side?” Les realized that some one was talking to him. “Where is your voice coming from?” Les probed. “From your head gear numb nuts. Do you see the black circular opening above you.” “Yes.” Les returned. “Well, it’s a sphere but don’t worry about that. It should look like a black hole. Do you see it?” “Yes. What do I do now?” “Wait.” “What do I call you?” “For right now you can refer to me as controls.” “Ok. Mr. Controls. What do I do now?” Then, the speaker scratched off. The itch on Les’s ear seemed to irritate him even more. “Your killing her Les.” “Sir.” Les announced. This was not the voice that he had just heard, it was deeper and it sounded like his own. Les decided to search out the room. Look for a door. He thought. A window. Someway out. “Your job is not to try to get our, Les.” The deep voice demanded. It was not coming from the headgear. This voice was coming from directly above. It was resonating from the great black ball that hung above his head. Les looked up at it. It seemed to float in mid air. It was perfectly round, sphere in every aspect. It was not complex. There were no writings on the ball and it seemed to be filled with a black liquid. He did not notice it was a ball the first time he looked it over. It seemed to be a circular black hole in the ceiling, but once he studied it and walked around the large room, it began to make out more and more spherical. “Controls. Can you hear me? Control. Hello? Is anybody there?” No one returned. What did he mean by wait. Les thought. Wait on what. Wait on who. Wait on a reply from controls. And who is the deep voice. Was it me. The ball. What is this job about. Les began to think about the millions of jobs he had done in his life. His first job was working at Wendy’s cooking French fries and serving cheeseburgers. He remembered being trained by the Navy officer who was giving an honorable discharge. His second job was serving gamblers ice slushies at his hometown horseracing track near Fort Worth. Les had worked in a factory named Alcon. It was used for shipping eye solution, eye contacts and colored eye contacts. Les had waited tables for Mexican, Chinese, Italian and Americana food. Les had sold AT & T services over the phone. He had a long list of Telemarketing work. He even went to jail for working for a criminal that ran a bunk Telemarketing gig in L.A. Les had done garden work, cleaned pools, wrote plays, put cellular phones together, worked as an intern at a theatre, worked for the road of Los Angeles, a counter at a theme park at Six Flags Over Texas, sold home ware and spices, kitchen knives, market and council research, played gigs at coffee shops on his guitar, even set up auto trader magazines across DFW, hell, he’d worked at 7-11 grilling jumbo hot dogs. Les had done it all, but nothing like this. He had never been to the other side. Working for the Other Side was lonely. Les thought. There is absolutely nothing around, but this empty room, the weird ball with the deep voice and the distant call of Controls. What next. Then the voice came. This time a woman’s voice, “Its under the blood, Les. Its under the blood.” Under the blood. Les had no idea what this meant. What was under the blood. The bone, the tissue, the organs, the skeleton, what?

The questions.

“Controls. Can you hear me. Over.” Les was getting scared and for some unexplained reason he forgot to eat breakfast the prior morning. He remembered controls asking him if he had ate anything in the last twenty four hours. He told them he hadn’t. I wonder why they needed to know why he had not eaten. The petite man said it was good. It was easier to get to the other side on an empty stomach. Les was shaken allover. He started to feel cold. It was if the temperature had suddenly become Alaska. And he was so damn famished. Just starving.. Les hadn’t felt this hungry since the last time he dropped ten pounds so he could make the wrestling team for the varsity team. Then help sounded, “Do you hear me Les. This is George in controls. I was one of the people that helped you suit up.” Now, a third voice. Controls, the sphere and the woman’s voice. All three were taking turns informing him where he was, what his job entailed, and how to perform his duties. “What did you look like?” Les weakly questioned George, the new voice. “I want to put a face to your voice.” “I was the guy that let you and Sebastian in this morning.” “Is Sebastian, and I don’t mean to be rude, but is Sebastian the one with the two different colored eyes.” George let out a held back chuckle, “One blue and one green. Yes. That’s Sebastian. I’m taking over for awhile. I need you to listen to all my instructions closely. Follow every word I say. Got me.” “Got ya. What do I do?” “First, stop asking questions.” Les grew quiet. It was as if his silenced echoed off the four tall walls and far away ceiling. The sphere hung over his head like a dark rain cloud about to hatch. Something was about the happen. Les was familiar with this feeling. It was that strange vibe onlookers resonate after a souped up racecar smashes against a retaining wall at a drag racing event. Red soaring flames bursts from the engine like a small volcano and the crowd holds it’s breath until they catch sight of the results of the driver’s condition. Will he be decorated in fire? Will he even step out alive? Or will he smash out the door, jump up and wave at the paralyzed crowd. Les’s mind wondered. He was thinking of the last sports program he saw on channel four the night before work. “Les do you hear me?” “Yes.” Les fired back jumping out of his half trance. “Good. Look I know you must think all this is strange but don’t worry about it. You should feel light headed and a little weak. Just keep clear and try to listen. You have crossed over to the other side of life.” “The other side of life. What other side?” “Your are in a room built on the edge of life and after life. That is the best way to describe it to you. In Quantum physics you are between motion and non-motion. A near impossible state. It has been achieved before. As long as you stay focused and listen to Sebastian and I everything should be ok. Have you heard any other voices beside mine and Sebastian’s.” “Yes.” “Was it a woman’s voice.” “Yes. How did you know?” Les eyebrows scrunched up like a mad professor. “Your not our first employee.” Les tried to scratch his head but his finger ran up against the helmet. “Do I have to stay in this suit?” Les asked quickly. “Absolutely. That suit was an ion lining. Basically, you are surrounded in one large ionic field. That is how you traveled there.” “What happens if I take it off. Just curious.” “Don’t be.” Sebastian’s voice joined in. George returned with, “Les do you believe in God, Our Father. Jesus Christ?” “Well, yeah. I was taught to as a kid and I’ve always prayed to God. Why?” “Just wanted to make sure. . .” Suddenly a fuzz kicked in and Les loss connection. “WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” The woman’s voice asked. Les talked into the tiny speaker phone located before his mouth, “George. I hear the woman’s voice again. Over. You hear me. Over. Controls are you. . .” “WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” This time Les looked up at the black sphere spinning above his head. “Les. Les Genes and yours.” Les sounded a tad bit smarty but sophisticated enough to talk to such foreign object. “I HAVE NO NAME.” The object retorted. “That’s interesting.” Les said with a half caught gulp. “WHY ARE YOU HERE?” “That’s the question for the moment.” Les replied. “I don’t know. I’m waiting for instructions.” “YOUR TIME IS SCARCE HERE. IS THERE SOMETHING I CAN HELP YOU WITH.” Then, a fuzz spit in his ear and George cut in in half eruptions, “Iz eh oman, tawk-g, to. . .” George tapped on his helmet with his glove. George’s voice sounded clear as a purified Orzarka water, “Is the woman talking to you, yet.” “Yes.” Les answered. “She’s wants to know my name and why I’m present in the room with her.” “Tell the ball, the black sphere above you, tell it your name and then tell it you are currently doing research for a place called earth. Then, repeat to me what it says back to you.” “What type of research.” Less questioned. “Social research, scientific, mathematical, athletic. I need to know what kind? Specifics” “Say. Uh. Good Question Les. Say social.” Then, the women’s voice commanded from the ball, “TELL ME YOUR NAME?” “My name is Les Genes” “Les Genes.” As he said his own name the ball overlapped his answer with “LES GENES.” The ball knew his name before he addressed himself and revealed his name. It was as if the black sphere already knew his own name. “Les why are you hear?” The woman’s voice asked from the center of the ball, “ I’m doing research for a place called earth.” Les said with a half grin. “WHAT TYPE OF RESEARCH.” The ball retorted. “Earthly research.” Les returned forgetting the exact type of title, considering research controls. He wasn’t for sure what controls told him to say. Shit, I forgot to tell the ball social research. Damn. Les grew into a silent stillness. “Earth. You are from the world.” “Yes. I’m from the world.” Les returned in an odd woken coma. “You have much life in you.” The voice announced. The world will ask you many questions. Now the voice was silent, as if it was coming from the back of his head. George’s voice echoed within Les’s head. “What else do you want?” Les asked while staring at the black globe floating in mid air over his rack. It seemed to lower as the question was being asked, “I want you to answer a few questions for me earthling.” The opaque mysterious object above rang as similar to a clock tower three times. “What is the first thing you need to know?” Les felt like he was talking to a mystical genie as her shockingly sexy voice climbed out from the rustic golden lid of the magic lamp. The ball was magnificent. The longer one stared at it the more the onlooker became transfused by it’s mysterious perfect bubbly frame. “I ask you a question?” Les asked. “Yes.” The ball returned curtly. “Ok. First question.” Les’s canvas textured gloved clicked to the top of his helmet. “Ok. Uhhhh.” Les went blank. An buzzing humming sound arose and filled every portion of the room. “Uhhh.” Les continued trying desperately to scratch his head. He could not meet skin to skull due to the protective layering and hard shell of the helmet. Plus, he was not allowed to disengage the helmet from the thick suit. “What is your name.” The questioned blurred out from Les’s lips spontaneously. “My name is . . .” A pausing silence filled the room. It was the type of lull a great leader would induce by holding back his final word. The type of quiet period known by dramatist as the dramatic pause. One could hear a the flaking skin of pin hit the floor. And if one listened hard enough they might catch the sound of a pin drop. For one usually hears the pin hit the floor, not drop. A pin doesn’t make much of a sound when in the action of falling. “What is your name . . .who ever you are?” Les barely announced once again. Fear filled his bones awaiting for the great sphere’s return. “My name is. . .” Another pause. “My name is. . .” “Well come on. What is it?” Les retorted. “I have no name.” The ball informed him. “You have no name?” Les’s eyebrows squinted forward and his nose wrinkled up like unwashed Oxford (40 polyester 60 cotton). Les really was embarrassed for the great ball. “That’s ok. I’ll give you a name.” Les happily told the ball. “What is my name?” The ball seemed to be sad. “Your name is eight ball.” “What is an eight ball?” “I thought you would be the type of floating sphere that would know most of everything.” Les kind of grinned at its innocence. “Haven’t you ever been to a pool hall.” “I don’t get out much.” The ball returned and kind of bounced on air. It was getting a slight bit irritated. “An eight ball is. . .” Les knocked the side of his helmet with his covered palm. “An eight ball is a black pool ball that bears the number eight.” “So, it’s a ball with a number eight on it. What is it used for?” Les kind of coughed and cocked his head back towards the great unknown ceiling. “Well, its used for a game mostly played by gamblers, hustlers and professional pool hall players. The game favors those players which reveal having skill and a little luck. There’s usually six pockets on a pool table and the players use a dozen or more or less balls and the most popular game in competition is nine ball. That’s what I hear. That’s only in competition. I usually only played for fun. I bet a few times but lost nastily and never bet again. One usually uses more balls in the game. There is not just one black ball. In the most common game the eight ball is the last ball to be sunk in the chosen of the six pockets, of coarse, selected and achieved by the winner. So he has to aim for the stripes or solids, whatever fate chosen for him after the break happens, then he knows what balls to play with. Now the player that breaks doesn’t always sink a ball, that is, on the break, or the breaker’s first ball sunken is not only chosen by the breakee, or if the selected breaker, the starter of the game of pool, didn’t sink one in the complete and legal break than he has to leave it for the opposing player to attempt to sink a solid or a stripe billiard, and he sometimes for the sake of the Hustler, (it’s a good time to take a cigarette break or sip on a beer and so on, for the reading of pool required the attitude of the true pool player, slob or perfectionist, hustling professional nine ball player), the opposing players first sunken ball-there are stripes and solid balls only in pool, thus it only demands two players in one game, but there are a few games pool players require and this means up to ten players, and if enough beer and hard cigarettes and Rock N Roll music then the game is on, and if the creative mind can ante the rules to a higher ruling game, a game for more than two shall be played, and with skill and organization. Now for the rules on ending a game of pool.. Simple. Every game is ending with the black ball or the eight ball as some professional call it. The last ball, the eight, is always black and is always sunken last and the game ends with it fallen in a chosen pocket selected by the winning player (The winning player is the one who has sunken all his stripes, or if it be solids, into chosen side pockets, or corner, and has not hit the black ball into a pocket, or hit the opposing player in the face, or passed out drunk, or suffered a coughing fit.) The most important and gingerly rule is that the Black ball must always, in most games of pool, be sunken last. The player that sinks the eight ball, or the black ball, or the eight black ball, like some call it, on accident before sinking all his strips or solid’s become the loser of the game-and the winner winded or in shape wins in a defeating game won by the rules, or the defeat, but that is only a fourth of the rules. I could go on all day, possibly month, and maybe year, but I would only torture you with the prolonged hours of reader and analysis of syntax and proper grammar on the manner of something that is not fully comprehended in rule reading, more exact confusion on the rules. The game is only learned in, it’s the action of the game that matters and not necessarily the winner or loser, it is the manner in which the pool player proceeds and how he or she looks while leaning across the table to make a hip shot, hence, grace and agility is required, but nothing is more deadly in the game of pool than simple control and breath, be weary that the best pool player has a cigarette hanging from his lips, there a many fine pool players that chose cigars, pipes or even bongs, but I fancy the skill, hence, the pool player that sips on Evian water and eats a nice square meal, a gourmet meal, a fine dining meal, maybe even from a New York restaurant, for health, for spirit, for the love of the game and of fun, and his or her concentration is pointed, sharp and ready to charge a new game and embarrass his partner in shame. The playing of the game is not a simple as it sounds, my friend of pool, or the reader, but it, the game, is fully accepted and learned physically, on physical level more so than analytically and on an abstract medium. It is best understood kinesthetically. All sports are learned in the muscle, mind and in the effort. So your probably wondering why I chose your name to be eight ball. Well, the skillful player is careful with the eight ball and never is careless with it’s location on the table.. Just as I’m careful with you and your location on the page. He or she must shoot around this precious and significant, uh, well, ball, and keep his ego in line, just as he bounced a seven ball to a specific section of the table, and to a fine landing of his sight line. Like you, Sir, or Madame, or dude, or punk, or player, or Mister, or professional, whatever you my be and are, at this moment of reading, like you, it your duty, and even job, to take a fine charm, stand and erect elegant posture, and if you are going to be unhealthy and smoke, than smoke like a French poet and chose a foreign brand of cigar or cigarette, or cigaretto, or cigartta. ” Les took a small breath to continue with directions. He had a cigarette on his mind but not French cigarette, for he had never tasted one, not in the past three years, he did visit Paris on a family trip with his step father, mother and aunt, but he quit five years before and has been trying to stay fit and healthy and rid of all tobacco products, and even liquor.

Camel. Camel Lights. Rolled Top. Rolled Camels. American Spirits ultra lights. God Les needed a smoke. A sweat broke out on his face and then. . . “ENOUGH ABOUT THE EIGHT BALL. I DON’T LIKE THAT NAME. Give me another.” Demanded the sphere. “Another name?” Les tapped on his helmet and shifted his weight to one side. “Hmmmmm.” Les kicked at the ground as if a pile of dust rested naturally under his feet. But not dust flung from his heels, for the entire floor was made of iron steal and titanium. A long and tiring rumble passed over the ceiling, as if a giant cargo sea ship had motored above. He ignored the rumbling noise and figured it was more unexplained crafty magic from the ball. The rumble slightly ceased and Les focused all his senses on the idea the ball had proposed. He felt kind of honored to name the eight ball. Naming, titling and calling something, anything, is a great aspect and achievement in life. Adam was honored, by God, to name every animal and it took him more than few minutes. Abraham was honored in naming his sons. Naming, something, life, family, books, stories or even UFO’s is not something to sneeze at. No one else has yet. No has yet been honored with naming something most men had never lied eyes on. A unknown object with no name. “Hmmm. That will take some time. I believe, and most people on earth, or in life, or on the other side, give names before their child is born. That means names are chosen before you enter the world. But yours was not.” Les said flicking the underside of his nose with the upper knuckle section of his index finger. “Now that doesn’t include everyone.” Les continued standing more erect and even, at this scary moment, looking prideful and full of pretend confidence, but still trying to walk the line. If he didn’t have confidence before the unknown and great being, he had to at least fake it. So he did. “Many bastard child’s are named after birth or later in life, or even renamed.” Les said cocking his head to one side, scratching his crown and back of his ear. He seemed complacent, fine and controlled. Possibly if you pretend you are confident, eventually, you will become confident. It is that way with all things in nature. If you act like a poet long enough, Bam, you become one. If you pretend you are an explore, a searcher for science and nature, then you wake up one day to realize you have done great things for mankind. Pretending is just as powerful as really doing something. There is little difference between the two concepts of pretend and reality, once the idea is put into action, than the action takes over and becomes reality. Pretend action doesn’t take but a quarter of a second to become real. Les continued and this time as if he were a great scientist at work with a UFO. Then, it a half heartbeat, Les became completely and utterly confident. He sniffed, stood, spoke and thought like a scientist. Even though he majored in theatre arts in College, and fiddled with creative writing and even studied the great stars on the far, far outer edge of the Milky Way, he was becoming a confident researcher of science. He sniffed again, stood up straight and with a resonate voice he poised and prepared his dialogue for the black ball, and said, “ Hmmm. But, see, your not a person. Not a real person. Your not a human. Not even a pet. Or a plant. Your just well, a black floating sphere. I guess it would be absurd to name you otherwise, but I shall. It would be hard to name you after anything earthly, but earthly things are all I know, for I’m still flesh and still human, even though I have been zapped to this other dimension and trapped in this quad. Hmm. This is tougher than I thought.. Your only characteristic that reminds me of earth, or life, or the other side of this other side, is, well, your voice. Perhaps I shall name you Voice.” “Never mind my name. Now lets begin the next procedure.” The ball said with out a hint of apoplectic loss of control. The ball’s voice seemed darker and more still and stern than before. “Questions matter now. Questions are more important than names at this point.” The ball announced to Les. Les sat down in the middle of the tall square room with his legs crossed over at the knees. “Ok. You want me to ask a questions.” Les paused and looked back at the wall behind him as if a thousands souls were imbedded within the steel thick texture invisibly. “Yes.” The ball returned. “Questions are more important than answers here. I will allow you to ask me three unanswered riddles that have be left a blank in your life. Than I will return with a temporary answer. For no answer is permanent. Next, I will ask you three more questions in response to your initial three questions. The three questions will be relevant to your asking. Is this clear.” THe ball ended with a question. “I guess so.” Controls came in. “Les do you hear me. Hello Mr. Genes.” It was George. “Les. Are you there?” George was growing impatient trying to get Les to respond. His voice was staticy but strong. “Uhhh. Yeah. The ball has set down the line. She, or it, or he, or whatever the ball is, wants me to ask it three questions. Questions that have be unanswered in my life. Then, it will give me what IT called a temporary conclusion and then return with three relevant questions of the matter.” George voice vanished. Then, in a heartbeat or two, the petite man began to speak over the speaker. “Les. You must not ask questions from your life. We have assigned questions for you. Readings show that the volume on your speaker is turned up too loud. You need to turn it down. We don’t want the unidentified object floating over your head to pick up on our conversation. Its top secrete between us. I want you to peel back your right wrist cufflink. The arm section of your suite are underlined so it’s protected from the outside air. Double layered. Peel back your cufflink and there will be two buttons. One east and one west.” “I don’t know my east from west in here. There is no sun around.” “Oh, yes. Push the button to your right.. . .no wait. No. The one to your left. DON’T push the button to your right. Comprenda.” The petite man said over the speaker earpiece. “Ok.” Les peeled back the wrist cufflink and hit the button. Suddenly, a small screen popped up on his facemask. “It says menu.” Les said as he stared at the small baby blue screen blinking before his nose.” Les had never worn such high tech equipment in his life. “How do I work it?” “Simple. Look at the screen on your face mask and then touch the section that reads Menu.” Les did so. Then, the screen flashed and ten small boxes appeared. The first row ran across his brow, five boxes reading, File, Edit, View, Insert, Format Tool, Type. The second row ran from his left temple to his right and across the upper section of the translucent facemask. The row revealed the following: Tools, Table, Window, Help, Type. The type screen opened for him to communicate if the microphone was down. Tools, table, window, and help still blinked on the screen. These words were followed by small icon, which floated under, in the shape of a small rectangular piece of paper. The icon allowed a blank page to be opened. “Which word do I touch now?” Les probed putting his hand down by his side like a trained officer. “Files. Do you see Files in one of the rows?” It was no longer the petite man’s voice. George had jumped on the microphone, and conquered communications between the new employee and controls. It was Les and George to keep this game in gear. The petite man with the dissimilar colored eyes twiddle his thumbs for the meantime and licked his lip indicating that break time was on it’s way. The petite man was not a smart and educated as George but had a larger appetite and was full of will. He would never leave Les on the other side. George was getting to the meat of the matter. “Files? Oh, FILES.” Les said excitingly, as he touched the file’s icon. A new gray column of titles arose in a vertical stack reaching around six inches long horizontally stretched from top to bottom of the blue washed and fizzling computer screen. A distant thunder rumbled from nowhere as the menu dropped down along the touch screen on the center section of the mask. “Do you want me to read to you the documents?” Les asked. “There before you are a world of documents. All in your program. All at your fingertips. A world of documents awaiting to be opened. We don’t need you to read all of them. We will take care of that. What you need to do is to find a program that reads RECORD. Hit properties. It should be under the word SEND TO.” Les searched down the column and found the proper document that was needed. “Yes. I found RECORD. What do I do?” “Hit it.” George said. Les touched RECORD with his index finger by pointed at his eye. It felt like he was poking himself in the socket but the facemask to the helmet acted as a Football face shield. “Now find the. . .the small RECORD icon. It is in the shape of a hand held tape recorder.“ Les found the small icon with no problem. It was before his upper lip. It was as if he was attempting to jam himself in the nostrils as he computed and touch typed on the blue touch screen that rested on his face mask of his helmet. “This is odd.” Les reported. “It feels funny typing this way. It is like the keyboard is on my face.” The RECORD program jumped up on the blue screen. “There is a screen that looks like a tape recorder.” Les said eyeing the hovering heaping round mass of a ball above his head. The ball seemed to wait on him as he set up the program. “What is the first question?” “It will display on your screen, Les. Has it popped up yet.” Les waited impatiently. Finally, after two more tiny heart beats, the screen revealed the PROGRAM key along with a blinking box for the sake of igniting the recording process in the RECORD program. The icon began to flitter and the tape symbols on the screen began to roll in digital motion. The recording was in progress. “Wooohoooo.” George reached for his old Ranger’s ball cap he use to wear in the lab in college, but instead he palmed a hand full of hair. “The first question will pop up. Look for it.” George said with a catish grin. He was happy the program was going as planed. “Will go down in history for this monsieur.” George patted the petite man on the shoulders and whacked him on the rear with a solid slap. “I see it.” Les informed him. “I SEE IT. Look.” The question read: Where are you from(Fill in proper response)? “Where are you from?” Les read from the record screen. The communication was about to begin. Soon George would be recording live dialogue and possibly a written test from a