The world of documents.

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.

I

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 real and genuine UFO. "I am from a place where they don't end their questions with a preposition." The ball thundered back. "Ha." George screamed. His throat was dry and parched from thirst. "They have a sense of humor. Did you here that. Did you here Chuck." Sometimes George called the petite man Chuck because he slightly resemble Chuck Norris, at a distant profile. As the ball spoke the letters rattled across the square blank white section of the screen. "Oh." Les seemed slightly red in the face. He announced to controls, "It told me it was from a place where they don't end their questions in prepositions." "Oh, oh, oh," The petite man spangled in the back ground. "I got it." The petite man took over the microphone. "Tell them. Uh, sorry. Tell the black ball that you are from a place, uh, I mean, say this, Where are you from, uh, Black ball." Les repeated what he heard. It was funny that they created this long system and made a few mistakes in it—like grammar mistakes. But the program was real enough and highly inventive and original so Les gave them four stars for trying. It's hard to set up a program for the Other Side. "Where are you from, Black Ball." "My name is not black ball." The black ball returned. "My name is Voice. Remember." The black bounced like a bubble on the end of bubble and Les harked in the interior microphone in his helmet. "Uh. It's name isn't black ball. It wants to be called Voice, now." "Voice?" The petite man returned. "Oh, I got it. Simply say, Where are you from Mr. Voice?" "But sometimes the great black ball sounds like a female. Perhaps we shouldn't put Mr. before IT's name. How'about' just calling it Voice." George snapped on. "Yes. Just call it Voice. Don't use a gender right now. We aren't even sure if it's male or female." "I see." Said Les. "Ok. One more time." Les stood up straight under the mighty black ball and addressed the respective but repetitive question. "What is your name Voice." Les realized he was asking a previous question and clicked his helmet with his palm. "Sorry wrong question." "BE careful Les." George demanded. "Be very careful. Try again." "Ok." Les took in a heave of air and began to tear up. For some odd reason he was afraid for his life. It was as if a streaking lightning bolt was going to rain down from skin of the black ball and explode his head. "Where are you from, Voice, sir." Les realized he goofed again. "Damn it. I said sir." "Rephrase, rephrase, rephrase." George and the petite man demanded in spitty shouts. "Ok, ok." Les grunted. "Where are you from, Voice." The ball bounced and returned, "East of everywhere, north of nowhere, west of wherever." The screen before Les's nose blinked and a curser jumped on and began to print exactly what the ball said. It was as if the ball's voice typed the words. East of Everywhere, North of nowhere, west of wherever. "What?" Les questioned the ball once again. The ball repeated itself with the exact same inflection and tone, "East of everywhere, north of nowhere, west of wherever." "I guess its from East of everywhere, north of nowhere and west of wherever." Les informed controls. There was a small lull and then a scratch. "Les. That is not a location. Ask it again." "I already asked it twice. Why should ask the same question a third time." "Just do it." George demanded with a deep resonant and commanding voice. "Ok already." Les took in a huff of air and spat out the question once more. "They want me to ask you for a third time. Sorry. Where are your from mighty ball, I mean, Voice, sir, I mean just Voice. Mr. Voice. Or did we agree on just Voice." "YOU IDIOT. WHAT IS A MATTER WITH YOU. WE AGREED ON CALLING ME, VOICE. TRY AGAIN." "Oh, shit." Les mumbled under his breath. "Ok." Les needed to get it right this time. He would make his next question simple, upfront, to the point, exact and repetitive. Perhaps repetition would work. It usually does in all cases. At least science seemed to proof so. "Where are you from Voice?" "East of everywhere, North of nowhere, West of wherever, south of somewhere." The voice returned with out a hint of hesitation. That was knew. Les thought. Hmm. South of somewhere. Hm. "George did you here that. It said south of somewhere." "Yes we heard. Its still not a location. We have it recorded. We are with ya." A moment of pause. Les looked bewildered. Then George snapped on with, "There is no city in the south called Somewhere, there is no town, or county or place in the west called Wherever and there is certainly no destination in the north called Nowhere. Lets move on to question number two." "Ok." Les smiled shrugged his shoulder and acted as if he was doing a sound job. "What next?" He grunted back to controls. "Hang on." George was back on the line. "Read the second question Les. Hurry. We don't have eternity. Come on chap." George seemed to be faking a British accent for some unknown and inane reason. "Chap? What is this King George and the Dragon." Les returned. "Sorry. I've spent some time in U.K. building this program. Ask the next question old boy." "Old boy. Really. This is getting annoying." Les instructed. "Drop the Limey routine." The petite man warned George. "It's a cumbersome." Les stood erect and hit questions number two on the touch screen before the bridge of his nose. "I touched it." Les happily said. The next screen flipped on with a fizz accordingly. It was similar to the question number one screen. It had a thick borderline trim and a question, in quotes. The question was the following: "Why are you hear?" Les seemed to deliver half the question sucking in air and half the question exhaling. The suit was getting stuffy and Les was still faint from being empty with out breakfast. "Why are you hear?" Les said again fighting off his hunger pangs. "WHY AM I HEAR?" The black ball reversed the question, like a smart interviewee would do in a big time interview for a corporate business job, or important film audition. Les had had his hand at audition in the past. Lately, he was concerning returning to a private institution, near his apartment complex, not far from the factory, as a playwright, possibly even in journalism, hell, maybe as a graduate creative writing MFA. This meeting and unreal, surreal experience would not hurt his preparing to be reeducated in the future. Les had much on his mind as the black ball came in with, "WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW LITTLE FELLOW." Little fellow. Les pondered over why the ball would call him little fellow. Little fellow, little fellow. It began to echo and replay like a scratched CD. I'm six foot. I weight about a hundred and fifty. I have dark hair. Thick dark hair. Very bushy eyebrows. Sharp shoulders. Why would I appear little. Little is someone no like me. Les silently forwarded his inner dialogue as the ball bounced and seemed jiggle and guffaw. "YOU ARE A GRAIN OF SAND COMPARE TO ME." The great ball echoed off the walls. "I am." Les said in a small voice. "Oh. Well. Can you tell me why your hear anyway." The ball expanded and electrical pulses began to envelop itself and a rumble arose like distant hellfire. "DON'T GET SMARTY WITH ME LITTLE TYKE." The ball's fine black skin seem to grow coarse and it almost appeared to have small pubic hairs floating and curling out. The electricity petted around the balls surface like a strange fiery hand calming the furry scalp of a dark cat. "Jesus." Les hit his knees. He could feel the heat from the static bubbling above him. "Don't kill me." Les begged. He was not at his weeping point yet. Not yet. "Controls. You'll never believe this. Fiery lightning is spilling from the balls outer surface." "No fear, Les. Stay calm. The ball is merely regenerating. It has done this before. With our last employee." "Last employee. There was one before me." "No reason to discuss this now." The petite man interrupted hogging the microphone from George. On the other side, in the control booth back in the factory, a kettle was steaming. It was teatime for George and drip coffee time, or café', as the petite man call it, for his assistant. "Les. Hang on. Talk to the other one." The petite man got on the line. "How's it hanging, old boy? How you doing Les? You hanging in there?" Les got off his knees and ran to the corner of the large empty silver room. "Not very fucking good man." Les hurried and hit the corner. The ball was vibrating and hissing. "Its making loud noises." Les said. "Don't worry about it." The petite man said filling his coffee cup, with the words Late Night printed on the exterior, to the brim. "We are having coffee, and tea. I wish you could join us. By the way it's break time for you. You should do find in the corner. Oh, I forgot to tell you before letting you cross over. There are some handy snacks inside your shoulder pouch. There should be a zipper tracing down your left shoulder, oh, no it's your right. The left shoulder is your cyanide capsule." "Cyanide capsule. What the hell." "Oh, don't take them." The petite man said. "Let me talk to George." Les demanded. The ball began to follow him to the corner very slowly. Very slowly. "Jesus God, it's coming to me. The ball is on its way. It's going to eat me, or some shit." "So far it hasn't eaten any of our employees. To be honest we have recovered all their bodies safely. No worries." "All their bodies. Hasn't eaten any? What are you telling me. There was more before the last employee you were talking about." He seemed to have slight hint of fear shaky in his throat. "Several have attempting to get past the first question. None so far have succeeded. You are the first to make the first round. Congrads. George passed the croissant and whipped butter." The petite man said as he peeled back the butter lid and dipped his flaky 7-11 croissant into the vanilla colored silky mush. "Hmmmmm butter. Don't forget about your handy snack in your pouch. Remember right side. Don't mess with the left side. Not yet. Don't worry so far no one has had to open the cyanide compartment on your suit. Bon appetite." Les had lost his appetite. Sweat had accumulated on his brow and was leaking like crazy in his eyes and amounting in his eye sockets. Les was not just fallen into a madden fearful whirlwind but having a bit of a trouble taking in natural breaths. "What the mother of God is happening here." Les commanded. There was no answer on the other end. Just a long, painful, silent nothing. "HELLO. DAMN IT. HELLOWWW." Les urged in a shout. The ball began to lower notch by notch to the brim, throbbing, and flattening into a lumpy oval shape, of Les's skull. In quarter beats it would jolt further down matching his cheeks, chin and then to his chest and lower torso. Les head yanked back hitting the back of his head against the hard steal wall with a sharp, dull thump. The ball probed his every ounce of life. As it swirled before him it transformed from lumpy oval to rigid amoeba shape and then back into a perfect sphere. A rumble belched form the center of its black fluids. "I give up." Les cried. "Some one help me. Some one." A small static invested voice, in a low itsy bitsy hum retorted, "Tea time man. Chill." Les could not tell if it was George or his assistant. He didn't care at this point. Les had one thing on his mind and that was the next movement of the strange unidentified object. He had is mind on the bounce of this strange ball. I wonder what the gates of heaven look like. Les silently prayed. He seemed to make an earnest petition. God please, just this one time, please let it go away. Then, before a grasshopper could fling off a hot rock, the ball was gone. Vanished. No where to be found. George's voice pulled through the fog of fuzzy whisper. "It's non existent." George returned with a supplicating inflection. "Les. You ok. Did you find the handy snacks." "Is this some kind of sick joke." Les said clinging to the two corners of the silver room. "Well, no. It's a highly respected and significant experiment in Unidentified flying objects. Well, this one is an Unidentified bouncing object." Les attempted to wipe the sweet from his brow but only met glove to helmet. "Its gone." "It'll return." George sighed. Look, I'm taking down a scone, and jelly and polishing off my Earl Grey, is there anyway you could just calm down and have a snack." "Piss off." Les said and jumped up. A handy snack was the last thing on his mind at this fearful moment. Les ran to the corner of the silver room at a dead sprint. He banged heads with the corner wall and fell to his bottom. "Doors. Doors. Where are the freaking doors someone." Static filled his ears as he screamed into his microphone. That thing is a fiery ball of hell. Les silent said to himself. Pure hellfire. I got to find a way out a way out. "Three more minutes. Where is the exit?" A scratchy voice filled his helmet. "Three more minutes my ass. Where are the doors?" This was obviously one of Les's worst teatimes in the history of teatime. "There are no doors Les. Eat your handy snack and shut up. We are going silent for the next three minutes. Over." The voice of Controls fell dead. A sharp click signified there would be a lull of silence. What to do. What to do. Les mumbled in his head. That thing is coming back for me. And there is nothing more frightening then a electrical ball that sounds like a Greek God of War. Les began to relax a little as he slid down the wall like a overly weather stormed snail. "I've got to find a way out God. Do you hear me. God. Are you listening, to meeeeeeeeee." Les had chosen the religious path for the meantime. Possibly what he could not see, smell, touch, hear and feel could come to his rescue. Oh, what a rescue he needed. What a savior he needed indeed. This topped all trappings that Les had fallen into. He found himself surrounded by the unknown and mysteries character. He was more than trapped. Les was slowly being scared alive. This forceful empowering ball was eating at his existence just by dangling and bouncing over his head like some black moon inches from his crown and he had no clue why it was before him, why he was working for this crazy company and what the outcome would lead to. Better dental, better hospilization, better retirement, better over all benefits, workman's comp, better work environment, better union, better business, better health, better fossilization, better trepidation, better arbitration, better mastication, better education, better ahhhhhhh.. Then, in two seconds flat it was gone. The ball was nowhere to be found and this petrified Les, almost more than it's strange unexplained electric outbursts, began to cry. Now, there was nothing. Nothing but a large silver room with nothing in it. He missed the ball. He missed it's hellish floating presence. Its He wailed. Tears flowed. A knot formed in his throat the size of Texas. He was overwhelmed, shaken up and done in. "This is it." He cried. "Its all over now man. It's the end. The chess match is check mate and I'm the mate." He hollered into the nothingness of the silver room. Echoes whimpered back at him like a faraway symphony in the dark night of Central Park. It was the quiet before the storm. HE wished he was back in New York. During Winter. All the white snow on the fields of concrete, the side walks, hot dog stands, fruit stands, bananas and dates, bowls of cereal early morning, sunshine through a tall edifice, hanging, dangling above, a bridge, two bridges, the Brooklyn bridge, the East river, Houston street, the opera singers in and on the running subway, Broadway, neon lights, Walt Disney, musical, musical Bjork cries MUSIC, Lion King, Rebecca Gilman, The Glory of Living, Ana, her passions, Carrottop and more, and more, and At & T, Liam Neeson, the stage, his acting buds, his writers friends, Grand Central Station, yellow cabs, talking about Arthur Pen, the beats, talking about Jack Keurac, Burroughs, Ginsberg, Junkie, Naked Lunch, Talking about other books, talking about the lions in front of The New York City Library, watching the dogs at the dog park, studying the dogs, wanting to be a dog, a German Shepard, a Dalmatian, wanting to be a cat at Petcoe, a new cat, purring, purring, near the Barnes and Nobles at Union Square Park and by the Farmer's market, muffins at the farmer's market, muffins at the corner store, blue berry muffins, large muffins baked with jay, THC, marijuana, thinking they are baked with THC, whacky tobacky brownies, happy Thai stick shakes, they taste so good, taste, glasses of wine, wine bottles, Château, Merlot, white merlot, Sauvignon, wanting to die, Garden Of Eden, Duane Read, Armani Emporia, pea coats, stolen pea coats, running with a full book bag stuffed full with a brand new Armani zipper jacket, so I can dress up for The Push, for the next big night club, my new velvety skin, rock star sink, showing up at the KGB to listen to a great writer read a one act, he wrote Jesus's son, too crowded, rubbing up against some middle aged lady with a personalized smell, sweet smell, a young smell, she smiles as she rubs her round hip against my dick, I get hard, I leave, embarrassed, sweaty, I go to, I go to google for more answers, more porn, more ideas, more religion, then, an old antique stores near the movie theatres down by the village, the villages appear before me, all this history to sit on, to lay on, to sleep on, to masturbate on, to make love on, all this history to. . .to China town, NYU, china Town, Chinese food, run, run, run, jog to the park, joggers at the park, so many of them, all business men with fancy car West, rich joggers, writers, non-writers, hot dog stand help me find home, and no no no no more hot dogs, the winner at 44 dogs at once, Asian guy, 145 pounds, GOD the bliss, the fucking liberty, the lady, and then, no more thin, thin, think more, thinner and and and then, an old book stores near NYU, Washington square park, Lincoln standing frozen not far from Gandhi, frozen, like the snow that last for so long, so long, so long. "And I'm the mate. And I 'm the mate. And I 'm the mate. And I'm the mate. And I'm. . ." Then, "Controls. Controls to Les can you hear me. Control to Les Genes." Les paused. His mind was racing like a ceiling fan blowing on a sickly hypochondriac in the middle of December. "LES COME IN." Controls demanded. George had his lips pressed up against the shaggy skin of the microphone. "LES." George slurped on. One more final time on his steamy thermal coffee cup and then he dumped the remaining black liquid in a healthy round ceramic cup that read Late Night. "I'm on my last cup here Les. We have been waiting on you for an hour. If you don't answer back we are cutting the line and sending Shel in. You don't want us to send Shel in. If we send her she'll get mad. She hates going to the other side. And if you think the sphere is frightening wait until you meet Shel. She's German. Strong and she can take down a stick of chocolate faster then you can say Nantucket. Don't you worry Les. Don't you worry man . . ." George tried to work out the lump in his throat. Tears began to rise. " Don't you worry man. We will come and . . ." "Shut up." Les whispered into the microphone. "Something is about to happen." "What?" George said flagging down the petite man munching on a garden burger and rice cakes in the corner of George's control room. "So we don't have to send Shel after ya." George informed Les. "No. Chill, George. Don't send anyone. I complete the task on my own. I'm brave enough. Just remain calm. And tell everyone at controls, all two of you, that I'm going to pull through and finish up the program." "Good for you." The petit man said swallowing the last bite from his vegetarian burger. Les stood up and began to pace back and fro. A strange wind had picked up. A circular wind. A wind Les had never felt before. It wasn't strong air stream, like in a thunder storm, but it had kick. The wind pushed him back and began to circulate before his eyes, with more force than he had ever experienced in a lifetime. "There is an odd wind tunnel forming in the quad." Les said. "How strong is the wind." "How strong?" Les returned. "Well, no too strong. Like a land spout or even a dust devil." "Is the wind forceful?" The petite man asked from the corner of the room, zipping up his orange plastic lunch box. "Well. No." Les said as his buttocks hit the floor and the wind pushed him back against the wall, hard and as unforgiving as a nor'easter blowing through a still eve. Les remained calm. His back, ass and side ached in small throbbing pounds, but he ignored the throbbing and aching pain that ran in shafts up and down his mid torso. Les sat up, flattened against the wall as secure as possible and lifted his head at the hateful wind gusts as it picked up to 55 miles per hour or more. "Shit." Les groaned as the force of the wind stabilized him against the hard pressing silver wall. He could not move. The force was paralyzing him. "Les. What is the noise coming from quad? It sounds like a Tornado has touched down in there." George was not far from the truth. "Nothing." Les said back in the helmet mike, lying through his teeth. "Its nothing. Just a dandy. A little breeze that's all." He said to George as he braced himself and tried to remain somewhat sane. A large monstrous whirlwind, scoring a four, which is like five stars if one compared weather storms to the movie world and the adjudication of cinema, or like the 'thumbs up' in Ebert and Roeper film review book, and on the tornado meteorology rector scale it had won an Academy award, and a Cannes jury prize, and it was about to achieve a tornado of the week weather club award in the local Tornado watching club in the heartland of a tornado belt, and with out any mercy this mighty force had just unpredictably appeared before him in the shape of a magnificent, black spiraling cone shape hand of death and it was taking no prisoners alive, nothing not even Les Genes and his protective government issued scientific chrome, canvas and leather body armor. The wind was out of control. Les considered ripping open the pouch on his left shoulder. Was that the cyanide capsule or the handy snack. Death or light snack. He was so afraid Death would be the only option now. But for some reason Les continued to face the mysteries black best. Face it with out considering any other options. Or any other doubts. The wind gusts hurled him tight against the hard steal wall. It had become ruthless. Beyond hatred. Beyond pain. Beyond revenge. Even beyond Les's prayers or fiendish or even fondest wishes. It had reached a point more dangerous than the wildest animal or sharpest and quickest weapon. It died down a bit and then picked up with great and mighty force, giving no mercy to anyone in it's deadly radius. The pressure increased in the room and the spinning cone spun faster and closer to Les's thickly layered facemask. It was no more than two inches from his frame. "His suit is taking damage. Much damage. The pressure has increased in the room and the wind has picked up over 100 miles per hour. The meters must be off." "That's not good" George said. The petite man informed George. "Whatever has appeared in the room, it is creating a deadly wind. 100 miles per hour wind gusts are not easy to take on." A silence entered the control room. "Now is the time to pull him out." Les felt his rib cage snug tighter to his body as he tried to breath against the forceful squally grip of the black twisting gale of tornado death before him. His chest began to sink inward to his heart as the black beastly tiny hurricane inched closer to his mere existence. "Les is a dead man. He's got to be." The petite man said to George. "Its not 100. Its 1,000 miles per hour wind gusts." "The meter is way off." George retorted. "There is no way a man can stand that much force. What is that in knots? He'd be in shreds. Even with the suit. Have you ever been in sea storm. A hurricane. That wind speed is worse than a hurricane. It's worse than a nuclear bomb blast, man. There is no way in hell our suit is that strong." The petite man informed him that it was and the suit had flexible titanium supports and liquid metal surrounding the seaming. "It's lined with titanium and new type of alloy being used in NASA. It hasn't leaked to the public. But it has a liquid metal skin. Like in that uh, Terminator movie." The petite man lit up a cigarette and took his coffee of the burner. He seemed relax. "The suit can take anything. Even a nuclear bomb blast. Trust me. We've tested it." The petite man relaxed into his swivel chair broke his butter croissant into tiny bite size pieces. There may have been an ounce of fear in the jittering of his fingers as the his snack was tossed into his little mouth. "I hope the meter is off." The petite man said drowning down the bits of bread with his hot coffee. He twisted the top of the ice cold bottle of Evian and slurped a gulp of it's purity and swished it around in his mouth, cleaning the coffee of his teeth. This made him look more under control. "Les. Is the ball still present in the room with you." George's eyes were wider now and he held the end of microphone with mighty grip. "No. Its not a sphere any longer." Les returned in the helmet's mike. "What is it now?" George grinded through his teeth. He knew Les was in deep you know what. "What? Tell us. Give us descriptions." George demanded. "Why did you not hook a camera up to this damn suit." Les whispered with little breath. "It broke. All we have is sound and the touch screen. We can only communicate with you through the mike and the letters that you print across the screen. Tell us vocally now so we can know. We need to record the information. We must accomplish what we set out to do." Les began to describe his environment. "Its no longer a massive ball. It has changed." "Changed into what?" George probed. "What?" He demanded once again. His voice was raspy and weak, as if he was hung over or had not slept in days. "What has it changed into?" George's voice was echoing into Les's head. What, what, what, what, what, what. What did it say? What does it look like? What is this strange object before you? "It's a mad storm. A whirling tornado from hell." Les's voice resonated into the mike and caused George's eyebrows to raise. A slight smile lifted on the petite man's face. "What did he say?" The petite man asked George. "It's a mad storm. It's no longer a sphere. The shape. The shape Les. Give us more details." Les sat up and eyed the spinning demon before him. "Well. Uhm. It is hard to describe. Its hissing like a thousand cats in heat and its body is round, cone shaped, long, black and twisting beyond any tornado I have ever scene on TV or screen. Its beyond my imagination. I have never seen such a sight. There stands a devil before me. Howling and crashing around the room." "Look at the ceiling can you see the ceiling." "Yes." Les returned. "Yes. It has blown the roof clear off. There is nothing but blackness where the ceiling once was. The outside completely opaque. No stars. No sky. No sun. No moon. Nothing. Just a black void. A hellish descent." "Is the cone ascending? Is it spinning in place, tilting side to side? Does it revolve, rotate? Does it speak like before? Describe the scene Les." George demanded. Les could hear George light up a cigarette in the midst of his plea. He was actually enjoying himself as he drained information out of Genes fearful state. It could be Les Genes last moments in existence and George was only concerned with the UFO's form, presence and it's behaviors. "Does it still speak?" George asked again inhaling off his Camel filter less. He was getting a little high as he recorded the unknown subject. Les winced and began to tremble. He predicted that he was being used for info. He was on a one way trip to a means to end. He was a sacrificial lamb for science. Les was just a device. He wasn't human to George and the others. Controls didn't care about Les's future endeavors. They did not care he had plans to write a novel. They didn't care he wanted to compose a series for a national television program, or act on Film. They didn't care about Les's goals in life. He was some stinky employee, some rate in a maze designed to feed back visual and audio information and whatever senses could be recorded on the RECORD program. Control could care less. Les's future dreams flashed before his eyes. He wanted to build a house on the cliff's of Santa Monica, raise three little girls on the beach and take them to Disney Land, or Epcot center, wake them up Sunday morning for Bible School at the nearby church, long strolls through the park, trips to Europe and help them with homework, and art projects. But noooooosiiiireee. Les was boiled down to the means of some lab monkey designed for recording info. How despicable Controls was. How hurtful, and putrid. Les wanted to buy a grenade and stick it down Georges mouth. Controls didn't care he wanted to create an album, a CD with his guitar and book of poems. What about the sailboat he wanted to build and how he wanted to retire in Malabo Lagoon. Controls didn't care that he wanted to surf and swim in the Pacific and head off to far away islands and drink fancy Merlot, oh how he could taste the deep oak taste and the musty age of the red taste of heaven, in France and stay at a bed and breakfast in Normandy and create documentaries with his old college peers. controls only cared about the UFO and the information that could be contained about the quad and the Other Side. They only cared about the silver room and the progress of science. Fuck em. Les thought. Fuck Controls. Fuck George and his RECORD program. I got to find a way out of here. Those son of a bitches have trapped me in this quad of hell. They sent me here so they could learn. ASS HOLES. "What do I do now?" Les asked George in a calm and almost tranquil state. He showed them no signs that he had nearly lost of control and fallen into the arms of fear. "After I describe the cone to you. Am I finished." "Well. No. You have not completed a simple workday. You have four more hours with this thing, whatever it be. You must wait it out until we bring you back to earth's reality. Then, you can return home." George's voice sounded shaky. "Third question Genes. You must ask it the third question in the RECORD program." Les tapped the touch screen on his faceplate. He felt like some slave working for an evil Egyptian. When will Moses come and free me now. Les mumbled as he fumbled with the touch screen to set up the proper procedures to record the unseemly sight. The screen beeped on and a list of documents opened. "Fine question three under the program." George commanded. "Ok. Give me a breath or two." The wind had died in Les's breath and the mighty gale had lessened a little and the cone had decreased to a smaller state. The hurricane's twisting cone was weakening, but had still kept the form of a small tornado. It was death defying but understandable in form. Les tapped the menu option on the touch screen that read RECORD. His hands and finger were jingling from fear that he could properly work the program. "Remember the record document will appear under the menu bar, and don't forget to press it twice, that will open it and the third question will print across the screen in bold black Roman Times Font. You got it?" To seconds blinked by and Les was in the correct document. His finger were poking at his eyes, nose and chin like some one man three stooges show. Of coarse he could not purge himself because of the thick glass constructed on the front of the protective facemask. "Got it." The third question appeared and Les poked at it with his index finger. A few black lines printed a legible question before the bridge of his nose. After he poked it twice the question separated into two lines. Into two parts. "What is your goal in the quad? And what is your world like?" "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssss." The cone retorted. Les through his hands back and in instinctual reaction he formed a cross sign with his index fingers. The spinning cone exploded like a small crystal wine glass filled with gunpowder would do after hitting a fiery bonfire. Small speckles of white sand clumped together in a giant silvery sparkling ball the size of a grain of sand. The larges mass of twirling hell that Les had ever laid eyes on now was no larger then a booger speck from morning eye. It hovered over Les like the star of Bethlehem. "I am the Star of Godswing. It is distant world far from yours. We are a planet of lost angels. Three lost angels that did not chose side when the war between your God and Lucifer broke out. We have come to a place between heaven and earth. Purgatory. We have come here to scare off all people that have been saved by Christ. You Les. DO NOT BELONG HERE. YOU MUST RETURN TO EARTH. George and the others do not know God yet. Your job is to enlighten them. They have tricked you and you have become weak. Do not fear. We are sending you to help others." The star that floated before him blinded his sight. He squinted and turned his head away. Les blinked over and over again until his sight began to return in small little black spots. DO NOT FEAR. WE WILL SEND YOU AS A SHEPARD. The star shrank into a tiny light the size of a speckle of dust. "YOU MUST RETURN HOME. BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE." "George. Its not a UFO. Its not a UFO. I'm not in some odd dimension. You have sent me to purgatory. I'm in a place of the dead. Between heaven and earth. The object is an angel. It wants you to send me back. It has warned me. I must get back." "We can't bring you back." George sadly informed Les. "This is a one way mission. We had to do it Les. For science." "Bullshit. Bull fucking shit." Les demanded. "I'll find my way back." Les rose to his feet. He let his shoulder set back and he stuck his chest out. It was time to step out of the suit, it was time to face the angels, the unknown room and the other side as flesh, as man, as one. He would ask the floating mass of sand, "How do I get back." He twisted the helmet off and a cool breeze fell over him, soothing him in a deep trance. He was warm on the inside and his skin revealed traces of goose bumps. "I have anointed you. Close your eyes and walk into the wall, it will turn to water as you pass through it. You will appear in the ocean West from where they sent you. The salty ocean will cover you, submerge you, wash you clean. You must swim to the top and emerge from the waves." "How far out will I be from shore." "Don't worry the angels will be there with you when you come up from the water. The currents will take you to shore." "THE QUESTION. ASK IT THE QUESTION." George screamed. A little voice squeaked from the helmet as it sat lonely near the corner of the silver room. Les ignored it. Just then the touch screen began to print a series of words across the screen. It ticked and squalled as the words flipped across the touch screen. Les did not care. He wasn't concerned with controls any longer. Les closed his eyes and walked toward the iron colored wall on the opposite side of the room. No door to be found. There was no way out. But he walked anyway. Blind. Blind to the path before him. Blind he still moved on. Hoping. Praying. Searching for a exit. With out warning, the touch screen began printing like machine gun fire. One word after the next swam across the screen in short sporadic bursts. Les continued on. Ignoring the beeps from the helmet left behind. Ignoring the high pitch scream from the sand speck above him. Ignoring all things visual and just walking to the sound of his heart beating in his head. Slowly marching with his eyes closed waiting to hit the watery wall. The seawater will send me. The sea will wash me clean. It will wait for me. To take him to the top. "My God. It's speaking to us. I don't think Les can write this quick." The words spat across George's computer screen in blue crisp letters. "What is this. Its all jumbled. It doesn't jibe." The screen revealed the following information. This may provide you with an answer about the Other Side, lost ones. A voice arose in the control booth. The following information made George raise his eyebrows, crack his neck to one side and grip his chin with a hooked finger. It made absolutely no sense. "This is brilliant." George grabbed the petite man by the back of his neck and yanked the petite man's face before the main boxy, glowingly green, beeping monitor. "Absolutely brilliant. We have stroke gold." The words raced across Georges wordy computer screen with incredible and apoplectic speed. Time had reduced to the next breath for the onlookers in the control booth as the words printed out in one continues long rail of knowledge and unheard of reasoning.

Thegreekstoldthestoryoftheminotaur,thebullflesheatingmanwholivedinthecenterofthelabyrinth. LABYRINTH.thentheofiicerswhowereoverthethousandsofthearmy,thecomandersofthousandsandthecommandersofhundres,approachedmoses.HECURSEDTHEFIGTREE.JESUSWEPT.sec.8thecongressshallhavepowerto layandcollecttaxes,duties,imposits,andexises,topaythedebtsandprovideforthecommondefenceandgeneral welfare, welfareoftheunitedstates;toborrowmoneyonthecreditoftheUnitedstates,openyourearsforwhichofyouwillstoptheventofhearingwhenloudrumorspeaks?here'sknockingindeed.if you havetearspreparetoshedthemnow,youalldoknowthismantel.irememberthefirsttimeevercaesarputiton.hownowspirit!whitherwanderyou?Overhill,overdall.thouspeake'staright;iamthatmerrywandererofthenight.hullo,here'sMr.pim.allimustdoiscrytobethebabytobeanswered,I'mtthereasonforthetao,thezenandthemaster,midwayinourlife'sjourney,iwentastray.thelaw 150pounds willnevermakemenfree;itisthemenwhohavegottomakethelawfree.theyaretheloversoflawandorderwhoobservethelawwhenthegovernmentbreaksit.don'taskmeforagoddamncreditcard.one oftheearth'scrustmostdynamicandcolorfulbuildersisthevolcano.declinationcirlce.adeclinationcirlceiseastytouse.lookwereyouarelady.youareoncrustanditwillcrackandsplitwithmightydisaster.thenextstepinvolvedextensiveeconomicaidforpostwarrecoveryinwesternEurope.atthewar'send. theeuropeanwarwillneverend.THEENDOFTHEBEGGININGWHILEDUSTANDGASWEREACCRETITING.

Les's hands grasped the wall and he began to notice the hard steel texture transform into water. It was not merely water but salty water, splashing foamy slicing salty water from beneath the sea.

This is not the word of Science. This is the work of God. Les silently said as rushing ocean water enveloped his ever tissue, aching bones and pressing muscle. Les stepped into the salty water and began to float freely. Bubbles surrounded him and engulfed him in a chilling, cool blue sparkling heavenly tranquil of cool, thick salt water. He was under the sea. His mouth full of air, his time reduced to his next breath, the moments and minutes of this marine and salty reality show, attenuating in each movement, his air cut out, but his freedom to swim away from the quad grew in each effort and gesture to live and come to surface, for resonation, restoration and oxygenation. Life now was reduced to the next breath. The itch was to find a pocket of air, a place to breath and take in the sweetness of life. The waves, overhead, crashed like ballooned drums banging away at some Atlantis festival for Poseidon. Les looked back and saw the top of the underwater rectangular steal roof, and it's geometric foundation, which was surrounded by a translucent, round and circular dome of strangely thick but impressively translucent material, too clear to be glass, too perfect and serene to be man made, but made from an unknown source. Les figured it was the protective covering for the lab and the quad he once occupied. Through the clear dome, Les saw seaweed growing from the quad's hardened manmade skin and it looked as if it had rested under the sea for a quite some time now. A long time, due to the cracks and green algae clinging to it's synthetic hard, gray alien skin and under the foreign glass like materiel, which did not shield it from water, but from something else, possibly aquatic life, other men, possibly it was a filter from the aqueous pollutants of the sea, or possibly it was simply a translucent protective covering made by the scientist, but he doubt it because of it's perfect shape and unknown texture. The dome had to be protection for the underwater lab, or possibly something to look through, like those tiny glass toy balls, or even domes, that encase a holiday tableaux, capturing a small winter snow storm enveloping and sprinkling white magic over a lonely brick cottage, isolated from the reality before the small dome above it, and this scene, made from plastics and cheap pigment, you know, those small worlds, what most people call "shakers things", those gift shop presents, the ones a consumer would buy in a seasonal gift shop or magazine stand at the airport near the Christmas holiday, to jiggle the snow, or rain, or fire storm that lay on the floor of it's toy world, whatever the background inside the glass toy holds, you know, the ones that stage the small house of Santa Clause and his reindeer and Rudolf and his glowing red nose. All you must do to activate it is shake the dome and snow spills inside and all around and floats slowly down like tiny round angels; alone with crystal flakes spinning over the snow covered cottage roof and the icy skins of the flying deer, unanimated, frozen and awaiting a child's smile. All in the palm of your hand and awaiting the new arrival of weather, whatever the color, texture, or shape may be. All of it, the entire frozen world awaiting you to close the fist, shake, and bring about a winter storm, inside this glass bubble. The synthetic diaphanous dome made to look as the world should not accept anything that isn't festive, happy, planned and perfect in nature and special warm, snow falling moments; Kodak moments, as the TV add announces. Such a toy awaiting a child's mind, hand and smile. Now Les had identified with this underwater quad, or toy, or lab, or scientific playground. Like such a toy, a delicate glass toy laying at the bottom of the sea, awaiting some giant Titan to pick it up, raise it out of the water and to the clouds, shaking wildly to and for, till the snowy toy innards blocked the scene from view: Surviving tropical storms, the cadavers of dead sea creatures and the harsh call of the sperm whale could never, could ever pass the glass through, shatter or even scratch the clear magnificent colossal dome, only what it allowed to pass, shall pass. . .It seemed to block out all unwanted visitors, keep at bay all those who held interest to it's incomprehensible mysteries. Was it for science, for God, or for play. Les did not know the answer for it's structure, whereabouts and reason for being at the bottom of the sea. He paddled toward the surface gasping and choking for air, salt filling his eyes, blinding, hazing and glossing them to a blurry finish or sight. But still he kicked his legs, and stiffened his toes, and like a pair of humming bird wings, he flew to the top of the sea, inflating and pulling the rib muscles of his diaphragm that expands and inflates his lungs. Air was the meaning now, not the motive for the dome, but air. Gasping, begging and pleading for simple air. Water, water every which way, but where does the wind touch the bay. Where is the wind? Les screamed and paddled to the top. He was panicking for a breath. He would never make it this way. He had to think of the dome. He had to find meaning in it as he swam to the top. The last thing Les could think of now, was air, or breath. He had to keep that off his mind. He had at least a hundred yards of blue water above him. Then, with out notice, a school of yellow and black, tiny fish engulfed him. He had come across an aquatic family of tropical trouble. He made it through the body of fish, and in not ten seconds flat another body of fish nipped at his existence. There scaly bodies scrapping against his ribs and shoulders and forehead. Spinning off into every direction, to explore the sea for algae and other seafoods. Les was making it to the surface. Soon, he have air, but he could not think of it's sweet honey taste. The taste of life with out air, is sour, bitter and hurried. AIR. Air. No Air. Les thought gulping nothing, swallowing a lump of panic. No more about the air. Now I must consider where the dome came from and the black ball motive. He kept his mind on the quad and the experiment and on controls and George and his raspy coffee voice. It won't be long. He had fifty yards to go before he reach life. Sunrays sparkled down, in thin round shafts, like long angel arms reaching for his heart, his breath and his soul. He kept his mind of the surface of the sea. He only thought of his paddling, kicking and moving his body like the perfect aquatic mammal. He even let out a small burping cry, as if he wore a dolphin, seal or killer whale. Les no longer thought like a man. His struggle underwater had drained the reason from his being. He had lost his grasp, and his grip on ratiocinative and his ability to associate his positioning in the water and his whereabouts in the world, or even the sea. It was as if the aloof ahead, the unstable ground had more meaning than the soil. The patios of the slurping, hissed and rasped at him like the spirit of a water snake and the sea pounded with out hesitation or guilt. A hellish water, the indomitable rush of the sea, the overtaking waves, the cool long humped whales which cry for love, banging, no but banged it's hard reality, forced it's long sad tongue to ear and with or without the heart of any man, it ploughed on, inched by inched under this hot and sinful moon filled morning. A speech from the hell of the sea, attacking and demanding a higher reasoning from Les, like mad demons laughing at their maker, laughing at the stronger, the smarter, the more educated, laughing at themselves laughing, the wind demanding him to move beyond the common man, the silliness of security, and the boring dull aspect of dry safety, now he was beyond terra firma, now he was with out ground, with out hope, with out a haven, beyond the limits of shore, or the factory, or the quad, the voice, the strange growing star, now he was free and such freedom has an ongoing, constant payment. Just as the waves will meet the shore, freedom will meet the foe of liberty (And who shall conquer but the one closer to his or her God. For those who have God have liberty.) Such a reasoning that the standard conformity, the laid down rule of language, idea and thought had ceased in it's world, it's words, of linguistics and had vaporized from Les's mind, and now a new way of thinking, a more primal, more fishy, more exact to his instincts arrived at his begging needs, his survival, the indomitable rushing veins had taken over his will, his ego, his current persona, and now he was blinded by the need to breath, and swim and go on. He couldn't really define what ocean was at the point that lay before him and his possible suffocation. Was I near the Asian shore line, Vietnam, the Virgin Islands, St. Martin, Puerto Rico, Mexico, America, Canada, no it was far too warm for north Atlantic. Where am I? What land is before. What shore is this jonquil sand that breaks water from land? Then, the change interrupted as the next wave sank in three feet under not but six feet from the bottom, where the sad soil lingered and watched his frame guide, and slide like needle in hot ravine of melted, boiling wax, he slid with a sharp grace, arm over arm, his body, his shoulders creating small foamy wakes, dipping and dragging wave over wave, passing coral reef and a underwater clouds of boiling pebble filled sand. Through the water, he kicked and cupped, until he began to see the whites of the children's eyes, the color and design of the butterfly kite and wind gliders, and her the conversations from the foreign tongue of the tan people, laying on their backs and bellies and sides, sending smiles to each other like warm hugs and he kept peddling, "I'll never give in. Never. Never. Not till I reach shore, to touch their skins, smile back and demand my life to reenter the world." He screamed a bubbling mess under the water, dipping his hot jaw beneath the sour waves and the hatred of the motion filled sea. I'll win. I'll get there. I'll win. He thought as he picked up speed like a old Mississippi steamboat, kicking, hollering and hurrying to the safety and heaven of shore. He peeked under again at the sand below the top crumbling waves. The sand seem to smile at him, wink it's crystal surprises, it's lost shells, and a penny or two from a snorkeling tourister from Japan, and maybe even a pearl filled oyster shell, calling his expected fortune. The sand seemed tempting but he had to stay on surface. It was not play time now. It was time to make it home. Make it to land. But he kept peeking at the brown skin and the black tar colored coral, remembering the times he had dove for shells as a kid in St. Martin. Remembering when he reached for a strange rock and it's jelly fins spread out and a sting ray undulated upward at him, and he screamed kicked and ran from it like the kids did in the movie Jaws. The sand had a hypnotic effect on Les Genes. It was as if the sea filled, pebble, crystal layered, and wonder intoxicated dirt below him was calling, crying and begging for him to lay to rest, die away and return to his real home. The home of all life, the memory of origin. He began to chant with passion. Chant to escape the begging of a underwater death. MY LIGHT. My sun. Life. The life. The air. MY LIGHT. The sun. He was thinking like the sea.

How tempting, and arrogant the sea had been toward mankind. All the adventurous of high water, the polar ice cap explorers, searchers and sailors it had called upon, for research, love and passion of the unknown, wore endless in number, graced it's merciless waves against warriors hearts, now had a single greedy purpose. How many had falling to the oceans aqueous temptation, how many to fall victim to what it gives us and then, like a cold iceberg ramming a famous ship, takes away, so veraciously. The sea is a selfish and jealous beast. The sea and all it's changing forms, and it's greedy deepening nature, sucking man to the bottom of it's endless depths, tempting the most courageous, out to wonder an endless, haunting unforgiving storm of deep blue. A pull on man that never ends, similar to the pole from the icy caps and the distant stars. Rainy, great godly hands, casting storms and blowing man off coarse, to find it's greedy whirling, drowning way. . . to the barren salty undulating desert of hate, love and tortures crashing an entitlement on man's adventures, it would not fold to man, but take him far out, under the heat of the sun, the hell of a storm, or the icy barrens of the northern lands. My SUN, MY LIGHT, MY LIFE, MY SUN. He was thinking like the sea, now. Like the sea, and it's selfish ways, pulling man and women away from land. A call to sail its promising future of knowledge and mystery. Where once a divine man once walked it's water to prove his endless sacrifice. Where men had been swallowed whole by it's beast, merely to prove their gods might be touchable and might fulfill their desirable dreams. My SUN, MY LIGHT, MY LIFE, MY SUN. He was thinking like the sea and all it's strange creature. MY, MY,MY, MY, MY, MY, MY. My Suuuuuuuuuuun. My liiiiight. My life. He was thinking like the sea.

He twisted his head over his shoulder as a drop of seawater leaked into his ear. He still had many yards to complete before reaching air. Got to keep my mind on paddling, on the lab, on something else other than drowning under here. God help. Then, he turned back. There it lay, almost undulating, because of the blurry underwater current, at the bottom of the sea, alone, investigating what is unknown to man, a quad, a experimental scientific lab, out to advance us all. Should I swim back to it. Should I return to the underwater quad. Possibly look for an air pocket or attempt to break the glass dome, tap on the roof, maybe the UFO will let me in, give me air. Les was halfway there. The surface sparkled like tiny melting breaking diamonds, floating on the lifting crescendo of splashing waves. He could chose his path now. Swim up or dive down. To the top or back. It was either to air, or back to the quad, back to the bottom, for the vented room known as the quad. Air was running out of him like time sparking from a burning fuse. His face grew purple, his eyes bulged from the pressure, his soul aged quickly in every stroke toward the freedom of the surface. Les's entire being was fallen into a somber pale awakening. He was waking up to a deadening fate. Thirty more yards, no less. Les thought. His face was near solid ivory by the time he twisted a full three hundred and sixty degrees around, he began to panic again, and this time he pirouetted under the water, around and around and whirled and twisted like a gyrating top, inching like a manly tornado, screwing his way upward, toward the Godly burning sun that hovered and mastered the clear, dry dome that stretched over the blue mass of deep waters0.

He had to get his mind off the hunger of air. He had to conquer this hermetically sealed situation. He began to list his knowledge of Angel Fish. That might calm him. A little reflection in a time of crisis. Les began his mindful chant against the panic of his drowning, his gasping for blissful air. He began an inner dialogue on all the information he had stored in his library of memories on the family of this particular white and yellow Perciformes. Scientific classification of Angel Fish belong to the order of Perciformes. He began to beg God for more air as his thoughts silently floated in his mind. Then, he went back to the listing from his library of memories, call number and memory title: Angel Fish. True Angel Fish make up the family of Pomacanthidae. Yes. This will work. He encouraged his fearful state. It will work. I'll keep my mind on the Angel fish and all their worth. He remembered how they snaked through him and appeared off into the nothing blue in one sweeping acclivity. I will keep my mind off the air. He was swimming quicker to the top now, racing, kicking and paddling like a mad seal. Nothing could stop him now. He felt as if he wore in complete control. Focused. Pure of doubt and evil thoughts. Not even the dark sound, the faint cry of sperm whales, the hissing of the strange underwater, the roaring of waves spilling on top of one another and the pounding of the wind on water, could coerce him to look back in fear. Fear was no an option to Les, not now.

Approaching the life of air awaiting him to consume again, and then the desire of air, and the remembrance of the first breath and cry into life from the womb, it was all that a man underwater too long could possibly take into his memory, or story..

The enraging and haunting character of the sea is not necessarily the passionate jeering of the mighty waves, and the unforeseen precipices, abysses or sharp gnashing teeth, or twisting binding seaweed, and the explosions of flotsam and jetsam the unwanted fangs from the jagged coral reefs, and not in the rushing winds and the painful waves, or the salty sting, or the jumbling currents, or the evocating vessels or the spilling, wall of waves, but it and will be found in the taciturn, weary non-moments, that barely appear before you, in various shapes and sizes, underwater hisses in herds of whispers spawned from the high pitched cries of mystery, followed by the sudden rushes of a silent nothingness. A darkness to dark to understand or feel, or touch.

Pomacanthidea. Butterfly fish constitute the family Cichlidae. French angelfish are classified as Pomacanthus paru. His mind was racing like a wild mammal, but intelligently classifying what gene fit were and what vertebra or non-vertebra existed in his old Enclosed Encyclopedia brown anthology of marine life his dad bought him at thirteen when he wished for a air compressed pump action Remington underwater BB gun for hunting trout in the dirty waters of the stock ponds behind the fields of his country house not far north in Texas, near Tarrant county; and all this spewing in waves in this symphony, this pissy spits of b b sounds clashing against the underwater corral and wrapping stingy seaweed, in this family of underwater species. His thoughts were no longer manly, no longer reasonable, nor rational. They were animal, mammal or fishy. He was thinking as a mad sea storm, in spilling sharp reasonable cut up moments, roaring about like a dangerous seal: shouts from the seal, sucking waves here and there, pouring hard under toes, and the motion of un-forgiveness at me and my friends. He was gasping for air, beginning his first stages of drowning. The color tone in his face was no longer tan, but growing redder and redder and then to a pink, then to a faint white and then suddenly, without prediction, to a light whiteness of suffocation. He had not sucked in a mouthful of water in yet, or what he thought of as anti air rather than something refreshing, not as of yet, he had not yet let the salt water consume his insides. His thoughts starting to chop into section, as if a he was being pounding on by a woodsman's ax, inside him the world began to dissolve, and break apart. Death only happens when complete disorganization arrives. Death arrives in the body and mind, and especially the body, when all parts of the human system stop communication. Death happens when the brain stops communicating with the heart and when the heart is drowned by stillness of ginger behavior and the lungs no longer function in unison with the diaphragm and the blood grows pale of life and motion within becomes motionless. He went on with the scientific classification keeping his mind off the panic of not having air, the fear of shutting down and quitting. Les paddled on. Even though he could no longer feel his legs and arms he stroke the water like a mechanical machine, passionless, mute of feeling, but not of action. Queen Angel Fish are classified as Holocanthus cili. . .cili. . .he began to slip. Little did he know, Les was drowning. Drowning his thoughts, his mind, his soul now growing pale. He thought about returning to the glass dome and the quad. Possibly he could knock on the door. Maybe the unknown entity that lived inside would allow him to return to the vented air. Perhaps he could make it back down. Then, Les stopped for a slight second and began to float. He was no longer paddling, but only thinking of his next step. He had fifty yards or less until he emerged to dry air. His neck hung down as his body fell limp. A sense of euphoria came over him. A sense of well being. "You silly, silly boy." He could hear her. It was as if she was on him again, touching him, hugging and kissing. A past lover. It was Lyn. They once swam together in the pacific near Santa Monica. She was teaching at a nearby College and he was lost in his writings and auditioning for local indie films. He wanted to act and write. Tell his story as he lived so many other lives. She was so perfect. Her entire body. Perfectly proportional, in line, long and curvy. The breast leading to the flat belly, leading to the hips, the pubic bone, the dark curly hairs, the long thighs and think but muscular legs and perfect painted toes. No part of her body failed in the attempt to bring about the fugue of orgasm that awaited both. A woman's image stays in a man longer than one believes. Her memories linger with him for years and years. Les had Lyn on his mind for the past two years and not a day had gone by that he couldn't recall her smell, her smile, the inflection her voice and the way her eyes lit up before she laid her hands on his body, his frame, his back, his arms, his face, crown. Her eyes deep brown. He could hear her, almost feel her touch, caress, and small voice whisper in his water filled ears. Time was running out now. Breath was his itch. His upper torso and rib cage cumulated, as he sucked in, keeping his mouth shut and gingerly preventing any air to arrive in his system, He was trembling all over, the weight of the water was punching at the once of confidence that he hung on to, the memories of the Angel Fish, the thoughts of her smell, her name, the meaning of her name, the cliffs, the sky, the times they held hands on the beach, and in all this processing, he began to seizure. Tighten up. Stiffing in anxiety. If only he could take in air now. If only he could breath in life. Her hand ran down his face. She was with him. "Breath now dear. Hold me. Kiss me." Les puckered his lips as if he were about to kiss this strange inner voice. It was as if she was floating there, a perfect mermaid, haunting him, beckoning him to breath. Then, he saw a small perfect round bubble bounce by and up to the sparkling rays, the long angelic pale shafts of light, sun rays diving through the thickness of the salt water, mesmerizing Les to reach upwards and fly to the top. Then . . .Cili. Cili. You silly boy. She was next to him. It had to be her. Her long, curvy dancer body. Long and smooth. Her brown beautiful eyes. Her still and girlish voice. "Silly boy." She said to him rapping her arms around him. He found himself lying on her futon in Long Beach. He was home. He had made it back. Now, it is time to breath. To kiss. To make love. Then, in the back of his mind a more forceful and powerful voice took over. NOOOO. SWIIM FOOL. SWIIIIIM TO THE TOP. It was the voice of his swimming coach in College. You're the best swimmer on the team. Swim you fool. Fight your way to the top. Cherry stroke, freestyle, breast stroke, dog paddle, I don't car. Just swim. Then, more bubble hovered by like tiny worlds that may have occupied men smaller than the tiniest Lilliputian. Cili. Cili. What is it. Your coming to me. MY LIFE. MY SEA. MY SUN. MY LIGHT. He wanted her. He could have nothing else. Her legs. Her milky thighs. MY AAAAAIIIIIIIRRRRR. Her thick, pointy eyebrows. MY LADY. MY KISS. MY SEA. MY SUN. Hold me bitch. Get me to the top. Swim with meeee. And then, she was nowhere and everywhere at the same instant. Her voicing hissing at him like a Pelamus platurus. He wanted to cum in her beauty. He needed her like any mammal, sea or land, or flower or weed, or Syringa reflexa needed the air. Cili. Cili. Cili. Cili what? Cili what does that mean? Cili what? Cili? I MUST GO ON. He got it. He kicked his legs, tightening his thighs, spit at the water with mad furry, fighting the suffocation, the lack of air, the lack of the warming sun, and even the lack of water, the thirst was deep inside, continuing in movement toward the top, he peddled his legs, fighting the rushing walls of underwater ocean current. He had got it. He knew now. Another school of Angel Fish poked through him. He ignored and kept his mind on the knew idea. Somewhere a seal squeezing under the top waves, almost silently squealing like small swimming pig, flipped by him and vanished into the blue. Les kicked in gear. All his system ignited. He would be like that seal, full speed to the top and if he could he'd grab it's rough whiskers and hang on like the Little Prince's star, to take him to a new world. The idea was not complex. The idea was not troubling. The idea was simple. I shall never give up. That was his brilliance he took along, as he paddled like a ferocious dog to the top of the surface. I shall never give up. Never give up.

Full throttle. Every fiber stacking his muscles filled with fire, and his legs began to tingle, blood began to rush inside him. There is nothing worse in the world than a drowning man. Les continued on. He wasn't going to let the world down. I will not pass in these saltwater tears. I will not let the ocean have me. Not yet. The adrenaline was rushing through him like a mad train, roaring through his tissue, swimming through his ever cell, warming his starving bluish racing green veins. Chopping at his fins like a broken windmill. Cili. Cili what? Remember you idiot. Remember you dumb genius. Remember what Cili means? You don't need air. You need to know the name. Cili. Cili what? Two seals rushed by with out a blink or nod. They must have been related to the first, or at least close friends. They kind of winked at him, humping up and down, using the water as a tool of travel. He let them pass and gave them little attention now. They circled around, coupling like two love birds, tossing through the water beneath him, and then, with a wild change of nature, vanishing in the dark blurry waters below. The whole family of seals diving straight down like a brave submarines. He gasped at their quickness, their power to exit, and then suddenly arrive. But he had not time for them now. He paddled harder and let the exhausting exercise escape his mind. He had no time to view underwater creatures. Not now. He was on the move. Paddling like madness, like wild fire, like a hurricane in heat. Gaping in existence, lost in a nowhere land, a liquidized salt water trap, a temptation giving to us by God, for food and travel, but it had it's cost and Les was fulfilling it. He was fighting what God had so beautifully gave him. The ocean and it's wonders now had become a nightmare, a death defying and threatening defeat. Noooo. Les would never breath it in. He would swim until he passed out and if he didn't go unconscious he'd surface and cry out, "MY AIR. MY SAVIOR, MY LIFE." In a world of water there is nothing more important. He still had not surfaced. He was possibly thirty yards until victory. His cheeks were bloated out, popping, water bubbles escaped and hovered to the top and his eyes widened with wolfish, fiery furry. No air. Cili. He was no longer thinking like man. He was becoming the sea. Cili. Cili what. I got it. YOUR SO SILLY. She said smiling next him, almost as if she had transformed into a mermaid, merely just to witness his struggle, merely to witness his pain, his suffering. It made her happy to see him drown. She would have to in some form or fashion, one day. One day we all have to go with out air. To take him under, to end this man would not be a simple task. The ocean alone may not be able to. He had surfed it, snorkled, swam for shells, held his breath, played in it's currents, its' islands as a child. He knew the taste of the salt water well and it wasn't scaring him now. Not anylonger. He kicked harder than before. And with all his might he sucked in his stomach, activated his diaphragm, pumping a few more ounce of air into his lungs, from his throat, and hurried upward. The heavenly long rays which birthed from the sun pierced beside him like white needle threads, or rushing steam from a bullet, flying by him with out grief or consciousness. The underwater sunrays bounced around him like long shiny lines from a disco ball. He could only see her in his mind. Her voice was with him. Close to him. Too close. It was him. Cili, cili. Got it. Ciliraris. The queen fish is classified as Holocanthus Ciliraris. It was working. He was not but fifty yards from the top of the water. He was no longer Les Genes. He had become a ray beam, a shaft of sparkling light, piercing and striving toward the heavenly air awaiting his taking.

Just as the sea traps man from air. Just as the mother gives life and takes it away, Les continued on. Licking his lips of thirst, deprived of water, deprived of relief, of oxygen, almost tasting his air for breath, as if it would be the first breath ever, reborn into a world of water, a world surrounded by God jealously, Gods mysteries body of undulating salt, designed to temp man and strike him as the snake was created for, a slither path of foamy salty water waves pushing and bracing against his frame calling for him to take a lung full of suffocating death.

Cili, cili. Cili. Holocanthus Ciliraris. The fish. The Angels that have passed him in yellow and black. Like butterflies brushing up against him. He was going to make it through this school of slithering scaly, this sheet of shrimp eating fools. Their long spines waved side to side, as if they where saying goodbye as they pass down the underwater current and were swept closer to the coral reef below; spinning side to side, flapping their dorsal and tail fin, pushing, scraping and bouncing like raindrops on the concrete of a huge city, hollering in small dances of freedom. The long black and yellow Angel fish inched further away below Les, into the faint, pale, dark blue water mystery below, fighting there way through each other like a contradiction, like a broken family of wondering bones floating inside and out, crisscrossing, bopping and whispering through the precipice that lay under their snaking motions, and under the sea, under the mighty world are so tempting to consume.

All he knew now, is it could have been something illusionary, artistic, but nevertheless, it was unknown and unfamiliar to his nature as a man. But, never mind the philosophy of it's being. It is under the water, awaiting another to be zapped through the incomprehensible glass dome and appear inside to talk with the omniscient round blooming star, that looks like perfect black ball. Les had experienced it. Touched it. Talked to it. Communicated with what most men have only dreamt or scene in motion pictures. He had passed through the invisible dome, and into the other side (Whatever the other side was, world, fiction or unreality.) He had savored what was meant to be cherished and had viewed with his own eyes, something sacred, unknown and private, to man, and all who want to know. American society, European minds, and the worlds comparing nature and it's reasoning, and it's all knowing, omniscient ways, now became private and close to Les heart; as it beat under water, beneath a quiet, world of washing breaths and fizzing-hissing and roaring tranquility. The lab, or whatever it be, was, to Les, an underwater test sight that housed the unidentified object that raged inside it's protective shell. Rectangular at it's base and gingerly covered by a mystical, perfect glassy dome, reflecting all images, objects and anything living or dead, reflecting it, as if it had, the passer, never glimpsed, not even to instinctually guess, or even with his or her supposed sixth sense, would even know it existed below the crashing waves. The dome revealed what was double in nature, it mimicked and mocked this underwater world, with it's power to reflect to the exact quid, to the exact form and movement, and to create a perfect illusion that it never existed. It seemed to vanish as Les floated slowly to the surface. But Les squinted his eyes, coerced his vision to take sight, and as bubbles climbed toward the heavenly air to burst and gasp to nothing, Les took in it's ever form, it's ever corner and curve and glassy illusion. Oh, Les saw the unknown structure, the amazing geometric sight of master skill and genius hands. It was not made by man. Oh, No. No one would dare to give this artistic and scientific gift that lay before him, the name of human kind. Nothing this perfect, this tricky, this crafty and well designed and functioned, could be crafted by the grace of man. The underwater current was strong, stalwart, rushing in sporadic gusts, submerged waving soft water forces, as if from tiny hands, crashing against him like a dance, a dance of the dead, but Les fought it with strong persistent kicking paddles from his feet and hands. He was not going to let this whirling wrestle take him in and under it's suffocating fate. Tiny ephemeral crystalline rays of light duct in and out of the watery shadows from undulating seaweed and the imminent and awaiting and approaching corral of coral reef, seeping towards him, like a slithering opaque sea monster scrapping it's slicing skeleton hard belly, unwillingly and with unforgiving speed. He was approaching the ceiling of the sea. He seem to shake as if he had fallen into a vague and mild ague fit. Bubbles spat from his lips as he rolled his eyes to the angelic light sparkling down in short angular, separating cuts and beats, sliding side to side and up and down and every which way, in a tribal drumming rhythmic bop, in long saber like rays and flailing shafts of light, like the passing overhead nimble beam from a movie house projector. The bottom of the salty and sandy world he had entered looked like a desert land saturated in a blue floating, euphoric jell, a land of clear liquid slow movements and unexpected actions. One small brief moment tempted him to swim down and touch the bottom floor, sink his hands and fingernails, into the silky mystery of the bottom of the ocean. But the dead ring of sweet air hissed above his head, calling him to life, to breath, to action, to go on. Bubbles began to arise as he paddled with all his might to the surface. He was not far from the shore. Very close. Very close to perpendicular standing. To becoming terra firma and upright. He could see the sun light above him like a candle flame, flicker above, rays seeping down in shafts, and then vanishing to blue water, rays falling like long white laser and then to nothing, again, and again, like the shutters on a movie projector, thrusting through the top surface of the ocean, mixing on the top skin of the water, hissing at him, tempting, poking at him like long silver swords, warming and tormenting him for air, and almost at a hypnotizing celerity, the rays blinding him and warming his intent to live. At times, he thought, or more like imagined, he was in a pirate film, looking for some magical black pearl and adventuring to a lost island. He pictured himself in the movie Deep with Nick Nolte, hunting for precious metals that lay below. On the skim lay a milky white foam of fizzle and it wavered along the water, the separation between drowning and breath was not much different than the relationship between life long coupled identical twins. "You are free Les. Free to swim to the top." A small voice arose from the echoes of the sea. "Go on. Don't be afraid. It's only the ocean. Swim. Swim to the top. Take in the sweat essence of life." Les did not question the soothing angel like voice. The voice, small, innocent, pure and exactly familiar. A voice he almost touched from it's nearness, a voice he recognized and an identified and never could get off his mind as a small child when he played in the dark closet with his tinker toys and rusty red fire engines. Les began to dog paddle toward the fiery orange ball that seemed to draw all his attention now, floating above him like a round fruit, like a drifting well fed sponge. The quicker he paddled to the surface the larger the orange sphere, now above his head, dilated and the more yellowish white and intensely bright it became. This was the sun. The light. My light. Les jealously thought. My life. The life. It was his chance to dream again, to live, to consume the air. He opened and closed his eyes in short, lightning speedy blinks as the saltwater stung in his eyes as if an army of microscopic bees had attacked and speared there thorny stingers into the corner of his peering, drowning, glassy eyes. It was the salt water. Nothing put sizzling pain he saw, and he still swam like a champion athlete. As he clawed his way toward the sparkling sunny rays he begun to hear his heart pound, like a banging blue drum; hard gulping cry, pattering, thumping, calling through his chest. It was the call of life. Life beating away inside him demanding him to paddle and kick with all of a man's force in full.

Meanwhile, George and the petite man began to save the chattering dialogue on the small, square, black, floppy disk. The words from the alien flew across the screen with lightning speed:

Thesun,itsnuclearfurnacevnewlyignited,sendsoutafiercesolarwindandpowerfulradiationthatsurgepastthestill-moltenplanetsandblowawaydustandgasesleftoverfromtheformationmovinginwardfromtheepidermis,large,thin-walledparenchymacellsmakeupthecortexwithoutenteringthe Cells. Without Entering the cells.

"Are you getting all this George." George flipped in a new mini disk into the CD rom. "Yes. I think. I think I am. I'm getting it, Sir. Its too much but I'm. . .but I'm, well, I'm getting it." The words did not hesitate to slow down and allow the lower beings to take in the dazzling new news. Music will ariveweclometo schoenbergtransfigurednight,haydnsymphonyno.78incminor.brahmsop.15iii.rondo,conclusion,beethovensymphonyno.5mozart,shostakovichsymphonyno.1.musicwillarriveexitandarriveandpartandrebel. . .

A small foamy piece of spit hung from the petite man's bottom lip as he broke out a memo pad and began to take notes from the monitor screen. George's mouth hung low and his eyes filled with awe and outrageous musical light. "The words. The words are continuing. Get the speed. How fast. How fast are they printing across the screen? How fast is it speaking?" The petite began to count each word as it spit across the monitor. "I guess a line every half second, maybe quicker." Then a pause filled the room. The words now increased to a sprinting celerity. A speed beyond the capability of any reader. "Its really moving now. Three to four lines every fifth of a second or so." The petite man could barely count, as he clicked the stop watch and dotted on the memo the calculations. "Lets celebrate. We have finally documented it's language. We know how it speaks. It can use our language. Lets celebrate." George hugged the petite man as he turned up the small AM/FM radio alarm clock to the local classical channel. Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 14 in E-flat, K. 449 (iii. Allegro non troppo) began to blast away on the laughingly small speakers. "By George we have done it George." The petite man hollered as he danced to the tapping piano beats, flickering and bouncing off the corner of the enclosed control room. "Its not over yet. It hasn't slowed down." George informed the petite man with his, now sincerely, brilliant blue filled eyes. The monitor screen printed the following with Godspeed:

DNAisapolynucleotideeachnucleaotideisacomplexof3subunits-phophoricacid(phosphate)apentosesuger(deoxyribose)andanitrogencontaining,organicbase.Closedwind+eggclosedwind+eggclosedwind+egg. Chickenortheeggchickenortheggeggeggeggeggeggeggeggegg. Goodbye George.

In the same instance George read the 'Goodbye George' floating across the monitor, Les Genes birthed through the top skin of the ocean with one triumphant inhaling breath. Awwww. His face no longer felt the pointy sting of the salt, or the shifting weight of the thickness of the underwater revelry. Water droplets slithered down his neck and spit onto his shoulder as he lifted to the cloudless sunny sky and gravity no longer played a role. Not a nimbus in sight, nor even the fain paint brushes of the hint or beginnings of a cloud. The first sound he could here was faint laughter. Then, the seagulls. Then, the waves crashing. As upcoming current and following wave swallowed him back under, he took the outside world, the sound of the kids on the beach, the seagulls, and wave hitting rock, under the sea, this time muffling, distorted, echoing the above world of life, causing the laughter from the beach to sizzle out into deep whispering. The misty foam shaking against the rocky surface caught up with him, along with a flotsam of seaweed mixed with oak wood bark from an abandoned sail boat berth, to the west of the shore. It was coming apart as each wave enveloped it's tiny pale frame. The pieces of the boat and seaweed swam past him like some odd strange pale sea urchin, skimming and hunting the tops of water. All of this beauty, now in his sight, awaiting for him to take in, walk on, lie on, love and even consume. The sound of children laughing filled his ears. It was a complete sound. Full. Whole. And heart warming. Not a bunk breath in their beings. His face filled with a blood red glow. Life was at hand. A beach full of sun bathers, kite flyers, boogie boarders, painters with thick beards and round happy bellies and brushes as round and thick, that used sandy mediums and giggling cute, castle construction workers the size of tall and round Lilliputians played along the beach under the antemeridian hours of, what seemed like Les's first day in heaven. Or perhaps he had survived and this was merely a beach of some shore of his old continent, maybe a distant land, perhaps an Island off the shores of Puerto Rico. It could be anywhere. He had no idea where the factor had sent him. Les duct under an approaching wall of water, like a yellow belly snake he sank his head in first and then followed by his tail end, shwaash, the waved spilled over him, then another and another after that, he was under for some time, then up, he stuck his head above water for a few bits and the laughter and giggling beach entered his head and warmed him up, then another wave, Les dodged the next over passing wave, and the next, and as he did he carried the laughing, the rasping of the kites and the giggle kids playing in circles, beneath the wave with him. It was as if the entire family of beach peers duct under the water with him and continued playing submerged. Their voices muffled, raspy, and shallow out. Les emerged and swam toward the golden beach not but a hundred yards from it's safety, not a but a few strokes before he could finally rest and lie under the milky, warm jonquil sky, and the floating orange above. And then a wonderful thought landed in the center of his brain. He survived the experiment. He survived the strange factory, the quad, the UFO, the crazy hurricane, the urge to down the cyanide capsule, or drown, or lose sight of his future, or the fear of being a lost rat in a complex maze of science, crackers and cheese. He was maybe a hundred yards from the shore. He began to kick his feet, point his toes and freestyle toward the childlike laughter. His freestyle stroke was not bad since the last time he had gone swimming was a year ago. Elbow bent, arm under the belly, under the torso, and over again and over again and over again. Elbow bent, arm under the torso. . .he could here his swimming coach echo in the faraway chambers of his mind. The ol thick gal with the soft skin, flabby firm arms and the manly voice, from his old university. She was right there with him instructing along the way, as he inched his way over the climbing waves and the watery, crashing sounds of the ocean hitting shore. He was free styling toward the beach. He was young again. Full of breath. He was alive. Taking in air. Heart racing. A wave swamped him but he did not fret. No fear. He had taking boogie board lessons as a young child when he visited Saint Martin and remembered to dive under the wave if it were to topple over. Go under it, let it pass and then swim before the next one takes you into the corral. It was that ol voice again. He ducked under the wave and let it's thundering crash pass him. He returned to the surface of the water and cut through it with all his might. He peeped down into the ocean water and viewed the sandy, shell covered bottom. The corral was passed him. He was near the shallow end. Near the shore. His feet touched sand and he began to wade his way to the beginnings of the shoreline. The shuffling sound of water hitting his hips arose. The swooshing and hissing sound of saltwater falling from man and hitting the top surface of the water. He was going to make it. No. He made it. He would soon be on dry land.

The rustling kite hanging above the beach line, had an image, or small icon, of the world printed on the ruffling nylon cover, in crayon type drawings. It was a small world with its various parts, its many separate lands, and islands. The tectonics of the earth reminded Les of the a man's skull. The world once shared one land. The previous separated continents drifted apart and scattered floating on the magma below. The once Pangaea now broken apart into many sections reminded him of the structure of a man's skull. God only knew what section Peter had washed up on. What part of the world was he in now? What part of the skull he was he standing on, now? The same progression occurred in the human skull. The similar type of forming. A healing and breaking apart. This caused the universe to grow. The world would never have existed with an violent explosion, separated it's various parts which everyman associate as the whole. That is what the world reminded Les Genes of. A human skull, and in the center, all of its sharks, valleys, pastorals, it's green teas and lemons, and fields of melons, art work hanging in underground museums, cheap or expensive cigarette smoke in small rooms with cobwebbed invested ceilings, and tropical veins, and cobras and heated passionate lovers along the bank of the Versailles, all the city of lights, and long vainly entrenched highways, and the millions of byways, laced in long veins through out our world, all the reasonable objects and absurd corners, and hearts, and hearts of men, pumping and rushing the blood through a system, and countries making agreement over satellites and beds bouncing to the rhythm of pleasure, and dogs barking in backyards at runaway stray cats, and the thousand of concrete libraries holding all the ideas and theories, stories and histories of man, were mere thoughts. Thoughts inside the watery skull, the blood filled mind of man. Thoughts inside the skull known as the world. Thoughts were what we see when we wake up. All materials were merely thoughts stored away like saved documents, to latter return to. You are a mere thought. Les thought looking at the smiling boy in Nike swimming trunks and oversized tennis shoes. The kite whispered over Les's head and he formed a standardized smile. He was back on what seemed to be earth. Or was it mere thoughts? Thoughts from who? Les looked up and peered into the ice blue sky. Nothing answered back but the call of a wild seagull.

Meanwhile, George popped in a new disk as the computer main frame began to smoke. "Its too much. Its too much info. Its frying the hard drive. Will need more space." "CALM DOWN. ITS NOT THE END OF THE WORLD GEORGE." The petite man screamed putting the coffee pot on the single burner. "Did you feel that?" George probed. A serge of static electricity filled the room. And then whiteness. Pure blank and blinding whiteness smothered over them and carried the control room away.

III

Story three: The Lady from Long Beach.

Day one. 12-24-00.

Queen Mary she's my friend.

I want to see her again.—Bob Dylan.

I have arrived in Long Beach. It's hot out. It's around Christmas time. December 24th in the new millennium. The people at the front desk at The Paradise Garden apartment complex are chipper. There is one lady with red hair answering phones. She seemed clear headed. The other lady has brunette hair and has a body to die for. She looks a little Italian. The land lord, or the head of the office, is a husky man, most likely Italian decent. He doesn't have an accent but looks like he is from Philly or New Jersey or somewhere north east. He seems nice. The whole place does. There is a fairly large swimming pool, it has a deep end and I there is a work out facility under the main office. It has a treadmill, and one of those universal machine weight things. My apartment is not that big. It has one Murphy bed, a small kitchenette with electric stove, oven and a sink (with garbage disposal.) The bathroom is very small. One toilette and shower. Also, there is a vanity mirror with a sliding closet door. Surprisingly, there is a lot of closet space. I checked out the surrounded area. Luckily, there is a 24 hour fitness. I have become a member. Gave them my Chase card and I'll begin working out tonight after I apply for a few jobs. I'm thinking about hitting a few restaurants in Santa Monica. Also, there is a Barnes and Noble. I'll apply there and look up some talent agencies in the area. Hopefully, I'll be on NBC in a few weeks. I'm still moving in, boxes are in my place, and I'll have to unload all my appliances and stuff. I haven't got a TV yet but I brought my small jam box. Tonight I'll have a few power bars, do my sit up routine and read an entire copy of Back Stage West. Not to exciting huh. I plan to visit Hollywood in a few days.

Day two

12-26-03

Day after Christmas. I didn't call home for Christmas but I sent out a few cards and called my Memar in North Richland Hill, Texas. I have just graduated from U.N.T. with honors. I received a national golden key award and was put in the 2000 National Dean's List society. My favorite subjects were drama and English. I came out to Long Beach to break into Hollywood. I hope it works. Its funny being here. Palm trees everywhere, there is an airport not far from the complex and my mother works for American Airlines so I get flight benefits. I'm a D3. That means I fly standby. Being a D3 has provided many opportunities to travel. I've been allover. France's Paris, Normandy, and other small cute towns near Belgium. I've been to Czech republic and even performed on stage in the great theatre town of Brno. It was, at the time, having a sexual revolution. I got a chance to drink Absinth( wormwood.) I've been writing before college. I started writing seriously when I was in High school and tripped onto stage, where I found a love for acting. I played all types of characters. Ben Gant in Look Homeward Angel, Boo in the Marriage of Bette and Boo and the pilot in The Good Women of Szechwan. I thought I'd have to go to junior college before college, but I didn't. I got a scholarship in Drama at Texas Wesleyan University and acted for three years there. I played Stanley in Street Car and even got to tour with a children show called the Menaechmus Brothers. I flipped out at around twenty one. I think someone slipped a micky in my drink. I was coming back from a gay bar in Dallas called the Village. I'm not Gay but I was playing a gay character in Heidi Chronicles and I wanted to study the gay lifestyle. A few weeks after visiting the Village I fell into a psychosis. I was acting funny ever since I started studying homosexual. I forgot my name, and seem to float around campus in a hypnotic state, waving at people. I tried to run off after my parents enrolled me into Charter. I jumped the fence and ran from the hospital. Some cops picked me up on the shoulder of the highway and returned me to Charter but I convinced my aunt to take me to a vegetarian restaurant before putting me back in the mental hospital. I told her, "I have some coupons to a veg restaurant but I have to get them at my dorm." She, being naive and she drank evian, so she decided to drop me. I ran up to my dorm and searched for my keys. I was not allowed in the room so I had to get the RA to let me. He let me in and I found my keys near my typewriter. He was watching me like a hawk so I picked up library book, The Biography of Bertrand Russel, and dropped it at his feet. Of coarse he bent over to pick it up and I ran passed, stuck the keys in my ignition as he tried to rip them out and I bit him on the arm. He screamed and I drove off and ran out of gas in Missouri. I stopped along the way to steal gas, dine on chips and water at Mexican food restaurants and later dug out of the trash at Taco Bells to survive. After a week of living on the street I called my mother and she and my step father fly up to drive the car back and fly me to HEB mental ward. HEB was hell. I spent weeks there taking respiradal, halodall, lithium tabs and so on. I was diagnosed with every mental illness, even shizophrenia. I had it all. Bi-polar, mania, depression, OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) and so on. I finally gave up on all mental illness and quit believing in sickness. It was killing me. Not the sickness, but the belief in the sickness. I don't believe in mental illness or sickness period. I started reading up on Christian Science and realized that illness and suffering is brought on by the believer. Its all about believe in the end. Anyway, I don't have time to give you all the details journal but I figured it would be important to let you know why I'm out here. I may be crazy but at least I know that I have a dream. Having a dream can cause sanity. Its fun to be out here in Long Beach. I haven't met anyone yet, but I'm nice to my land owner and I found an acting class in Back Stage West. I'll keep in touch. One play I had constructed a costume design for was entitled The Imaginary Invalid. It's written by Moliere. Most likely I am a hypochondriac. I'm not saying that I am but I could be overacting. I heard Howard Hughes (being OCD) wrote a book to his mail man on how to deliver mail and use to eat fudge by the pound and only eat from the center of the desert and toss the remaining away. Got I have so much on my mind. There is a Howard Hughes Aviation center off the highway near UCLA.

Day three

12-29-03

At the gym I've been watching KERA and the hunting methods of wild tribes in North Africa have caught my attention. Hunting is something my father and I did. I was much younger. We mostly hunted wild dear, boar and turkey. Dad taught me how to call turkey. I could really do it well when I was twelve, my voice had not changed back then. I could really call them. Flocks would show up. I could only mimic the call of a hen. I knew the come back call. That is an emergency call. It signals the other turkeys to come back and around to protect the gobblers and mother hen. Its ten long squeals spaced in between just right. It takes incredible rhythm. I could really do it. The ol turkeys would ran away from dad shot gun blast and I sit under his tree, on a log, and call them back. The poor things would come running right into his pellet fire. They say that complex languages are built from these hunting methods. I called a guy name Ruskin for acting class. He studied with Sandy Meisner. He has a cute little school located near a small airport in some town off the highway. Not too far from LA.

I'm thinking about setting up an interview with him. The school meets to times a week. It's called Ruskin School of Acting. I'm glad to document my struggles in Long Beach and my suffering I must endure as an actor. KERA announcer, for the hunting ritual show and the documentary footage of Africa, and modern man's DNA code, its an interesting educational program. Anyways, the program narrator quoted a great writer in saying, "One man's journey is everyone's story." I'll keep in touch journal.

Day four 12-30-00.

Journal. How are you? I've been thinking about abortion lately. Before I left to LA from Denton I was dating this wild red headed actress from AMDA. She was acting at an old theatre my good ol drama teacher opened. Her name was Vic Storms. We made love a few times. She was good in bed too, but our relationship did not work out. We should of not had sex. I was safe. I used a condom. She said it broke one evening and told me she was late a few weeks later. Anyway, I met a younger girl who was studying scene design and costuming. She was the one with the Fleetwood Mac song for the first name. Nice young lady. Anyway we started camping and dating and fell apart from Vic. It wasn't long until she called me and told me she had become pregnant. I told her, "I don't believe you." Little did I know she was seeing a new man at the restaurant she was working in. She kept telling me, "I'm pregnant." How did I know she was really pregnant. How do I know she wasn't fibbing. Making it up. Or how do I know it was even mine. I didn't see any blood test and I didn't see any pregnancy test.

1-01-01

New Years was lonely. No beer. No wine. Nothing. I watched the skyline from my balcony. I haven't go a TV yet.

1-02-01

I haven't been eating correctly. Only dates, power bars and dry foods. I have lost my desire to cook and I hate fast foods, so I've been turning to nutritional bars. They are most likely to high in sugars so I've gain a little weight. My ideal weight is one hundred in fifty and I am around one fifty three. I'm a perfectionist so I have three pounds to drop. I have found a running trial near the aqueducts behind the complex. So, I've been getting up at around 7AM and running until 8AM. Sometimes I run longer. One morning I ran for two hours straight. I just put on my headphones and listening to the Los Angeles Phil Harmonic or the Rock station or switched the station, listening to various artist, from Duran Duran to Metallica to New Order and Back to Beethoven and Bach. I don't feel good. My legs are always tired and I'm over exercised. Sometimes I'll go to twenty four hour fitness and work out for two or three hours. Stretching, doing yoga, lifting weights and so on. I recently went to an audition for Al Charlens Shakespeare company in the hills of Cala Basis. I was accepted into the troop and cast as Starveling in a Mid Summer Nights Dream. I'm going to take it. They are a small group and they perform in parks through out L.A. Most are inspiring actors and many of the actors want to do film work and television. I can identify with them. Oh, I forgot to tell you about my new car. My sister lent it to me. It's a 1998 Camaro. Leased. Brand spanking new. It even has a CD player. It hauls, so I can keep up with the fast pace L.A. traffic.

1-12-01

I totaled the car. I was coming back from Rehearsals and I made a wrong turn across a four way stop. Actually I pulled into incoming traffic. I was starving for the role and wasn't paying attention to the light signals. I thought a had a green arrow and it was a green light. So I ran a red arrow. Shit. The car right side is completely smashed in. I got hit by some blond muscle guy on a Harley and Davidson. He had some blond chic on the back. They both flew off the bike and landed in the intersection. I thought the Harley dude was going to beat me up but he just told me, "Head out of your ass man." I was humiliated. One of the mechanicals, Snug, was at a Mobile across the street filling up his gas tank. He walked over and stuck his head in the passenger window of the smashed Camaro, "Are you ok." Snug asked me. I forgot the actor's name. I told him everything was ok and pulled the car to the side of the road. I did not see the motorcycle. Good news I found a acting class in the Hollywood Hills. This might work out. I might land a commercial or a film or something. The lady is really nice that teaches the class. She was in Pee Wee Herman's Big Adventure. She played Samoan. Anyway, I'm doing better. I have dropped the car off at a Insurance place to get appraised. The appraiser told me it would cost a few thousands to repair the side. It's being worked on a the present moment. I have used a credit car to get into a Rental car. It's all or nothing now. Right now, I'm driving a Acura. It really picks up and goes. It's nicer than the Camaro. Faster too.

1-13-01

I smashed the Acura in an underground parking garage. I was backing up after a job interview for Barnes and Nobles and hit the back left side. Damn it. I have to take the Acura in. Luckily, I signed on for rental insurance. So, the car is insured. They are currently fixing it. Now, I have a new rental car. It's a Honda Accord, but I'm taking it back.

1-14-01

I've traded the Honda in for a Ford Focus. The ford is more my style. Its got large front windows and their wide windows. It allows the driver more eye lines. I can really see all around me while I'm driving. The car has the eye line a helicopter would have. Its neat. It has a CD player and a really nifty air conditioner. It cools you off quickly. It's a hatchback and I have plenty of room for storage space in the back. I don't need storage space, but I will when I move into L.A. I'll have the car for about a month. Oh and it gets wonderful gas mileage. Tomorrow I have an audition with an agent that is housed in the WB studios, or that's where her office is. And the next day after that I have a meeting with a manager in Santa Monica. Her name is Cat. Oh, I have landed a manager in Scream Management but I don't feel good about there business. They seem sneaky and I've hear bad things about them. Oh, and guess what. I got a really cool job. I'm working for Go-Between in Beverley hills off of Robertson blvd. Where Robertson intersects with Whitworth. 1100 Robertsons. The manager looks like John Malkovich and talks like him too. It's a tough job. I do much running around. Building to building, dropping off packages, scripts and messages. Sometimes I receive odd shape boxes and sometimes when you shake them they make funny beeping noises: black boxes, with gold ribbons that look like a bomb would be implanted in the center. Sometimes I get heart shaped boxes, or baskets with teddy bears in it, or a log cigar box that smells like Hash. Hash brown of coarse. The sizes and shapes are endless in texture and form. It's a varieties of flavors, noises and messages tagged to the top. To CCA, To 20th Century Fox, To Ellen Burstyn, To Coen Brothers and never stopped. No stop fame in every direction. Sometimes the boxes were a simple message to a production crew, or a new arriving script or pay check. I'd go everywhere in town to drop them off. Sometimes at front doors of houses in Beverly Hills, or buildings in Century City or resort houses in the mountains of Malabou or the beaches of Venice. One time I received Rolly Ringwald's pay check and even had a chance to drop of a package for Ellen Burstyn but I got address mix up. I was supposed to drop her package at an agents office in North Hollywood, but I read the wrong box label, got the two mixed up, and thought it was a house Malibu Lagoon. Anyway, Go-Between fired me because I messed up on my third delivery. Perhaps I ate too much while driving or didn't eat enough. I don't know what caused me to goof the deliveries. I needed a CB radio in the car, but I only had a beeper with screen and cell phone to communicate with. That's what the black gentlemen, Tom Snout told me. He also wanted to run off to New York to study and do stage plays. "They'd respect us more if we ran off to New York to study acting." I told Snout.

The cell calls alone where killing me. So, they let me go. I should of but a radio transmitter for the car. I would of done much better. I wanted to save the twenty box to have one installed. If I ever do it again I'll get a transmitter.

01-18-01

The smog here is beyond belief. You have to scrap the gook off your windshield with a razor blade in order to clear the mess away. The highways are always congested. Bumper to bumper traffic. The radio stations are awesome. There is an alternative station. 94.9 or something like that. They play only original works, punk music, and songs by R.E.M., the cure and David Bowie. They are my favorite. Class is cool with Salinger. She has us free associate to find the lines and their true intentions. Salinger is more concern with what is underneath the written word rather than the word itself. She likes for us to go on Jazz Riffs during rehearsals. A jazz riff is like a sporadic improvisation on top of the written text. A jazz riff is spontaneous. Its personalized or made up dialogue that simply comes out randomly without thinking over the meanings of the text. It is applying your life along side the texts life. We 'jazz riff' to take the script and the words to a more personalized level. After emotion arrives, from doing the jazz riff, then, the actor goes into the lines of text. This style of acting is primarily for film, and it really brings you closer to the text, in a personalized way. For example, if I am playing Oswald from Ibsen's Ghosts I would start off memorizing all the lines, then in rehearsal I would begin speaking the text and jump off the page and into my own words. Ok Oswald my go into his "The passion of life" speech. Before getting it completely across you would side step and begin speaking your own passions of life and not Oswald. Oswald is only words on paper. It is a figment created by the playwright. You are real. This is what Diane Salinger was teaching us. We, the actors, the class, the student, are real. We don't need the text to survive in our art, we need ourselves, our own lives. So I would begin riffing on my life. "God why did my car have to get hit by a Harley. And why did my puppy dog have to die when I was seven years old. And why did girlfriend break up with me" and on and on. Also, she had us riff about Apples, Oranges and Bananas. We would say, "I need apples, I need oranges and I need Bananas" until emotion arrived and then we go into the text of Ibsen, or Williams or Mamet. It was really personal and broke into your boundaries. I got choked up one class and burst into tears. The lady knows how to teach acting. She studied with Stella Adler when Stella was teaching in New York. I'm was so excited to get to work with her. I'll keep in touch Journal. Later. O.H. P.S. They are thinking about making a movie about our class. There are five women and five men in the class.

Rease is from Mississippi and went to college there. He is a southerner so has a big appetite. He is mostly muscle and is very hansom. He has good comic timing and is a great monologue-ist. Charley is from California. He is very thin and has a cat face. He seems a slight effeminate. I have not asked him if he is gay. He asked to play my boyfriend in some future film he wanted to concoct. So, I figure he is on the dandy side. I do not hold it against him. I support the gay community. I was writing a script called 40 lines Long about a poet that passes out behind a bar in L.A. and wakes up in New York. It's a adventure story including poetry and hustling. Holly is the beauty of the class. She is prettier than Julia Roberts and has a good soul. She is always shining in the face and seems so happy. She is a dedicated actress but has much to learn about life. She is slightly naïve. Experience would do her good. Leona Smalls. She is the Kathy Bates of the group. Big bone, large blue eyes and full of energy. She can be funny and a little overdramatic. So overdramatic she comes off hilarious. She is good natured and is well read. She use to be a dancer for the Hollywood bowl and once dance with a famous dancer. Unfortunately she had a motorbike wreck and fell into trauma with her arm. She had surgery and had to have skin removed from her buttocks to replace the missing skin on her forearm. She survived the surgery and is doing well. The accident with Smalls happen far before I arrived. Promise is very charming and real. She has a rawness and a gritty reality to her performances. She mostly does original work. She is a spitting image to the young blond girl in Shy People. The rest of the actors are very good looking and pretty hard workers. They all have a type of method style that is perfect for the camera. I can't wait to get back to class. Originally the class was in a small office building off of Nemo street between Santa Monica Blvd and Sunset Blvd. Right now the class is held off of Mulholland drive at Salinger's and Tom's house. Tom had one an Oscar for editing Witness back in the day. Salinger's class is moving closer to Hollywood. Diane wants to open a studio off of Melrose. The new studio is going to be a loft on top of one of those incense and Asian antique shop. I'll keep in touch.

1-20-01

I got really hungry the other day. My mother sent me a crock pot so I've been eating nothing but black beans and tomatoes. Every once and awhile I'll try some rice but I'm watching my carbohydrates. Trying that Atkins diet. I don't think it works. Many actors are trying the diet our here. I don't believe in diets anymore. If you eat too much you get fat. If you eat too little you decrease in size. Its about balance. That's what Buddha teachings. I've been studying the Tao and reading up on Zen. I bought that new English version of the Tao Te Ching. I like how it says, "Act without doing, work without effort. Thik of the small as large and the few as many. Confront the difficult while it is still easy; accomplish the great task by a series of small acts. The master never reaches for the great; thus she achieves greatness. When she runs into a difficulty, she stops and gives herself to it. She doesn't cling to her own comfort; thus problems are no problems for her." What I've learned from this statement, or wise words, is that you must struggle in order to succeed. With out struggle there is no progression.

've been jogging every other day and working out on the gym machines and work out facilities at 24 hour fitness. Its hard work but it's worth the energy I put in to it. I'm making myself far more profitable than the others. Its hard to make your body, mind and being more profitable. It takes work, pain, sweat and patience. Patience and persistence is the key to good acting. I'm trying to get where I'll jog everyday but that takes food and food is money and exercise is time and that creates a whirlwind. I must balance my exercise. I went two days with no food. Nothing but water and tea. When the third day came around I received some cash from my father. Two hundred dollars in an envelop with no letter, or note or message. That two days with out food really hurt me. But that is what I was willing to do to make it. He was mad at me for trying to break into Hollywood and moving to the Paradise Gardens. He hinted that I made a mistake for moving to Long Beach and not Los Angeles. Long Beach is a thirty minute drive to Hollywood, but thirty minutes away is better than a three day drive from DFW. I ran down to the store, HEB, and bought up some groceries. I was so hungry I lost control. I bought a package of dried pit-less dates, three ultimate protein bar, chocolate- chocolate dream, a few Tru soy crispy soy bar peanut butter fudge, some slime fat meal options cranberry apples, and six Genisoy bars Dutch Crunch Sour Apple crisp. I met some girl in College that was on a special diet of protein bars. It seemed to do her good. So, I figured I get something sweet other than chocolate syrup and cappuccino ice cream. It didn't work. I gained ten pounds after a few weeks. I got to find a better diet. I'm now close to one fifty five pounds. My resume' says one fifty. Tomorrow I have an interview with WB. At least I'll look healthy for the frog. I'm only around one hundred and sixty pounds now. That is what I weighed in my freshman year in College . . .So I'm still proud. I'd rather be one hundred and fifty. I'm obsess over my weight all the time. Oh, I'm thinking about putting together a reel. A reel is a composite of all the actors work that he or she has done over his career. Its like a automatic audition. The reel speaks for it's self and acts as a selling agent for the actor. I'm going to use student films and old student videos. Videos my friends and I made in High School and College when we were studying filmmaking. Its all I got beside the college stage plays on VHS tape. I hope it works. Stay in touch.

1-22-00

I trained all day. The weather was cloudy. The wind was blowing and the palm trees swayed like ballet dancers. It was an artistic expression of nature. There is something mystic about the palm tree. It doesn't really rain in California like it did back home. It sprinkles here. The weather hardly ever changes. It is sunny all the time. Hence, sunshine state. I visited Santa Monica again and applied for work at a few restaurants. I also applied at two popular and fancy Santa Monica hotel's. I forgot their names. I walked the beach all morning. Joggers jogged by with sun on their faces and a blond beach queen was out walking her golden retriever. I didn't tell you but the first thing I did when I arrived was park my car before the pacific off of one of the beaches near Ocean One highway. I fell asleep in the car and woke up to the sound of crashing waves. I walked out on a peer and saw a family of dolphins playing. I stuck my toes in the water and walked around, ankle high. Then, I accidentally fell in. My pants got wet and full of sand. I had to go in one of those johns in the center of the beach. Luckily they had a hand dryer and I got to dry my cloths. I lucked out. I'll keep in touch. Boy that beach is one of the most beautiful places in the world. There is nothing more pretty then the cliff shores of Santa Monica. I've been lonely driving around agency to agency, audition to audition. Oh, I forgot to tell ya. I landed the Mid Summer Night's Dream gig. I'm starveling. I started research immediately. I haven't eaten anything in forty eight hours. I went out and bought a tape measuring since he is a starving tailor and all. Anyways, I'll tell you how rehearsals are going. The play will go up in one month. Something about February is magical.

1-26-00

I landed a commercial for Lexus automobiles. I met the boy who could fly guy. The one in that Walt Disney Film. The one about the boy who flies off his ruff with the gal. Love story. When we were being catered I only ate a salad and he asked me, "Are you on some special diet." He pigged out on cheese cake and some Italian dish and hogged all the attention. I found his eating habits repulsive but his character and speech was a bit charming. I guess he was ok for a movie star. The entire shoot lasted all day. Ten hours or more. We spent the whole day walking up and down stair cases to some giant stadium. Also, we cheered in the stands, pretending as if we were at a ball game. It was the same stadium the Rolling stones played at back in the day. Rumor had it they had shot gladiator films back in the early days of Hollywood. By the end of the day I was invited to go to a party with Jeff Goldbloom.

1-28-00

Things don't look that good. Bad feeling. I may have to go home a teach for awhile to pay back the debt I'm building on all five of my credit cards, plus my Mobil gas card.

I must be over my head five thousand in dough.

1-30-00

My father beat me. He beat me and my sister with great force. He was a hateful, jealous man, full of gas (farts that smelled like dead skunks). He was the type to pull up to Jack N the Box and order six tacos and fries with a vanilla malt and steal my and sister's fries. He could not get enough food in his system. Even today, the man is strung out on pain killers and hard liquor. He runs a wine establishment. Even today he fills up on what he calls, "Three square" meals a day. He has to stuff himself breakfast, lunch and dinner and snack through out the day. My grandmother, Memar, is not thrilled that he has started such a establishment. Its basically a liquor store. WE call it a wine establishment as a white wash to cover up the true intention of the place. I place to go to buy a product to get you a slight wine buzz, vodka high, chilled of wine coolers or drunk on beer, booze or hard liquor. The man can not go more than an a few minutes with out food. I feel sorry for him. I wish he could go longer, and I wish he had limits. He doesn't. And this abuse has created holes in my sister and my heads. We have been afflicted. My sister is a Nurse in the ER. I think know she works in critical or something similar to critical. She has gained a lot of weight and I have to exercise non-stop to kick this heroin like addiction I have toward stuffing myself. I'm an actor so it's harder on me. The business of showbiz judges on how you look and act. Behavior is determined by what you eat. Your actions sometimes are effected by what you put in your mouth. I use to starve myself and my mother and one of my cousin studying film, thinks I have anorexia. I don't think this. I eat, I just deprive myself so I can match what my father let us do as young children. Or encouraged us to do. Father needed us to pig along side of him. He was horrible guidance and was not a good roll model. He is very obese and this makes me very sad. I wish he could lose the weight but unfortunately he has polio. It will be very hard for him to decrease in size. I tell him to cut his fats and high carbohydrates foods. He lessened his bread intake and cut down on his sugars. Sugars are not good for you. I'm eating honey and wheat flakes as I write this. But is a half of handful of wheat flakes and only a few table spoons of raw Texas honey. I have nothing against food. I just have been tormented by my father and his abuse of food when I was younger. He used meth, (methamphetamine), crank, marijuana, and speed; and would lose the weight by going on speed rages. Surprisingly enough he did not drink that much when we were younger. I hear different know that he lost his refinery and works at the wine store. This would cause him to go into wild fits of rage and he would beat Teresa and I with a belt in the middle of the night and sometimes he would beat me with his fist. I would have to wake up and be forced to clean out my closet before him and until his high went down. I believe this caused my mental imbalance. I would rather die than have him help me recover. I will heal myself with the help of holistic centers and kind women. I remember waking up, after I was caught lifting a pack of Camels from my step mother, with my father's fist pounding on my face and forehead. He hit me so hard that school morning that I bled from the lip and nose. I begged him to stop hitting me and to let me go to school. My step mother asked him to stop and he backed off a bit. I'm glade I ran to Hollywood. I don't want to come back. I've been looking at UCLA. They have a wonderful theatre department. Also, I've been checking out the new school ASDS program. If they take me they'd make me great. Will see. I'll keep in touch. Oh, I drove by the Actor Studio West. It's beneath the sunset strip and right adjacent to The Comedy Store. I'll keep in touch. Over and out Journal.

P.S. Sometimes I feel like Luke Skywalker and my dad is Darth Vader. I feel like Long Beach is like Dagabo and New York is like some odd planet or the perhaps New York is like Degabi or however you spell Yoda's home planet. I need to learn to spell Yoda's home planet. I don't think spell check on my laptop has Dega whatever from Empire Strikes Back. I need to find my Yoda and he needs to train me well. Perhaps the Yoda is inside me.

2-21-00

Thursday. Two days before the Jim Carrey Shot in Hollywood. I got arrested. I found a job in Back Stage West in the Day Time Job section. Hiring Actors. Yeah right. It advertised, TELEMARKETING FOR ACTORS. The place was off of Van Nuys or in that area. It was some six floor building. Trashy. The main guy there was a down and out loser from Loserville. He helped me write up the script and tricked me into believing his job was legit. I ended up printing out a four hundred or so flyers for the Police and Sheriff support fund. Here is an example of the script I wrote up to pitch to other people:

Community policing reduces crime and fear while restoring a sense of order. It rebuilds the bond between citizens and government.

Police officers and sheriffs deputies, as public servants who interact with citizens on a daily basis, have a unique opportunity to demonstrate the importance of citizen involvement in the community. In turn, they also realize that their authority and effectiveness are linked directly to the support they receive from citizens.

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The Long Beach police set up a sting operation to have me arrested. It was entrapment. That is the hard cold truth. I didn't know the job was bunk. So, what I did was made out a script. How this is Cole from the Police and Sheriff support fund. This organization is designed to help the community unite with our Police and Sheriff. The organization has an annual that is full of advertisement space they may be profitable to your business. Would you like to place an add. And yadayayadya. That fat ass Long Beach undercover police unit handed me five hundred dollars at a local bar off of 2nd avenue called The Acalpolco Inn. Where the customer is always wrong. Yeah right. I called my Memar and she bailed me out after seventeen hours of pure hell. Boy, did I deserve that. What a bunch of yanks. I am deciding to leave but I have to face the judge. He may give me hard labor. On the ticket it says I was arrested for False Charity. Like I made up the support fund and shit. This is a clear case of negligence on the part of Long Beach Police. I want to return with a lawyer and fight the case. But guess what? That would cost money and how many struggling actors have dough to come up with a great lawyer to fight them. I know one great lawyer back home in Texas.

They put me on three year probation. I can return after three years and the case will be less threatening against me. That is if I get caught in speeding or what not, I won't be as sever. That means I will not be able to return until 2003 February. Perhaps I should go to New York. I'd learn more about life there then this fake place. Everything is artificial here, but emptiness jibes with outsiders like myself.

Oh, I got bailed out in time to make the Majestic film with Jim Carrey. I'm supposed to play the theatre patron. I'm glad Memar bailed me out in time. I was supposed to stay over until Monday. It is Friday now.

2-22-00

Saturday Morning.

Good news. I'm out. My bailsman dropped me off at a cute little stand near the pound. I bought a basket of fruit. It included dried apricots, cranberries, dried apples and dates. I ate it up and headed for the car. I called LAPD and asked them about the Police and Sheriff support fund. Then, I called the Los Angeles news paper and gave a reporter my full name and told him about the false arrest and the illegal behavior of the Long Beach Police. Arresting some one on false pretense is illegal. The newspaper reporter told me they were too busy dealing with crime filtering into the LAPD. The reporter told me internal affairs was dealing with a case concerning a young Hispanic kid and drugs planted on him buy the L.A.P.D police drug enforcement. Supposedly, a segment of the L.A.P.D. is dirty and the reporter was too rapped up in the case to turn over to the Long Beach police. He told me to call the Newspaper in Long Beach and report the crude behavior shown by the police. I did not mentioned that they had police dogs smelling me, and they frisked and cuffed me wrong. One of the first thing one of the Long Beach police officers said to me was, "At least you didn't get arrested for prostitution." Why would he mention prostitution. Also, one of the undercover police officer asked me, "Was I a good actor." He wanted me to critique his acting job he tried to perform in the Acapulco Lounge off of 2nd street in Long Beach. So, this fat undercover cop wanted me to critique his acting, hand cuffed me wrong and told me I was lucky I wasn't arrested for prostitution. All his actions had intentions and the intentions were dirty and illegal. I would not be surprised that many of those officer's are off the force and on drugs. I am not impressed by the behavior and the incompetence of the Long Beach Police Department. They do not know what law enforcement is all about. Next time I will be sure to follow every law and will especially watch the road signs. To be honest, I will stay far away from Long Beach and it's Queen Mary.

2-29-00

I got a job working for RhinoTEK. My court date is coming up concerning the Police and Sheriff support fund and False Charity. Some private dectetive visited me in jail. They wanted more info on the guys that had the annual. I got bailed out, grabbed my leather jacket and headed back over to Van Nuys to talk with the sneaks. I asked them for an annual so I would have proof that they were skilled liars and criminals at hand, and that I was fooled by them—I needed the annual to bring with me to court. I got an annual from them—everyman for themselves kind of thing and revealed it to the judge and my DA. (Defense lawyer) He may had seen that I had been tricked by a bunch of professional law breakers.

Rhinotek corporations is a welcoming place. My trainer, the one that trained us on the computers and how to pitch sells, is an x heroine addict. He kicked the drug years before and even told us he was still going to his probation officer. He almost became a world class Olympic down hill skier but he blew it all on dope. After trainng is up you get your own cubicle and a few phone books to call out to separate business. You make about eight or nine dollars an hour plus commission. My trainer told me if I listen to my manager or my team I would make a lot of money. My manager was an oriental goy who loved to slurp up Roman noodles. Also, he had a hot temper, but he kept it concealed. RhinoTek is full of raw characters like my trainer. R.T. corp. is laser printer factory. The factory basically takes old printer cartridges and revamps them into new working printing utensils. I called my dad to try to sell my first set of laser cartridges for a printer. He turned me down. They fired me a week later for not having a sell. The judge at Long Beach gave me twenty eight days Caltrans. That means I have to work on the side of the highway with a rake, or hoe for twenty eight days. Each Caltran day begins at eight in the morning and ends around four PM. It's a bitching day. We mostly cut down weeds, sweep up messes, collect bottles and pick up trash along side the highways of Long Beach. Most of the workers I work with are African American and most are pretty charming people. Some even sing and rap and they talk a lot. At times they are good company. Many or Hispanic and they usually speak Spanish so I can't really communicate much with them. The other white guys or even gals, or usually into drugs or have some type of mental problem. Most are criminal trying to work their way out of jail time. Caltrans will do that for you. If you have jail time and your crime is not that serious, like DWI, False Charity, Caught with possession of drugs and so on, you can choose Caltrans over putting your back against the wall. Work beats time.

2-20-00

I was out jogging and ran across some kid hauling ass across the street. The kid was some short blond kid that could of passed for Josh Harnets little brother. He was with some girlfriend and his litter brother. The oldest blond kid was around eleven. His younger brother was most likely around nine and the girl was probably twelve. I got on to the older brother for jay walking across a residential forty five mph passage road. It was a forty five mile per hour section. I told him, "Hey kid. Don't run across the road like that you understand." His little brother nodded his head like a good fellow and the girl seemed to understand. But the older kid was a hot head and ignored me. So I raised my voice, "HEY KID. DON'T CROSS THE ROAD LIKE THAT. ITS DANGEROUS TO DO THAT." He turned around at me and kept walking. He was scared. Stupid kid. I shook my head at him and was slightly embarrassed he was so scared. "Hey kid did you hear me. Don't run like that across the road." The kid looked at me. "Comprenda." I said. "Comprenda." He returned and then started shouted Spanish at me. He was most likely in junior high Spanish. "Don't be smart with me." I retorted. Then, he flipped me off with double birds. This means he stuck both middle fingers at me. And he did it the right way. "Ok. That's it." I said and walked quicker to him. He took off in a dead sprint. This kids going to be quite a runner when he grows older. He stopped in someone's front yard. I began to shake because I knew what I was going to have to do to him if he did not agree I was a man and I was stronger. "Do you understand." I said to him as he stood in the front yard scared shit-less. His eyes were wide and he looked weary. "Yes." "And what do you say to me after flipping me off like that." The kid apologized. "Don't do that again." I said. He shook his head and said, "I said I was sorry." Then, I said, losing my temper in the dead of the heat. The heat must of got to me. I was nearly out of water. I only took one bottle of water with me and I had sweated too much moisture out of me. I was overheated and most likely beginning the first stages of shock. I needed more water. Cool water. "I said I was sorry." The kid said and began to walk to the front door of the house. It was in a small suburban area in Long Beach. "Is that your house?" I asked hoping it wasn't it. I had lost my temper with the boy and I did not want his father to come out or his mother to call the police. People carry guns around here too. I was kind of scared. I was taking a risk getting on to this boy and his brother. Then, the girl snapped at me, "He said he was sorry." "Shut up." I said to her cutting her off. "I'm a man and you don't talk to me that way. You don't know who I am. No say your sorry." "I'm sorry" The kid was begging to get emotional and more fearful for his life. He began to inch his way to the door to the girls house. I guess it was her house. "Go on sorry. Get home sorry." I told him and turned around toward the side walk and began to make my way back down the passenger road. I was about two miles from my house. The ground had heated up and the heat was still hovering in waves. It gets hot around four or five in Texas due to the ground being heated by the sun, throughout the day. It takes time for the real heat to arise. You would think it would get hot at noon. But it is actually hotter during the later afternoon. The ground needs time to heat up and then the heat rises from the ground. When, I turned my back I twisted around because I thought I heard some one come out the front door. The kid was yanking his hands back down behind his back. He had flipped me off behind my back. "What did you just do mother fucker." I began to scare him by charging toward him. I was going to grab him by the back of his neck and make him yield to me. "What did you just do." I said rushing toward him. "Nothing. I'm sorry." "I know your sorry." I said to him. "Now get inside." The little boy and the girl followed him into the house. Once, they returned indoors I walked away to the passage road. I have a feeling the kid will not cross a residential road with out using the cross walk again.

That kid got a taste of the cycle of violence and abuse that I was force fed as a child. My father would of smacked me with the back of his hand several times until blood was drawn. I'm sorry that I had to hurt that kid. I'm doing my best to end this cycle of abuse. It grows down here in the south. Grows like wild fire.

I'm glad I got bailed out in time. I landed a small part in The Majestic. I got bailed out before the weekend so I can now be in the film. We start filming tomorrow morning at the Mannes Chinese Theater off of Hollywood boulevard. Jim Carrey's gonna show. I can't wait. I'm going to need a chiropractor. My neck hurts from laying on the floor in the jail cell. I had to use a toilette paper role as a pillow. I woke up to the sound of some television in an adjacent room. It was playing the old Love Boat theme. I was the only white guy in the cell. There must have been over five black guys and two of them were Original Gangster and one was the most annoying rapper I had ever talked to in my life. This guy was bouncing off the walls and trying to get me to improv with him. I told him when I got out I'd start rehearsals with him and perform the play I wrote Man 1 Man 2. I told him we could rehearse at Twenty Hour Fitness. When I got out I realized I was talking to stay alive. Maybe Jim will help me feel better. I can't believe I get a small part in his film. I'm theatre patron number whatever.

I met an Asian lady on a plane coming back from New York. It was when I was younger. Before I left for Long Beach. She was sexy and even gave me call to come see her up north. She was into setting up conventions and she wanted to start a literary magazine. We were talking about nutrition and various foreign foods. She told me, "They did this study with rats. They gave one cage of rats, the control group, a healthy portion of food on a daily and regular basis. The other cage of rats, the experimental group, hardly were giving any food and basically, they starved them." Then she swallowed a sip of water from her plastic cup and continued, "The starving rats lived much longer. Ironic huh." I agreed that in the populist group would have voted that the rats giving healthy portion on a regular bases would out live the starving rats, but life doesn't work that way. I have come to terms with food. Food is the fuse of life. The more you eat the shorter the fuse becomes. When the fuse runs out, Boom, your dead. Too much food, your dead. Too little, may keep the fuse ticking longer. At least according to the Oriental lady. But I talked this over with my mother. She opposed the Asian ladies few of the starving rats and the healthy fed rats. She believes the rats that are giving food on a daily basis and regularly will out live the starving rats. Now the questions lies in an open hand before me. It has not been closed. I have not found closure with the riddle of food and nutrition. Which rats live longer. The starving group or the one giving healthy amounts of food. I would like to guess that the rats giving healthy amounts of food on a regular basis would live longer. I don't know why the Oriental lady told me that the starving rats lived longer. I wish I knew. I think my mother is right. Food, on a regular basis will help you live a nutritional and healthy life. I'm starving now. If my career doesn't take off. If no one discovers me I will die. Thus, I better find a new career. Oh, guess what. I landed a play in Orange County. Amongst all this starving and hellish struggle I have been cast as Donavan in A House Divided at the Orange County Crazies. I guess I'll continue within this darkness. Even though death is before me, and starvation lies ahead, I will walk through it's valley. My will is stronger than the both ladies. Rather the rats starved or the rats were fed, the will of life beats them all out. I guess both ladies, the Oriental and my mother are both in the right. But the will beats out science. The will to live is the strongest force on earth, it's even stronger than the mighty waves of a hurricane.

3-12-00

Twelve days have gone by since I've contracted you last. How are you Journal. I figured since I'm not on a national syndicated show on TV or in some MGM film later to be a classic, I'd write out my story. I remember telling my mother, "I want to be a writer" at the age of twelve. Twelve seems to be a reoccurring number in this entry Mr. Journal. The Jim Carrey shoot was wild. It was called The Majestic. The shot I'm in was before the Mannes Chinese Theatre off of Hollywood Blvd. Its in the heart of Hollywood town. Where Jane's Mansfield was murdered and near the Roosevelt and not far from the Sunset strip. So, I go to the first location at some studio near Vine. I have my hair cut and I am told how to apply the grease to my hair. Grease in Hollywood is a savior to some. Especially to those that are suffering from malnutrition and can hide their breakage of hair due to a lack of Vitamin E and B and the lack of the taste of milk and honey. Also, I'm also suited up in a fancy nineteen forties attire at the present moment. It was like going back in time. Way back. To the forties or early dawn of the fifties. First day of shooting would be in a forty eight hours or so. Jim Carrey gave us an allnight shoot, ranging over fifteen hours including overtime and gold pay. I can't wait to absorb this and later find the time to write it all down. Hollywood has some kind of odd undercurrent. Its dark. Almost evil. Arrogant. Full of Pride and power. This energy radiates off the walls, of hotels, studios, trailers, costume rooms, the pavement, the side walks, the streets, the street signs of Vine, Santa Monica Blvd, Sunset Strip. It has the perfect little attitude, the perfect healthy roses planted in the perfect gardens along side the expensive Beverly Hill Hotels, and health food stores and small flowered fountains with the Greek God or the little boy peeing in the pool (Rip off of a French Statue near Notre Dame and the Luv.) Basically, when you boil the meat to the bone, Hollywood is bunk. Fake. Ridiculous. Over paid. Over rated. And ignorant. But in tiny corners and in small independent studios there is art. Some of the actors there live their life to act. So, I have to give it to one third of Hollywood. Its like finding diamonds in a pile of excrement. Like finding a gourmet meal in a green dumpster off of Tenth Street. Hollywood is decent at times. There are real artist there like Sean Pean, Robert Downey, Marlon Brando, John Malkovich (lives in France) and a few good directors like Francis Ford Copolla, Martin Scorsese (Lives in Manhattan) and many good artist are associated with Hollywood, being: Robert Denero, Gary Oldman and Dustin Hoffman. Most of these types are not Hollywood trash, or make overs, they are real actors that have been sucked into the arrogance and the powerful rage of Hollywood's need for money, it's unforgiving desire to exploit, taint and scar. Hollywood is not all sport cars, Mercedes, rich high society in Beverly Hills or Foreign Film makers saying MIT OUT sound. It has a good rap and a bad rap in the same instance. Its eclectic. It still makes you struggle even if you have a billion. There is not much peace in Hollywood. And not all of it's fake. So I sound contradictory huh. Well, I hate Hollywood as much as I love Hollywood. It is impossible to say Hollywood is just Ok. It's a place of extremes. The Hollywood actor doesn't not whimper, he shouts and cries for his work. The Broadway actor walks miles and strains physically to be seen. The Hollywood actor stretches his soul and his emotions so far that he wakes up in a pit of hell to beg God to take him back. The Hollywood actor has fallen and is wishing to fly, but has lost his or her wings and has to use a grappling hook to fling on top of a layered cloud to reach toward the heavens and pull his or her self up and to home. And that kind of situation takes much planning and skill. I know I'll have to leave. Go to New York. Act on stage, or write a book and then return home to recover, act on stage, and write another book. Writing seems to be a safe ground for me, when it is done gingerly and planned and at times it even finds a home when it is wild and spontaneous. To be honest the home of writing is its limitless. It is not a home if it has limits. The home of the writer is always breaking rules and tearing down the house of laws, and rebuilding a beauty of non conformity and originality. And sometimes it's my only way to express myself. Good, bad or genius, only you can decide. But it sometimes, the pen and it's childish world of exploration, is the only freedom and happiness I have. Its either that or lay on my back and watch reruns of Seinfield or pick up a book by Bertrand Russel or Stephen King and fight with my soul. All the action was in the energy I expending when I auditioned. West. All the action is in doing, no necessarily in writing. So why do I write? Why not do? Why not go back and audition. Try to be the next Harrison Ford? Why do I write? Why do I imagine my adventure rather than live it out? Why do I tell the story rather than become the story? Well, I'm scared shit-less. So why go on. Why do I have to be this coward. Why can't I build enough strength and return and take over. Because at this moment I don't have to. I would only want all that if I had to get it. Because, let me inform however wants to try it: becoming a star is the most scary, dark, enlightening, holy, evil and most exciting thing that can happen to a person. Do I really want it. I don't know, but how could I say no. How could you say no to becoming one of the most powerful people in the world. I'd be crazy to turn it down. Now, it's just about building strength and finding the braveness within. I didn't run a thousand miles, drive three thousand miles, fly five thousand miles, walk Manhattan five times in nine months for nothing. I didn't do all this just to write a book. I will make a movie, I will star in a movie, I will be on a television series. And I will when an Oscar. Now it is about patience and keeping to the little steps that will lead me up the staircase of success. The turtle wins in the end.

So leave me alone, and let me pass. I'm on my way.

What am I trying to say? Only you know. It is lost and found, and in the same instance. And maybe when I return to Hollywood my opinions will change. I can only suffer for so long until my family begins to crack. I love them too much to leave. Most out here that make it, had no family, had no love and had no warmth. That is why they deserve all the attention. I mean hell, look at the life of Charley Chaplin and tell me he didn't deserve the spot light. Hollywood is dangerous for a writer like myself.

It is easy to pull a writer into tinsel town. Its full of wonder and a full of plenty of room to express your story. It has so many mediums to tell the story. Film, video, music, stage and more. It has so many chances awaiting the actor or the writer. I believe the story is the center of it all. It is the center point of Hollywood. The story is how it all became.

3-22-00

I still haven't met anyone beside other actors and other peers in the business. I'm talking about a lover. My neighbor is moving. He is a black gentlemen that looks like the eye visor guy on Star Trek the next generation. He is nice. He has to move to another complex. He was on a cruise. His mother just died. I believe he was in his late thirties. He worked for a computer company. Its getting annoying here. People are playing basketball outside my door. I live on the second floor. The play is on. Mid Summer Nights dream is doing well. We are in late rehearsals. Yesterday we built the set and played basketball on the court. The basketball court is located on hill behind the theater. It is a small theatre on a windy road on the foot hills of Cala Basis. Its not far from where the Harley ran into my car. Al Charlens is a British actor that studied with the Royal Shakespeare Academy. He was in that World War film the Longest Day. The guy who is playing Oberon is a thin character. A great thinker and he has a good pair of chops. He has a wife and kids and cleans pools in his spare time. He has problems keeping down hamburgers. We were all eating hamburgers and left overs and he was out playing basket ball. He scarffed down a cheese burger and then ran into the bathroom and barfed it up. He is either balimic or gets overheated and nausiance easily. He is very thin and a quit skilled actor. The play is going well. The comic timing is on cue and Al has a very realistic tongue when it comes to verse. The women in the show are all hotties. There is not one that is flat chested or does not have curves. They are all hour shaped and with great personalities. I'm lucky to be in the cast. What I like best about it is that we get to perform at a park near some important Hollywood studios.

There are many actors that have ran across Al Charlens company. Some have even made it into Film in LA and Hollywood. Many have worked with great directors like Danny Devito, Ridley Scott, and Scorsese. Al and the company are nice and talented people. But I don't believe any are stars, any but me. I know it is my destiny to be a star. I just have to take the long road.

3-24-00

I bought another Back Stage West. I must of sent out over fifty headshots or more. I landed a new audition out in Orange County for a play called A House Divided.

I will go to the audition soon. I got hungry and ran out of money so I snuck down in the storage room of Paradise Gardens. It was full of lost items. People seem to go to this place and then run off. They leave behind many items. Items that have character. Old Chester drawers, coffee tables, coffee mugs with personality. Like a mug the odd shape, or a cup with a unique message on it. Like I Love Dad. Or a message that a person may have that is left behind or on the run, or lonely, or left out, or looking for something, or someone. Old photo albums with lost faces, and pictures of vacations to Disney World or the Red Wood forest, or photos of a man hiking in a desert and so on. I found a honey bear bottle of crusty honey and ate it up and became ill. It was that old processed shit so it made my stomach ache. I got over it over night.

I've been running more than ever. I feel very fit and in shape. I use the work out equipment in the Paradise Garden basement gym and swim occasionally in the pool. After I live I don't want to return to this apartment. The basket ball court is far too noisy and there are too many youths living here. They play there music far too loud and party all freakin night. Also, there are too many punk, pot heads and acid heads selling and using and all that. Some guy try to beat me up in the laundry room, but I acted my way out of it. I acted very angry and out of control and he left me along. Good news. I met a film maker in acting class. He help the teacher out on her house and gives her supplies off of Mulholland drive. We are hanging out lately and have talked about making my reel. I think we are going to do a shoot in Santa Monica. He knows Johnny Whitworth but calls him Johnny W. Johnny is a ex heroin addict that is on the brink of becoming a star. He was the sick kid in Rain Maker. Johnny W. Odd nick name. I wonder if there is a drug called W out here. Like X or something. I guess that is what people call him out here. He has a bad rep. The filmmakers name is Hans. He drives an old 914. He is from Germany and has a record of dealing and using drugs in Europe. He supposedly has gone clean. I hear he is doing film work too.

I will have to get up extra early tomorrow and jog. I have an audition coming up and a meting a manager in Malabo.

Paradise Gardens is a charming apartment complex. Nothing dolor about it but the required dollars for rent. A set of tennis courts, basket ball courts, work out facility, pool (cleanly and well sized) garden and tv room that could easily be transformed into a stage, attractive front desk attendants, interesting and charming tenants and the land lord knows an actor, in the complex, that is on The Sopranos. I have ideas about theatrics for the particular living orders.

4-20-00

Court happened. My defense lawyer told me to plea no contest. I did. I got 28 days and a two hundred dollar fine. Mom and my aunt from Albuquerque, New Mexico came to the judgment from the Long Beach Municipal Court. I was tried with False Charity. False Charity. Is there such a thing? It sounds ruthless. Anyway, I continued on in spirit. My defense lawyer asked me to continue acting and to keep safe. He said I could come back later with a lawyer and get the case dismissed. I think they should do research on me and come to reasoning, the Cole Spivey isn't a real criminal. He is simply struggling too hard. Anyway, I'm sad about it all. The prisoner were asked to come in. See, I got released on bail. They entered the court room in shackles. Most wore black. Few were crazy white guys and a few Hispanics. One black man had his belly overly stuffed and seemed in pain. He must of hid some of the oatmeal packets and made himself a feast before the court proceedings. Court was a long and tedious process. Finally it came for me to rise before the judge. He read the reasons why I was arrested and the charges of soliciting and false charity. I pleaded, "No contest." My aunt helped pay the fine and we all drove home. I was going to see my cousin in Torrence but I was feeling down. I had twenty eight days of hard labor approaching.

Mom came to visit Paradise Gardens and my place. After all she was helping me with food and rent.. She became sick. It was over jet flag. My mother use to be a model at a younger age so sometimes she takes in less food-but I don't think this was the reason for her illness. She suffers from OCD. She came over to the place in Long Beach. She told me, "I don't want you to be a star. I don't want you to be one. Is all this worth your soul?" I tried to take a vowel of silence. Then, she began hyperventilating and nearly passed out. It happened before dinner. She was upset because I would not quit. I wouldn't quit 24 hour fitness, I had no real job, she was helping me with rent and insurance and leasing my car and helping me with acting class and food—she couldn't take it much longer. I had to hold her, she was shaking and crying so bad. I made tofu, and documented my struggle on the video camera. Mom ate tofu and beans with me and we had some vegetarian pate'. (Veg past for pita bread.) We ate rice and visited my cousin Josh who works for Honda. My aunt came along, she found a penny near my steamer and said, "Maybe you'll get lucky." It seems my family is not that gung ho about me wanted to be a movie star. I guess it's far fetched and overdramatic. I thought it would have been great. I don't know now. What is a man if he gives up his soul for the world? There would be nothing left but earthly desires and anything from the earth is, in turn, and relevant to the needs of man, and nature, very much so, temporary. The soil, even though it regenerates ever other heart beat, is not forever. Only God is forever. I guess I left this place, this paradise Garden, for the sake of God.

I met a kind lady next door. At first my neighbor was a black gentlemen that had just lost his job. He went on a cruise with his gal and seemed like a well respective worker classman. He moved out after his mother died and left the place a vacancy. I began to worry. Hm. He was only in his mid thirties. A literature professor by the name of Lexus Peacock moved in. Her named reminded me of a name in an old novel written by one of the greats like Wilde, or Wolf. I was in my nightmare stages. She told me one evening I woke her up with a violent scream. She said I screamed random numbers like, "897643." At the time I was writing poetry based on bar codes, super market items and highway signs and passed sinful moments. I was just taking life into my head, sponging it in and out, dripping images on paper like a wild man. Venting. Screaming. Hollering at myself, spitting at my reflection in the mirror. Crying violently. Taking Ephedra and sleeping aids. I was doing sense memory exercises, masturbating like crazy (Every night. Sometimes twice a night.) mania at it's worst state. Many say I have a mental illness. I guess it would be worthless and phony to argue with them now. Lexus knocked on my door one afternoon. "Hello?" She said with beaming eyes and a blissful confident smile. She seemed brilliant. Her eyes told me. "I'm your neighbor. Nice to meet ya." She said trying to sound casual. I shook her hand and would of asked her in but I wasn't feeling good. "It's nice to meet you." I said. I told her I was an actor and I wrote some. I was working on my hundredth or so screen play in the past six years. I was also working on one one act play, a short story, a journal, and a novel and all at once. I was baking up treatments and visiting agency for talent, modeling and for literature. I was looking for an agency that would take me on as a writer and an actor. I wanted to belong to the literature and talent department. Today, I just feel like writing. I'm now composing this entire journal from the present moment of two thousand AD. I have let time age it, refine it and organize it for you. Age is the best organizer when it comes to telling a story. Strasberg believes you shouldn't recall a memory for stage work, unless seven years has past and the memory had had its time to plant, grow and take form in your library of moments, or recognition. This helps with storytelling as well. But acting is storytelling. Beside the acting lesson, Lexus was nice. I thought about asking her out. At the time I was working for the Music Center in Los Angeles. Soon, I the fiscal year would end and I would move on to the L.A. Phil Harmonic and sell season tickets to the Hollywood bowl. Lexus and I did not meet again until the day she would move out, just before summer.

So, our first date would be in mid June.

I had a dream. About the future. It was two thousand and three. I had returned from New York. I studied at ASDS in NYC. I arrived in Euless near the airport. Mother helped me get a place. I had no car. I ran to the grocery store in the middle of the night. I felt sheltered. Felt as if no one could see me. I would save up money from a Italian Restaurant named Porta Di Roma. I worked there for four months, I substitute taught in town, HEB school district. The dream persisted. I was trapped. Going in circles. Cleaning the carpet with my fingers like some deranged Howard Hughes. Eating dates by the pounds and slurping down honey. I had gained fifteen pounds. Fat was growing on me. The dream lead me to long jogs on ozone days. Hot days. Airplanes flying overhead. Choppers flying overhead. Hewey green helicopter. Hot. Hot. Like the desert. I was lost. In circles. Going home to Fort Worth, visiting mom, having dinner, petting her dogs, letting the puppy Lady Fox Craft, or what I named her clove lick me in the face. The dog was a half breed. A cross between German Shepard and Chow. Five dogs. My mother had five dogs in her house. The house was collecting dust, cob webs, mom got grumpy. There was a hump in her upper back, slight case of scoliosis, at her neck, a small tiny camel hump, "I noticed it when I got my hair cut short" mom told me. She had gotten old. Like a grandmother. Really old. I went through pictures of us when we were little. A photo of my sister and I, sitting before the Hurst house. The numbers 13 hung next to my sis and I. It was two numbers in our address. A small house. Red brick. Off of Hurst street. The address is still not clear in my recall. I know the number thirteen exist in small metal rusty gold letters, on a bracing column on the front porch. 1316. or 1213, or 1613, 4213, or 1342. I can't remember the exact numbers. I think its 1213. But I can't recall it now. I only can see the thirteen. Hanging next to us in a rusty gold. Maybe it was 1413. I think it was 4213. The photo is an old color one, old, very old, faded in a yellowy way. Sister is smiling and leaning toward me and I have this huge happy grin on my face. I was happy. Sis calls me, "Your not going to get any help from Earl." She informs me. She tries to talk me out of getting certified at the nearby college. She tells me mom ain't going to buy me a car. "I'm happy Cole. Get on SSI. Get on Social Security. Tell them your crazy. They'll help. They'll help you. You'll get money. Do it." "I'll sign the paper as fast as my pen can sign." What. She says back to me. What does that mean. Fast as my pen can sign. As fast as my hand can sign my john Hancock. I yell back in the phone. Sure I'll tell them I'm nuts. I'll take it now. This world has taken too much from me. Now they want me nuts. Deformed isn't enough. Now nuts. Now insane. Now I have to classified as disabled. A disability. And I helped disabled at the nearby school, as a sub, as a assistant teacher. Now I'm classified as their peers. The kids that laid on the ground, staring at the heavens, moaning, and groaning, and twisting in knotted pains and agony. Now I sign my name. Now I sign. I wrote a play about them. About the fear of the coffin and it's every oak wood part and it's frame and catafalque and it's shape and where it goes and why it goes there and what happens after our existence, or shell fades, and rots, and goes back to the soil and then oh yes, About the disabled kids. The kids I worked with that had spinal meningitis, cerebral palsy, autism, down syndrome, MHMR and other debilitating disorders. The kid I guided through physical education class, to help him swing a tennis racket taught me that persistence, even while against all odds, pays off. The kid still participated even though he did not fit in, or could not focus, or stand in line, or go with out three seconds or so with out screaming out as loud as possible.

And now I'm special. Okay. If that is what I have to admit to-I'll do it. Why not. I will have time to focus only on the story. What about skills? Work skills? What of acting? What about waiting tables. I guess I can do both. SSI and work. Perhaps I do have a slight mental disorder. Perhaps I'm a bit postal. Maybe I need assistance now and then. But once I land a good job, I'll drop the mad routine. So, Now I play disabled. Now, I have to suffer. Is this true or false. I use to not believe in sickness. You know, I still don't. I think some people, not all, may call upon sickness, as an aid. Virginia Wolf sure is hell did. Some say she was bi polar, some say schizophrenic, some believe her spirit was possessed. Some don't know. Supposedly before she died, she stopped eating, stopped contacting with public, talked in riddles and long complex phrases, heard strange voices and this disorder, this disability caused her to place rocks in her pockets and walk to the center of the rushing river and allow nature to drown her away, into the unknown, and out out brief candle and so on. Now, I have fallen. Now a shadow has fallen on me. And the public sees me as fit for aid for the insane. Oh, he's not an artist, not an artiste, or sane writer, he's like Burroughs, or one of those mad poets. Let him do he's junk and wither. Wither. What a perfect title for my Dream. Wither. The withering dream. Now, I sit here before a blank sheet of paper and knock out my madness. Now I let them nurture what I don't need nurtured. A life of words and ideas. A story that never ends, the persona of the story will shut off, and die as I lie to rest, but the story, the story of us all, the story told by you and as you read this told by others, and as you read this, told by eyes, moving from left to right, down a notch, left to right, left to right until the book is shut, and the reader opens his tongue, and the story, that has polluted him or enriched, escapes out like a garden snake exploring the soil of society, the open pit in the ground awaiting to be covered, rained upon, a shell to be buried in oak, or some other tree, a small house beneath the grass, laughingly growing to the sad worth of what we know as the sun. And my mother tells me YOUR KILLING ME. YOUR REALLY SUCKING THE BLOOD FROM ME. And I close my eyes and stop. End it all. Know it is no longer her support but now a nurturing hand, risen from thirteen colonies, growing to fifty stars, hovering and leering, protecting, with it's talons those who need help. Like all the other writers that returned from where they came from, this country honors them for their sacrifices. For art can not happen with out a cost, or with out payment, the story is never told with out sacrifice. Painful and blissfully pleasurable sacrifice. The worker or the artist, Good labor or hatred, karma or the greedy taking of the earth's way, its ridge that holds the water of knowledge, the tree that talks and the voice that touches with soft hands, now it dives and soars with head up, gliding gracefully forever homeward. Forever to be home and to savor and welcome the shell to release. Oh, God what shall I pay with now.

The dream stopped as the alarm began to crick like a mad high pitched cricket. A awoke, fell out of bed, sprinted to the shower, used a minute of water, scrapped the steam off the mirror with my hand, brushed my teeth, ran into my clothing, or the audition uniform (black slacks, light colored button up dress top, never white, faint blue, or with light tan slacks a vague tone color, mellow gray, or even a dark gray, depending on the type of slacks, black dress socks, nice and polished dress shoes, hair styled with foam, or styling wax, or best with a natural cut, a slight touch of cologne, Kelvin Klein, or Green Water, or a Lauder, or possibly Contradiction for Men and other sweet smells) and walk to the car and off and then I land a extra role in some big film and I tie the Windsor not and show up to the set, and walk around in the background, oil my hair for the period and feel like a thousand other back ground artist walking at certain moments, tapping a rolled newspaper in the palm of their hands, and cutting at an angle toward a street, and at times I can't tell if its action or cut, or if the camera is rolling or I'm home in Fort Worth applying for a job at Sub Way and viewing the world like it's background work. . .changes and everything breaking up and the fiction coming to life and holding on to you like life and then fallen into a fantasy and hanging on to you like life and then lying to you and a false self tells you, "Its over. Quit. Your dumb. Your stupid. You'll never amount to shit you bastard mother fucking loser. GOOOO away" and it's New York again, and second street and then Broadway, and John's House on 1st street on the upper East Side and a new apartment with wood floor and for some God Dang reason I'm scared shitless and I keep digging into my luggage, looking for the right comb, or right shaving cream, and repacking my boxers and looking up numbers and righting screen plays and sending off plays and poems and poems and poems and John's breathing funny, and I five him a massage, and he smokes out and looks up something on the internet and goes to Angels for work and has a audition for KERA and The Restaurant at the Commune for NBC, and I got with to audition for The Restaurant but not KERA, and then he auditions for AMC for some out of shape disco dancer and we talk about auditioning for the actor studio. He wants to play Philip and I could play Treat and I've played Treat two times and I mention Bent and then we have soup and he goes off to audition for AMC and then I go the curb before some corner store and buy protein bars and muffins and eat them at the park and walk to ASDS and the New School and set up an appointment with James Lipton and he doesn't have time to see me and I talk to his secretary and I write in my journal and I see an advertisement for a film called Quitting and I return to John's House and I love it. I go for a jog down 1st street, 2nd street to the Village and Park Avenue and near Central station and back to 12 th street and I check on my stuff which is later auctioned off, and has a big red lock on it because I didn't pay my storage bill and I return to John on 1st street upper east side. I tell him about the Film Quitting and I mention, "We should go see it. It's Asian. Its artsy." And he wants to see Phone Booth with Collin Farral. He goes to work. I see that Hours is playing at a nearby movie house, he doesn't want to see the hours, he goes to work, small restaurant, looks like Americana food, don't know for sure, I go back to his play, watch American Idol and eat my muffins, later we go to a film audition produced by NYU. Its for him. He does a pretty good read. We walk out. Talk about auditioning. He does well. Tells me he is doing five films at one time. Odd number five. I begin thing about the fact that my mother has five dogs. I feel like a dog. A pet. Trailing the hip of John. Smelling pee on the street. Senses super high. Very sensitive. Alert. I know what is happening in every moment. I can feel my future unfolding. Time square ticking a thousand steps of men and women, arm to arm, men to men, shoulder to shoulder, going to the cinema, the theatre, the gift shops, the electronic stores, Macey's, seeing the street dancer, getting the portrait done. We talk about the NYU film audition. John calls them egoist. I help him out. Don't call them that. There good people. I feel like Dean, James Dean. I walk down the street. John lights up a joint. Want some. No. Want some again. No. I don't want any. He walks along. Smokes a bowl. He smokes to much MJ. Too much. I'm still next to him. Something says, Be there for him. Support. Back rubs. Hugs. He is good, a little lost, a little bad, but good. Good at heart. Like all of us. On the way home two ladies try to pick us up. "You guys looking for a good time." John tells me they are whores. "No." John screams. I shrug at them. He is obviously not a Rizzo. "Do you have a brother." John yells scaring them off. They drive off calling us some name. I don't remember. Tomorrow I have to fly back home. Get a job. Get a life. Dream about coming back. About going to Hollywood. I'm aging. Hitting thirty. Times running out according to Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead. But not even the Grateful Dead can know everything about human nature and dreams. Or do they.

We go home and watch movies on his pay per view. That one film with Tom Hanks. What is that called, oh yes. Road to Perdition. And I go into a deep sleep, a slight chill slips under a vent in John's window. It helps me dream. And I dream I before this monitor typing the following words.

4-14-00

The nightmare returned. I had an audition for a part on a Science Fiction show where I show up to some government worker, like CIA, and give info to the head female lead, "Good Boy." She tells me. I didn't get the part but I got to go home, munch on dates and fall off to sleep. I dreamt I was in Euless, I had a small pad with a TV. I spent a few hours rearranging furniture and then I got addicted to Dharma in Dharma and Greg. I think she is addictive. And then I found my self in despair. The verse written by Billy, "I fear that I'm ordinary just like everyone." Was a small echo in the back of my head. Was I becoming normal, ordinary, the same as all the bushes and the same lily.

I watched Harold and Maud the other day at Moms. Cat Stevens has to be one of the strongest musical voices that this world knows. If you want to be high be high, if you want to be low be low . . .Cat Stevens and the actors in that film left us a giant foot print from a Titan for Freedom. The film is a guide for an American Poet, or an artist struggling to be free. If you want to be. . .just be. That is what the film represents. Life only comes once. Do what you want now, because you don't get a second chance, not in the shell your living in. It's a film for every mother's son and at times I feel it is dangerous. For too much freedom leads a normal man to doom, but too much freedom for an artist is his or her lifeblood. Art is free. It exist in freedom. Art is stifled when performed or even presented in strictness. Maude steals a new car each time she goes out or even returns from a simple outing. She even folds a motorbiking policeman and trips him up by doing donuts in her stolen vehicle, in which she hot wired, (or I guess had a set of keys) with lightning speed. Maude didn't open the car door and duck under the dash, she simply entered the car and pressed the gas and peeled off, tired rolling and misty white smoke flaring from the tail pipes or the back overhauling tires. She was a rebel. A protestor of all things that delimit. Maude represented the opposite of demarcation. Harold finds peace in performing suicides for his mother. Harold's performed fake suicides are the result of too many limits created by his mother: too much organization, too much planning, too much matchmaking, and far too much preparing to live, rather than simply living, or flowing and letting life do it's duties rather than force it's duties. "Harold I want you to. . . Harold I need you to. . .Harold that is not right. I CAN'T TAKE MUCH MORE OF THIS." The mother chants scene to scene. Maude has no choice but to show his mother what she is leading him to. What she is beginning to drive him to do. If you control someone's fate, they will have no other choice but to create a new one, or to destroy fate period. One can't act if he or she is not the doer. One can't live if he or she can't act. One cannot be if he or she does not make the choices for themselves. The mother becomes an obsessive guidance that lives Harold empty, or reason and of life. Suicide is sometimes the result of controlled behavior to it's most extreme ugliness. Suicide is a result of sadness caused by a patter of sadness and possibly authority's constant pattering. Its constant commandments, its constant voice of law, and of control and properness. If we don't go a little crazy every once and awhile the total order will drive us batty. That is the reason for theatrics. To let go. To feel. To be irrational. It is a catharsis. It is tears. It is laughter. It is complex and simple and everything at once. Hence, it is the effects of the rolling wheel, or the forced rolling wheel, that the poor tired mouse must tread. The mouse may live longer if it knows it is not forced to spin it's wheel, but nature allows him to run. Nature needs him to run. But if another voice interrupts and tell the mouse what to do, it will do the opposite. It must rebel. Rebellion is a part of existence. DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO OFFICER. Maude represents mother earth, nature and the freedom to choose. Harold represents growth, change and the remorseful effects of an overly ordering mother and her desire to make Harold the perfect person, husband and citizen, and her downfall and even his downfall, at times, is too much planed life. Harold must break free from the strictness of his mother, and the military and find his own path. He begins to find interest in the banjo and music and Maude's way of happiness and kindness and raw reality. Harold is lost in theatrics and fantasy and morbid suicidal death and drooping funerals. Maude teaches him rebellion and how to use the smile and use what is at hand, to get to the next point and the next point, "Grab the shovel and lets go." She begs him as Harold jumps on the back of the police officer's motorbike and Maude guns the engine and they escape the law together.

Maude teaches him to follow his instincts and to break rules.

Harold is naturally a rebel, because he is young. When giving a present, he destroys it, or fowls it up, like all the young women, but the actress, that are introduced to his world. And the car giving to him by his mother. He has a strict code to make things his own, even though he pretends, at times, to be pleasant and loyal. In other words, he must change the Jaguar to a hearse and stop wallowing in the pitiful and despairing scene of funerals and death, and suicide and confusion. He must make things his own, or things will not exist, at least, not as his own. And if things don't exist as your own, then things are nonexistent. Rebellion is the key to identity. He breaks down before the old lady the one he loves and respects, most likely due to her condition, her loneliness and her natural an approaching fate, and admits that he does not know, he doesn't understand and that he is in obfuscation and he does not want his life to be controlled. He doesn't want to live in a fascism regime run by his mother and her wishes. He has dreams but they need seeds and time for growth. Harold begins to loosen and take a more three dimensional form. He shouts, "WHAT?" to Maude after hearing of her real planned suicide. Almost as if she was supposed to out live him. WHAT, becomes a primal shout. Maude's voice carries a slight hint of known expectation, and predicted chosen fate, or in some way a glimpse of predestination or even the opposite of something predestined. The WHAT is the climax of the movie. It is as if Harold has broken through at this moment. He has rebelled, emotionally. The WHAT, was so loud, so passionate and with so much aggressiveness that it did not seem to be him shouting the informed line. She tells him, with calmness, "My eightieth birthday is about to arrive" and she has taken a load of pills. Weeks before her real suicide, Harold pouts as he describes and confesses to Maude that one of his assigned chemistry projects had gone awry and he was mistakenly perceived as dead and now he finds some kind of morbid pleasure in performing suicides. And all along Maude is planning her real suicide, but without a hint or clue of weakness, or lack of inner strength, or even of depression or hatred toward the world. It seems she doesn't hate life, but decides to let it go and change into something new, to grow. One of her lines, and my favorite line in the movie, besides "What" is, "I like to watch things grow." She keeps it her little secrete. I identify with Harold and his theatrics and Maude's mild anarchistic, thievery and her need to be unique, an individual. She expresses her oneness, with spirit filled and natural rawness. Her nature is her home. Every young adult, or even teenager should. I am about to go to the other side. There will be a time I will identify with Maude, lost in old objects, sitting near a polluted highway, left alone with her piano that plays for her, and her smelling machine, her hookah, and unforgettable memories of her life as a protestor and survivor and I'll look down at my personal numbers, maybe not on my wrist, but somewhere where the debt and scars lie, and look up to the world and claim it as mine and yelp LIFE. ITS MY LIFE. I fear the ordinary. So I shall act out, rebel and become one. For once you learn that life is awaiting, waiting on your call, on your steps, and all for you, rather than resisting, and you let go, and the smile arrives, it arrives in rivers, rivers of smiles, then, saved by mother nature and she sends you down this unavoidable river, flowing.

To flow is to know you are and you belong and everything is for you and everything is welcomed and accepted and nothing needs to be invented for everything is and that is simple. Flowing is knowing you are free. Maude knew this. She was a survivor of the worst kind of strictness. One I will not concentrate on, or mention for this personal review and comparison of fantasy, film and life. The only prisoner in this world is the one that decides to wrap his or her hands around the bars of the cell and claim its demarcation and ruling. There are no real prisoners. There are those who claim to be imprisoned. Freedom is within. Freedom is not forced. It is not something to force another to experience. Liberty is letting go. Liberty is feeling. Liberty is the child that still follows. Liberty is song. Liberty is dance. Liberty is God. Liberty is in everything, if everything is accepted. Its knowing the sunshine heals and knowing that life is not a wrecking ground, its not a obstacle, or an obstacle coarse, but a large field leading to an ocean, a beach, a house, looking over the misty waves as the crash out the names of us all, and call upon our earth.

Some times I set at home, watch TV, sew, read, work out, do sit ups, push ups, brush my teeth, nap, hum a tune, whistle a symphony, draw in my journal and as all this happens I pretend I am in a movie. A film is happening before me but I have become such a master that I can no longer see the director but only the reality of the story, the script, the world of words, and the world of the imagination from the writer's mind and now into the actors body. . .and I convince myself, my mind, my supple body, that I have become so skilled as a craftsman, as an refined and imagined filled actor, that I have blocked out and vanished the rolling noise of the camera and the grunting or eyeing of the cinematographer, and boom mike operator and grip, and I make all this dissolve into another world, I can not see, distant from my reality, and I am truly the character, and my life is the film, and I say to myself, "I have done it. This is what a movie star feels like. This is what he or she perceives as the movie is being film, as it is in effect. The star doesn't know the equipment is around, he doesn't see the director" and I realize I am in a movie, it really has worked, the movie is on, Quiet on set. . . that my life, the life I live now, the life I am writing about is a motion picture, it is in motion of created and planned images, that will be captured on a 35 millimeter reel and projected onto a silver screen, projected into societies mind and I become a part of the whole, projected all over reality, and my voice, body and gestures and spirit enters all the minds of mankind, and then I come to conclusion that my life is a movie, and that Life is a Movie, and all I can do is live my life as the camera, invisible to my future, it rolls in the other world; known as reality, of it's chosen and imagined reality. . .